The comm sent its message up to space.
No reply came.
Emet cursed. He was standing on the wooden wall surrounding the colony. Hundreds of warriors stood on the wall with him, firing at the enemy. The basilisks surrounded them, a swarm that covered the countryside. Bullets tore into the aliens. Their corpses were piling up. But wave after wave of the damn snakes kept coming. Sooner or later, they'd break into the colony—and slaughter everyone inside.
Emet aimed Thunder and fired the heavy rifle. Below, a basilisk's head exploded. Another alien quickly replaced its dead brother.
They've got more basilisks than we've got bullets, Emet thought.
And the creatures were fearless. Hundreds of them already lay dead—yet the others kept attacking.
Emet shook his comm and tried again. "Come in, Jerusalem! We need your Firebirds, dammit!"
They had lost most of their Firebirds during the Galactic War. But they still had a few of the starfighters. If they could fly here, strafing the countryside, they'd take care of the basilisks within moments.
His comm remained silent.
Emet's heart sank.
He looked up at the sky, seeking his fleet. At night, he could sometimes see glints from his heavier warships, the ones that couldn't enter atmosphere. But now, during the daylight, he saw nothing. Were they too under assault?
He looked back at the basilisks attacking the walls. They wore no armor, carried no weapons. They simply lashed at the wooden walls with their claws and fangs, trying to scratch and bite their way in.
"These aren't soldiers," Emet muttered.
Like humans, basilisks were specialists. He had fought basilisk soldiers in space—deadly enemies with terrifying technology. Their empire spread across many stars. Millions of them lived here on Earth, but so far, Emet had encountered no actual basilisk army here. This was a civilian uprising.
This is our homeworld, Emet thought. The ancestral home of humanity. But to them, we're alien invaders.
He shoved aside thoughts of moral complexity. These bastards were determined to slaughter every last human here. Emet had not fought for decades against the scorpions to die in a snake's belly.
He loaded a fresh magazine and kept firing.
Emet had been on Earth for only a few hours. But Leona had arrived almost a year ago, and she had done incredible groundwork. She had built few homes; most of the colonists still lived in tents. But she had raised impressive walls around the camp. They were wood, not metal or stone, but they were tall and sturdy. She had even mounted machine guns and grenade launchers in the guard towers, and cannons were firing from hilltops. These guns kept pounding the enemy with bullets, grenades, and shells.
"The damn fools," Leona said, firing at Emet's side. Her eyes shone with the painkillers coursing through her, and her leg was in a splint. Even though her bone was broken, she insisted on fighting the enemy. "Look at those snakes, Dad. Dying like flies."
His daughter was right. Were the creatures idiots? Wave after wave attacked the walls, only to die. Some basilisks tried to climb. They were all shot down. Hundreds of the aliens had died so far—and not a single human.
"Why the hell do they keep coming?" Emet muttered. "This is a suicide mission for them. They're like zombies."
More basilisk corpses piled up outside. Live snakes began to slither over the dead, only to fall under the hailstorm of bullets, to add to the pile of corpses. And more basilisks swarmed.
Emet grunted. He understood.
"Ra damn it," he said. "They're sacrificing themselves to build a hill of corpses—a hill the living can crawl up."
The blood drained from Leona's face. She stopped firing. "Mucking hell."
Emet cursed. "We have to get rid of those bodies. We have to burn them."
"The walls would burn with them!" Leona said.
Below, the living basilisks climbed the hill of their dead, reared, and gripped the top of the wall.
Hissing, the aliens began climbing into Port Addison.
Emet felt a pain in his chest. Stabbing. Twisting.
A basilisk lunged over the top of the wall before him. The beast opened its jaws and shrieked, fangs bared.
Emet fired his electric pistol, driving a bolt of energy into the alien mouth, knocking the basilisk back down.
Two more snakes replaced it, scrambling between the wooden spikes that topped the wall.
Emet's pistol was recharging. He had no room to aim his rifle. He swung the barrel, and it thudded into a basilisk head, dislodging a fang.
The second basilisk made it over the wall.
The scaly alien slammed into Emet, shoving him back.
Both Emet and the basilisk tumbled off the wall.
Emet reached out. He grabbed the ledge where he had stood. He dangled from the wall. Below him, the basilisk gripped his legs, wrapping around him, tugging him downward.
Emet bellowed. The creature was probably twice his weight, and his arm felt close to dislocating.
"Dad!" Leona cried.
She fired her rifle, nearly hitting him. Her bullets drove into the basilisk around Emet's legs. The creature lost its grip and fell. It landed inside the colony, where soldiers began hacking at it.
Panting, Emet climbed back onto the wall. Basilisk claws grazed his side, and he winced.
He stood for a moment, panting, and looked around him.
Everywhere, the basilisks were crawling atop the wall. They were wrapping around cannons, around defenders. A few were already making their way down to the colony below. And still more basilisks were swarming from the hills. Still waves pounded the walls.
Within minutes, we'll be overrun, Emet knew.
Emet picked up his comm again. "Damn it, fleet, where are you? Ramses! Mairead! Come in! We need your Firebirds!"
No answer came. Another basilisk lunged toward him. Emet cursed, fired his gun, and kept fighting.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Ramses "Pharaoh" al Masri was bored.
He couldn't believe the others were all down on Earth, having the time of their lives, while he was stuck here in orbit, rotting away inside the ISS Jerusalem.
Yes, yes. He knew somebody had to man the fleet. He knew it was a great honor. He knew that a year from now, if he played his cards right, he could be promoted to colonel, maybe even brigadier someday, and become a great leader of humanity.
He glanced out the porthole toward the beautiful planet. Egypt—his very homeland!—was visible below.
Oh, my sweet jewel, Ramses thought. My desert rose. So close yet so far! How I long to feel your sand between my toes, to hear the song of the Nile, to—
"Hey, dumbass." A hand slapped the back of his head. "You dealing or what?"
Ramses groaned and shoved Mairead's hand away. "Shut up, Firebug. I'm enjoying the splendorous view."
She scoffed. "Oh yeah, well, enjoy my splendorous pile of poker chips instead. Deal!"
He looked at her and sighed. Years of war had done nothing to temper Mairead "Firebug" McQueen. Her hair was still as wild and red as fire. Her eyes were still green and mocking. Her freckled face still sported its trademarked crooked smile. She was young, beautiful, and the best pilot in the fleet.
She was also incredibly annoying.
"Fine, fine!" Ramses said. "Ra above. Stuck here with you is worse than fighting the basilisks."
He began to deal. Several other Inheritors sat around the poker table. Most were here in space as punishment. Mairead had been caught blowing up asteroids for fun, wasting precious ammo on her hobby. She would have been demoted and sent to the brig had Ramses not called in a favor. The others here were serving time for a host of other offenses. A couple of pilots had mouthed off to their commanding officers. One had even punched his superior. A mechanic had been busted stealing extra rations from the galley. One marine, a young woman, had stripped on camera for her crewmates. Another marine, an older man with graying hair, had been caught with a collection of stolen toot
hbrushes in his duffel bag—no fewer than a hundred and seventeen, all pilfered from the supply ships. Nobody yet had figured out what he planned to do with them.
Ramses was the only one not here as punishment.
No. He was no petty criminal. He was their babysitter.
I should be drinking coffee in the shadow of the sphinx, he thought. Instead I'm stuck with kleptomaniacs, sex addicts, and an insane Scottish pilot with a TNT addiction.
"All right, boys, ante up." Mairead slapped a poker chip onto the table.
"And no cheating this time." Ramses glared at her.
Mairead scoffed, lit a cigar, and puffed. "You're just a sore loser."
Ramses scrutinized her. Mairead had been winning round after round. She was hiding aces somewhere. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing her tattooed arms, but Ramses was sure of it.
They all placed their bets. Chips piled up. Several players folded, including Ramses. Soon it was down to Mairead and one more soldier. Her last opponent was a tall, tattooed pilot they called the Goonie Bear. The man was obsessed with twentieth century culture; his body was covered with tattoos from Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, and Studio Ghibli anime. Goonie rarely got to enjoy shore leave; he had a bad habit of punching anyone who annoyed him, including senior officers. Never poke the Goonie Bear, he would warn.
Goonie displayed his cards.
"Read 'em and weep." He chortled. "Pay up, Firebug!"
Mairead leaped onto her chair. "Cheater!"
Goonie Bear scoffed. "Don't you poke the Goonie Bear! I won fair and square. Pay up, pipsqueak."
He reached across the table for her poker chips. Mairead roared and lunged at him, punching madly—clearly a case of poking the bear. The table overturned. Chips, cards, and bottles of grog spilled everywhere. More soldiers hurled themselves into the fight, and the punches and kicks were flying.
Ramses shook his head in disgust. He stepped away from the fray and approached a porthole. As the others battled behind him, he gazed outside.
The Atlantic Ocean now faced him, glimmering blue and draped with gentle clouds. Debris from the recent battle against the Rattlers still floated below, but it did little to mar the view.
We should leave the debris, Ramses thought. Mementos of how we fought for this planet.
They had suffered heavy losses. But still, hundreds of human starships were orbiting alongside the Jerusalem. Warships. Freighters. Tankers. Only skeleton crews now manned them, protecting the planet.
Ramses picked up his comm. "Leona, how are things going down there? Busy catching a tan and sipping cocktails while we languish up here?"
As he waited for her reply, Ramses remembered the night he had spent with Leona. She had come into his cabin nearly a year ago. She had removed her uniform, remaining naked before him, her long dark hair cascading over her breasts. They had made love. That night was a sweet memory to Ramses. A night that never recurred.
Of course not. She was the daughter of the admiral. She was the Iron Lioness. Ramses was not a humble man. He liked to boast of his heritage, claiming to be descended of the great pharaohs. He liked to flaunt his good looks and shiny insignia. But deep down, he knew that Leona outranked him, that history would forever remember her legend, that her sun would always eclipse his star.
We were both lonely that night, he thought. We were both afraid. But I miss it. It was the best night of my life.
He shoved the thoughts aside. Silliness. Those were the thoughts of a lovesick boy. Ramses was a man in his thirties. An officer on the eve of becoming a colonel. He could not focus on the memory of Leona's sweet lips, soft hair, and—
Enough.
Ramses shook his head wildly. As Mairead and the others still fought behind him, he hit his comm again.
"Leona, you there?" he said. "How are things down on Earth?"
Still no reply came.
Ramses frowned.
He left the porthole and marched across the galley, shoving the bickering soldiers aside. He raced onto the bridge and checked his controls.
"Nothing," he muttered. "No data coming in. Not even from the debris outside." His eyes widened. "Something is jamming us."
"Yo, Pharaoh!" Mairead shouted from the galley. "You running from the game, man? Get your ass back here. I'm dealing."
Ramses ignored her. He stepped toward a viewport, a monitor attached to a camera on the Jerusalem's hull. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just empty space.
No debris from the battle.
Iciness filled him.
He ran toward another porthole, one that gazed away from Earth, and stared outside.
And he saw it there.
The true, unaltered image from space.
Debris from the battle floated outside, and beyond—an enemy fleet.
"Enemy incoming!" he howled. "All soldiers, battle stations! Red alert!"
To their credit, his soldiers moved fast. Even bruised and groggy, the Inheritors were at their stations within seconds. Their eyes hardened. They were ready to fight.
"What's going on?" Mairead asked, manning a gunnery station.
"The bastards were jamming our sensors," Ramses said. "Our comms, our viewports—they froze them all. Only our portholes, which look directly into space, showed them."
Mairead cursed. She leaned over, glanced out a porthole, then looked at Ramses.
"Damn it. There must be hundreds of Rattlers there." She frowned. "Why aren't they attacking yet?"
Ramses ran from porthole to porthole. Cursing, he leaped off the bridge and banged open cabin door after cabin door, staring through more portholes, forming a picture of the enemy positions outside. Mairead ran at his heel.
"Pharaoh, what's going on?" she cried.
He reached the stern of the ship, approached the last porthole, and stared at the enemy.
More flew there. Thousands of them. Only a few kilometers away, orbiting Earth.
Constricting us, he thought.
"This isn't an attack formation," Ramses said. "They don't want to attack us, not after how badly we hurt them last time." He pounded his fist against a bulkhead. "This is a blockade."
Mairead tilted her head. "What, like, an embargo or something? To stop us from flying away?" She laughed. "Why would we leave Earth?"
"We wouldn't," Ramses said. "But millions of us are still out there among the stars. Refugees and survivors. They need to come home. And the basilisks are going to keep them out."
"Muck!" Mairead spat right on the deck. "And what of the thousands of us already down on the planet?"
Icy claws gripped Ramses's heart.
"The planet," he whispered. "If the basilisks have been jamming our comms …"
He ran.
He raced down the corridor, burst into a cabin facing Earth, and stared out the porthole. The Jerusalem was orbiting over North America now, but the colony was too small to see with the naked eye. Cursing, Ramses ran again, bounded down the corridor, and crashed into his personal cabin. He grabbed an antique telescope—a family heirloom given to him by his father. He pressed the lens against the porthole and stared down at the continent.
His heart shattered.
"They're attacking," Ramses said. "The bastards are attacking Port Addison. Thousands of basilisks. And we didn't know."
Mairead gripped his arm. "Come on. Let's get down there in our Firebirds and carpet bomb the slithering sons of bitches."
They burst into the Jerusalem's hangar. They had seven Firebirds there—and only five pilots. Ramses hopped into one bird, Mairead into another. Three other pilots joined them—still drunk on beer, still bruised after their poker brawl.
Five Firebirds fired up their engines.
They roared out into space, leaving trails of fire.
From a few other warships, more Firebirds emerged. They too had seen the enemy.
As Ramses flew in his starfighter, he tried his comm again. The damn thing was still dead.
Muck these bastards! he thought. I miss f
ighting dumb scorpions.
He tilted his Firebird and stared at the enemy. They were still there. Thousands of long, scaly warships. New Rattlers kept emerging from warped space, arranging themselves in formation. The basilisk fleet was forming a perfect blockade around Earth. The human fleet seemed tiny beside them.
They could blow us out of the sky, Ramses thought. But they don't need to. Not if they can suffocate us.
That was, after all, how basilisks fought on the battlefield. They didn't have venom like scorpions. They rarely carried weapons. They wrapped around their prey and crushed them. It seemed their fleet fought the same way.
A Firebird streaked by, blocking his view. Mairead waved from her cockpit, then pointed down at Earth.
Ready? she mouthed.
Ramses glanced at his Firebird's displays. They were dead. He could fly the starfighter but not use its comm systems. He couldn't even talk to his fellow pilots, let alone the colony below. The Firebirds would have to fight deaf and mute.
He looked back at Mairead, gave her a thumbs up, then pointed down at Earth. She nodded.
Ramses tilted his Firebird and dived toward the planet. Mairead and the other Firebird pilots followed.
For now, they would have to leave their warships behind, hoping the skeleton crews aboard could keep them afloat. Ramses hated leaving the fleet with thousands of Rattlers so near, but the colonists needed him more.
The Firebirds plunged into the atmosphere, ionizing the air. They plunged down in cloaks of fire.
And from below, the enemy rose to meet them.
"Copperheads!" Ramses shouted the warning—as if his fellow pilots could hear him.
The basilisks had their own starfighters. Ramses had fought them before, had even flown a stolen one. The Copperheads were even smaller than Firebirds, just large enough to allow a basilisk to slither inside. They reminded Ramses of discarded snake skins: cylindrical and covered with metal scales.
But despite their humble appearance, these were deadly fighters, and they blasted lasers at the incoming Firebirds.
A beam slammed into a Firebird beside Ramses.
The starfighter exploded.
Goonie Bear's burnt body tumbled through the air.
The War for Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 4) Page 8
