She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and headed toward the most dangerous place on Bahay.
Chapter Two
Prisoners of War
The Luminous Army rolled toward the military camp, vowing death.
Jon stood on the wall, facing the greatest force he had ever seen. He clutched his assault rifle. Before this mighty host, the weapon felt woefully inadequate.
We're proud soldiers of the HDF, Jon thought. We're the Human Defense Force, the legendary imperial military of Earth, ruling a hundred worlds. And we're about to get our asses kicked.
"We might as well be wielding peashooters, George," he muttered.
George Williams towered beside him, a gargantuan corporal, nearly seven feet tall and as wide as a bison. "Oh, stop whining. I'm the one who's the biggest target."
Thousands of North Bahayan troops were emerging from the jungle, marching in tandem. Tens of thousands. These were not the Kalayaan, not just scrawny guerrillas in homespun tunics and straw hats. Deadly as it was, the Kalayaan was just a peasant uprising.
But this? This was a modern military. Here marched Bahayan troops in black battlesuits, the skintight fabric inlaid with armored plates. They wore dark helmets with red visors, and they carried assault rifles. They moved like a true army, units within units, so precise one could think them robots.
"When we invaded this planet twenty years ago," Jon said, "the Bahayans were rice farmers and fishermen. How they've learned!"
George nodded. "We taught them."
"Not just us, George." He pointed. "Them too."
They were hovering above the Bahayan troops. Balls of light the size of watermelons.
Santelmos.
These aliens didn't look so intimidating, perhaps. They had no fangs, no claws, no drooling jaws. Nothing like the bloodthirsty monsters Jon's grandparents had fought in the Alien Wars. But Jon had seen them tear through soldiers at Basilica, ripping through torsos, severing limbs, scattering charred remains across the city streets. They were like small suns fallen upon the world, beautiful yet deadly.
These aliens, patrons of Bahay, did more than glow and burn. The Santelmos were an ancient, spacefaring species. And they built technological horrors.
Blimps floated above the enemy troops, tentacles dangling from their underbellies. They were like jellyfish risen from the murk, bloated and monstrous. Silver fighter jets hovered between the blimps, shaped like daggers, their engines humming and glowing. Here were the dreaded balisongs, which meant butterfly knives in Tagalog. These silvery planes could hover in place like helicopters, streak forth like bullets, and pound their enemies with the fury of gods. Below them walked several gargantuan mechas, machines shaped like men. Their hydraulic arms ended with grasping claws, and cannons topped their shoulders. Bahayans stood inside the mechas' chests, strapped into controls, operating the machines.
George cringed. "Jon, how is this possible? I know the Bahayans are human and all, and that they used to live on Earth. But they've been on Bahay for centuries, cut off from the rest of humanity. When we discovered them, they were just inventing radio antennae and crude airplanes, and we were already traveling among the stars. How the hell did they manage to build blimps and hover-jets and mechas, for Chrissake?"
"They didn't." Jon looked at the white circles painted onto the machines. "The Santelmos built them. The aliens are arming the Luminous Army."
"And fighting among them," George muttered, eying the Santelmos hovering above the Bahayan infantry. "Those glowing buggers didn't just come here to advise and arm, make no mistake. Those are Santelmo fighters or I'll eat my helmet."
Jon shuddered. He looked around at his own army, seeking a sense of safety in numbers.
The Apollo Brigade, under the command of Colonel Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal, was far from home. Affectionately known as Pascal's Punks, they were the military's prime cannon fodder. The punks were the expendables, sent on the most dangerous suicide missions. And this mission was the most suicidal yet.
Normally stationed in South Bahay, Pascal's Punks had ventured far north, a mad quest to strike the enemy on his home turf. The war had brutalized the Punks. The brigade was like an aging boxer, his eyes blackened, his nose broken, barely any fight left in him. The Battle of Basilica had decimated the brigade. The battles against the Kalayaan, and the massacres in the villages, had broken their morale.
But we can still swing a few punches, Jon thought.
Three thousand Earthling soldiers filled the camp. The last survivors of this brutalized brigade. The last punks. They stood along the wooden palisades and in the dusty courtyard. They were far fewer than the enemy, but they wore navy-blue battlesuits, armored and somewhat bulletproof, and they carried Oakeshott assault rifles, renowned for their deadliness. Helmets with yellow visors enclosed their heads, giving them a vague insect look.
Most importantly, they had their backs to the wall. Hopefully that gave them some desperate strength.
A hundred tanks sat amid the troops, cannons primed. A hundred helicopters rose, their stubby wings bristling with missiles. Ten Falcon starfighters completed the force. The Falcons weren't much larger than helicopters, but they were far faster and deadlier, able to fight in both space and air.
Looking at Apollo Brigade, Jon felt a little better. Yes, there was some safety in numbers. They were stranded here in North Bahay, far from the rest of the Human Defense Force. And instead of a fortified army base, they were living in a jungle camp—really just a bunch of tents crowded within a ring of wooden walls. But these were good soldiers, all of them. Soldiers who had survived the jungle and the inferno of Basilica. They were tough bastards and would not die easily.
The Apollo Brigade was infamous in the Human Defense Force. They weren't elite troops. They undertook no commando missions, nothing that required any finesse. The qualifications to join were dirt low. Pascal's Punks were the misfits. The losers. The cannon fodder.
And Jon could think of no better soldiers to have his back.
We survived hell together, he thought. If anyone has a chance against the Luminous Army, it's us pigheaded punks.
* * * * *
Muttering and cursing, a burly figure stepped onto the wooden wall with Jon.
Colonel Pascal had to suck in his gut to fit into his armor. But there was a lot of muscle underlying that fat. His arms bulged, and his barrel chest thrust out like a jeep's grill. Commander of Apollo Brigade, Pascal had a bulbous nose, a cleft chin, and thick hair as white as snow. He stared at the enemy outside the walls, spat, and shook his head.
"Goddamn, I swear those Bahayan boys brought their whole goddamn army just to pay us punks a visit."
"Door to door salesmen, probably," Jon said. "They're always a pain to get rid of."
The colonel slammed a magazine into his rifle. "Not with the right tools."
Jon pursed his lips. He wasn't sure how he felt about his brigade's commander.
For a long time, Jon had nurtured a deep hatred of Colonel Pascal. After all, the man had promoted Clay Hagen to lieutenant. Clay Fucking Hagen—the most bloodthirsty monster in a war of monsters. To make things worse, Pascal had then deployed Clay into a peaceful village, armed to the teeth, tasked with ferreting out guerrillas.
The result horrified both Earth and Bahay. Instead of hunting guerrillas, Clay had murdered hundreds of women and children.
If you asked Jon, Colonel Pascal should have known better. That innocent blood was on his beefy hands. No, Jon wasn't going to forgive the colonel anytime soon.
And yet… and yet…
Over the past few weeks, Jon had seen a different side to the gruff, white-haired man. He had seen regret. Guilt. Even something akin to honor.
The massacre shock Pascal to his core, Jon reminded himself. He pulled his troops back the instant he learned about it. He sent a monster into a village, and hundreds died. But he learned from it. I can respect that.
Right now, thousands of lives were at stake. Jon just hoped the colonel would
n't make any more deadly mistakes.
The brigade had cleared the jungle around the fort, spraying defoliant in a wide radius, removing any trees or shrubs an enemy could hide behind. The Luminous Army now arranged itself upon this ring of barren land, forming a chokehold around Camp Apollo's wooden walls. A mecha towered behind every infantry company like a giant protecting his children. The silvery balisongs and blimps hovered above, engines humming. The Santelmos shone, stars fallen upon the world.
Colonel Pascal grunted, spat again, and raised a megaphone.
"Welcome to Camp Apollo!" he boomed. "Nobody has to die today. Pull back your forces now, or we will be forced to destroy you."
For long moments, there was silence. The enemy soldiers merely stared. The aliens and silvery craft hovered.
Then, in perfect unity, the lines of infantry parted like the Red Sea. A path of dead, poisoned earth stretched between them. Mister Weird's Patented Defoliant had done its work, killing trees, grass, even the microorganisms and fungus in the soil. The cleared path looked like a scar.
Farther back, the jungle rustled with wind and shadows. A figure emerged from between the trees and began walking down the path of poison.
He wore crimson cardinal robes, and a hood shadowed his face. He held a silver thurible. The censer swung from a chain like a medieval flail, spreading smoke.
Jon inhaled sharply.
The Red Cardinal. Commander of the Luminous Army and self-proclaimed ruler of Bahay.
He was here.
* * * * *
"How can this be?" George whispered, staring off the wall. "We saw him die!"
"No," Jon said. "We saw our planes bomb his city to dust. We saw Basilica turn into a fireball. But we did not see him die."
"No man could have survived that!" George said.
Yet here he was.
The Red Cardinal.
Somehow, he had survived the devastating bombing of Basilica. His cathedral had crumbled around him. Yet now he approached Camp Apollo, robes fluttering.
Soldiers on the walls grumbled. A few gasped. The colonel muttered, "What the hell?"
Jon saw it then. His eyes widened.
Wherever the cardinal stepped, blood-red flowers grew. Footstep by footstep. Patch by patch of flowers. They bloomed like drops of blood and spread out leafy tendrils, covering the path, sprouting more blossoms. A crimson carpet flowed behind the cardinal, blooming wide upon this poisoned earth.
Even from his perch on the wall, Jon could smell the flowers. They were sweet, cloyingly so, but he could see their thorns.
The cardinal came to stand below the walls. He raised his head, letting his hood fall back.
His face was ancient. Cadaverous. Dark pouches hung beneath his eyes, and shadowy grooves carved a pasty white face. He gave a thin smile, revealing the tips of his sharp teeth. Piranha teeth. His gums were deep red, jarring against his milky white skin.
He's not Bahayan, Jon thought. He has no Asian heritage. He's a white man. And maybe, if the stories are true, part alien. Or part demon, depending on who you listen to.
"Greetings, imperial forces of darkness!" the cardinal said, his voice like crinkling papyrus. "In the name of the light, I call for your immediate surrender. Lay down your arms. Disable your flying machines of death. Open the gates to your outpost of devilry. Surrender to us—and they will live. Fight us—and they will die."
The colonel harrumphed, armor clattering. "Who are they?"
The cardinal smiled. A sickly smile. He licked his lips. His tongue was long and scaly, a serpent emerging from its lair.
"Why, my prisoners, of course." The cardinal looked over his shoulder. "Bring them forth!"
Soldiers emerged from the jungle, carrying bamboo cages on poles like gruesome palanquins.
There were people inside the cages. Filthy. Starving. Wearing rags. Blood and mud matted their long beards. Bruises covered their skin, a tapestry of pain in black and deep purple. They were so battered and filthy Jon couldn't tell if they were Earthling or Bahayan.
Jon clenched his jaw, fighting back nausea. He had never seen people look so miserable.
And then he noticed one more detail.
The caged prisoners wore military dog tags.
"They're soldiers," Jon whispered. "Our soldiers."
The enemy dumped the cages on the ground outside the fort walls. Bahayans pulled the prisoners out. They were bound with ropes, starving, close to death. They looked like skeletons draped with dry skin, unearthed from a mass grave. Their captors forced them to kneel and drew curved blades.
On the fort walls, Earthlings aimed their rifles.
A few cried out.
"You bastards!"
"Let them go!"
"Stop this!"
The colonel glared at his soldiers. It was enough to silence them. But Pascal too was pale, and his fingers tightened nervously around his gun.
Jon's heart pounded against his ribs. He looked down at the captive soldiers, and his breath caught.
He recognized a few of them.
He saw Alana Lisboa, a girl he had trained with at boot camp. They had once spent an evening talking about their favorite metal bands. Her teeth had been bashed in, and cuts covered her body. Thomas Kruijin was there too, a muscular sergeant they called Thomas the Tank. Now his fingers were gone, leaving red stumps, and a bruise hid his left eye. Greg "Gigabyte" Botkoveli was there, a military intelligence corporal and computer genius. He was trembling and weeping, a rope around his neck.
Jon knew those soldiers well. He had trained with them. Fought with them. Shared his hopes and fears with them. There were many others he did not know. Older prisoners. Prisoners with long beards and hair. Some with white hair, withered down to skin and bones. They must have been prisoners for years. Maybe some had been captive since the war began twenty years ago.
The Bahayan captors raised their blades high.
Jon shouldered his rifle, lip twitching.
Just give me the order, Pascal, he thought.
The colonel spoke into his megaphone. "Be advised, Cardinal, that mistreating prisoners of war is against the Ganymede Convention, and—"
"And tell me, Colonel," the Cardinal interrupted, "what does your convention say of poisoning ancient rainforests, ecosystems that have grown and evolved over ten billion years? What does it say of raping our daughters and sisters? What does it say of burning villages and slaughtering millions of innocents?"
The colonel's lip peeled back in a sneer. "If you hadn't aligned with aliens, if you had joined South Bahay in cooperation, we—"
"You mean become your puppet," said the cardinal. "No, Colonel. I will not bend the knee. I will not wear a collar and let you hold the leash. I am a free man. I will banish the scourge of Earth from this pure world, and I will revive the wastelands you corrupted with poison and fire. I will water this ravaged soil and watch new life grow. If you do not surrender, I will water it with your blood."
Colonel Pascal lowered his megaphone. He turned to look at Jon and spoke in a low voice. "Son, you faced that sonuvabitch in Basilica, didn't you? In his goddamn cathedral."
Jon nodded. "I did, sir."
The colonel leaned closer. His voice dropped even lower. "Tell me about him. Not just what I read in your official report. What the hell is he? Some kind of alien? Mutant? He's got to be more than human."
Jon shuddered. "I don't know, sir. But I saw him change forms. Shapeshift. He pretended to be my dead brother to lure me closer. And…" Jon felt the blood drain from his face. "I saw him kill my captain. He sucked his blood like a vampire. Sucked him dry."
"Goddamn," said Pascal. "What are we dealing with here? Vampires? Shapeshifters? For Chrissake, son, I don't believe in magic."
"Me neither, sir. But he has powers. I've seen them. And he survived a bombing that could melt a tank." Jon shuddered. "Maybe his powers come from alien technology. Something we don't understand. Maybe they're just parlor tricks. But one thing is certain. I saw him k
ill Captain Carter. He won't hesitate to kill these prisoners. He's not bluffing."
Pascal stared at Jon for a long moment, eyes hard. He nodded and turned back toward the cardinal.
"All right, Cardinal!" Pascal said into his megaphone. "We'll make a deal. Return the prisoners to us, and we'll pull back south. We'll fall behind the third parallel armistice line."
The cardinal's smile never faltered. "No, Colonel Pascal. I'm not interested in playing games. If you retreat now with the prisoners, you'll be back here within days. Bombing, raping, murdering. Surrender now. Unconditionally. Lay down your weapons. Your rifles, your tanks, your flying machines—lay them all down. Then stand trial for your crimes. Surrender to me. Or you will all die."
He can't be serious, Jon thought. He knows we'd never accept that. This is theater.
"A prisoner swap," Jon blurted out. "Colonel, we can offer him a prisoner swap. We have many Bahayan prisoners in the south, and—"
"I will accept no prisoner swap!" the cardinal said from below. "Only your utter surrender."
Jon inhaled sharply. He was standing high on the wall, far from the cardinal. He had spoken without a megaphone, his words meant for the colonel alone.
How the hell did he hear me? he thought.
The colonel raised his megaphone. "If you're not willing to negotiate, we—"
"You have ten seconds to surrender," the cardinal said. "Nine seconds. Eight…" He smile widened. "Seven…"
The colonel spat. "Ah, to hell with this sonuvabitch. Men! Fire!"
Bullets rang out.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air.
The colonel himself fired his rifle, aiming at the cardinal.
Jon aimed at the man holding Alana Lisboa captive. The Bahayan held a curved knife to Alana's throat. Jon pulled the trigger, aiming at the man's head.
As the guns boomed, the cardinal stretched out his arms, palms facing the fort.
The bullets slammed into a force field, shattering on impact.
Jon winced. He had never seen such tech.
Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3) Page 2