The girls were young, probably no older than Maria, and they were dressed like Earthlings. They wore richly-woven gowns, string of pearls, and golden earrings. Their hair was done in elaborate curls, dyed blond or light brown. But there was no mistaking their almond-shaped eyes, their olive-toned skin, their delicate Bahayan beauty.
Are they courtesans? Maria wondered. Or did these brigadiers marry Bahayan girls?
"Look at her!" said the mustached brigadier. "Standing there with her mouth open like a fish. Must be new here."
Another brigadier slapped Maria on the backside. "She feels fresh."
They all laughed. Even the Bahayan girls.
Maria glared at her fellow Bahayans.
How could you betray your people? she thought, trying to transmit the accusation through her eyes.
But the other girls did not meet her gaze. One sipped her wine and smirked. Another cuddled closer to her brigadier.
Maria forced herself to smile, even with her bottom stinging.
"Some wine, sirs?" She gave the girls a penetrating gaze. "Ladies?"
The mustached brigadier grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap. "I'd rather have you."
His girlfriend, a young Bahayan girl in a purple gown, glowered. "She's just a province girl! I can tell from her accent."
The brigadier, still holding Maria on his lap, squeezed his girlfriend's thigh. "Are you jealous, my dear?"
Maria wanted to slap the man. But he had a phoenix on each shoulder. He probably commanded thousands of soldiers. This man had information.
I'm not a courtesan, she told herself. I'm not Candy. I'm just playing a role. I'm a spy. I'm not one of these girls.
Instead of slapping the brigadier, she forced herself to giggle. "Oh, you're so silly!" She mussed his thinning hair. "You can never have too much wine."
"Quite right, quite right." The mustached man nodded. "Go, fetch us another bottle! I would rather like watching you walk away."
He licked his lips, and when Maria walked away, he gave her backside another slap. The other officers laughed. Maria tightened her lips, swallowing her rage.
I must save my anger. I must fight the way I can. And then I will kill them all.
* * * * *
For the next couple of hours, Maria served the tables. She let them pinch her backside. She sat on their laps. She giggled and flirted. She poured their cups, and she hand-fed them grapes.
And mostly she listened.
To snippets of conversation. To news of the war.
"Don't you worry, we'll beat the bastards back."
"The Red Cardinal? Hell, he won't get much farther south."
"Ha, the cardinal! The only thing those bloody Catholics are good at is breeding like rabbits. Oh, sorry, Oliver, forgot about your wife."
"The goddamn Santelmos can fight all they like, we'll beat 'em back too."
"The Luminous Army? Please. A bunch of barbarian slits playing dress up. The Apollo Brigade will mop the floor with them."
"Pascal's Punks? Ha! They're barely better than slits themselves. But they'll do their job, even if half of them are wiped out. As usual!"
A slender brigadier adjusted his monocle. "If you ask me, that Pascal is a brute. Not worthy of the officer class."
A portly brigadier nodded. Drops of butternut soup glistened on his mustache. "He's a grunt in officer's clothing, make no mistake. Heavens know how they ever let him into Julius. But his punks are good cannon fodder."
And Maria kept giggling, kept pouring wine, and kept learning.
The Red Cardinal is growing stronger. Her belly knotted. The Apollo Brigade is fighting him. Jon's brigade.
A white-haired colonel snorted. "Hell, even if the entire Apollo Brigade is wiped out, so what? We'll replace 'em. We ain't surrendering. Let Pascal's Punks all die for Earth!"
Maria dropped her tray.
Dishes shattered on the floor. Scattered applause filled the room. Somebody laughed, and somebody else muttered something about clumsy slits.
Maria knelt, cheeks flushing, and cleaned the mess.
She retreated into the kitchen, carrying the broken shards. She found herself in a bustling inferno, filled with ovens, stoves, and harried cooks, all of them Bahayan.
Buddy was waiting for her. He slapped the back of her head.
"You clumsy fool! Breaking plates on your first day. I should never have hired you."
"Ow!" She glowered. "People need to stop slapping me."
"Then stop being an impudent little gutter rat!" Buddy puffed out his chest. "I clawed my way out of the gutter. I started from the bottom. Nobody gave me this. I earned it! For years, I labored, starting as bus boy, then waiter, and now finally the maitre d' of the finest establishment on—"
"Are you done?" Maria yawned. "I'm falling asleep here."
Buddy straightened his tuxedo, then flicked her forehead. "Impudent fool! You're not suited for being a waitress."
"Well, these heels aren't suited for walking."
He rolled his eyes. "Always a clever quip with you. You know, I can snap my fingers and send you back to the gutters. Would you like that? I'll do it. Those drunk colonels who saved you outside? They already forgot who you are. One word from me, and you're back in the slums."
This gave Maria pause. Was Buddy bluffing?
No, she did not think he was. And she needed this job. Not only for the salary, which she had to admit was generous. But for the knowledge. She had been here only a couple of hours, had already learned so much. She must stay.
I must find the men who ordered the bombing of my village, and of a hundred other villages, she thought. I must record their confessions. And I must spread their shame across the galaxy.
It hurt her pride, but Maria lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Buddy. I disrespected you. I know you worked hard to claw your way up, and I can only hope to someday accomplish half as much. What can I do to keep this job? I want to work hard like you."
Buddy's eyes softened. He nodded. "I see I'm finally getting through to you." He sighed. "You're hopeless as a waitress. You wobble on your heels. You break dishes. And your dibdibs are too small anyway. The brigadiers like girls with big dibdibs to lean over and pour their drinks. Do you have any other skills?"
The kitchen doors banged open. A harried waitress entered, tears on her cheeks. Greasy hand-prints stained her dress. Earthling hands. The girl spent a moment composing herself, grabbed a tray of drinks, then rushed back outside. As the kitchen doors swung, Maria glimpsed the band on the stage. They were still playing smooth jazz.
Maria looked back at Buddy. "I can sing. I'm a good singer. My mother said so at least. This place needs better music."
Buddy crossed his arms. "These are Earthlings, dummy! They like this music. What will you do, sing them Bahayan pop songs?" He snorted.
"There is better Earth music than this!" she insisted. "At least music with more… pizzazz. The Go Go Cowgirl used to play Earth music too for soldiers, and it wasn't music that puts you to sleep."
"The Go Go Cowgirl." Buddy snickered. "What, some sleazy bar in the slums? This isn't a brothel, girl!" He flicked her forehead yet again. "This is a fine dining establishment. You know, I worked very hard to get here. I didn't bring the slums with me. I—"
She patted his cheek. "Trust me, Buddy."
If only I could trust myself…
She left the kitchen, heart trembling like a caged bird. She had sung for crowds before. On the streets as a busker. In the Go Go Cowgirl for a crowd of rowdy soldiers. In a roadside cafe with Jon playing the piano. That last memory filled her with bittersweet longing.
He played "Hey Jude," and I sang and the whole cafe joined us, she thought, eyes damp. I miss you, Jon.
Heels clattering, Maria hurried across the dining hall and stepped onto the stage. The jazz musicians kept playing a smooth medley. A few glanced up at her, perplexed.
Maria looked at the crowd. A few officers noticed her. Somebody cheered, and another man whistled.
Suddenly Maria's heart was pounding. Cold sweat washed her. Her fingers shook. It was strange. She had faced enemies in battle, had killed men, had seen fire rain. And she had stage fright!
Her cocktail dress, scanty as it was, came with a very small pocket on the chest, perhaps made for keeping a pen and paper for drink orders. She patted that pocket. She felt him inside. A bit of warmth against her heart. Crisanto was with her.
You can do this, Maria, she told herself. This isn't you. This is Candy. A character you play. Dance and sing for them.
"Give us a dance!" somebody cried from the crowd.
"Dance for us, sweetheart!" said a brigadier, bouncing a Bahayan girl on his lap. The girl glared at Maria, jealousy burning in her eyes.
Maria turned toward the band.
"Do you know 'On the Good Ship Lollipop?'" she said.
She had heard the song played at the Goodbye Kisses booth. Pippi, a particularly flirtatious bargirl, used to dress up like a schoolgirl, complete with pigtails and an oversized lollipop, and sing it for the troops. The men would always go wild. Maria had watched the performance several times.
The bass player nodded. "Sure do. It's a classic."
Maria snapped her fingers, pointed at him, and winked. "Hit it."
The band paused for a moment, then began to play the song.
Maria spun toward the crowd. She struck a pose—head tilted, hip thrust out, pinky finger held innocently to her mouth. Pippi would be proud.
And she began to sing.
"On the good ship Lollipop…"
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. But the crowd cheered, and oddly, that gave her confidence. With every line she sang, with every flirtatious pose she struck, she was less Maria and more Candy. She was less the refugee and more the seductively innocent cocktail waitress.
Soon she was strutting across the stage with gusto, even on her high heels. She turned her back to the crowd, looked over her shoulder, and pouted. The officers stood up and clapped. She could practically see their hearts beating under their shirts. A few men stuck fingers into their mouths and whistled. Other pounded the tabletops, catcalling, much to the chagrin of their wives and girlfriends, who crossed their arms and pursed their lips.
"On the good ship Lollipop…"
Maria continued her song, drizzling this innocent tune with every drop of sex she could.
Thank you, Pippi, she thought. You taught me how to seduce.
"It's a sweet trip to the candy shop…"
As she strutted, hips swaying, Maria examined the crowd. From here on the stage, she could see them all. Colonels. Brigadiers. And there, at the back…
Maria nearly fell off the stage.
She nearly lost her place in the song, forced herself to keep going.
"And there you are, happy landings on a chocolate bar…"
And there you are, she thought.
He was sitting at the back of the club. She recognized him. She had seen his photos on the little televisions in the grungy clubs. A tall man with gray hair, a square jaw, and broad shoulders. A man with two phoenixes on each shoulder.
Most officers in Maison de la Terre had two, sometimes three stars on their shoulders. They were colonels, great leaders who commanded thousands of troops. A few had a golden phoenix on each shoulder. They were brigadiers, commanders of entire divisions. Each brigadier could command tens of thousands of soldiers.
But that man at the back—he had two phoenixes on each shoulder. He was a general. The highest ranking man in the room. Indeed on the planet.
Maria knew who he was. Here sat General Charles Ward. The high commander of the entire Earth force in Bahay.
He did not command the entire Human Defense Force. His bosses were back on Earth, some with three phoenixes on their shoulders, overseeing the war from afar. But General Ward commanded every other officer and soldier on Bahay. He was the architect of the war. He was the executioner of three million dead Bahayans and counting.
And there he was. Right there before Maria. Sipping wine and watching her dance.
The man who murdered my parents. It's his fault. More than any other man here.
Her legs felt weak. She wobbled on her heels. But she managed to keep swaying seductively, and she looked across the room, making eye contact with the general.
Ward stared back, face expressionless. Maria faced a crowd. But she sang for him alone.
"See the sugar bowl, do a tootsie roll…"
She looked away, not wanting to be too obvious. But she had sparked his interest. She felt his eyes following her as she continued her song.
Finally, with a little wiggle, she finished her performance. The men cheered, howled, and whistled. Standing below the stage, even Buddy was applauding.
"That's my girl!" the maitre d' said. "I hired her myself. Isn't she something? Marvelous, marvelous!" He clapped vigorously. "I found her in the downtown clubs and insisted she sang here!"
Only one man wasn't cheering.
Maria looked at him again.
From across the room, General Ward looked back. Their eyes snapped together.
He sat very still, his face hard, expressionless. The face of a stone statue.
But Maria saw the fire in his eyes. She knew this fire. She had seen it enough in the Go Go Cowgirl. It was the same in generals as it was in grunts. The fire of desire.
I kindled it.
She looked away.
"Can I sing another song?" she asked Buddy.
Buddy turned toward the crowd. "Would you like another song, gentlemen?"
The men roared and clapped. "Encore, encore!"
Maria turned toward the band. She thought for a moment. And she knew what she should sing.
"Play me 'The Last Rose of Summer.'"
The musicians glanced at one another.
"Candy, are you sure?" whispered the bass player. "We're not supposed to play Bahayan songs. The Earthlings like Earth songs."
Maria nodded. She was thankful that Buddy stood below the stage, not on it—too far to hear the whispered conversation.
"I'm sure. Play it."
The musicians glanced around uneasily, but finally the bass player shrugged, and they began to play.
"The Last Rose of Summer" was an old ballad of Bahay. It told the story of Lilibeth de la Rosa, a Bahayan folk heroine. According to legend, Lilibeth had been the first baby born on Bahay. Her parents were among the First Settlers, the Filipinos who came on the Santelmo starship, seeking a world away from war. As a young woman, Lilibeth explored the wilderness of Bahay, planting seeds from Earth—guavas, bananas, coconuts, avocados, spreading bounty across the planet.
Her beauty was legendary. Whenever she walked, the birds sang for her, the plants bowed before her, and even the stars admired her grace. But the moons of Bahay became jealous. Before Lilibeth's arrival, the two moons had been the most beautiful sights in Bahay. They had been the beauty the animals and plants adored. Mad with jealousy, the moons cast stones upon Bahay, destroying the groves Lilibeth had planted. The fruit trees burned. Famine gripped the land.
Lilibeth begged the moons to spare her people. But they remained envious of her beauty. To save Bahay, Lilibeth entered the rainforest, where she magically transformed into a rose. There she still grows, the legends say—the most beautiful flower on the planet. And yet she is hidden in the depths of the forest, a place no human could ever reach, and no moon could ever see. The stones from the sky ceased to fall, the fruit trees flourished, and the people were saved. And the last rose of summer still grows today, her beauty forever hidden.
Maria sang this story. She sang it in Tagalog, the language of her people. She did not dance. Did not sway. Did not pout nor wink nor flirt, for it was a sad song. A song of lost beauty. A song of a new home. A song of sacrifice and yearning. It was an anthem of Bahay, and as Maria sang it, she realized that "The Last Rose of Summer" was not only about the past. Not only about that old folk heroine.
It was about
today. It was about this war. It was about death falling from the sky, and it was about beauty hidden, cast away, cloaked forever in shadows. It was about a rose that still bloomed even as the fire rained. Even as bombs fell. And as she sang, tears flowed down Maria's cheeks. And she saw tears on the cheeks of the Bahayan girls in the audience. Tears even flowed down the cheeks of the colonels and brigadiers. They could not understand her words, for she sang in her own tongue, but perhaps they could understand everything they needed to. Perhaps the music and her voice told the story more than words ever could.
Here she was, singing a song of Bahay's lost splendor to the men who had ruined the world. To men who were like the envious moons, hurling rocks upon a beautiful world. And they listened with tears in their eyes.
She looked again across the crowd. She looked into General Ward's eyes.
He stared back, face still hard, eyes dry. But the fire was there, brighter than ever.
And Maria knew: I got him.
Chapter Nine
Mecha
Standing in the smoldering battlefield, the Red Cardinal swung his thurible on its chain. The heavy incense holder cast out smoke. Once perhaps the censer had been used for worship. Today the cardinal wielded it like a medieval flail. Hot embers crackled within.
With a shrill cry, the cardinal lashed the smoldering censer at Jon.
Jon raised his rifle, parrying the blow. But the thurible whipped around the barrel and slammed into his helmet, spilling embers.
The heat blazed. Jon cried out in pain, fell back, and clawed at his visor, scraping off bits of burning ash. The embers were melting the joins on his helmet.
The thurible swung toward him again.
Jon raised his arms defensively, for all the good it did. The chain wrapped around his forearm, and the heavy metal censer pounded his head.
His visor shattered. An ember fell into his helmet and sizzled against his cheek. Jon screamed, pulled off his helmet, and ripped the white-hot ember off his flesh.
The cardinal kept advancing, lips peeled back in a rabid sneer. He spun his thurible faster and faster, like a deranged Ferris wheel. Soon it was moving so fast it blurred, becoming a disk of red light and smoke.
Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3) Page 7