Earth Rising (Earthrise Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  Yet that night, as Kemi lay in bed, the nightmares came back full force. She was lying again on the stone slab in the mines, strapped down with sticky tendrils as the centipedes rose above her. They were cutting her, stitching her together, forming a great centipede with many limbs, she and Marco and Lailani forming a single living, screaming organism. She tried to fly her jet, to kill the enemy, but she couldn't fit into her cockpit, and she kept laying translucent eggs, and she fell, fell, crashed down into a hive, vanishing until she became a great queen of arthropods. When she woke up, sweat covered her and dampened the sheets, and she could barely breathe.

  She rose from bed and stared out the viewport at the stars.

  They're out there, she thought. The scum. Millions of them.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  "Kill them," she whispered. "Kill them all. Kill them all." Her tears flowed down her cheeks, and she kept repeating the words as a mantra. "Kill them all."

  * * * * *

  Einav Ben-Ari stood in a spacesuit on the cold, black surface of Nightwall's rogue planet. She stared down at the grave. Her fists clenched, and she hated that her eyes stung. She hated still being angry at him. Still letting him hurt her.

  "You couldn't even be buried on Earth," she said. "You couldn't even give me that, could you?"

  She stared at the epitaph on his gravestone. Colonel Yoram Ben-Ari. Soldier. Husband. Father.

  "Soldier first," Ben-Ari said, lips curling bitterly. "Father last. But were you even that? Were you truly a husband, a father? Or nothing more than a soldier?"

  Damn it. Now her tears were on her cheeks, and her helmet was fogging up.

  Yes, she knew. He had always been a soldier, nothing more. His father had been nothing but a soldier too, as his father before him—a family of warriors, never putting down roots, not since the scum had destroyed their country fifty years ago, and even before that, the Ben-Aris had dedicated their lives to the wars among men. Once Ben-Ari had confronted him, had shouted, "You love the army more than me!" She still remembered how he had stared at her, how he had not denied it.

  Ben-Ari looked away from the grave. She shouldn't have come here. If he had wanted her to visit, he could have chosen a burial on Earth. He hadn't even died here on Nightwall, had died out there in open space in some distant battle, had requested in his will a grave here. Not a grave among flowers and trees. Not a grave in a beautiful place of grass and birds. But here. In space. On a military base. A place where only soldiers could see him.

  "Soldiers like me," Ben-Ari said. "Because that's all that I've known. All you ever let me know."

  She thought back to her childhood. She had been only a toddler when her mother had died—not from a scum attack, not in battle, but of a bee sting. A fucking bee sting. She had been allergic, had died from a single bee, a shame her father could never forgive. How could he? His family had been dying in great battles for generations—fighting the scum, fighting terrorists, fighting Nazis, fighting the tsar. And his own wife—dead fighting a bee in the garden!

  If some men might have left the military after the death of a wife, choosing to raise their daughter, Yoram Ben-Ari had done the opposite. He had dedicated even more time to his career, advancing quickly from captain to major, finally to colonel, a rank few soldiers achieved. He had dragged little Einav from base to base, letting his soldiers babysit her for hours on end. She had spent so much of her childhood in the company of gruff drill sergeants who let her play with bullet casings, decorate artillery shells, and ride on the cannons of tanks. All little Einav had ever wanted was a normal childhood. A house or apartment. A yard or balcony. A school. Not having to leave every few months.

  And often her father left her.

  For months at a time, he left.

  He had never taken his daughter into space, on all his missions. He would go visit wondrous worlds. To negotiate peace with the Guramis, a race of sentient water-dwellers on a distant ocean world. To trade technology with the Silvans, a race of tree-climbers hundreds of light-years away. He would go on these wonderful adventures, see worlds of endless crystals, of trees that soared kilometers high, of underwater worlds of coral forests. And Einav would remain with one babysitter or another. And a month later she would see the photos, get a little gift, then move to another military base in some dusty corner of Earth.

  Was it any wonder that, as a youth, Einav would sneak out to drink with solders, to sleep with soldiers in their bunks? That she had run away from her father several times, only for his sergeants to hunt her down and bring her back home, humiliated?

  Yes. She had rebelled. Yet when the time had come, when she had turned eighteen, she had joined the military. She had gone to Officer Candidate School. She, a Ben-Ari, the last member of a long military dynasty—she would not be enlisted. No. That would be a shame her father would never forgive, worse by far than the shame of the bee. So Ben-Ari had done her duty. To her father. To her forefathers. To that old shadow box she carried with medals from wars long ago, medals her family had won with blood. She had earned a commission, become an officer, chosen a military career. She, the girl who had never known anything but war, anything but the army—she too had dedicated her life to the military. As an officer, she would remain in the HDF until she retired, would never know another job, another life. And someday, she knew, it would be her duty to marry a soldier, to give birth to future soldiers.

  And that last thought made her sick.

  "Because I can't be like you were, Father," she said to the grave. "I can't be that kind of parent. I can't bear to see another child live the life I did."

  Bitter tears streamed down to her lips. Her father. The man idolized by his troops. The man studied at military academies. The man known on alien worlds as the grand ambassador, the bringer of Earth's gifts of technology and friendship. The man Einav Ben-Ari desperately missed, desperately hated, desperately loved. The man who had died far too young. The man who could have, perhaps, someday made peace with her as he had made peace with alien civilizations. The man who would now rest forever in these shadows of a distant world with no sun.

  She turned around. She left the cemetery. She reentered one of the military bases that speckled this planet.

  Drying her tears, Ben-Ari made her way to the base's cantina, where she found a vending machine. She bought a Coke, a bag of chips, and a sandwich full of mystery meat that probably predated the Cataclysm. The Coke came in a real glass bottle. Fancy.

  She sat at a table with a view of a brick wall and a small television set showing a rerun of Chelsea vs. Barcelona from a couple of Euros ago. Santos scored a goal. Ben-Ari had just opened her bag of chips when a shadow fell, and she looked up to see Gunnery Sergeant Jones approaching her table.

  "Mind if I watch the game with you, ma'am?" said the burly NCO. He held a box of french fries.

  Ben-Ari gestured at the seat beside her. "Be my guest, but only if you share those fries with me. I think baby scum have gotten into my bag of chips, judging by how much air is in there."

  The NCO offered her a fry. "If I may ask, ma'am: How's space treating you?"

  On the television set, Alvarez shot on goal but hit the bar.

  Ben-Ari smiled weakly. "Just because I'm a butter bar doesn't mean I'm completely clueless in space, you know."

  Jones smiled too. "Meaning no disrespect, ma'am, butter bar or not." He glanced at the insignia on her shoulders—her butter bars, the mark of a junior officer. "It's just that . . . Space Territorial Command can be tough on anyone when they first arrive, from private to general. It's cold up here. It's dark. It's fucking close to the goddamn scum."

  "Everywhere is close to the scum these days, Sergeant," she said. "We've had our share of them on Earth too." She sighed. "To answer your question, yes, it's cold. It's dark. And I miss home. But this is the front line. This is where we muster for war. So this is where I'll fight."

  Jones nodded. "Earth is worth fighting for. I had a son born just eight mon
ths ago, did you know? Never even met the little kid." He shook his head sadly. "But that's who I'm fighting for. My wife and little one. A chance to end this war, go home, and finally be a family."

  He showed her a photo of a smiling baby. Ben-Ari stared at it for a long time.

  "He's beautiful," she said softly.

  "Where are you from on Earth, ma'am?" Jones said. "If you don't mind me asking, that is. I don't mean to pry."

  She turned her head and stared out a window across the mess at the stars. "I'm from nowhere," she said. "Nowhere but this place. The HDF. The war. Sometimes I think that if this war ends, I won't know where to go, that . . ."

  She paused. Why was she telling him all this? She barely knew Jones. He would be assigned to her new platoon, she knew. He would be her platoon sergeant. He would fight with her, be her second-in-command, her confidant and closest ally, the way Singh had been her sergeant back with the Dragons. But still, she barely knew this warrior. Why was she spilling her secrets to him?

  It was this damn place, she decided. This loneliness. This cold darkness. Her father's grave outside. Ben-Ari had rarely made friends even back on Earth. It was hard to make friends when you were a lieutenant, when every soldier around you was either a subordinate or a commanding officer, when you had to keep your professional distance from your soldiers, even from your sergeants. The curse of the butter bar. And it was even harder here in space. Here at Nightwall, among hundreds of thousands of soldiers, Ben-Ari had never felt more alone. Perhaps, in Jones, she saw something akin to a friend.

  Another gift you've given me, Father, she thought. No childhood friends. Nothing but emptiness.

  Sergeant Jones sensed the awkward silence, it seemed. He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket.

  "Do butter bars ever play cards with us NCOs?" he said, smiling. "Or is that sort of like a princess playing hopscotch with her butler?"

  "I'm no princess," Ben-Ari said. "Gin rummy?"

  Jones nodded. "I'll deal."

  He dealt. She cut the deck. They played. They played again. And slowly, Ben-Ari's anger faded, and she was smiling, even laughing. In a few weeks, she knew, the war would flare. They would fly to battle, to death, to devastation in space. But for now, for a few moments, space was a little less cold.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A month after landing at Nightwall, Marco and Addy completed their training—and were summoned at once, still sweaty and winded and reeling, to report to Space Station One.

  "Space Station One?" Addy said, wiping her forehead. "Us?"

  Marco walked beside her. They were hurrying down one of the massive tunnels that snaked beneath the surface of the rogue planet. Both wore their new pins on their lapels, showing the sigil of the STC. Both wore new STC service uniforms, rather than the combat fatigues they had worn in training. Their trousers and blazers were navy blue, the brass buttons polished, and beaked caps topped their heads. It was the nicest set of clothes Marco had ever worn. He felt like he was walking toward a wedding . . . or a funeral.

  "What's Space Station One?" Marco said.

  Addy raised an eyebrow. "Um, only the most important space station in the galaxy, Poet. That's where the generals work. It's like the Pentagon of space. It's like the Castle Grayskull of the army. It's like the Autobots' headquarters in the mountain with all the Dinobots buried underneath. Why the hell do they want us there? And why didn't they give us time to even have one fucking beer first?"

  Marco wasn't sure. They had completed their training only today, officially becoming Space Territorial Command warriors. He had expected at least a night of relaxation: a couple of beers, a movie in the lounge, a good meal, a proper night's sleep. Even after completing basic training on Earth, a far humbler achievement, they had partied for a night. But moments ago, the urgent summons had arrived.

  Corporal Marco Emery. Corporal Addy Linden. Report at once to Room 103, Level 7, Space Station One. Service uniforms required.

  "Do you reckon they want to interrogate us again?" Marco said as they walked through the labyrinthine tunnels.

  "They probably want to court-martial you for that time you clogged up the toilet," Addy said.

  "That wasn't me!" Marco bristled.

  "Yeah, yeah." Addy patted his head. "And I don't need my gas mask after they serve you cheese in the mess."

  "I need my gas mask whenever you take your boots off in the bunks," he said. "That's worse than scum miasma."

  "Good, maybe I'll poison you with my feet tonight." Addy nodded. "I'll finally be rid of you."

  Marco groaned, but this felt good. This was like the old days, like how they'd bicker back home in the library. This was a little bit of comfort, a bit of banter to hold back the fear. And Marco saw that Addy was afraid too, saw the twitching fingers, the nervous biting of her lip, the way she tugged her hair.

  They found their way to a space elevator, this one connected to Space Station One, a different station than the one they had first docked at. They spent a nervous hour in the round, transparent elevator cab, climbing hundreds of kilometers up into space. During the ascent, Marco kept looking around him, trying to count the number of starships orbiting the rogue planet. There were thousands here now, maybe tens of thousands. He had never imagined that humanity had so many. A massive army was mustering here, one to dwarf the fleets from the days of the Cataclysm.

  This army could have fed millions of poor children, Marco thought. It could have housed every homeless person on Earth. It could have rebuilt the world, a world still in the Cataclysm's shadow. And it seemed to Marco that there were two tragedies to this war. There was the tragedy of lives lost. And there was the tragedy of lives left to languish.

  They reached Space Station One and navigated its corridors. Marco had never seen so many officers in one place before. Officers were rare in every other base he had been to, but here they were everywhere. And not just young lieutenants like Ben-Ari either, but many older officers with gray hair, stars instead of bars on their shoulders.

  They found their way to the seventh level, then to room 103. They entered to see a war room with fifty other soldiers already here, all in blue service uniforms. Only two faces were familiar to Marco. He recognized Gunnery Sergeant Jones, the man who had trained him for the past month. And he recognized his old platoon leader, Lieutenant Einav Ben-Ari, whom he hadn't seen since arriving at Nightwall. She too, it seemed, had completed her integration into the space corps, judging by her new uniform and the pin on her lapel. The others were all sergeants and staff sergeants, seasoned warriors.

  Marco was of average size, but he felt like a child here. Aside from Ben-Ari, everyone here was massive. They all seemed to tower a foot taller than Marco. They all had bulging muscles. He didn't see any soldiers here as awkward as Caveman or Jackass, nor as small as Lailani. Everyone here seemed like . . . well, superheroes was the word that sprang to mind. It was as if he'd wandered into a room full of Captain Americas and Wonder Women, great heroes and amazons. Marco felt woefully small and young here, a mere scrawny librarian in a chamber full of superhuman G.I. Joes.

  Marco and Addy saluted the lieutenant. "Ma'am," Marco said. "Reporting for duty." He looked around him, still unsure what this was all about.

  "All right, we're all here," said Ben-Ari, looking at the group. "Welcome to your new unit. Welcome to Spearhead Platoon. Every one of you was handpicked for this elite unit. You will be taking part in a highly classified, highly dangerous, and highly important mission. Every one of you is here because you exemplify qualities the HDF is looking for in this mission."

  Marco glanced at his fellow soldiers, then back at Ben-Ari. "Ma'am," he said, "Corporal Linden and I weren't briefed. What mission are we to undertake?"

  "You will learn when the time is right, Corporal," said Lieutenant Ben-Ari.

  "Will we be part of the invasion of Abaddon, ma'am?" Addy said. "Everyone's saying there will be an invasion, and—"

  "Soldiers, silence!" rumbled Sergeant Jones. "You wil
l receive more information when we see fit to share it. For now your task is to be brutally motivated to kick scum ass. That's all you need to know. And if you stray out of line, it'll be me kicking your asses."

  Ben-Ari stared across the platoon. "We don't have much time to train together. We will split into three squads. Each squad will be commanded by a staff sergeant. Each squad commander will report to Gunnery Sergeant Jones, who will report to me. The next few days will not be easy. You will train hard together. You will train harder than you've ever trained. You will get to know your comrades' strengths—and weaknesses, if you can find them. Once our mission arrives, it will be critical that we can work together as a team. Do not take this responsibility lightly."

  Marco glanced around him, but the other soldiers simply stared ahead, silently accepting their fate. Nausea filled Marco. What mission? What danger? Why was Ben-Ari revealing nothing? And why the hell was he chosen to serve in this group of superhero commandos?

  "Staff Sergeant Bellet!" Ben-Ari said. "Step forward. You will be commanding Squad One."

  One of the soldiers stepped toward the lieutenant. She sported a mohawk, tattoos across her hands and neck, and a smirk. "Yes, ma'am!"

  "I'll read the names of your soldiers," said Ben-Ari, and she went on to read fifteen names—Marco and Addy among them. Both stepped forward to form rank behind Sergeant Bellet. Two more staff sergeants were called next, both beefy men with jaws like slabs of stone. Each took command of a squad. It reminded Marco of his platoon back at basic: three squads, one officer, one platoon sergeant. But everyone here was a rank or two higher.