Earth Reborn (Earthrise Book 7) Read online

  EARTH REBORN

  EARTHRISE, BOOK 7

  by

  Daniel Arenson

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  AFTERWORD

  NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

  KEEP IN TOUCH

  Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fiona St-Pierre was drinking wine on the patio, trying to forget her past, when a light kindled in the night sky.

  She stared, frowning. The distant light grew brighter, streamed back and forth, then hovered above the forest. It was barely larger than a star. A flare? Perhaps an airplane or comet? It hung like a will-o'-the-wisp from a fairy tale, a luminous eye. Fiona shuddered. The orb, she could swear, was staring at her.

  Cold wind blew. The trees creaked, the grass rustled, and her wind chimes sang. Fiona shivered and tightened her hand around her glass of wine.

  There had been a lot of wine since the war. There had been a lot of this struggle to forget, to drown the memories. She was not a drunk, of course. Drunks drank cheap beer or hard liquor. They beat their wives. They crashed their cars. They lay on street corners, drinking from paper bags. No. Fiona drank only wine. It was cheap wine, of course—all she could afford—but a sophisticated drink nonetheless. She was an oenophile, she told herself, a connoisseur of the grape, not at all alcoholic. She was French, for God's sake; wine every day was expected of her. She was not at all consumed with nightmares. Not at all the broken, traumatized veteran everyone thought she was.

  She took another gulp. She rarely sipped anymore; she gulped. She stared at the light that hung over the forest.

  A scum pod.

  The thought came unbidden into her mind.

  Danger. Danger! Aliens. Monsters! Scum pods raining! Scum—

  And she was back there.

  She no longer sat outside her countryside home, her husband and children sleeping indoors, just a few meters behind her. She was no longer the twenty-nine-year-old mother of twins, the farmer's wife. Once more, she was nineteen, her face pimply, her heart thrumming in her narrow chest, her rifle hot in her hands. Once more, she was a corporal in Fort Djemila in North Africa, serving under Ensign Ben-Ari. Just a scared girl, a year out of high school, commanding her first squad of recruits.

  At first Fiona had thought the recruits worse than the aliens. Pinky, a diminutive delinquent, had mocked her mercilessly, calling her Corporal Pizza and disobeying her every command. The other recruits had called her a witch, a bitch, an alien queen. They had respected the other NCOs. They had seen Sergeant Singh and Corporal Diaz, experienced warriors who had slain many scum, as heroes. Fiona had been inexperienced, awkward, angry, still new to the army and already tasked with molding children into warriors. She had felt so afraid. Afraid that the recruits, only a year younger, would learn how vulnerable she truly was.

  Then the scum had attacked.

  Then she had stopped fearing mere recruits.

  The pods had filled the sky. They had fallen like a thousand flaming comets, shattering, spilling out foul miasma and giant centipedes. The screams had filled the fort. Soldiers had died around her. So much blood. Claws in her legs, scars that lingered. Marco pulling her into a troop carrier, and bullets ringing out, and another soldier dead, and—

  Fiona forced herself to take a deep breath, to return to the present.

  "No more," she whispered to herself. "No more memories. Stop this."

  She took another sip of wine—no, not a sip, a deep gulp, but she needed it now.

  That light still hung ahead.

  The orb rose higher, darted to the side, and again Fiona had the eerie feeling that it was watching her. Was it merely Venus, bright over the horizon, and the swaying trees made it seem to move? Perhaps a helicopter, searching for a missing child in the woods?

  Scum. Aliens. War. Monsters! Death and blood and—

  No.

  She took another deep breath.

  It was just a light. A light couldn't hurt her. She had to stop doing this to herself.

  Fear has ruled me for too long, she thought. I can no longer let the scum destroy my life. I'm no longer that teenage girl with trembling hands, bleeding in the desert.

  She forced herself to turn away from the light. To look back at her house. It was a large country home, built over a century ago, predating the Cataclysm. After the war, Fiona had chosen to live out here in the countryside, to leave the bustle and anxiety of cities behind her. And she had made this a home, full of light and love.

  A soft light shone in the upper window. Fiona could make out a night-light, a mobile, and glowing star stickers on the ceiling. Her beautiful twin boys were asleep. Her husband slept in the room next door. The hour was late, but Fiona had found no rest this night. Her husband had fallen asleep after a session of vigorous lovemaking, and Fiona could hear his snores even from here on the patio. But she was not a deep sleeper. Not since that night ten years ago.

  She turned back toward the forest.

  The light was still there.

  The orb rose again. It stared at her. Then the light descended, vanishing among the trees.

  Come . . .

  The voice spoke inside her.

  Help . . .

  Fiona inhaled sharply. She rubbed her temples. She was going crazy. She was hearing voices now. She blinked, seeking the light again, but it had vanished into the forest.

  A plane crash, she thought. They need help. They're calling me . . .

  She shook her head wildly. She felt dazed, confused. Too much wine was all. Too much forgetting.

  She gave a short whistle. Hugo, her Dogue de Bordeaux, loped toward her, jowls flapping. She patted the mastiff's wrinkly head.

  "Up for a walkie?" she said.

  Hugo licked her hand, but he did not wag his tail. That tail stuck out in a straight line. He stared at the forest and growled. Fiona took a deep breath.

  "You sense it too," she whispered. "Something . . . wrong."

  She put down her glass of wine, and she lifted her rifle.

  "Come, Hugo."

  She always kept a flashlight on her belt. She often needed to use it in the yard at night when Hugo would lose a toy. She shone the beam ahead. She walked across the yard toward the creaky trees, her flashlight in one hand, her rifle in the other. Hugo walked at her side, tail straight, teeth bared.

  Fiona reached the end of the yard. The forest loomed before her. It was early winter, and the leaves were gone. The trunks rose like the craggy pillars of ancient temples, and the naked branches stirred above, wooden serpents, creaking, hissing. In the beam from her flashlight, the forest seemed black and gray. White eyes peered, then vanished, and a creature ran into the shadows. Twigs snapped.

  Just a deer, Fiona thought. Maybe a coyote.

  She gripped her rifle a little tighter.

  "Hugo, we should t
urn back."

  But the mastiff ignored her. He began racing forward, growling, heading between the trees. Fiona cursed and followed.

  "Hugo!" she said. "Come back!"

  Come . . .

  Fiona froze.

  Help . . .

  The damn voices in her head again. No. Not voices. Just her imagination. Just the wind in the trees. Just memories.

  Light. Light ahead! She saw it again—a dim flicker, moving away, vanishing between the oaks. Somebody was out there. Somebody had crashed into the forest. Somebody needed her help.

  Fiona walked faster. She could no longer see Hugo. The thick branches hid the moonlight. Only her flashlight now lit the forest. This was stupid. This was wrong. She should not be out here alone, not even she, a trained soldier with a rifle. There were dangers in the forest. There were dangers in the darkness. She had learned that throughout three devastating wars, one against the scum, one against the marauders, one against the nightmares and memories.

  A shadow stirred at her side.

  Fiona spun around, aiming her flashlight. She caught just a glimpse—large eyes, pale skin, a shadow scurrying away. Fiona sneered and gripped her rifle. With shaking hands, she loaded a bullet.

  That had not been a deer. Not a man. Not an animal.

  Monsters.

  She inhaled deeply.

  "Hugo!" she called.

  He was barking ahead. He was far now. She could barely hear him.

  "Hugo, to me!"

  He barked louder, growled, then squealed.

  He fell silent.

  Fiona began to run.

  Her legs shook. Her breath trembled. Again she felt like a teenage girl caught in a war too big for her. So afraid. But she ran onward. She had failed to save Caveman, Sheriff, Jackass, so many other recruits. She would not abandon Hugo now. She would be brave, braver than she had been a decade ago.

  As she ran between the trees, only her flashlight illuminating her path, she was back there again. Running across the dark desert. Running through the inferno of Fort Djemila as the scum rained from the sky, as her friends died. Perhaps she had been running since.

  The light shone ahead, at first just an orb, then growing brighter, brighter still, moving through the trees. She chased it. It was fast. She could not catch it.

  "Who's there?" Fiona shouted. "Do you need help? Hugo?" She panted. "Hugo, boy, where are you?"

  Terror thudded in her chest. Sweat dripped down her back even in the November chill. The branches snagged at her like the fingers of lecherous old men, knobby, stabbing. The oaks seemed to laugh, trolls from old stories. Eyes. Eyes peered from the trees, vanishing when she turned toward them. Laughter sounded, high-pitched, a sound like wooden dolls scurrying in basements, like centipedes in the desert, like cracking bones.

  "Hugo!"

  Come . . .

  "Where are you?"

  Help . . .

  "Who are you!"

  Fiona . . .

  Their voices—all around her. Her memories—dancing in the darkness. She tripped. She fell, and her flashlight hit a rock, rolled from her hand, and its light died.

  But there was no more darkness.

  The light blazed across her now, white and searing, filling the woods. It was bright as day. Naked creatures stood among the branches—pale, tall, skeletal. Yet whenever she turned toward one, it vanished, only to reappear in the corner of her vision.

  A whimper sounded ahead.

  Hugo.

  Fiona rose to her feet, knees bleeding, and ran onward. The light still filled the forest, cruel and pale like fluorescent emptiness in an interrogation room. She tripped over more roots, raced around a twisting oak full of holes and whispers, and she found him there on the ground.

  Fiona fell to her knees, and tears filled her eyes.

  "Oh, Hugo . . ."

  Her dog lay in wet red leaves. Somebody had cut open his belly, navel to neck, and removed his organs. The pulsing heart, liver, stomach, all the other parts of him—they glistened on the forest floor, still connected to the torso by arteries. Somehow, Hugo was still alive. Still breathing raggedly.

  Just a nightmare. Just a dream. Just a dream.

  Hugo looked at her. He licked her hand. Then his head slumped, and the heart on the leaves ceased beating.

  In an instant, the searing white light vanished.

  The forest plunged into pure darkness.

  Fiona screamed and fired her rifle.

  The bullets blasted out, and her ears rang, and across the forest, she heard them laugh. She saw their eyes—black, oval, staring everywhere. She fired again. Again. Only her muzzle lit the forest. In the flashes of light, she saw them. They were everywhere, moving in, seven feet tall and so slender, pale gray and naked.

  Fiona fired at one, missed it. She fired her last bullet, then turned to flee.

  She ran through darkness. She tripped on a root, hit the ground hard, and leaped back up. Blood filled her mouth, and she kept running. She banged against a tree, whipped around it, and raced blindly. They chased her. She heard them in the forest all around. She saw their eyes. Dead black eyes. The eyes of corpses. Eyes like the space between stars.

  "Tom!" she cried to her husband.

  The voices laughed. Pale hands reached out to grab her, fingers long, tipped with claws. They cut her.

  "Boys!" she cried, voice hoarse, desperate to protect her children.

  She kept running. She was lost in the woods. She could not see the light of her home, that soft light in the window, that warmth and love. She was in darkness here. She was cold. She was alone.

  Then fight.

  Another voice in her mind—but not the voice that had taunted her, that had summoned her to this hell.

  It was the voice of her commanding officer.

  Of Einav Ben-Ari.

  Of strength.

  Fiona nodded. She stopped running. She raised her rifle. It was out of bullets, but it was still a weapon.

  A clawed hand reached toward her, and she swung her rifle. The barrel slammed into the those long, knobby fingers, and they cracked.

  Another hand emerged from the shadows. It had only four fingers. She swung the rifle again, hit a creature, and heard it hiss. It withdrew.

  Fiona swung her rifle like a club, panting.

  "Back!" she shouted. "I am Sergeant Fiona St-Pierre! I am a soldier of the Human Defense Force! Turn back now!"

  And they turned back.

  She heard leaves and twigs creak as they retreated. She heard their whispers growing distant.

  Fiona stood in the darkness, breathing heavily, drenched in sweat. She allowed herself a sigh of relief. Whatever they had been, she had scared them off. In the morning, she would drive into town, summon help, search this forest. Right now, she had to return home, to protect her children, to—

  With a thud, a spotlight turned on above.

  The blue beam fell upon her, searing, blinding, leaving all else in darkness.

  Fiona tried to run. Her legs were frozen.

  She tried to scream. No voice left her throat.

  Her rifle fell.

  All around her, she saw them. Shadows beyond the spotlight. Towering over her. Slender. Naked. Smooth. Staring with those oval eyes.

  Her feet left the ground. The beam pulled her up into its brilliance.

  A ship, she thought. A ship above me . . .

  She tried to struggle. Her body was limp. Her eyes rolled back. And the beam kept pulling her upward, taking her above the trees. The forest rolled below her.

  A hatch slammed shut beneath her feet.

  She fell onto a hard metal floor.

  She lay, dazed, struggling to breathe. She coughed and pushed herself to her knees, dizzy. They had done something to her. Drugged her. She tried to rise, fell again. She looked around her, blinking. She was in a shadowy chamber, a hangar on a ship. A cavernous, dank place, cold. So cold.

  And from the shadows, figures emerged.

  For the first ti
me, Fiona got a good look at them.

  Her chest seemed to shatter.

  "No," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "You're just a myth. Just legends. You're not real. You can't be real . . ."

  For centuries, humans had told tales of these creatures. The grays, people had called them. Just legends! Myths from Roswell and Area 51. Just tales told to frighten children, no more real than ghosts, Bigfoot, or the Loch Ness Monster.

  Yet here they stood before her.

  In the tales Fiona had heard, the grays were small, delicate beings. Yet these creatures stood seven or eight feet tall. Their heads were massive and bald. Their skin was gray, wrinkled, and covered with liver spots. They had no noses, but thin nostrils sniffed on their triangular faces. Their chins were small, their mouths mere slits. Their eyes were what terrified Fiona the most. Black eyes. Eyes without pupils, without any white to them. Eyes without humanity, without compassion, without mercy. Evil eyes.

  "Who are you?" she whispered.

  They grabbed her.

  Their claws dug into her flesh. Her blood flowed. Fiona screamed.

  The grays carried her through their starship. Fiona floundered. She kicked. She scratched. But in their grip, she was like a child.

  This can't be happening. This can't be real. I'm back on the patio. I fell asleep. It's just a dream. My family is still with me. Wake up. Wake up!

  But her pain, her blood, those searing eyes—they were all too real.

  As she struggled, she caught glimpses of the cavernous starship. Shadowy halls. Rusting altars. Hieroglyphs were carved into the walls. Strange creatures lurked in the shadows, small as children, some almost human, others deformed lumps of spines and jaws and eyes. All gazed in fear, daring not approach. As the grays carried her past a porthole, Fiona saw the stars. She saw Earth. Her homeworld. It was already distant.

  Fiona wept.

  "What do you want?" she said. "Why did you take me?"

  A door dilated. The aliens carried her into a chamber. Strange instruments hung from the walls, and tubes and wires dangled from the ceiling. Bloodstains coated the floor and walls. A rusty wooden cross rose in the center of the room. No. Not a cross. An ankh, Fiona realized. A cross topped with a ring. It was ancient Egypt's symbol of life, yet here was a chamber of death, of pain, of blood.