Earth Reborn (Earthrise Book 7) Page 2

  The grays carried her toward the wooden ankh. Fiona struggled against them, but their grip was like iron.

  "I am a soldier in the Human Defense Force!" Fiona said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "If you do not release me, you will incur the wrath of humanity."

  The aliens spoke in a foreign tongue, guttural, clattering. A language like cracking bones, like crumbling temples, like dying children. They shoved her onto the ankh like Jesus onto the cross. The grays surrounded her, looming like vultures over prey. Their black eyes narrowed. Those eyes were inhuman, but Fiona could read them.

  There was cruelty in those eyes.

  There was bloodlust.

  They enjoy my pain, she thought.

  She wanted to beg. To weep. To speak of her children, of her husband, to appeal to their mercy. But she was certain that the grays knew no mercy.

  But perhaps they knew fear.

  "Release me or suffer!" Fiona shouted. "We humans have defeated the scum. We have defeated the marauders! If you do not—"

  They twisted her arms and pinned her wrists against the ankh. She stood before them, arms spread out.

  One gray lifted a hammer. Another lifted a nail.

  Fiona felt the blood drain from her face.

  "I am a soldier," she whispered. "I am a soldier. I—"

  They drove the nail into her hand, and she screamed.

  They nailed her second hand, and she wept.

  When they nailed her feet into the ankh, she finally begged.

  Her blood dripped, her eyes rolled back, and she plunged into darkness.

  For a long time, she floated in the black.

  She dreamed.

  She dreamed that she was a child again, just a child, that was all, her helmet too big on her head, her gun too heavy for her slender arms. A child in the desert. Running from the scum. Her friends dying around her.

  She dreamed that she was a young woman, in love, marrying a kind man, giving birth to a pair of angels. They ran toward her, tiny feet padding, and embraced her. She lifted them, twirled around, kissed their soft cheeks. Her twin hearts. The loves of her life.

  She dreamed of stars streaming outside. Of great darkness and knives in her hands.

  She dreamed of a cross. Of whips flaying her. Of demons with merciless eyes.

  When she looked up, she saw foreign stars. She saw towers. A city spread around her, thrusting up jagged towers like claws. Archways rose over roads like ribs. Obelisks loomed. A dark city, a place of dust, of rust, of dripping metal. Vultures circled above, their rotting wings hiding the starlight.

  This was no dream, she realized. She was awake again, still nailed to the ankh. The grays were carrying her through the city. The aliens stared ahead, stooped, eyes narrowed. Their patchy skin clung to their skeletal bodies. They were so thin, yet strong enough to carry the wooden ankh she was nailed to. She saw their muscles coiling like ropes.

  They carried Fiona toward a dark pyramid. A temple. An edifice of night, darker than the space between stars, and upon its crest blazed a golden Eye of Horus, all-seeing, never sleeping. Two guardians stood before the pyramid, mummified, decaying, wrapped in rancid shrouds, and each stood taller than ten men. They held their arms over the pathway, hands fused together, forming a dripping archway of flesh.

  Beyond these undead sentries, a staircase stretched up the pyramid's facade. Near the pyramid's crest, beneath the blazing eye, an obsidian platform thrust out like a tongue. The gray aliens carried Fiona up the stairs and onto this craggy platform. From up here, they could see the entire rancid city spread out around them. Beyond the city walls rolled charcoal plains, and black mountains loomed on the horizons, capped with fire.

  The grays slammed the ankh down. Fiona hung from this cross, bleeding, fading away.

  A throne rose before her, cloaked in shadows, and a figure sat upon it.

  Fiona stared, tears in her eyes.

  A demon.

  A queen.

  A goddess.

  The figure unfurled from her throne like smoke rising from a corpse. She walked across the platform, rawboned and tall, clad in a dark robe with burnt hems. The robe was opened, revealing naked breasts that dripped bloody milk, ribs that pressed against papery skin, and a scar across the belly shaped like an ankh. The creature's head was massive, twice the size of a human head, the eyes gleaming and black, the nostrils two slits, the thin mouth frowning in a nest of wrinkles. Jagged metal spikes had been nailed into the creature's head, forming a lurid crown. Blood dripped down the creature's brow.

  She was shadows and blood. Pain and antiquity. A queen of rot and a goddess of the night. She was like the other grays, and she was endlessly mightier. She was alien, and she was divine. She was torturer and salvation. She was the terror in the night and the comfort of death after agony. Fiona wept to see her.

  "Worship her," whispered one of the grays, the creature that had nailed Fiona to the ankh. "She is Nefitis. Worship her glory."

  Fiona hung on the ankh, barely clinging to consciousness. The blood still dripped from the nails in her hands and feet. The alien queen came to stand before her. The creature leaned down, bringing her face level with Fiona's, and stared into her eyes. The alien's eyes were as deep as the vastness between galaxies, as cruel as winter's heart. Eyes with all the secrets of the cosmos and not a shred of pity.

  And then the alien queen spoke.

  "You . . . are . . . Fiona."

  Fiona stared through her tears. "I am Sergeant Fiona St-Pierre of the Human Defense Force. Service number EI-1723824." She took a shaky breath. She raised her head. Even hanging on this ankh in this alien world, bleeding, dying, she managed to stare steadily into the alien's eyes. "I am human. I am not afraid."

  And the goddess smiled.

  "You will be," she hissed.

  Her claw thrust into Fiona's chest.

  Fiona screamed.

  The claws tore off her clothes, tore open her skin, cutting from the collarbone downward.

  Her screams echoed through the hall.

  "You know Ben-Ari," Nefitis hissed, pulling her claw downward, widening the wound. "You served her. You fought for her. You will tell me where she is."

  Fiona wept. She gasped for breath, screamed again.

  "Go to hell!" she shouted.

  Nefitis's smile widened. "We're already here."

  The alien pulled her claw down to the navel, gutting Fiona like a fish. The clawed fingers reached inward, grabbed organs, and pulled them out. When Fiona closed her eyes, trembling, those claws gripped her eyelids, tore them off. Fiona wanted to faint. She wanted to die. She could do neither. Chanting spells, Nefitis arranged the organs in the air, and they hovered, still connected to Fiona with dripping strands. Her heart still beat. Her lungs still breathed. All the organs of her body—hovering before her, veins dripping. With her long fingers, Nefitis moved them around, arranging, rearranging, peering, auguring.

  "Let me die," Fiona whispered. "Please."

  Nefitis stroked her cheek. "Worship."

  "I worship you," she whispered. "I want to see my family. I want to die. Please."

  "Tell me of Ben-Ari," Nefitis said. "Tell me of Marco Emery. Tell me of Addy Linden. Tell me of them all. Tell me of Earth. Tell me everything, and I will let you die."

  And Fiona told her. She told the goddess everything, all the secrets inside her, all spilling out like her organs, like her hope, like her life. This life she had built with her husband and children. This life of peace she had sought after the fire. This life of love and lingering pain. It all spilled out from her here in this alien hell.

  She gave the goddess her all. And when she was done, Nefitis nodded and stroked her cheek.

  "I am Nefitis," she said. "I am the goddess of the night. And I am merciful. Your suffering will be short. But the suffering of your friends will last eternally."

  I'm sorry, Fiona thought. I'm sorry, my friends, my world. I'm sorry. I love you, my family. I love you.

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; The goddess's claw sliced across Fiona's neck, for she was merciful, and in her eyes was kindness. All light faded, and Fiona fell into the black.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marco sat alone on the day of his wedding.

  He sat in his living room, wearing a suit, feeling numb.

  He gazed blankly at the television before him. A journalist was interviewing a farmer, a man with buckteeth, a flannel coat, and a straw hat. The man spat and looked at the camera.

  "I'm telling you, they're real!" he said. "Them aliens are real! First they abducted my chickens, and then they abducted me."

  The interviewer, a dark-haired woman in a suit, nodded politely. "Can you tell us about your abduction, Mr. Horton?"

  The farmer scowled. "I told you. Mr. Horton is my father. They call me Big Hungry Hort."

  The interviewer gave the slightest crinkle of the nose. "Can you tell us about your abduction, Mister, um . . . Big Hungry Hort?"

  The farmer nodded. "Well, them aliens—the gray ones with the big eyes—they strapped me onto a table. And then . . ." He gave the camera a knowing look. "They probed me."

  "Poet!" Addy burst into the room. "For fuck's sake, why are you watching television? You're about to get married!"

  He looked up. "I'm watching a show about aliens."

  She groaned. "Fuck aliens." She switched off the TV, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him. "Emery, you're getting married today!" She yanked him to his feet and pulled him into a hug. "Can you believe it?"

  He extricated himself from her crushing embrace. "You're wrinkling my suit." He narrowed his eyes. "Addy, what are you wearing?"

  She gave a twirl. "It's a toga! Your wedding is on a Greek beach, after all, so I figured I'd match the theme."

  Marco looked at her. Her garment was white and silky, and a laurel rested in her golden hair. That hair, which the marauders had sheared off two years ago, had grown to shoulder length. Her blue eyes shone.

  "Actually, you're wearing a stola," Marco said. "Togas are larger and were worn by men. Stolas are more delicate and were worn by women—Roman women, actually, not Greeks, and—"

  Addy raised her fist. "You'll be wearing my fist as a hat if you're not careful." She snarled. "Now tell me I look beautiful."

  "You look beautiful," he said softly. "And I mean it."

  Addy embraced him again, more gently this time. "How are you feeling, Poet?"

  "Nervous," he said. "Scared."

  "Cold feet?"

  "My feet are frozen," he said.

  She mussed his hair and kissed his cheek. "Tomiko is sweet, Marco. She's good for you. Really." She held his hands, and her eyes dampened. "I'm happy for you."

  They looked into each other's eyes, silent for a moment, holding hands.

  Addy had been his best friend since the fifth grade. It was a friendship he still cherished every day. Yet now, holding her hands, Marco found himself remembering that night ten years ago. They had been only eighteen. They had been scared, haunted by war, lost in a dark space station. That night, they had made love, had slept in each other's arms.

  That night had never repeated itself. Addy had remained only a friend.

  Could she have become something else? Marco thought. Could we have ever become more than friends, become . . .

  No. He pushed that thought away. Addy was his friend. His oldest friend. His best friend, whom he loved with all his heart. But still just a friend. That night of sex long ago had been only a one-time occurrence; Addy had said so herself. Just a sweet memory that could never repeat. Addy had Steve now, her fiance, and she loved the man. And Marco was about to marry Tomiko, a kind, gentle girl who loved him, who was good for him.

  "Addy, I—"

  He hesitated.

  "Marco?" she whispered, eyes shining, still holding his hands. And God above, she was beautiful.

  I love you, he wanted to say. I'm sorry for hurting you on Haven. I'm sorry for the pain you suffered in captivity. We've been together for so long, and you understand me more than anyone, more than Tomiko ever could. I love you, Addy, and I don't want to lose you now.

  But he could say none of these things. Not here, wearing a suit, his bride waiting for him outside. Not with Steve upstairs. He said nothing.

  Addy laughed and mussed his hair. "Silly Poet! Speechless for once. Go on. Warm up those cold feet of yours. And walk out there and marry your girl." She grinned. "You faced scum and marauders in battle. This can't be any scarier."

  Marco laughed nervously. "No. It's not scarier."

  Yet when he stepped outside onto the beach, his stomach roiled, and his head felt too light.

  The guests were already there. Marco had seen no need for a party, no need for a suit, no need for so many guests. His family and most of his friends were dead. Pain still lingered in him, too great to allow for celebrations, even now. Yet Tomiko had insisted. For months, the girl had scuttled across the islands, planning the wedding: inviting guests, ordering flowers and decor, interviewing caterers, and dragging poor Marco to every engagement.

  "This is my wedding," she had insisted. "It has to be amazing."

  "It'll be amazing because I'm marrying you," Marco had said.

  A thousand times, she had looked away, tears in her eyes. "You don't understand. You never understand!"

  And she had returned to her planning, to her notebooks, to her samples of fabrics, to her catalogs of rings and bridal dresses.

  "The girl's gone crazy," Marco had confessed to Addy one night.

  Addy nodded. "She's a girl getting married. They all go crazy around this stage. Just wait until she's pregnant and sends you running out at three a.m. to buy her pickles and vanilla ice cream." She tapped her chin. "Actually, that sounds pretty good. Poet, go get me some pickles and vanilla ice cream! Pronto!"

  And finally, after months of labor and countless dollars, here it was. A wedding on the beach. Rows of chairs. A flowery arch. Waiters with appetizers and a bar. Marco had never needed a drink more in his life.

  He stepped toward the bar. He had a shot.

  He felt empty.

  He had another shot.

  He felt scared.

  A third. Enough. Enough! He forced himself away. He had fallen into that pit once before, had drowned in Haven. He did not intend to fall back in.

  He walked across the sand, heading toward the wedding arch.

  There were barely any guests.

  A few people from the islands, barely more than strangers. The owner of the local bookshop. A few fishermen. None of Tomiko's family had arrived. Her Japanese mother had died in the marauders' assault on Osaka. Her French father had vanished years ago; Tomiko barely remembered him. The rest of their families—gone to the fires of war. Most of their friends—gone. A handful of Marco's friends had survived the wars, yet they had not come. Lailani was in the Philippines, building schools for homeless children. Ben-Ari had taken command of the Lodestar, humanity's new flagship, and was off exploring distant stars.

  Marco wished he were out there with her.

  He took a deep breath.

  Come on, Marco, he told himself. Space is full of terror, coldness, loneliness, and giant monsters with fangs like swords. You're about to marry a sweet girl, then spend the rest of your life on the beach, making love to her and writing novels. Why are you so nervous? Why does this feel so wrong? Warm your goddamn feet and walk onward.

  He gave Addy one more look. She nodded at him.

  Marco walked toward the wedding arch.

  Tomiko was waiting, wearing a white gown, and she was beautiful. At the sight of her, some of Marco's anxiety faded. The girl had only turned twenty last week, eight years his junior. Her black hair was long and flowing, and light filled her almond eyes. She smiled at him shyly.

  He had met her only months ago—a homeless girl on the beach, a fan of his books. A girl named Tomiko, the same name as the heroine in Le Kill, his second novel. A girl meant to be. Her name a sign.

  Marry me, he had told her.
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  Yes, she had said.

  Under their wedding arch, he held her hands. She gazed into his eyes.

  I emerged from fire, Marco thought. I fought through darkness and the searing light of collapsing stars. I saw friends and family die. I suffered the wounds of a thousand battles. I suffer the nightmares of a thousand terrors. I am scarred, inside and out. I am broken. I am a survivor. I emerged from death and despair. Here is new life. Here is new love. Here is Tomiko. Here is my rebirth. Here is a new Earth, the planet I fought to save—an Earth reborn. A place of peace.

  He did not speak these words. Nobody would understand—nobody but Addy. Her words returned to him now: Tomiko doesn't need to understand, Poet. She needs to make you happy.

  "You make me happy, Tomiko," he whispered, and he kissed her, and he married her.

  She had hired a DJ. A ridiculous thing. He needed just another shot, this one of strong arak, to dance with her. The faces all swirled around him. Fishermen. A few people from the nearby town, come for the free booze and food. Steve and Addy were dancing; for hockey players, they were surprisingly graceful. A couple of people were fighting. Marco needed just one more drink to make the memories fade. To make the marauders and scum go away. To cloak the memories of Addy—hugging him, holding his hands, making love to him. Just one more shot until there was nothing but Tomiko in his arms, swaying with him on the dance floor, and he was happy. And he was at peace. And he was in a haze.

  She doesn't need to understand. She needs to make you happy.

  "I am happy," he whispered to himself, the beach swaying. "I am happy, Tomiko."

  The sun set, and they made their way to their home on the beach, this house they had built after the war. It was a large house. A dream house. For a year, fighting the marauders, Marco and his friends had dreamed of building this house, of retiring on the beach. The yurei, mystical aliens from another cosmos, had given them a treasure of azoth crystals, valuable enough to fund this home with many rooms.

  It was mostly empty.

  Lailani had moved back to the Philippines, serving her church, building her schools.

  Ben-Ari had flown into space.