Earth Fire (Earthrise Book 4)

by Daniel Arenson

  James tightened his lips, seeming to consider. Finally he sighed, opened his mouth, and—

  Chants rose from down the street, interrupting him.

  "Earth power! Earth power! Hail to the heroes!"

  Marching boots thudded in unison. Deep voices filled the street.

  "Earth power! Hail to the heroes!"

  Marco turned toward the sound and his heart, already in his stomach, sank to his pelvis.

  "Fuck," he whispered.

  Dozens of men were marching toward the library, their heads shaved. They did not carry signs, but they raised flags, the red fabric emblazoned with iron crosses. A few men displayed swastika tattoos on their foreheads. One banner displayed the words Earth Power over smaller letters that spelled out Death to Alien Scum.

  James scowled. "Are these your friends, Marco?"

  "No." Marco bristled. "I do not associate with them. I—"

  One of the Earth Power marchers raised a megaphone. "Hail to the heroes!" He was a tall, muscular man, his bald head massive, and he spoke with an English accent. He raised his hand in a Nazi salute. "Earth rises!"

  Behind him, his dozens of followers raised their own hands. "Earth rises!"

  The men marched like an army. They were fewer than the Never War protesters, but taller, wider, their boots tipped with steel, and Never War fell back before them. When one peace protester fell, the boots stomped him, and blood leaked into the snow.

  "Behold the scum-lovers!" said the British skinhead, pointing at James and the other protesters.

  "Traitors to humanity!" shouted a man in a leather trench coat.

  "Alien-fuckers!" cried another.

  "Hail Hunt!" the skinheads chanted, giving their leader Nazi salutes. "Hail Hunt!"

  Hunt—presumably the burly Brit—paced the street, speaking into his megaphone. A few of the Never War protesters tried to shout him down, but Hunt's voice washed over them.

  "The alien scum devastated Earth!" said Hunt. "They invaded our world, determined to impregnate our women, to infest pure humanity with their insect DNA." He spoke over his men's roars of hatred. "And these Never War weaklings betrayed our race. They scheme to surrender Earth to the next space vermin that fills the power vacuum. They plot to destroy the pure Human Empire that is destined to colonize the galaxy. But here stand true heroes!" He pointed at Marco and Addy. "Here stand two brave Aryan soldiers, exemplifying humanity at its purest, who defeated the alien scum! Hail the heroes!"

  His men all raised their open hands in salute. "Hail the heroes!" The Iron Cross flags rose higher.

  Marco felt like he was about to throw up. As much as the Never War movement loathed him, they now seemed the kinder alternative; he'd prefer their hatred over the adulation of Earth Power any day.

  "Fascists!" shouted a Never War woman with flowers in her hair.

  "Nazi pigs!" cried a man with dreadlocks.

  Stones began to fly. Steel-tipped boots kicked. Fists slammed into teeth.

  Soon the protests devolved into an all-out brawl. In one camp stood Never War, protesters with beards, braided hair, dreadlocks, beads, and tie-dyed shirts. In the other camp roared the Earth Power thugs, wearing black, heads shaved, many sporting swastika or iron cross tattoos, their boots tipped with steel. A few men drew knives and clubs. Rocks flew. Blood spilled. A skinhead grabbed a woman's hair and tugged her down, and her friends launched onto the man, kicking and punching. Police sirens wailed and Marco could see the cop cars racing from down the road.

  "Come on, Addy, let's get out of here." Marco grabbed her and began pulling her away from the brawl.

  "This is our home!" she said, pointing at the library, but access was now blocked. The only way they'd reach the fire escape was to fight their way through. "Where will we go?"

  "Anywhere but here!" Marco said, already imagining the evening news showing his and Addy's mugshots.

  She groaned but let him drag her away. They hurried down the road as cops leaped out from their cars and began handcuffing protesters from both camps.

  They were a block away when Marco's stomach twisted. He raced into an alleyway and lost his pancakes behind a trash bin.

  Addy wrapped an arm around him, and he leaned against her. The snowfall intensified and the wind shrieked. They walked down the streets, hunched over, only a few spare dollars in their pockets.

  "Do we have enough money for a hotel tonight?" Marco said. "Maybe just a hostel? I wish I had taken more cash. There's still a bit in the apartment, but God knows when we'll be able to get back inside, if ever. Those idiots seem determined to keep us out until the wrecking ball arrives." He sighed. "Some homecoming."

  "I'd even welcome an army tent now," Addy said.

  Marco felt close to tears. Throughout his time in the war, in the bowels of the scum hive, he would think about home, draw strength from the memory. In the darkest nights, he would imagine lying in his bed at home, living with his father again. That had taken him through rough days and long nights in the army. Now he was a civilian again, and he had come home, but everything was different. Everything was wrong.

  "We can find an all-night coffee shop," Marco said. "Drink lots of caffeine to stay awake, then come back in a few hours, and—"

  "No," Addy said. "We're down to our last few bucks, and I need a mattress or couch beneath me. I know a place."

  They trudged for half an hour through the sludge. Apartment buildings rose at their sides, the metal balcony railings weeping rust onto the raw concrete. A TV blared in an apartment, and gunshots sounded from the program, and Marco started. Finally Addy led them into one apartment building's lobby.

  "We'll find a hideout here." Addy reached for the intercom.

  "Addy, wait." Marco grabbed her wrist. "This isn't his place, is it? Your ex-boyfriend's?"

  She bristled. "And what if it is?"

  "You said he was a dope!" Marco said.

  "He is! So? He'll also have a couch to crash on."

  Marco sighed. He remembered the brute—a hulking hockey player who towered over Marco, who had stolen his lunch once in elementary school, who had begged to copy Marco's homework in high school.

  "What's his name again?" Marco said. "Butch? Buck? Bubba?"

  "You know his name is Steve." Addy scowled. "Marco, stop being a jealous baby."

  "What do I have to be jealous about? You're like a sister to me."

  She stared at him for a second too long, and Marco knew what she was remembering. It was a memory he didn't like to dredge up, a memory four years old now. They had been nineteen, just kids, terrified, haunted, lost in the war and completely alone. Their wounds from Corpus had not yet healed, and already they were lurching toward another battle, and all their friends had been taken away. In their loneliness and fear, Marco and Addy had made love—a night of tears, embraces, terror, sweat, sex. A night that had occurred only once, that still crept into Marco's dreams sometimes, into his memories when he watched Addy do something trivial—grab a beer from the fridge with the ghostly light upon her, or watch a bird take flight, or laugh, or look inward. At those times, Marco remembered that night with her, remembered the time he had loved her as more than a friend, more than a sister, but as a woman.

  But she can't be that to me, he thought. Not again.

  Their fates had been entwined for too long. Ever since that day in the snow, not far from here. That day when they had been children. When their parents had died. When Addy had moved into the library, an eleven-year-old with skinned knees, a foul mouth, and the stench of cigarettes already on her breath. A girl from a family of criminals, a girl he had always feared at school, who would knuckle his head, twist his arm. A girl who became his foster sister, his dearest friend, his sister-in-arms. And for one night only, something she could never be again.

  "All right then," Addy said. "So no problem." She turned away, blinked, and hit the intercom.

  They climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, knocked on the door, and it swung open. Steve stood there,
wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Crossing hockey sticks were tattooed onto his chest.

  "Addy Fucking Linden!" he roared, pulling her into an embrace. "Where the fuck have you been these past five years?"

  "Killing scum while you were hiding under your desk," she said.

  "Fuck I was! I was fixing antennae out in the mountains. If you think this is cold weather, try climbing a three-hundred-meter tower in the goddamn Siberian mountains and welding metal for five hours." He pulled back from Addy, holding her at arm's length, and examined her. "Fuck me, you've barely changed. Still hot. Still got great tits."

  "Fuck you, asshole." She shoved him aside. "My tits are frozen solid. I'm here to warm them up. Some fuckers took over our old place and kicked us out."

  For the first time, Steve seemed to notice Marco standing at the doorway. His eyes widened.

  "Rico!" he said, crushed Marco in one arm, and knuckled his head. "Got any lunch money for me?"

  "It's Marco," he muttered, shoving the man off. "You might have seen me in the news. War hero and all that."

  "Forget it, Poet," Addy said. "Steve only watches Robot Wrestling."

  "Fuck yeah!" Steve nodded. "It's on now, as a matter of fact. Come on in, grab a beer. Exterminator is about to smash The Claw."

  They shuffled into the apartment. The living room was small, cluttered, and thick with the smell of weed. Dirty clothes, a couple acoustic guitars, hockey gear, footballs, dirty dishes, and a collection of bongs covered every surface.

  "Hey, Stooge, move over!" Steve kicked the couch.

  Marco realized that a man lay on the couch. He was so covered with potato chips, laundry, candy wrappers, and beer bottles that he blended into his surroundings. The bearded man fell to the floor, moaned, and shuffled into the corner, where he found a bag of cookies and began to munch.

  "Yo, Stooge," Addy said. "Still working on your music career?"

  The man mumbled something incoherent, then lay down and began snoring.

  Lovely, Marco thought. And we could have gone to a nice, cozy homeless shelter.

  "Yeah, I've been back for a few months now," Steve was saying, grabbing beers from the fridge. "Hurt my ankle in the mountains so they let me out early. Stooge held down the fort while I was away. Life's good. My old man got me a gig installing air conditioners. Not much business in winter, but I've been fitting in lots of hockey games. You should play with us tomorrow, Ads."

  "Got to fight the man tomorrow," she said, accepting a bottle of beer.

  "Stickin' it to the man!" Steve clanged his bottle against hers.

  That night, Addy crept into Steve's bedroom to sleep, and the two closed the door. Marco lay on the living room couch, a blanket pulled over him. Stooge was still snoring on the floor; Steve had assured them that his bearded roommate spent most nights there anyway. The couch smelled of smoke, of old pizza crusts, of a thousand nights of Stooge passed out in front of infomercials. Marco closed his eyes, trying to ignore the snoring coming from the bearded man in the corner, to ignore the smells, to ignore the fear.

  Marco didn't know how much time passed before he heard the moan from the bedroom.

  Silence. A moment later—another moan.

  The scum. They're racing through tunnels. They're—

  "Oh God," Addy said from behind the bedroom door. "Oh God! God, Steve. God!"

  Steve only moaned. Lying on the couch, Marco could hear their bed rattling.

  He pulled a pillow over his head, but he could still hear it. Addy kept crying out to God, to Steve, then God again, growing louder and louder. Steve, never one for big words, simply kept groaning. Finally Addy screamed—an actual scream, and Marco remembered the screams of his dying friends. And he hated it, hated those memories, hated the thought of Addy and Steve, hated the jealousy, that horrible, nonsensical jealousy. And he hated the tears in his eyes.

  Finally he found some fitful sleep, waking up every few moments, until the sun rose and another day of this new war began.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When Ben-Ari returned to her quarters, desperate for a shower, a meal, and eight hours in bed, a stranger was waiting there for her.

  She froze, hand reaching toward her gun.

  They had given her a private chamber in Space Station One, a rare luxury for a junior officer, a luxury she had earned with years of dedicated service and daring missions. She had led the platoon that slew the scum emperor. Her face was famous across human civilization. The other junior officers—ensigns, lieutenants, and even captains—shared bunks here on the frontier, living barely better than the enlisted. Not she. Not the famous Captain Einav Ben-Ari, daughter of a colonel, a war heroine. Here was her reward: a small room, barely larger than a closet, a mansion in this crowded space station at Nightwall. A bed. A desk. Best of all, her own private shower. A palace.

  And at her desk, he sat. A young man in a suit, dark shades hiding his eyes, his hair spiked with gel. He rose and extended a hand to shake.

  "Captain Ben-Ari! Lovely to meet you in person at last."

  She stood in place, her hand a centimeter from her pistol. "Tell me your name before I blast off your head."

  The man laughed heartily. "So the stories about you are true. A soldier through and through." He kept his hand extended. "My name is Erik Pike, Senior Headhunter and Human Resource Manager at Chrysopoeia Corporation Space Territorial Command Outreach Program. A mouthful, I know. My friends just call me the Pikemaster." When she still wouldn't clasp his hand, he lowered it, never losing his smile. "Would you like some coffee or tea? I just boiled a kettle."

  "I would like you to get the hell out of my bunk," she said.

  Pike tossed his head back and laughed—a fake sound. "This is why we love you, Einav."

  "Captain Ben-Ari," she corrected him.

  "Captain Ben-Ari, of course." Pike nodded, poured hot water into a mug—her mug—and blew on it. "We at Chrysopoeia have been most impressed with your career. Stories of your courage have traveled far and wide."

  "I've heard." Still she kept her hand near her gun. "Back on Earth, the Never War movement wants to arrest me the day I land and charge me with war crimes. Supposedly, defeating a space bug hellbent on destroying humanity now constitutes alien genocide."

  Pike took a sip of his tea and winced. "Needs more cream." He added a packet. "Yes, we at Chrysopoeia Corporation are well aware of your legal woes, Captain Ben-Ari. I'm familiar with the lawyer prosecuting you, one Ben Bradley. We studied together at Dartmouth, actually. How long has it been since you visited Earth?"

  Five years. It had been five long years that she had served here in space, her only shore leave on planets that made Antarctica seem like a tropical paradise. With promises of arrest at Earth's spaceports, she had never dared visit home. Not that much awaited her on Earth these days. No family. No friends. Her life was the military. Her life was here in the darkness.

  And yet . . . Ben-Ari still longed to see the sea again. To hear trees rustle. To breathe fresh air, not the recycled gases that filtered through space stations. To walk along the beach, alone with her thoughts. To paint in a sunlit garden. To read at a lakeside, a campfire crackling. To be normal, if only for a day.

  Someday to retire, she thought. To leave the military. To meet a man. Maybe to have a child. To live by water and trees.

  "Why are you here?" she said, voice stiff, hating that she heard the twinge of sadness in it.

  "I've come to make your legal troubles disappear," said Pike. "At Chrysopoeia Corporation, we have the best legal defense teams in the world. We hire only the best, Captain Ben-Ari. Most of our managers were once officers in the Human Defense Force. In fact, I personally insist on hiring only distinguished military officers, men and women who have proved their leadership on the battlefield. I value them far more than squeaky-clean applicants with shiny MBAs and no dirt under their fingernails. I'm here to offer you a job, Captain Ben-Ari. You've served in the military for seven years now. Your term is up for renewal soon, am I r
ight? Consider retiring from the military, a distinguished officer with a proud career. And consider a second career, one with Chrysopoeia. On Earth."

  "On Earth," she whispered.

  Pike nodded. "On beautiful, green Earth. We'd be happy to offer you a corner office with a view of the sea." He handed her a pamphlet. "I've written our compensation offer under a photo of our offices. I hope it's to your satisfaction, though it is negotiable."

  Ben-Ari stood frozen for a moment. She thought of her conversation with Admiral Komagata. She thought of losing her friends in the war. She took the pamphlet.

  The photos did make her heart melt a little. She had to confess that. Chrysopoeia Headquarters looked more like a spa resort than an office building. The pamphlet showed palm trees, seaside trails, a nursery for children, and a cafeteria brimming with the bounty of Earth. On the last page, she saw a view of a corner office facing the water. Beneath it, Pike had handwritten a number. Her suggested salary.

  It was seven times what the military paid her.

  She looked up at him. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Are you sure you don't want some tea?" Pike said. "Perhaps to sit down? Or at least to move your hand away from your pistol?"

  She sat on her bed, but she kept her hand near her gun. "Talk."

  Pike placed down his mug and leaned closer to her, looming above her, a vulture over prey. "We understand that recently you experienced an . . . alien encounter."

  She stared at him, eyes narrowed. "I can neither confirm nor deny that."

  Pike nodded. "Ah, yes, militarily confidential, of course. But, see, classified information, even within the military, has a pesky way of spreading. To, say, an admiral. To a fellow officer, somebody you feel you can trust. To a lover, perhaps? And soon the news spreads. Only to a few close friends, mind you! Yet friends tell friends, and information inevitably leaks. And we certainly don't want to spread any panic, however limited. Fear is bad for stock prices."

  She stared at this man, and Ben-Ari remembered. She remembered seeing the symbol of Chrysopoeia Corp, a snake eating its tail, on the prison uniforms. Deep in the demilitarized zone. A prison owned by Chrysopoeia. A prison overrun with aliens.