Earth Rising (Earthrise Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Another step!" barked Jones.

  They took another step. The suits hissed, clanked, thudded. Marco remembered driving the armored vehicle back at Fort Djemila. This was like operating an armored vehicle that fit perfectly around his body. Looking around him, Marco imagined he was seeing an army of robots. And perhaps he was—here were, in a sense, wearable robots.

  Sergeant Jones stepped into his own exoframe, and its plates snapped shut. "Now follow me." His voice emerged from speakers in Marco's helmet. "You're going to need time to get used to your new skin."

  They followed their drill sergeant across the hangar, down a corridor, and into an airlock. A pair of doors closed behind them. Another pair of doors opened ahead. The air gushed out, and they beheld the lifeless surface of the rogue planet.

  "Remember!" said Jones. "There's only a paper-thin atmosphere here at Planet Nightwall. The surface will kill you in about thirty seconds with your suits off. There is a code word to open your suits, which I'm not sharing until we return indoors. In the meanwhile, do try not to shatter your helmets. Now march after me."

  They marched out of the airlock, a hundred warriors in their exoframes, and onto the rocky black ground. The stars shone brilliantly above, barely any atmosphere to dim them, and a spiral arm of the Milky Way spread above. The lights of satellites, space stations, and starships blinked above among the stars.

  For hours, they trained in their new skins.

  They ran, following Jones—slowly at first, then running a full one hundred kilometers an hour. They leaped, soaring ten feet into the air. They climbed a sheer cliff, digging their metal fingers into the stone. They shattered boulders with their gauntlets. They rolled, somersaulted, crawled, and vaulted over canyons. At one point Jones instructed them to leap down a seven-meter cliff, which Marco felt so queasy about he nearly backed out. He had already broken his kneecap once in the army. He didn't relish breaking it again. Addy had to shove him over the cliff, and Marco fell with a shout, cursing her. He slammed down onto his metal knees, cracking the earth beneath him, ending up with bruises but no broken bones.

  "The STC only has a few of these machines," said Sergeant Jones. "You will prove yourself worthy of these very expensive pieces of equipment. They are worth far more than you are. You will slay many scum with them. You will make me proud, or I will personally kick your metal asses."

  After a few hours of agility, they began to fight.

  They fired their guns at distant boulders, shattering the stones. They launched grenades toward a distant mountain. They fought hand to hand with their comrades, wrestling with great thuds of metal hitting metal. Marco found himself facing off against Addy, and the woman was vicious, swinging her metal fists, knocking her armored shoulders into him, and body checking him again and again, grinning all the while within her helmet. His suit protected him from the blows like a bulletproof vest protected you from a bullet; it kept you alive but hurt like hell.

  "Addy, God!" he said when she slammed him down, then leaped onto him. "You weigh a ton—literally!"

  "Ack, a talking scum!" she said and pounded his head against the ground. "Die, scum!"

  His head rang. "God damn it, Addy." He kicked her off, and she flew several feet into the air, then slammed down hard onto the ground, cracking rocks.

  By the time they returned into the airlock, Marco was exhausted, covered in bruises, and drenched in sweat. It wasn't that the suit was heavy; it felt no heavier than wearing clothes. It was the constant jumping, running, rolling, falling, and wrestling that left him weary to the bone.

  That night, Sergeant Jones showed them to their new bunks. It was better than basic training, at least. Rather than tents in the desert, they had actual rooms with actual walls. And rather than share the room with an entire squad, each chamber included only three bunk beds. It would have seemed crowded and harsh for a prison cell, Marco thought. But after Ford Djemila, this small crowded chamber was a luxury. Marco even managed to nab a top bunk, despite Addy grabbing his leg and trying to yank him off. They shared the chamber with four soldiers who barely spoke a word of English. One was Chinese, two were African, the fourth Sri Lankan. Unlike Earth Territorial Command, which generally segregated its battalions by geographical location, the STC was truly mixed. Given that Sergeant Jones was American and spoke English, Marco was sure that most soldiers here were thankful for the translators installed into their helmets.

  "Morning inspection at 5:00 a.m.!" Jones appeared at the doorway as the soldiers were changing out of their uniforms. "That gives you six hours to sleep. I suggest you use them." The drill sergeant left down the corridor, and they heard him repeat the words at another room.

  Six hours. It was less than what Marco would sleep back home, but it was luxury compared to the two or three hours a night he had slept during basic. For six hours, Corporal Marco Emery, space warrior, slept like a bruised, battered log.

  * * * * *

  The weeks stretched on, eighteen hours a day, six days a week of constant training.

  They crawled through networks of tunnels, battling mock scum—robots of sharp steel—in mock hives. They once spent four days trapped in a labyrinth, seeking their robotic enemies in the darkness. They ran for days across the dark plains of the rogue planet, moving in complete darkness far from any base or city, firing their guns, drilling against hordes of holographic enemies. They climbed mountaintops—mountains three times the height of Everest. They plunged into canyons that delved deeper than the Mariana Trench. In their exoframes, they became like robots themselves, hearts of metal, fists of steel.

  They spent one entire week in space, training inside a shadowy starship, blasting its cannons at asteroids and fighting one another in its twisting halls. They leaped from the ship in landing craft, again and again, plunging down toward the dark planet and slamming into the hard earth with a shower of stones. Another day, they leaped again and again from the starship, this time without landing craft, using instead massive parachutes that could barely catch the planet's thin atmosphere, that could barely cushion their fall. Jumping from space onto a planet, Marco decided, was the most terrifying experience in the cosmos. He relived it over and over in his dreams.

  It was training beyond anything Marco had experienced on Earth. Here they weren't training to guard city streets, to fight the odd scum pod that landed on the road, to become cogs in a machine of millions. No. Here in space, they were training for invasion. They were training for true war. The equipment was more advanced, the beds and food better, and the weaponry put Earth's firepower to shame, but Marco found this training far more exhausting than boot camp had been. Day by day, it was chipping away at him. Often he could not distinguish between himself and the metal skin he wore.

  He missed his friends. He missed joking with Elvis. Missed being near Lailani. Missed everything from Earth. There were rarely any smiles here in space. There was stone, darkness, fire, metal. Every day, he was thankful that at least Addy was here with him. He was going mad here, but perhaps she kept just a shred of his sanity still burning inside him.

  He missed home. He missed it every day. As they ran, jumped, fought, he thought about his father, his library, his city. He wondered if he would ever see them again. Vancouver was gone. Humanity was preparing a massive assault against the scum. When full war flared, what chance did Marco have of going home? And even should he survive an invasion of Abaddon, would there still be an Earth waiting for him, or would the second Cataclysm destroy what remained of his planet?

  As the days of training went by, Marco noticed something.

  Every day, there were more lights in the sky.

  When he had first come to Nightwall, he had seen hundreds of vehicles orbiting the planet: hulking cruisers, fast and small battle jets, clunky cargo ships, and more. He had never seen more than a handful of ships together before, and seeing hundreds of them had spun his head.

  But every day now, there were more.

  When Sergeant Jones took them in
to space for their latest jump, he saw thousands of ships orbiting Nightwall and docking in her space stations. There were massive carriers that held hundreds of fighter jets on their backs. There were warships lined with cannons large enough to climb into. There were cargo ships the size of skyscrapers. Among them all flitted countless smaller vessels—shuttles, fighter jets, spies, bombers.

  The attack on Abaddon is near, Marco thought. Humanity is gathering all its strength for the assault. All our guns will fire together.

  He thought back to the greatest invasions in the history books. To D-Day. To Operation Barbarossa. To Napoleon's doomed assault on Russia. All those, it seemed to Marco, paled in comparison to what he saw brewing here.

  They hit us on Corpus, so we destroyed their hive, he thought that night, lying on his bunk as the others slept around him. We destroyed their hive, so they destroyed Vancouver. They destroyed Vancouver, so now we will assault with all our might. He sighed. I sure chose a great time to join the army.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kemi stood in the hangar, staring at the squad of L16 Firebirds.

  She stood within the HDFS Sagan, a jet carrier the size of NYC's Freedom Tower. Here was one of the mightiest ships in humanity's arsenal, a legendary ship, a ship that had fought great battles and destroyed entire hives. Thousands of soldiers served within her halls, and fifty hangars lined her hull, each able to send forth a squad of fighter jets. Today the Sagan orbited the rogue planet of Nightwall, but whatever world she approached best beware; here was a flying army, containing enough firepower to destroy civilizations.

  Yet standing here in the hangar, Kemi was less impressed by the Sagan itself, more by the far smaller ships she carried. Here before her, fifteen L16 Firebird fighter jets stood ready for battle.

  Kemi had seen Firebirds before, of course. She had seen them fly over Toronto, patrolling the sky. She had even sat in one, the Firebird her brother had flown. But they could always take her breath away.

  She approached one of the jets, hesitated, then raised her hand to touch its fuselage.

  "The Chrysopoeia Corp L16 Fighting Firebird," she said. "Seventeen meters long, powered by twin nuclear engines. Equipped with retractable wings with a span of twelve meters, enabling atmospheric flights. Highly maneuverable, supersonic, multi-role tactical fighter, proficient as a dogfighter and bomber. The bubble cockpit provides perfect visual display, along with a state-of-the-art computerized navigational and combat system. Armed with a G17 cannon capable of firing 20mm rounds, six heat-seeking Dirk missiles for close combat, a dozen long-range Nighthawk missiles, and a bay full of bombs to unleash hell on anyone below." She patted the hull. "It's a fine machine."

  "You know your Firebirds, Ensign Abasi." Major Verish smiled at her, standing beside her.

  "I grew up around them, sir," Kemi said. "My brother had a thousand posters and toys of the Firebirds—and eventually a real Firebird of his own."

  "You've clocked over a hundred hours in the simulator by now," Verish said. "Are you ready to fly a real bird?"

  She bit her lip. She was scared. The simulators were incredibly realistic, nearly indistinguishable from the real thing, but not to her heart, not to the tremor inside her.

  "I crashed twice in my simulator," she said.

  "Only on the first day," said Verish. "Most of my pilots are still crashing the damn things after a month." He climbed the ladder toward the cockpit. "This is a two-seater. I'll be right behind you."

  Most Firebirds had only one seat, but Kemi saw the second seat lodged at the back of the cockpit. This was an L16B, a two-seater, often used in training. During real combat, she would fly the L16A with only one seat, but perhaps flying this jet now wouldn't be too bad. She gulped, climbed in after Major Verish, and took the front seat. She put on her helmet, then pulled the cockpit shut.

  An array of controls spread out before her—buttons, switches, joysticks, touchpads. Kemi inhaled deeply.

  Be like Lydia Litvyak, she told herself, as she had told herself during all her simulator flights. Born in 1921, Lydia Litvyak was the first female fighter pilot to shoot down an enemy plane. Born into a Jewish family, she had served in the Soviet air force during World War II, fighting the Nazis. She flew in sixty-six combat missions, shot down Nazi planes, and earned the rare title of "fighter ace." Since then, many women had become pilots. Today they formed half the pilots in the HDF fleet. But all that was thanks to dear Lydia, and Kemi held on to that woman's memory as the hangar doors began to open.

  The air emptied out from the hangar, and Kemi pressed down on the throttle—too fast. The Firebird blasted forward and burst from the Sagan's hangar with terrifying speed. Space opened up around her: the rogue planet below, a space station above, thousands of other ships around her. Or was the planet above her and the space station below? She was moving too fast, too fast, and this wasn't like the simulator at all, and she was going to crash, and—

  Breathe. Breathe!

  She inhaled deeply and pulled on the joystick, rising higher, then banked to the right. She found a spaceroad, a path lit by thousands of floating buoys, and flew among them. She was still moving slowly, but slow for a Firebird still meant hundreds of kilometers per hour, and the lights streamed at her sides.

  "You're doing fine, Ensign," said Major Verish, sitting behind her. "Just keep moving down this path, then when you reach the end of the road, rise higher until you're flying five hundred kilometers higher up."

  She nodded, maintaining her speed. Several other spaceroads spread around her, ribbons of light, and many jets flew along them. In orbits farther out, she could see hundreds of satellites. There was a system here. Some orbits for space stations, some for jet carriers and cruisers, others for satellites, each ship divided by class and distance from the planet. But it was all so dizzying, like trying to drive through bustling Manhattan during rush hour and a parade. Finally she reached the end of the spaceroad, where floating arrows of light pointed upward—an exit from this orbit. Kemi pulled back hard on the joystick, and the Firebird turned straight up, its tail toward the rogue planet. She flew until she had climbed five hundred kilometers.

  "Excellent!" said Major Verish. "Now gradually increase speed. Bring us up to Mach 10. Keep the same trajectory."

  She increased her speed, faster, faster still, rising to a dizzying three kilometers per second. She kept moving away from the planet, leaving the space stations and great carriers below.

  "Watch out for those satellites," Verish said.

  "Yes, sir, I see them."

  They kept flying, and even at Mach 10—ten times the speed of sound—it was a while before they cleared the cluster of satellites.

  I bet you never flew this fast, Lydia, she thought.

  "All right, I think we found a nice spot of open space," said Verish, sounding so relaxed Kemi wouldn't be surprised if he kicked off his boots. "Now let's see you really fly. I've had a few of the boys send up some drones. Let's see you blast them apart."

  Suddenly from below flew streaming, spinning, whizzing balls of light and metal and spinning blades.

  Kemi winced. "Sir? You mean, use real weapons, and—"

  "Unless you want those drones to tear our hull apart," said Verish.

  Goddamn! Kemi thought.

  The drones came flying toward her, each the size of a motorcycle—small targets. Blades flashed on their sides, and their lights flared. They looked very, very pissed off.

  Kemi flew higher, banked, and rolled. The drones flew in pursuit. She counted five. Damn it! She increased her speed, but they flew faster. Lights flared out from one, and the Firebird rocked madly as something slammed into its tail.

  "Better get rid of those drones," Verish said.

  Biting her lip, Kemi tugged the joystick and swooped toward the planet. The drones followed, the lights blinding her. She kept plunging. More lights flashed out, blasting the Firebird, and the jet rocked again. The ring of satellites rushed up toward her, and below them hovered the lumbe
ring warships.

  Be like Lydia.

  Kemi yanked on the controls, spinning around so fast she nearly passed out. She pulled her triggers, blasting up a stream of bullets.

  She felt the cannon thrumming across the jet, heard the bullets expelled. A drone shattered and rained shards of metal.

  Four other drones came flying down. She soared toward them and released a missile.

  Metal exploded across space. More shards rained as another drone shattered. Kemi swerved hard, dodging the spray of shrapnel, and shot by the other three drones. They spun behind her, rising fast, firing at her ship. The Firebird jolted. For a moment, she lost control of the joystick and careened, then grabbed it again and spun in a wide angle, spraying bullets.

  Two more drones shattered.

  The last drone, the largest of the original five, raced toward her. Its blades spun. Kemi narrowed her eyes, fired a heat-seeking missile, then soared high and away. She flipped upside down in time to see the missile slam into the drone, and firelight filled the cockpit.

  She breathed out shakily, floating for a moment upside down, the planet over her head.

  "Sir!" she finally managed to say. "Each one of these missiles costs more than my father's Acura. And I just fired two."

  "We have more money than pilots," Verish said from behind her, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "You did well."

  She gulped. "Sir, those drones, could they have really hurt us? Really destroyed this jet?"

  "They could have done some serious damage," the major said. "Good thing I know how to choose pilots. Now take us home, Ensign. Back into the Sagan."

  She flew back nice and slow, though her heart still raced, and landed the plane back in the hangar. The bay doors closed, and they waited for the chamber to repressurize before climbing back out.

  "How are the legs?" Verish asked.

  "Shaky, sir," Kemi confessed. "Thank you for this. For flying with me." She hesitated, then added, "A month ago, all I wanted was to go home. To run from my fear. But . . ." She inhaled deeply. "Maybe this is better. Maybe this way I can face my enemies head-on. Maybe this way I can kill my demons instead of sweeping them under the rug. Two more weeks, sir? Until . . . well, you can't say, I know. But two more weeks, sir, and I'll be ready to kill them. To kill them all."