"Mairead," Rowan whispered. "Mairead, no …"
Rowan kept falling in her cracked pod, tumbling through the stratosphere, then down into blue skies.
Above her, the fire of battle spread across the heavens.
Rowan jumped out of the shattered, scaly pod and activated her jetpack. She dived toward a mountain range, not even caring where she was. She landed on a grassy slope, pulled off her helmet, and lowered her head.
Ash was raining. Rowan's tears fell.
I destroyed many of their ships, she thought. Maybe thousands. Xerka is wounded, maybe mortally. But Mairead is dead. My friend is gone.
Operation Troy had succeeded. And Rowan wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They pulled her into a pod. Half dead. Torn open.
Xerka screamed.
They carried her into a Rattler. The ship was shaking as enemy fire kept pounding it. She lay on the deck, her belly torn open, leaking its innards. Her skin—burnt away. Her stomach, her womb, her internal organs—lacerated. The human pilot inside her—all but gone. Xerka vomited blood and clots.
"We have disabled the virus, mistress," a basilisk hissed. "We are trying to stop the other ships from firing. The hellwolves are particularly combative, and—"
Xerka grabbed him with shaky claws.
She pulled his neck to her jaws and bit deep.
He twitched, struggling against her. But Xerka kept biting, ripping through his scales, drinking his blood, swallowing his flesh.
The basilisk's life force was leaving him. But Xerka kept him alive, too weak to resist. She extended her jaws, engulfed his head, and began to swallow him. It hurt. It hurt so much tears flowed from Xerka's remaining eye. But she kept working her muscles, shoving him down her esophagus. Some of her ribs were gone. It made the job a little easier.
Her belly was in tatters. Bits of her meal flopped onto the deck. But she still had some digestive acids in her many pouches. She bathed him with her juices, plundering his cells—and weaving them into her own body.
She had used her gift to absorb many others, taking on their traits, their understanding. Sometimes to mend injuries. But never to heal such devastating wounds. The agony pounded through her. Her acids ripped out chunks of her prey, weaving them through her. Parts of Mairead were still inside her. Xerka added them to the mortar. Sealing her wounds. Weaving new flesh.
She managed to rise, to look around her. She was in a new Rattler. Not her dreadnought. Basilisk soldiers stood around her, staring. Fear in their eyes. She saw herself reflected in their scales. A monstrous creature. Her human skin hanging in tatters. Her eye still gone. Her remaining eye now green. Tufts of red hair grew from one side of her head. Her wounds pulsed, and a third human arm, pale and freckled, extended from her side.
She pounced, grabbed another basilisk, and devoured the screeching creature.
She sprayed more acids, absorbing him, rebuilding herself.
She consumed a third. A fourth. A fifth. Excreting what flesh she could not mold.
Finally she rose again—healed.
Taller. Wider. Far stronger than before. A creature with crimson scales, golden eyes like molten metal, and a raw, red human torso covered with yellow scars. She opened her jaws wide and howled—a deep, guttural sound—and her fangs shone, as long and sharp as daggers.
She turned toward her underlings. The basilisks cowered in the corner, so much smaller than her. They trembled, scales chinking.
Xerka raised one hand. It used to be feminine and pale. It was three times larger now, and orange stripes ran along the crimson skin. The black claws thrust outward, still wet with the blood of her victims.
With these claws, I will destroy the humans.
She returned her eyes to the cowering serpents.
"Destroy this world," she said. Her voice too had changed. Deeper. Grainy. Demonic.
"Yes, mistress!" hissed the commander of this ship—a lowly, pathetic green worm. "Our forces on the ground are pushing with all their might. We are making progress. We—"
"I said destroy this world!" she rumbled. "Bring the skies down upon them. Fire everything we have."
"But mistress, the apes' tunnels are underground! If we use explosives powerful enough to break them, we'll kill millions of basilisks."
Xerka stared at the sniveling creature. Silent.
The green basilisk bowed his head.
"Yes, mistress."
He slunk off to his station. Xerka undulated across the deck to the Rattler's bridge. She stared at the viewport.
Her fleet was disabling the virus. Only a handful of Copperheads were still affected. The six alien fleets were ceasing fire. But the damage had been done. Thousands of her warships were destroyed.
"You did well, little Rowan," Xerka said. "Such a vicious, intelligent little beast you are. I look forward to devouring your brain." She licked her lips. "That brain of yours will live for a long time in my belly. I will make your suffering last. You will have no more mouth. And you will need so badly to scream."
She turned toward Earth, gazing at the pale blue planet she had made ugly.
You burned me, humans. So now I will burn you all.
Bombs fell from her fleet. Explosions bloomed across Earth.
On her bridge, sirens wailed. Warning lights flashed.
Xerka spun toward another viewport.
A new fleet was arriving—a fleet of a thousand ships. And they were firing.
Xerka screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The starling fleet—a thousand motley ships—charged toward the enemy, all guns blazing.
They were small ships. Some were barely larger than starfighters. They were cobbled together, homemade, no two alike. Boxy, rusting vessels with flashing strobe lights. A few ships coated with garish neon signs, once used as portable brothels. Heavily armored ships bristly with cannons, machine guns, and laser blasters—the ships of bounty hunters. A few modified Peacecars, stolen and refitted and painted with flames, jaws, and scantily-clad sirens. The bulky ships of smugglers. The cloaked ships of assassins, and the spiky ships of mercenaries. The ships of scavengers, sprouting arms tipped with metal claws and shovels. The ships of gunrunners, druggers, moonshiners, loan sharks.
The ships of the unwanted.
Of the galactic freaks.
Ships that had languished for years, even centuries, in orbit around Niraya. Rusting away in the dregs of the universe.
Here was the fleet of the starlings. Of those cast out from humanity. Those who today were as proud as any human.
The Exodus Fleet flew with them. Only twenty warships. A few freighters and tankers. Bay lead the charge in a Firebird, one of only three the Exodus Fleet still operated. Luther flew right behind him, piloting the New Orleans, a massive ammunition ship filled with explosives. Far behind the human fleet, the HSS Porter was trailing them, filled with another hundred thousand refugees waiting for a path home.
Ahead, orbiting Earth, the enemy warships turned toward them.
There were thousands.
Tens of thousands.
But they were not as mighty as before. Many of their ships were listing, punched full of holes. Others were completely destroyed. Debris floated between Rattlers, the remnants of explosions.
It worked! Bay thought. Rowan's Troy virus worked! Good job, baby!
Pride swelled his chest.
Ra, I love you, Rowan.
But he had little time to think of that now. There were still enough enemy ships to cause serious damage. And they were all turning toward the starling fleet. Though weakened, the alien armada still dwarfed Bay's own force.
The aliens opened fire.
From the Rattlers: searing green lasers. From the Esporian pods: clouds of fungus. From the hellwolf warships: jagged, spinning blades. From other alien vessels: acidic blobs, rolling balls of plasma, searing beams of light. The alien assault flew toward the human fleet, and Bay winced, preparing for impact.
"Fire your lures!" Bay shouted.
The others needed no encouragement.
From a thousand starling ships—the lures flew forward.
The starlings had been fighting in space all their lives, generation after generation. They were more battle-hardened than most generals. Thousands of their spinning, flashing lures flew toward the incoming fusillade—and absorbed the impact.
Lasers hit a swarm of flying Disco balls, and the mirrors scattered the assault. Plasma bolts slammed into heavy iron caltrops, dispersing with bursts of flame. Spongy lures soaked up poisonous spores and acid. Some of the alien projectiles made their way through. Some starling ships exploded.
But most survived and charged onward.
Now it was the starlings' turn.
The ragtag fleet opened fire with devastating force and vengeance.
Their weapons were as varied as their ships. Bay fired missiles from his starfighter. Other ships fired photon bolts. A few fired balls that exploded among the enemy, scattering a thousand tiny bombs. Other starling ships shot bombs with drills attached; they carved into enemy shields before exploding a meter deep, shattering the hull. Some starlings fired spinning saw blades tipped with lasers; they carved through enemy shields. One long starling ship spurted a massive geyser of fire, kilometers long, a volcanic eruption that seared through the enemy and broke its formation.
Xerka's armada was charging toward them now, abandoning its bombardment of Earth. Bay roared, storming toward the enemy in his Firebird, all guns blazing.
The two fleets crashed together with an explosion that lit space. Across half of Earth, they must have seen the fire.
Earth's orbit became a sea of metal, flame, and death.
Bay flew like he had never flown. Swerving, banking, firing his machine guns. He roared over a podship, dodging its spores, and fired a missile into one of its pustules. The podship exploded, scattering fungus. A silvery Aeolian ship—once an ally of Earth—charged toward Bay, guns firing. He barrel-rolled past the attack, soared around the starship, then came at its engines, firing missiles into their churning jaws. The engines exploded, and the silver, dagger-shaped ship careened and slammed into a Rattler.
The starlings were fighting everywhere. The scavenger ships grabbed Copperheads in their claws, spun the scaly starfighters like rag dolls, and hurled them at the bulky Rattlers. Bounty hunters and mercenaries ripped into the enemy, pounding alien shields again and again until they shattered. A mining ship extended hammers and drills and busied itself carving open Rattler hulls.
This wasn't an army. They were outlaws. Lowlifes. This was a mob. But it was a mob of unwanted souls who finally learned they had a home. And they fought as bravely as any army Bay had ever seen.
But as they fought, so they died.
Every moment, another starling ship exploded. Lasers carved through them. Acid melted their hulls. Photon bolts shattered their bridges. Some starlings emerged to fight in spacesuits. They charged forth with jetpacks, firing machine guns, only for the enemy to mow them down.
All around Bay—death.
People he had led here. People he had promised a homeworld. Around him, they died.
From beyond the horizon, a thousand new Rattlers rose. They joined the battle, their cannons pounding the starling fleet.
We're not strong enough, Bay realized, horror gripping his chest. We can hurt them. We can destroy many Rattlers. But we can't win.
His monitor beeped. Earth was hailing him.
Bay tugged the joystick, skirting a barrage of bullets. He accepted the call.
"-ead me? Bay? Bay, do you read me?"
"Dad!" Bay said.
Through the speakers, Emet could be heard sighing with relief. "Bay, I'm monitoring the battle above. But we're facing more urgent problems on the ground. The enemy is breaking into Port Addison's tunnels. I need you to get whatever forces you can down here. Starfighters to strafe the enemy. Shuttles carrying infantry too. Bay—move fast."
A chill gripped Bay. He understood the urgency. There were two hundred thousand civilians hiding below Port Addison. If the enemy broke through …
"I'm on it, Dad. I'll be there soon. Hang in there."
Bay reached out to a handful of other starfighter pilots—two from the Exodus Fleet, a dozen starlings. He contacted the Porter next, commanding the cruise ship to begin filling its shuttles—but only with fighters, with refugees who had guns and military experience.
"We're joining the fight on Earth," Bay told them. "Right now. The rest will keep fighting in space."
The other starfighters gathered around him, forming a V-shaped battle squadron. Shuttles flew among them, carrying infantry troops. The starling pilots were bounty hunters and smugglers. The humans in the shuttles were refugees. These were not soldiers of the Human Defense Force. Many weren't even fully human. But they were all soldiers of Earth.
The formation charged through the battle, heading toward Earth.
Copperheads flew in to block their way. Ten of the bastards.
Bay tightened his lips, narrowed his eyes, and charged toward them.
"Take them on!" he said. "Send these bastards to hell."
The starfighters unleashed their fury. Missiles, bullets, and shells pounded the Copperheads. But the basilisk starfighters responded in kind, pummeling the human force.
One starling ship exploded.
A laser sliced another one open, and the pilot vanished into the void.
Bay cursed and swerved around the enemy, hammering their prows. A starling bounty ship cast a net of shimmering lasers, capturing two Copperheads and dicing them into metal chunks. The Porter's shuttles were no warships, but they had been mounted with crude cannons, and they pounded the enemy.
Two starfighters down, Bay and his team kept flying. They were only a few thousand kilometers from Earth now. Moments away.
Rattlers rose before them. Not just the smaller Copperheads but full-sized warships. The coiling serpents of metal stormed forward, portholes like eyes, cannons like fangs.
A hundred or more. Fanning out. Forming a wall in space. Each the size of a frigate.
Bay could barely breathe.
"Fly around them!" he said.
But the Rattlers quickly surrounded them. Their laser beams flashed, forming bars like a cage, blocking every avenue of escape.
"Apes …" A hissing voice crackled through his speakers—one of the basilisk pilots. "You will be mine to devour …"
The Rattlers moved closer, boxing in Bay's small fleet. Bay winced, knowing he could not defeat so many, prepared to go down fighting.
A shadow loomed behind the Rattlers.
A lumbering freighter—larger even than the basilisk warships.
It was the New Orleans. The gunrunning freighter. The ship Luther was flying alone. A ship filled with grenades, bullets, and missiles from Epsilon Eridani.
Luther's weathered face appeared on Bay's monitor.
"Fly on home, friend," said the old man. "I'll take care of these rascals for you. You fly on home."
"Luther—" Bay began, but his tongue felt thick. He took a shaky breath. "Luther, you're flying a freighter. You can't take on warships. Luther, what—"
"Don't you worry about me, kid." Luther's voice was warm, his face kind. "Send my greetings to your old man. I love you both. It was an honor to fight with you. For Earth." His starry eyes shone. "For my home."
The hulking freighter gained speed, flying toward the Rattlers.
"Luther!" Bay said. "Don't! Turn back now, you can't—"
But it was too late.
Bay winced.
He switched his frequency and hailed his team.
"Ships, back, back! Fall back!"
Ahead of them, the New Orleans rammed into the wall of Rattlers—and exploded.
White light flared. Then another explosion lit space. Another. Then a hundred more blasts. The armaments inside the New Orleans were bursting—missiles firing, grenades exploding, bullets flying every
which way.
And as the armaments exploded, so did the Rattlers.
Scores of the scaly warships tore open, spilling out basilisks. Shock waves blasted out from the remains of the New Orleans, casting other Rattlers aside. A massive sphere of flame, smoke, and debris spread out.
Slowly, the cloud dissipated.
Bay narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily.
The explosions had carved open a path to Earth.
"Come on, team!" He ignited his afterburner and charged forth. "We've got a colony to save."
As the battle continued behind them, Bay and his ships shot forward and dived into Earth's atmosphere.
They plunged through the sky, racing toward North America.
Below, Bay could soon see it. The ruins of Port Addison.
Countless aliens were swarming over the colony.
Alien missiles rose from below. Humanity's starfighters scattered, dodging the fire, then swooped to battle. To save Port Addison. To bring humanity hope.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tom stood in the tunnels. Ahead of him rose a wall of barricades: concrete, steel, and stone, blocking the horrors beyond. Behind him huddled the civilians of Port Addison: unarmed, young or old, weak, afraid.
The drills whirred.
Beyond the barricades, the monsters howled.
They were breaking in.
Tom raised his rifle. The metal was cold in his hands, and the wooden stock dug into his shoulder. Familiar pain. Around him, a squad of young soldiers raised their own guns. They were all privates. Some were only thirteen. A few were elders in their seventies, gray and rawboned. One soldier was missing a leg, another an eye. The strong warriors had all died in this war. The young, the old, the wounded—they had taken up the torch.
Ahead, the enemy's drills were carving the metal barricades.
Tom's lip curled. He readjusted his rifle, staring through the scope. Waiting.
"We few are the defenders of Earth," Tom said to his soldiers. "We are in shadows. We face monsters. We fight for blue skies and green hills. Whatever breaks through these walls—we will defeat it! Or we will die fighting. But we will not abandon our post."
The Song of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 5) Page 26
