Captain Ben-Ari,
Seven years ago, I was a frightened recruit, eighteen years old, meek, studious. You saw something in me. You gave me strength. You took me with you to war.
For a long time, I was angry at you. Angry that you led me into darkness. But I followed you because I believed in your strength, in your courage. It is your strength and courage that I've often longed to emulate.
I live in the colony of Haven. I live in a world of peace. I live in a world that is good. But the shadows are darker than ever.
We served humanity. We fought. We killed. We saw our friends die. We thought we would return home heroes. But we returned to a world that rejected us. That spat on us. That imprisoned you and drove me out. We returned home with scars on our bodies and our souls. We returned home needing help, needing care, but we found only scorn.
I'm afraid. I'm hurt. I find myself again trapped in a maze, one deeper than the hives of aliens. I was a librarian. I was a writer. I was a soldier. And now I am lost.
And so now, in my darkest hour, I think of you. I remember the lessons you taught me. I fight another battle, but I don't fight alone. I fight with a million other veterans. And I fight with all the courage that you gave me.
You saved my life many times in the war. And tonight, Captain Ben-Ari, six years after that war ended, you saved my life again. And tonight I make the same promise I made you years ago. To fight. To win. To march forth and fear no darkness, for beyond the shadows there is light.
I don't know where our paths lead. I don't know if they'll ever cross again. But if they do, know this: I am, and always will be, your soldier.
Marco
He sent her the message. It was likely, he knew, that she would never read it. But after sending that message, Marco felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He inhaled deeply.
Above, he imagined that he could see it. The thin wormhole, barely larger than a thread, used for sending messages back and forth between Haven and Earth, the electrons traveling faster than light through the tunnel. Somewhere in the darkness, Ben-Ari was in a prison cell. Somewhere in that distance, Lailani was fighting her new war. Marco wondered if they were thinking about him, watching the sky, seeing the distant light of Alpha Centauri.
I will live. For you. For Earth. I will fight like I fought before. I will be brave.
The storm was returning above, obscuring the stars. Sol flickered, vanished, reappeared, faded again. The brief moment of beauty was ending, swallowed up again by the clouds, but to Marco it highlighted the rarity of what he had witnessed, its holiness. He felt like the sky had given him a sign.
He frowned.
He narrowed his eyes.
Dark shards were moving above. It was not the clouds obscuring the stars but black shapes, moving fast.
Asteroids, Marco thought. No. Starships. Thousands of starships.
They stormed down toward Haven, leaving wakes of smoke and fire. As they drew closer, he saw that they were shaped like claws. Great iron claws with many fingers. In the sky, they bloomed open, revealing red, pulsing hearts.
Fire streamed down.
And across the colony of Haven, Marco heard that old, familiar song. Air raid sirens. The call of war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
He stood in the Dome, this transparent observatory above Nightwall, and beheld the terrors of the abyss swarm toward him.
"Oni," whispered Admiral Komagata, the word he had feared more than any as a child. "Demons."
Standing here, enclosed in the transparent bulb atop Space Station One, space spread all around him. And in the shadows—the creatures. The monsters he had fed, had tried to keep at bay. The terrors that now swarmed.
The marauders.
The ravagers, the clawed ships of the enemy, flew everywhere. Thousands. Tens of thousands. So many they filled the darkness. They bloomed like thorny flowers, like the ravenous mouths of lampreys, and flames blazed in their gullets. They spewed forth their wrath in a storm of fire.
Humanity's warships flew out to meet them.
Hundreds of Firebirds, single-pilot starfighters, streamed toward the enemy, leaving trails of light, firing missiles and bullets. They were like bees attacking tanks. Missiles hit the metal claws, doing them no harm. Bullets ricocheted off the enemy hulls in showers of light.
The marauder plasma streamed forth.
The inferno washed over Firebirds, melting them, sending them careening through space as balls of molten metal, pilots still screaming inside as their flesh blazed. Another squadron of Firebirds streamed toward the enemy. More missiles flew. More Firebirds fell, streaming down like flaming comets, then crashing against the dark planet below.
"Our end," said Admiral Komagata, watching from the Dome. "The demons risen into the world. The end of all life."
A starfighter carrier, a massive starship the size of a skyscraper, flew toward the enemies. Here flew the fabled HDFS Terra, the warship that had led the fleet to Abaddon five years ago, that had won the war against the scum. Its massive cannons, large enough to level cities, fired with all their fury.
A single enemy ravager, one ship among countless, crashed down to the rogue planet. Thousands of others stormed toward the starfighter carrier, a pack of wolves attacking a lumbering bison. Their plasma blazed. Their claws dug into the warship.
And the legendary carrier fell. The ship that had defeated the scum pitched down toward the planet. A ship the size of the Empire State Building, it crashed into the military bases that sprawled across the dark world. Fire blazed. Thousands perished.
One by one, like collapsing stars, the starships of the Human Defense Force fell. Starfighter carriers. Cargo hulls. Firebirds. Warships and medical ships and engineering barges. The lights flashed as they crashed onto the planet, burying barracks beneath them.
Cannons fired from below. The ravagers swooped, raining plasma upon them. Their claws, jagged monstrosities of metal, tore through the cables that lifted space elevators from below. The capsules hailed like shards of glass, people still caught inside them. Satellites careened, slammed into one another, and shattered. Shuttles tried to flee the battle, but the marauder swarm caught them, cracked them open, tossed the people within into the darkness.
Shards of metal. Severed cables. Torn seats. Human corpses. All floated around the admiral. The ruins of Nightwall—of a proud, fallen fleet.
In the center of the devastation, it floated—Space Station One.
During the war against the scum, several space stations had hovered here at Nightwall. They had been decommissioned, along with most of the fleet, to rebuild the ravaged world. Today Space Station One orbited here alone. Below burned the dark planet, explosions rocking its barracks, the nuclear reactors buried underground already leaking. All around floated the wreckage of the fleet, this mighty armada that had fallen to the enemy within moments. Cannons were still firing from the space station, but standing here above in the transparent dome, Admiral Komagata knew: We lost. We lost Nightwall. We lost the earth. This is our extinction.
All around him, the ravagers flew closer, a tightening noose.
Komagata stepped toward a table. He pulled back a silken scarf, revealing his most prized possession: an ancient katana. Its hilt was wrapped with silk over ray skin. Upon its handguard snarled a filigreed likeness of the thunder god. He passed his fingers against the lacquered wooden scabbard, tracing the engravings of waves and stars and ancient spirits.
The door to the Dome burst open.
A man in a business suit rushed in, face red, hair disheveled.
"What is the meaning of this?" the man shouted. "You're a man of the HDF! How did you let this happen?"
Admiral Komagata turned to look at the younger man, this agent of Chrysopoeia. He looked at the pricey suit. The gold watch. The shoes that cost as much as an officer's yearly salary.
"We have awoken a hungry beast," the admiral said softly.
"We've been feeding that beast!" the man shouted. "Damn it, y
ou idiot. We've been feeding it our prisoners!"
Around the space station, the countless ravagers paused. The clawed starships hovered, a swarm, facing Space Station One, examining their prey. Slowly, they began to bloom open. From here, the admiral could see them. They lurked within their ships, gazing through portholes. Creatures with six legs. With long claws. With waiting jaws.
"Our morsels have awakened a deeper hunger in our enemy's belly," said the admiral. "Now the beast shall satisfy its needs with our flesh."
"Fuck you and your Godzilla shit!" The man pointed a shaky finger at the admiral. "This is your fault. You weakened the fleet. They smelled your weakness. My bosses will hear of this! You fucking tanked our stock price, you son of a bitch! I'll have your hide. I'll—"
The ravager ships flew.
They thrust forward and slammed into the space station.
Claws dug through metal. The walls shook. The dome cracked. Alarms blared and smoke rose and cracking steel screamed, howled, a sound of agony, of a dying species. More of the ravagers flew. More slammed into the space station, attaching themselves like ticks, digging into the metal skin, carving their way in. The agent fell, still shouting. His briefcase opened, spilling out lists—the lists of prisoners fed to the aliens, the meals that had only whet their appetite.
Admiral Komagata stood in the center of the room, the cracks racing across the dome around him. He drew his katana. The rippled steel, hand-forged by the best master in Japan, reflected the enemy ships.
The floor cracked open.
From the pit it emerged.
Legs thrust out, each tipped with claws like daggers, claws that dug into the metal floor, that gleamed like the steel katana. The jaws of the beast followed, large enough to swallow men, filled with fangs like the mouth of an anglerfish. The marauder's saliva dripped and sizzled, and its breath was like rotten meat. Four black eyes shone above the beast's narrow nostrils, eyes full of intelligence, of malice. The marauder pulled itself into the Dome, and finally its torso emerged from the pit, bloated, dangling, sprouting a stinger. Upon the alien's back rattled a macabre armor, the skulls of its vanquished enemies.
"Humans . . ." the creature hissed. "Your . . . reign . . . ends . . ."
Another marauder emerged, then a third, then several more. They advanced on clawed legs, saliva dripping, breath steaming and foul.
"Stand back!" shouted Chrysopoeia's agent. The man drew a handgun. "Back, beasts! Back! This is against the terms of our contract!"
The marauders whipped their heads toward him. They grinned. They advanced, claws clattering.
The agent fired his pistol.
Bullet after bullet rang out, slamming harmlessly into the aliens. The marauders' nostrils flared as the agent wet himself, staining his costly business suit.
The marauders pounced.
One alien closed its jaws around the agent's legs, tugging flesh off the bones. Another marauder tore open the belly, pulled out the entrails, and devoured them. The agent screamed. His blood spurted across his lists of prisoners.
"Mama!" he screamed. "Mama, please! Help me!"
But there is no help, thought Admiral Komagata, watching the grisly scene. His legs felt wooden, frozen in terror. No help from our mothers. Not from our leaders. Not from our soldiers. Humanity will fall.
One of the marauders, larger than the others, walked toward the screaming, dying agent. The alien had a red scar across its face, and horns formed a crest atop its head. The creature licked its chops, staring down at the legless, disemboweled agent. The feasting marauders, seeing this towering alien, paused from their meal and bowed before it.
"Lord Malphas," they said, heads lowered, awe in their voices.
"So weak, the human body," Malphas said, voice like cracking boulders. "Among the weakest on their planet, yet risen so high. Their brains so large. So . . . delectable."
"Please." The agent wept. "Mercy. Mercy. I'll give you more prisoners. However many you want. Please . . ."
Malphas stepped closer. It reached down a claw and caressed the agent's head. Its saliva dripped, sizzling across the man's skin, burning through.
"We want you all," the marauder said, then thrust its claws deep.
The agent screamed.
Malphas dug, sawed, pulled off the top of the skull. The brain glistened within. The agent was still alive as Malphas scooped out his brain and swallowed.
Admiral Komagata lowered his head.
"I have done this," he whispered. "I have failed."
The aliens spun toward him, flesh dangling from their jaws. They hissed, moving closer. Outside, more of the ravagers slammed into Space Station One, digging in their claws. The entire space station tilted, began to fall toward the planet below.
"Their blood is upon you," said Malphas, advancing across the sloping floor.
A tear ran down the admiral's cheek.
"Then let me die in honor."
He raised his katana.
The marauders screeched and closed in.
Admiral Komagata thrust his weapon.
The blade sliced into the side of his belly, shocking with its pain.
The marauders leaped toward him.
Komagata yanked the blade sideways, carving open his abdomen. His entrails spilled.
As the aliens tore into him, ripping off his limbs, sawing open his skull, Komagata saw the stars stream outside, saw fire blaze. The space station was crashing down to the planet, and in the smoke and fire and blood, he saw the underworld. He saw his shame.
Fire washed across him, endless waves, as he traveled through the darkness, seeking his old gods, seeking forgiveness for his sins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Brigadier-General James Petty, much like his starship, was old, creaky, and under immense pressure to retire.
Both he and the HDFS Minotaur had their birthdays today; he was turning sixty-five, she a spry fifty-five.
Both had reached retirement age. And both were being tossed aside.
"Sir, the decommissioning ceremony begins in thirty minutes, sir!" Osiris barged into his quarters and saluted. "Would you like some help preparing your speech? I'm happy to supply many jokes from a database full of cracking one-liners, sir."
Petty was staring out his porthole at Earth. With a grunt, he turned toward the android. "Don't you robots ever learn to knock before entering?"
Osiris tilted her head, staring at him. They had built her to look like a young woman—tall, slender, with a platinum bob cut. They had even given the damn machine a uniform—an actual uniform of Space Territorial Command!—as if she were anything more than a glorified toaster.
"Sir, you requested that I give you a thirty minute warning, sir, and—"
"President Katson requested that." Petty grumbled under his breath. "You're dismissed, android. Return to your duties. I'll be there on time."
The android smiled prettily. Something about that smile was unnerving. Something about the whole damn machine was unnerving, a terror risen from the depths of Uncanny Valley.
"Happy to comply, sir!" Osiris turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, sir, and did you know how you throw a good party in space? You planet. It's funny because this is a ceremony and not a party."
He pointed at the door. "Out."
After she had left his chamber, Petty shook his head. Ridiculous. When he had been a young officer, they didn't need damn androids on their ships. They had proper computers then—confined to boxes—not ones that walked around and cracked jokes.
He looked across his quarters. They were austere. Raw metal flooring. A simple cot to sleep on. A desk—metal again. The Minotaur was the oldest ship in the human fleet, the first starfighter carrier ever built. She had been forged in the fires of the Cataclysm, rising from the ruin of the world. After the scum had butchered billions, as cities lay in ruins, the nations of the world had built her. The HDFS Minotaur. A great beast to protect humanity. To ferry two hundred starfighters and five thousand marines in her
hangars. To defend Earth and smite her enemies. She wasn't like the newer ships. She had no carpets on the floors, none of those fancy plastics and woods, none of the bells and whistles. No. The Minotaur was a bulky beast of steel and raw power, built not for comfort but for war. For victory.
Petty placed his hand on a bulkhead, caressing her.
"And now they're going to tear you apart, girl. And it won't be enemy fire that does it. You withstood a hundred enemy assaults. It'll be the bureaucrats. Those who call you too expensive to maintain. Those who say the wars are over. That you're good for nothing but scrap metal." He scoffed. "Those bastards don't know you like I do. You're more alive than any damn android will ever be."
Many other ships—newer ships—were gone already. The HDFS Sagan. The HDFS Requiem. A thousand others. After the scum war, Earth lay in ruin. The planet was broke. For fifty years, Space Territorial Command had used the bulk of Earth's resources, building humanity's might in space—might that had finally defeated the enemy.
Now Earth wanted its resources back.
Over the past few years, since the Scum War had ended, Petty had watched as ship by ship was scrapped, its materials used to rebuild Earth.
"But they don't know like we do, girl. That there is still terror in the darkness. That there are still enemies out there. That those creatures—the marauders—will cover our world. And that Earth needs us. Both of us."
As he passed his hand over the bulkhead, it came to rest on a framed photograph of his daughter.
Of Colleen.
A lump filled Petty's throat.
He gazed at her. In the photograph, she was so young, so joyous. Twenty-one years old, graduating from Julius Military Academy, grinning as she tossed her cap into the air. What a day that had been! God, it was sixteen years now. Yet it felt like yesterday. He had gone to the ceremony, had stood with Admiral Evan Bryan himself. He had been so proud of Colleen, this girl who had lost her mother at such a young age, who had become a cadet, then an officer.
Earth Fire (Earthrise Book 4) Page 25
