Slaves? Maria wondered.
It disturbed her to see. Not only that Bahayans should serve Earthlings. But that Bahayan culture was forgotten here. These servants dressed like Earthlings, played Earthling music, served Earthling food. There was no sign of their own culture.
When the Spanish conquered the Philippines many centuries ago, Maria thought, we lost so much of our culture. Then the Americans conquered us, and we lost more of our heritage. Then we came here to Bahay, and we began to build a new culture—only for new invaders to come, to take everything we've rebuilt over the generations.
And this too, like the words of the colonel and his wife, hurt Maria more than bullets.
"Hey, you there, girl! What are you doing here?"
A voice speaking Tagalog! Maria spun away from the restaurant windows. She found herself facing a tuxedoed Bahayan. She read his name tag: Buddy.
"Hello, sir," she said. "I'm here looking for work. I'm hoping you could—"
"You stink!" Buddy sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. "You've come here straight from the shantytowns, haven't you? I can smell it. I worked hard to climb my way out! I didn't just waltz in, smelling of the gutter. I fought to reach this lofty position, the maitre d' of a fine dining establishment. And I'll have you know that Maison de la Terre is the finest restaurant in Bahay."
Maria crossed her arms. "I asked for a job, not your life story."
"You'll never get a job with that kind of attitude." Buddy puffed out his chest. "This is my restaurant. And I won't let a gutter rat taint it."
Maria frowned. She poked his chest. "You're just a Bahayan like me! Pretending to be some fancy Earthling in your fancy Earthling tuxedo. Don't put on airs! Have you forgotten who you are?" She looked at his name tag, then into his eyes. "Is your real name even Buddy? Or did the Earthlings name you like a pet?"
He raised his chin. "This is my real name now. I might be a pet, but you are a filthy stray."
She glowered, hands on her hips. "I'd rather be a stray dog than a leashed pup!"
The restaurant door opened. Two officers spilled out, swaying, cheeks flushed. Both wore fine dress uniforms, and they held bottles of even finer wine. Maria had never seen anyone make public intoxication seem so sophisticated.
"Ah, come on, Buddy!" said one officer, a tall and slender colonel. He slapped the maitre d' on the back. "Give her a job."
The second colonel, a pudgy man with pink cheeks, swept his eyes across Maria, lingering on her breasts. "She's a sweet one. Buddy, you've been holding out on us!" He licked his lips, never removing his eyes from Maria. "Strip this sweet little rose of her rags, and dress her as a waitress. I want her serving our wine by dinner."
His lanky friend nudged him in the ribs. "By dinner, you'll most likely be passed out drunk in the garden."
The plump colonel flushed a deeper red. "I won't! I can hold my liquor. I…" He swayed, had to grab his friend for support, then puffed out his chest. "I'll be perfectly fine by dinner. Just need to piss out the booze. That said…"
He stumbled toward the bushes and struggled to unzip his fly, cursing as the zipper jammed. A few diners, sipping wine inside the restaurant, stared in silent horror through the windows.
"Not here, Stanley, not here!" The lanky colonel grabbed his friend before he could expose himself. "Let me take you home. Try not to piss your pants for the next five minutes. Last time was embarrassing enough."
As the two officers stumbled away, the portly Stanley pointed back at the restaurant. "You heard me, Buddy! I want to see that fine piece of ass in a cocktail dress tonight!"
The maitre d' bowed. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
And then the two officers vanished behind some lavender bushes. A startled peacock fled the scene.
"Well, well." Maria raised her eyebrow at Buddy. "Look who got a job."
The maitre d' growled, "Very well! You start tonight, you fine piece of ass." He mimicked the colonel's accent. "But I warn you. One wrong move, and that fine ass is back in the gutter."
Maria glanced into the restaurant. The senior officers were drinking, dining, even dancing to the music. She saw some other colonels, and even officers with phoenix insignia on their shoulders.
Brigadiers, she thought. Among the highest ranking soldiers in the HDF.
If everyone here was like the drunk Stanley, Maria would find some very juicy secrets.
Maybe the key to winning the war, she thought, will not be in the fiery hell of battle, but here in this corner of heaven.
Chapter Six
Death Electric
The mechas stormed into the ruins of Fort Apollo, vowing death.
They were as large as tanks. But they stood upright, shaped like men. Servos rumbled in their joints. Their enormous feet flattened corpses—and a few soldiers who didn't flee fast enough. Machine guns wheeled atop their shoulders, mowing Earthlings down.
Each mecha had a cockpit on its chest. Bahayan soldiers stood inside, strapped into control rigs. Whenever a Bahayan operator moved, the mecha moved in tandem. The operators looked like tiny parasites controlling metal giants.
Jon doubted the Bahayans had built these machines themselves. He did not doubt their ingenuity or intelligence. But by Earth standards, Bahay technology was barely into the twentieth century. The Santelmos must have designed and built these machines specifically for Bahayan soldiers.
A mecha thumped toward the line of Earth tanks. It gripped a tank with hands like forklifts. Jon, George, and a handful of other soldiers shouldered their rifles. They opened fire, but their bullets barely dented the mecha's metal plating. Even the glass canopy, revealing the operator inside, withstood the assault.
We're like peasants given crude iron swords, Jon thought, facing knights on horseback in full plate armor. We're powerless.
The mecha's gargantuan fingers coiled under the tank's underbelly. The mecha strained like a weightlifter attempting a deadlift. Its motors hummed and whirred and sparked. Its legs creaked. Inside the canopy, the operator grimaced, tendons rising on his neck.
And then it happened. The mecha managed to lift the tank.
It was a rhino-class tank, a powerhouse of Earthling might, weighing in at sixty-five tons.
And the mecha lifted it overhead.
The humanoid machine trembled. Its feet sank into the dirt.
Then it hurled the tank.
The tank plowed through an Earthling company, crushing dozens of soldiers.
The mecha turned toward another tank—the one Jon and George were hiding behind. The tank swiveled its cannon, but the mecha easily dodged it. A shell flew into the distance, missing the giant robot.
The mecha grabbed this tank too. The tank rumbled and spun its treads, but the mechanical fingers had already gripped it. Straining, the mecha lifted the tank overhead. Again its legs quivered, motors shrieking in protest. The thick metal feet, each large enough to crush a car, sank into the dirt.
Before the mecha could hurl the tank at its enemies, Jon stomped forward.
He stood before the mecha, as small as a toddler facing a heavyweight prizefighter.
The mecha turned its head toward him. Inside the cockpit, the Bahayan operator made eye contact with Jon.
Jon slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, shouldered the weapon, and opened fire.
He aimed at the servos on the mecha's legs. They sparked. One burst into flame.
The colossal robot wobbled. One leg buckled, a metal arm twisted, and then the tank fell from its hands.
The tank, all sixty-five tons of it, crushed the mecha like a boulder crushing a cocky weightlifter.
"That still only counts as one," George said.
Jon rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Gimli."
He took a deep breath, allowing himself just a moment of relief. And then he saw the other mechas.
A hundred more were plowing into the HDF lines.
Rockets fired from their shoulders, tearing platoons apart. Their arms swung, hurling soldiers into the a
ir. Their feet thudded, crushing soldiers. It was like watching boys stomp upon ants. The Bahayan infantry roared with new vigor. They charged alongside their metal champions, emboldened.
Colonel Pascal, in the unfortunate position of leading this Earthling camp, was shouting somewhere in the distance, his megaphone crackling, "Goddammit, get our rhinos on those mechas! Shoot them down, shoot them down!"
The rhino tanks were slow compared to the mechas. But slowly, they were wheeling toward the giants, and their canons boomed. Spheres of fire bloomed through the air. One shell slammed into a mecha's chest, knocking down the immense machine. The Bahayan operator slumped inside the shattered cockpit, blood leaking through the mangled chassis.
"We can take 'em!" Jon said, standing among the tanks. "They can't break through the armor of Earth."
George pointed. "Jon, look!"
Jon looked up and cursed.
An enemy blimp was hovering over the battlefield.
This time there were no Falcons to stop it. Perhaps Earth's starfighters were busy fighting the balisongs. Perhaps all the Falcons had fallen. Whatever the case, the airship approached unopposed.
As tanks and mechas fired their cannons, as infantry troops crashed together, the blimp hovered above like a giant jellyfish. Silver tendrils descended from its bloated belly. A shadow fell upon the battlefield.
The tentacles moved like living things. For a moment Jon thought the blimp was some giant alien, a beast of flesh and blood. But he could see cables along the arms. Joints. Gears. It was a machine but unlike any Jon had ever seen, its movements fluid, eerily organic.
The tentacles suddenly ignited and crackled with electricity. They formed living strands of lightning. The searing white light banished the shadows. The stench of ozone filled the air. Tentacles reached down and grabbed tanks.
The tanks lit up. Electricity raced across them. Men screamed inside—then fell silent.
Jon screamed and fired at the sky. His bullets pounded the blimp, but a force field was protecting its underbelly. His bullets slammed back down around him. One pounded into his shoulder, denting what little armor he had left. Others soldiers were firing too, only for their bullets to ricochet.
The tentacles curled up, then swung downward and swept across the battlefield, shearing through Earthlings. Whoever the tentacles touched blazed with electricity. Soldiers lit up like Christmas ornaments. They screamed and flew through the air. By the time they crashed down, they were just smoldering corpses.
"George, we have to take that blimp down!" Jon said.
The giant stared with wide eyes. "How? It's got one of those goddamn force fields!"
Jon pursed his lips, thinking. "The fire truck."
"What?" George raised an eyebrow.
"Come on!"
They turned and ran.
The Apollo Brigade didn't just have tanks, Falcons, armacars, jeeps, and other battle vehicles. It also maintained a fleet of supply trucks. The trucks followed the brigade everywhere, carrying ammunition, fuel, food and water, tents and blankets, and everything else an infantry brigade needed. The jungles of Bahay were treacherous, scattered across a thousand islands, creating a logistical nightmare. Shuttles could deliver some supplies from motherships in orbit, but here beyond enemy lines, anti-aircraft artillery had a field day whenever the shuttles flew. So Apollo Brigade traveled heavy. Colonel Pascal insisted on carrying enough munitions to survive the enemy cutting off their supply lines.
Right now, that might save the brigade.
Jon and George ran through the battlefield. Earthlings ran around them, shouting, firing guns. A Bahayan squad raced ahead, and Jon and George opened fire, tearing the enemy down. They hurried onward, leaping over corpses.
An electric tentacle swung toward them from the heavens, sweeping through soldiers.
Jon dived and flattened himself on the ground. He pulled George down too. The tentacle swung above them, just missing them. The crackling electricity raised Jon's hackles. Other soldiers had not been so quick. The blimp's tentacle slammed into them. The soldiers screamed and flew through the air, pulsing with electricity.
Jon and George rose and ran at a crouch. A mecha thumped forward, feet cracking the earth. A rocket flew. The two friends swerved left, dodging the missile, and ran onward. An explosion blazed behind them, lighting up the night. Jon and George kept going, zigzagging around smoldering artillery craters full of twisted metal and human remains. They ducked as shrapnel rained. Through fire, smoke, and blood, they kept running.
Finally they saw it: the supply fleet.
And there among the trucks of munitions: the fire truck.
It was painted army green. Its hull was armored. At a glance, it looked like an oversized armacar, ready for war. But Jon knew its purpose. It wasn't filled with soldiers or bombs—but with water.
"George, you drive, I'll spray!" Jon said.
George gave him a cockeyed look. "Are you crazy?"
"War made us all crazy long ago. Now come on! We've got a giant jellyfish to fry."
The fire truck rumbled into the battlefield, rattling and grumbling and coughing smoke, a beast that could dwarf even the tanks. George was driving, while Jon clung to the truck's side.
They drove over corpses, cracking bones and armor. They sank into a crater and rose on the other side. The blimp was hovering ahead, tentacles tearing through the troops. A few more blimps joined it. They seemed like giant alien squids feeding from the seabed.
One blimp turned toward the rumbling fire truck. Its tentacles rose, buzzing with electricity, showering sparks.
"Jon, now!" George shouted.
"Closer!" Jon cried. "Get us closer!"
The firetruck accelerated.
The blimp floated toward them, all tentacles pointing their way.
Jon aimed the water pipe—a thick tube of metal. There was currently no hose attached. Jon didn't need one. He aimed the spout like a cannon.
He waited.
He winced.
He waited some more.
Closer. Closer…
George drove the fire truck under the blimp's shadow. The tentacles swung toward Jon.
And Jon turned on the waterworks.
The spout erupted with wet fury. The torrent crashed into the tentacles like a watery demon, knocking them back.
Electricity sparked.
Jon grabbed George, pulled him from the driver's seat, and they leaped off the truck. Electricity crackled through the air, searing their hair, singeing their armor. They ran across the field.
The spout kept spraying, dousing the tentacles.
White light filled the world.
Lightning bolts flew.
Thunder boomed.
As Jon ran, he looked over his shoulder. The doused tentacle caught fire. Flames raced up toward the blimp. More tentacles burned. Electricity slammed into the fire truck, flowed back into the blimp, and more fire spread.
The tentacles flailed. Wisps of fire fluttered toward the other blimps like birds woven of flame. The inferno spread across the sky. Tentacles burned and curled up like wounded worms.
The blimps still floated, but the fire short-circuited their force fields. The invisible shields crackled with static, then vanished. Soldiers below began firing at the sky, piercing the blimps. The mighty machines burned, deflated, and crashed onto the battlefields. Some soldiers cheered. Others died under the raining inferno.
Jon turned toward George. "Think that just counts as one too?"
His giant friend blinked at him, face pale. "Jon, do you realize that we were on that fire truck?"
Jon nodded. "I remember."
"Do you realize that we were almost fried by that electricity? That if we had jumped off a second later, we'd be toast?"
Jon patted his friend on the shoulder. "I knew we'd be fast enough."
George swayed. Jon had to catch him
"You're a goddamn lunatic, Jon," the giant said. "And I love you."
They surveyed the
battle. The last blimps were falling. A few of Earth's tanks were still operational, pounding the mechas. Earthling and Bahayan infantry, so small by these massive machines, were duking it out in the mud.
"Maybe, just maybe, we can survive today," Jon said.
The enemy infantry suddenly parted like the Red Sea.
A cloaked and hooded figure, all in red, came walking between the troops. The Bahayans alongside stood at attention.
Earthling soldiers ran forth, guns blazing. An invisible force slammed into them, hurling them aside like rag dolls.
The Red Cardinal looked at Jon and smiled.
"You just had to jinx it, buddy," George muttered, reaching for a fresh magazine.
Soldiers ran toward the cardinal, assault rifles booming. The cloaked figure kept advancing, swinging his arms. The soldiers tumbled through the air.
"He's coming right at us," Jon whispered.
The cardinal stepped over corpses, eyes alight inside his hood. His white lips peeled back, revealing small, sharp teeth and gruesomely red gums.
"Jon Taylor!" the hooded creature said. "Come and kneel before me. It is time."
Jon turned to run, but a mecha stepped up, blocking his way. More of the robots advanced, circling him. There was no way out.
"We charge right at him," George said.
Jon nodded. "We go down fighting."
The two friends roared, charged at the cardinal, and opened fire.
Chapter Seven
A Vision of the Past
The Red Cardinal walked between the lines of his infantry, stepping over the corpses of dead Earthlings.
He was walking straight toward Jon.
Jon ran, roared, and fired his assault rifle. George ran at his side, his own gun booming.
The cardinal just looked at them, palms held before him. And their bullets vanished with puffs of smoke.
"Jon!" said the elderly man. "You cannot hurt me."
Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3) Page 5