The Song of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 5)

by Daniel Arenson

  Tom's eyes were red with grief and fury. But the tall, gaunt warrior nodded.

  Yes, Tom understood. Tom had led people to death before. Tom too had left people behind.

  Yet there was agony in the shepherd's eyes. And the same agony tore at Emet's heart.

  "Company—fall back!" Emet cried. "Fall back to the lower level!"

  They fell back—and the mass of serpents followed. Writhing, hissing, screeching, a scaly bundle that filled the tunnel from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, gushing forth like a river. The soldiers fled before it, heading into a lower bunker.

  Emet grabbed an iron blast door and slammed it shut.

  "Fire in the hole!" he shouted.

  One of his soldiers hit a button.

  The cosmos seemed to crack.

  The bunker shook so violently they all fell. The walls were concrete poured over metal, but they cracked. The blast door trembled and bent. The sound rolled over Emet, wave after wave of agony. He covered his ears, and he felt the shock waves pounding his chest. He nearly passed out from pain. Dust rained from the ceiling. The blast door curved inward like a blister.

  And then it was over.

  No more shrieks sounded.

  Emet rose, head reeling. For long moments, he and his soldiers stood, waiting.

  Nothing.

  The basilisks were gone.

  The bunkers were sealed.

  In the classroom, soldiers lowered their heads. A few were weeping. But Emet refused to lower his head, to shed tears, to show weakness. These soldiers depended on him to be strong. In a world of chaos, a world falling apart, a world of nightmares—they needed order. A pillar of strength.

  My insides are falling apart, Emet thought. But I will be strong for them.

  "Soldiers, you fought well," he said. "We saved many lives. Remember that. Hundreds died. But we saved hundreds of thousands. Lieutenant Taylor, you and your platoon remain here. Guard this blast door. The engineering corps will be here soon to reinforce it. Everyone else—come with me. We've got more tunnels to secure."

  The pain was agonizing. When nobody was watching, Emet jabbed morphine into his leg. And he ran onward.

  They fought in the southern tunnels, where basilisks had broken into the storerooms and had begun to devour the food. They fought deep in Antikythera Labs, where the basilisks had taken over several rooms, stealing valuable computers. The soldiers demolished more tunnels. They secured more blast doors. They retreated.

  They watched people die.

  They heard the screams of those trapped beyond the doors.

  Of those left behind.

  They fought for hours, and from across the world, the reports kept coming in. Basilisks digging into every colony. New Busan, a town of a thousand—gone. Lindenville, a colony in Europe—it went dark.

  They caught us by surprise, Emet thought. They're devastating us. We might never recover.

  The terror grew inside him. They barely had a fleet in space. They had no power in the air, land, or sea. They had been fighting from underground.

  And now they were dying underground.

  Ten hours after the assault began, the HDF had blocked all the breaches, and the high command gathered in the war room.

  "Give me a full report," Emet said.

  His officers reported from their monitors. Gradually, the picture emerged.

  Emet's heart sank.

  The basilisks had destroyed several human colonies. Thousands of humans were dead or missing.

  Here below Port Addison, the enemy had overrun several tunnels and chambers. Hundreds of lives—lost or missing.

  Reports were slower to come in from space. But refugee camps with ansibles were sending dire news. The basilisks were hitting them hard, and the Exodus Fleet was still fighting.

  "The basilisks are calling it the Wrath Offensive," Tom reported, pouring over data. "They're calling it revenge for our fireships. They vow this will be the end of humanity."

  "Why now?" Emet said. "Why today of all days?"

  Tom stared into his eyes—and there was a deep, cold terror there.

  "The basilisk signals mention Leona."

  Emet inhaled sharply. "Leona …"

  Tom nodded. "She's at Menoria. She purchased hundreds of warships. Xerka is afraid—and wants to win the war before Leona returns."

  And there it was again—the terror. It filled Emet's chest, wrapping around his heart, creaking his broken rib.

  Leona and Bay. Both his children—out in space, alone in the darkness.

  Him and his people—trapped underground, the basilisks slamming at the gates.

  Emet looked again at the map of the tunnels. The upper nurseries—gone. The food pantries—gone. Antikythera Labs—gone.

  The Menorian starships—still weeks away.

  "Where is Rowan?" he asked, trying to hide the fear from his voice. "Did she make it out?"

  Tom looked steadily into his eyes. "Emet, we haven't heard from Rowan. Her minicom is offline. She was in the labs. I'm sorry."

  Those words hurt Emet more than a basilisk cannon.

  He looked around the room. Everyone stared back. They were silent. Their eyes were hard. But he saw it in everyone, bubbling beneath the surface.

  Panic.

  In the distance, basilisk screeches rose, and drills whirred.

  Emet loaded another magazine, and he knew: This might be the end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Rowan knelt, her electromagnetic blanket pulled over her, as a hundred basilisks clawed and bit and shrieked for her blood.

  "Kill the human!"

  "Break her bones!"

  "Devour her flesh!"

  "Digest her alive!"

  Rowan crouched lower, pulling the blanket more tightly around her. It exerted an immense force, powerful enough to hold off the basilisk claws and fangs.

  You ain't breaking through, assholes, she thought. I used this blanket to withstand missile blasts.

  Memories of that day returned to her—her battle against Emperor Sin Kra on a distant world. The blanket had saved her life then. The missiles had pulverized the scorpion emperor. They had broken every bone in Rowan's body, yes, but the blanket had saved her life.

  And it had saved her now.

  Or at least—for now.

  "Tear her skin!"

  "Drink her blood!"

  "Crack her skull!"

  "Crush her eyes!"

  The basilisks kept slamming against the blanket, unable to break through. Rowan winced. Their weight nearly crushed her. She was still in her lab—her little underground kingdom. It was here Rowan had been studying the Copperhead starfighter, coding a virus, and practicing her meditation. Now a hundred basilisks filled the room, maybe more, a mass of wriggling flesh, burying her.

  How the hell do I get out of this one? she thought.

  She still had Lullaby, her loyal gun. But only one magazine, enough to kill maybe one or two basilisks. There was no way she could fight her way out.

  Holding the blanket up with one hand, she lifted her minicom. The monitor had shattered in the assault. The device sparked in her hand, shocking her. But it wasn't completely dead.

  "Fillister?" she whispered, speaking into the little mic. "You there, buddy?"

  Static emerged through the cracked speaker. Then a faint voice.

  "Oi, Row!"

  She exhaled in relief.

  "Thank God. You all right?"

  "No, I ain't bloody all right! I'm blind! What the hell happened?"

  "Basilisk assault," she said. "A hundred of those buggers tunneled into the lab. I'm hiding under my electric blanket. I'm stuck. There are about ten tons of basilisks sitting on top of me."

  "Blimey," Fillister said.

  Rowan nodded. "Fill, your monitor is broken, and your camera is busted, but I think your wireless antenna still works. Can you connect to the war room's mainframe and let me know what's up?"

  "Can do," Fillister said. He hummed, buzzed, and suddenly
sparked. "Ouch! Me gears are all busted!"

  Rowan winced. "Can you reach out at all?"

  "I can," he said. "Smarts a bit. But I'm on the mainframe. Oh dear, oh dear. Things are a proper mess. Them bloomin' basilisks breached the colony at three locations. Took several rooms. The storeroom, some nurseries, the labs. But it's all right, Row. Emet and his boys sealed 'em off for now. Crashed down some tunnels, and they're reinforcing the blast doors."

  Rowan cringed. "Let me guess. We're outside the safe spaces."

  "Sorry, old girl," Fillister said. "We've been abandoned. The bastards!"

  Rowan shook her head. "No, they did what they had to do. They had to save the refugees, even if it meant giving up the labs." She sighed. "We're gonna have to make our way back ourselves."

  The blanket suddenly pressed down against her. The basilisks were attacking with new fervor, desperate to break through. The electromagnetic force kept them back for now—but how long before they brought drills? Rowan wasn't sure her armor could stop drills.

  "Row, there ain't no way we can get outta this one," Fillister said. "Bloody hell. Not unless you can burrow through a hundred meters of solid stone, concrete, and metal. Not to mention them snakes."

  "Fill, if there were truly nothing but stone, concrete, metal, and snakes between us and the others, your wireless wouldn't make it through either. There's another way. One I know something about." The smiled shakily. "The ventilation ducts."

  From here under the blanket, Rowan couldn't see much. But she knew there was a vent on the wall, only a few meters away. The duct could take her to her safety. It would be like any old day back in Paradise Lost.

  "Just like good old times," Fillister said. "But how we gonna reach the vent? There are a hundred bloody basilisks squishing us."

  "Fill, you know that Copperhead we've been studying? It's here in the room with us, covered in basilisks. I need you to connect to its computer."

  The minicom sparked and hummed in protest. "Row, that Copperhead is alien tech! You know that. I can't live in some bloomin' alien computer."

  "You're ready, Fill. We've spent weeks studying the Copperhead's API. You know the code like I do. You can do this. I believe in you."

  Above them, drills whirred.

  The blanket twisted.

  The tip of a drill tore through, spinning madly, showering sparks.

  Rowan screamed.

  "Fill, hurry! Get into that Copperhead!"

  She yanked the blanket, redirecting its magnetic field. The drill jerked outward, whizzed, and a basilisk screeched. Blood spurted through a hole in the blanket. She could see cracked basilisk scales. The creatures clawed at the hole, reaching in.

  "Hurry, Fill!" she said.

  Her minicom vibrated. "All right, I'm in!"

  A fang poked through the hole and sliced Rowan's arm. She screamed and shoved on the blanket, knocking the basilisk back. But that raised the other end of the blanket. Claws reached under it.

  "Fill, fire the Copperhead's cannons!" she cried. "And its afterburner! Fill this room with flame!"

  A drill tore another hole open.

  More claws reached in.

  Rowan fired Lullaby, and the bullet exploded against a claw, and fragments stung her arms. She screamed. The drill tore another hole. A basilisk claw reached under the blanket and grabbed Rowan's ankle, and another claw grabbed her hand, and—

  Fire roared.

  An inferno bathed Rowan.

  Outside the blanket, the basilisks screeched—an agonized, demonic sound.

  The Copperhead's engine is blasting on full afterburner, Rowan realized.

  She winced, the insane heat flowing under the blanket, singeing her clothes, blistering her skin.

  "Stop," she whispered. "Fillister, sto—"

  An explosion rocked the chamber.

  Another.

  A third blast.

  Fillister was firing the Copperhead's guns.

  She grabbed the blanket and pulled it down as tightly as possible, folding the holes shut. She screwed her eyes tight, clinging to the electromagnetic blanket, such a thin shell between life and death.

  For what seemed like ages, the inferno raged. The basilisks kept screaming. No longer screams of fury. No longer monstrous screams. Their voices sounded almost human to her. Almost begging.

  They're evil, Rowan reminded herself. They're monsters.

  Yet still those screams tore at her. She knew they'd forever echo in her mind.

  The fire died.

  For a moment, Rowan took deep breaths. The Harmonians were already working through her body. The tiny, lavender beings were healing her burns, closing her cuts.

  Rowan shoved off the blanket and stared across the room.

  "My God," she whispered.

  The Copperhead's afterburner and cannons were still smoking. They had devastated the bunker. The walls had shattered. Charred basilisks were piled up, scales melted, flesh seared, bones exposed. Half were dead. The others were writhing, mewling, dying. The broken walls exposed more snakes in deeper chambers.

  "Row, hurry!" Fillister cried from her cracked minicom.

  She took a step toward the vent, and pain flared in her wounded leg. She fell onto a charred basilisk, burning her hands against the sizzling scales. She yowled, rose, stumbled forward.

  Another basilisk slithered over shattered concrete into the tunnel.

  "Row!"

  She aimed over her shoulder and fired, taking out an eye. The basilisk fell, revealing more behind it. She took several pot shots at them, then leaped over the dead basilisks and reached the vent.

  The metal grate had melted. She grabbed what remained of the bars, then screamed as they burned her hands. Cursing her stupidity, she pulled off her vest, then used it to pull the molten grate free.

  "Row, more basilisks!" Fillister cried.

  She could barely hold Lullaby. Her hands blazed, blistering. The Harmonians couldn't keep up with her wounds. Through the pain, she fired again and again, emptying her magazine, then turned back toward the vent.

  She leaped into the duct.

  She hadn't crawled through a duct in years. But it was like riding a bike. She wriggled forward.

  The basilisks screeched behind. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw them slithering toward the vent.

  "Fill, if you please?"

  Back in the bunker, the Copperhead fired again.

  Fire blazed.

  The basilisks screamed.

  Rowan crawled faster, even as the flames burned her feet.

  "Fire everything she's got, Fill!" she said. "Missiles, bombs—the works. Make the labs collapse behind us."

  "But all our work!" he said.

  "We have backups of the important stuff. Do it! We can't let the rest fall into their claws. Fire every damn missile on that Copperhead, and overheat its engine until it blows!"

  She wriggled forward, crawling as fast as she could.

  Behind her, the Copperhead released its full arsenal of missiles, lasers, and fuel.

  Fire filled the duct, racing toward Rowan. She reached a shaft, grabbed the walls, and scurried upward. The fire rushed beneath her like a river of lava. Her feet were burnt but already glowing lavender. The Menorians were doing their work.

  Thank you, little buddies, she thought.

  When the fire died, the basilisk screams were gone.

  As were the labs. Her tank designs. Her engineering projects. Several costly azoth crystals. Dozens of computers. The holy Weaver Writs.

  But the important project—her Troy Virus—still existed in her minicom. As did Fillister and a dormant backup of Brooklyn.

  She crawled for a long while. As the adrenaline faded, the pain rose. The Harmonians could only do so much. They had saved her life, but her skin was still charred, and her wounds still ached.

  Finally she reached another vent—the entrance to the war room.

  She removed the grate and crawled inside, covered in blood and ash.


  Earth's generals spun toward her.

  "Rowan!" Emet cried.

  She stood up, legs shaky.

  "I'm sorry, sir!" she said. "I had to destroy the labs. I had to. I lost some projects, but—"

  The president pulled her into a crushing embrace.

  "Thank Ra," he said, holding her against his barrel chest. "I thought you were gone."

  She looked around her. Everyone was somber. Eyes dark. Fists clenched. On monitors, Rowan saw stats from across Earth.

  Colonies fallen.

  Thousands dead.

  In space—the basilisks pounding refugee camps.

  The Wrath Offensive.

  Rowan looked at Emet and raised her minicom. "Sir, I was just able to get my Copperhead to fire its missiles." She peeled back her lips in a snarl. "By God, I say we get them all to fire."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bay swooped in his Firebird, strafing the enemy positions. His bullets tore through their lines, casting up clouds of shattered scales and chunks of ice. The basilisks screeched below and tried to flee. Bay rose higher, spun his Firebird around, and swooped again. His rotary cannons pounded the enemy.

  Above him, the Exodus Fleet—what remained of it, at least—was bombarding basilisk warships. The sky rained fire and metal.

  Bay took another strafing run, hammering the basilisk infantry swarming toward the human refugee camp.

  The camp was massive. Tens of thousands of human refugees were here, shivering on the ice, only thin tents and rags shielding them from the cold. Some had been here for a year. Others had only arrived, fleeing basilisk assaults across the galaxy.

  I'll get you home to Earth, Bay vowed.

  He struck another line of basilisks, sending them fleeing.

  "Get the dropships down here!" he cried into his comm. "Quick, before the enemy reinforcements arrive."

  The boxy, armored shuttles descended toward the icy plains. Human soldiers emerged, firing machine guns at the last lingering basilisks. Refugees ran across the bloody ice, entering the dropships.