Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Silence! I didn't ask for your excuses." Buddy gripped her arm. "Come with me."

  He pulled her from the dining hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. They walked across the grass under the light of the twin moons. Dragging behind him, Maria struggled to wrench her arm free.

  "Leave me alone! If you want to fire me, fire me. I'll leave and you don't have to drag me."

  Buddy stopped. He spun toward her, eyes boring into her. "Fire you? Fire you? Do you want me to hang, girl?"

  She tilted her head. "What? Why would you—"

  He groaned. "Silly girl! Don't act as if you don't know. You knew what you were doing! You flirty little floozy."

  "Hey!" She yanked her arm free. "What are you talking about?"

  The maitre d' rolled his eyes. "Don't feign innocence. The general, girl!" Buddy dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "General Ward. He sent word. He summoned you to his home tonight."

  Maria blinked. "Why?"

  "How should I know why?" Buddy scoffed. "I'm not a mind reader, girl! I'm a maitre d'. It took a long time to become a maitre d', you know. I had to climb my way up. I started as a bus boy, but I was willing to work hard, to put in the hours without complaining, and—"

  "Just take me to the general." Maria sighed.

  He led her through the moonlit gardens. Several Earthling guards were patrolling here, dressed in full regalia, marching with perfect precision. They didn't even turn to look at the two Bahayans walking by.

  The song of the night filled the gardens. Moonbugs chirped in the bushes, seeking mates in the moonlight. A wide-eyed tarsier leaped from a branch, caught one of the bugs, and crunched it between its teeth. A glimmerbird cooed somewhere among the trees. Beyond these animal sounds rose the hum of Mindao. That city was so close, just outside the towering white walls that surrounded Little Earth. Mopeds and jeepneys rumbled, barely more than white noise. But it was enough. A reminder of why Maria was here.

  There in that city, her people suffered. Refugees. Prostitutes, some of them only children. Orphans eating trash and selling their bodies to survive. Her fellow bargirls, languishing in prison. The cry of her people. It sounded like white noise perhaps, but Maria knew that it was a great keen, a howl of anguish. And even the thickest, tallest walls could not silence that cry. It rang in her heart and through her soul.

  They reached a little home among the trees. Little was a relative term, of course. It was larger than Maria's childhood hut, and it dwarfed the shanties that filled Mindao. But still, the house was smaller than most in Little Earth, a modest abode among mansions. Simple white walls. Red tiles on the roof. A guard manned the door, and another guard was patrolling around the house.

  The general's home, Maria knew.

  Buddy gripped her arm, leaned closer, and sneered into her ear, "Make him happy. Whatever he wants, you give it to him. You want to survive? You do as the Earthling masters say. One day maybe you'll be like me."

  I would rather be free in the slums than a slave in a tuxedo, Maria thought. But that was something Maria would say. Right now she had to be Candy. And Candy was a slave. And Candy nodded.

  "Good advice, Buddy."

  His voice softened. "Good girl." He nudged her forward. "Go."

  He's just another pimp, Maria thought. No different from the Magic Man. This entire place, all of Little Earth—this is just another brothel.

  She took a deep breath.

  For my people. For my planet. For Bahay.

  She stepped toward the door. The Earthling guard stared at her, tall and dour. His cap shadowed his face. He opened the door and took a step back, silent.

  Maria stepped into the house.

  On the inside too, the home was probably simple for an Earthling. Yesterday, Maria might have called it palatial. But after seeing the splendor of the banquet hall, she realized that this house was downright austere for a mighty general. There were two armchairs, a deerskin rug with the face still attached, and an oak table topped with leatherbound books. More books, hundreds of them, crammed bookshelves along an entire wall. Maps and antique swords hung on two other walls.

  A fireplace dominated the fourth wall, its flames crackling—even here in the heat of Bahay, this sweltering world. A man stood there, gazing into the fire, his back to Maria. He wore a crimson robe, and he held a pipe. She smelled aromatic tobacco blended with cinnamon and a touch of hintan, a popular drug some soldiers smoked—milder than shabu, relaxing rather than stimulating.

  Maria could not see the man's face. But she recognized his towering, broad frame and steely gray hair. Here stood General Ward, commander of Earth's forces on Bahay.

  She stood very still, listening to the flames crackle, not sure if she should say anything.

  Finally the general spoke, though he still faced the fire.

  "Do you wonder why I light a fire in the heat of Bahay?"

  Maria blinked. He was speaking in Tagalog!

  "You speak our language, sir?" she blurted, unable to hide her shock.

  He turned his head only slightly, revealing his profile. He had a face like a craggy cliff, painted red and gold in the firelight. A lantern jaw. An aquiline nose. Steely gray curls neatly cropped. A noble face like some old conqueror of Earth's unknown lands and seas. He smiled thinly, a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle." He finally turned to face her. "Sun Tzu wrote those words three thousand years ago. I live by them. That's why I learned your tongue. I study my enemy—his culture, his martial code, his language, his deepest fears. I know my enemy."

  Maria blinked at him. "Well… I learned how to sing 'The Good Ship Lollipop.'"

  He did not laugh. But it seemed to Maria that his thin smile widened just a bit, and this time amusement sparkled in his eyes.

  "So it seems we are enemies, Maria de la Cruz. An officer of Earth who knows the tongue of Bahay. And a girl of Bahay who can sing Shirley Temple."

  "Because it reminds you of home," Maria said.

  The general arched an eyebrow. "What does?"

  "The fireplace," Maria said. "That's why you light a fire even in the heat of Bahay, isn't it? Because it reminds you of cold nights on Earth."

  He stepped toward her, placed a finger under her chin, and tilted her head back. He stared down into her eyes. He was a towering man, even for an Earthling. The top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders.

  "Clever girl."

  She smiled crookedly, her chin resting on his fingertip. "Do I get a prize?"

  His movements were so swift she barely saw them. He gripped the small of her back, pulled her close. A spider reeling in a fly.

  "You were marvelous tonight, Maria. The song you sang. It moved me."

  His body pressed against hers. She rested her chin on his chest, gazing up at him. "You have a thing for lollipops, sir?"

  He ran his fingers through her hair. "I don't mean the first song. I mean the other song. The song in your language. The Last Rose of Summer."

  Despite his size, his hands were gentle. Yet Maria suspected that if she resisted, she would find those gentle hands as strong as manacles.

  "You're probably the only man there who understood the words," she whispered.

  "I don't care about the words, Maria. Some old fairy tale is not what moved me. It is your balls!"

  She blinked at him. "I didn't realize I had any."

  He kept stroking her hair. "Oh you do, my little rose. Bigger balls than half my brigadiers. To step on stage before me, to sing a song of Bahayan patriotism, of national pride—to the men who rape and pillage and burn your world. That takes gall!"

  Maria frowned. She had heard Earth propaganda before from a million soldiers.

  "Rape and pillage? I thought you came here as liberators, s
ir. To save us from the Red Cardinal and his alien army."

  He stroked her cheek, and the firelight haloed him. "And I thought you were clever."

  "I know this much," Maria said. "You light a fire to remind you of Earth, and you summoned me here to forget Earth. Because I'm not like Earth women. Not like your wife back home. Not like any Earthling woman you've ever met. You conquered half my world, sir. And now you can conquer me. That's why you called me here."

  He tightened his grip so powerfully that she yelped. He lifted her, carried her like a bride into his bedroom. He laid her down on his bed, stood at the bedside, and stared at her. His smile was gone. His face was hard, his eyes blazing with dark fire.

  "Undress," he said. "First yourself. Then me."

  Maria lay on the bed, gazing up at him. It reminded her of a childhood terror. Sometimes during the long nights in San Luna, she would awake when it was still dark, and she could not move. Could not make a sound. She could only stare at the foot of the bed, where she would behold a demon. Often the demon sat on her feet, keeping her pinned down, but sometimes it just stood at the edge of the bed, a dark lord from another realm, towering and judging. She would try to move, to scream, to call her mother—but was paralyzed with shock. Lying here, with the general standing at the foot of the bed, that same fear seized her.

  I know what he wants. He wants what Jon and I shared.

  She thought of the child in her belly. And she thought of Jon, her husband, the love of her life. And she knew that even for Bahay, even to save her world, she could not sleep with this man.

  "I… I can't."

  All her confidence, her flirtatiousness—it all fled. She trembled. She had only ever slept with one person. With Jon, a young and gentle man. Here before her stood an aging lion. She feared his rough touch. Fear that when thrusting into her, he would harm her baby. She feared betraying her husband.

  But her fear only seemed to intoxicate the general. He undressed slowly, meticulously, until he stood naked before her. His body was muscular despite his age, and battle scars covered his chest. His arousal was evident.

  "You can and you will." He stared at her with all the aura of command—as if he did not stand naked before her.

  She glanced at his manhood, back into his eyes. "Sir, I'm only a Bahayan girl. I'm small. I'm not like Earth women with large hips. You're too big for me. The mechanics don't work."

  "You flatter me," he said dryly. "Undress now. I am not asking you."

  Maria pulled off her dress, eyes downcast, exposing her small breasts, her slender hips. She hoped her belly was still flat enough. Her fingers trembled.

  I'm just Candy. I'm not Maria at all. A tear flowed down her cheek. I'm just Candy the courtesan, not Maria at all.

  "I…" Instinctively, she placed a hand on her belly. "I will pleasure you in other ways."

  He frowned. Did he know? Could he see? That she was pregnant?

  He nodded. "Good."

  She pleasured him, and she did not think of Jon, because she was Candy now, and Candy had no husband, and Candy did not betray a man she loved. And Candy did not cry.

  When he was satisfied, he kissed her lips and stroked her hair.

  "You are beautiful, Maria de la Cruz. You are brave like a lioness yet delicate as a rose. You will be mine from now on. You will accompany me to dinners and galas. You will wear the gowns and jewels I buy you. You will pleasure me like you did tonight—every night. Your rose will no longer grow among thorns but here in this splendorous garden. Now leave. The dawn is near. When it's sunset again, return to the Maison de la Terre. Not to the stage but to my table. Goodbye, my little rose."

  As Maria left the house, as she walked across the grassy lawn under the moonlight, she wondered how he knew her true name.

  "Know your enemy," she whispered. "You know me, General Ward. And I intend to know you very, very well."

  Chapter Eleven

  Scouring

  Jon walked across the smoldering battlefield, gazing upon the bodies of his fellow soldiers.

  Hundreds, maybe thousands had fallen here.

  The Red Cardinal was gone. But he had left carnage in his wake. Jon walked in a daze, his soul numb like fingertips after playing with snow for too long. Twisted metal littered the landscape. Bullet casings. Mangled artillery shells. Chunks of tents, bent and burnt. Twisted flesh lay among them. A severed leg. A hand reached from a crater, no body attached. A man lay, his entrails spilling like a polluted pink river. A woman lay beside him, the top of her head blown off, chunks of skull discarded across the charred land. A man crawled, begging, his legs amputated. Another man walked in a daze, moaning, burnt. His skin hung in strips like peeling wall paper.

  Jon walked through this nightmare scene. Smoke rose from the artillery craters. A few corpses burned, filling the air with black smog and fluttering white ashes like Christmas snow. A burnt man lay on his side, weeping. A woman stood in numb shock, one arm gone. She was looking around, eyes sunken into a face coated with dust, perhaps seeking her missing limb.

  Jon wanted to help them. He didn't know how. He just walked, dazed, numb, as if he were only half alive.

  The Battle of Camp Apollo had ended. Jon knew it would haunt him forever.

  "Help… me…"

  A soldier stumbled toward him, lurched, almost fell, kept stumbling forward.

  "Help me…"

  Blood, mud, and ash covered the soldier, but Jon recognized the buck teeth. It was Becky Allenby, known around the brigade as Bucky. Her glasses hung askew, one lens cracked. She looked at him, and tears streamed down her face, drawing white lines in the filth.

  "Jon. Jon, help me…"

  For a moment, Jon almost turned away. Almost left her. Was almost glad to see her distress.

  Memories from boot camp filled him. Bucky had trained there with him. A fellow recruit in the Lions Platoon. A girl with buck teeth, frizzy hair, and a braying laugh. She had always followed Clay Hagen around, worshiping the ground he walked on, calling him boss and obeying his every whim.

  Jon had seen Clay Hagen massacre hundreds of innocents in Santa Rosa. True, Bucky had not been there at the time. During Santa Rosa, Bucky had remained at Camp Apollo, cleaning latrines and scrubbing pots. But she was still a Clay lackey. And Jon had no interest in helping her.

  "Jon, please…" Becky begged. "Help…"

  His anger flowed away. Yes, Clay had committed horrible sins. But Jon could not blame this gangly, awkward, terrified girl. He stepped over a corpse and approached her.

  "Becky, are you hurt?" he said.

  She looked around, then back at him. She was a tall girl, as tall as him, her limbs like sticks, her head bulbous on a slender neck.

  "Bucky," she said.

  Jon blinked. "What?"

  "Everyone one calls me Bucky, not Becky. On account of my front teeth being so big."

  "Becky—I mean, Bucky—are you hurt? Let me see."

  He searched her for wounds, turned her around, looked her all over. Her armored battlesuit was cracked, dented, and covered in blood. But he found no wounds, at least nothing more serious than bruises and scratches. This blood was not her own. Though she trembled and shed tears, Bucky was unharmed.

  A miracle, considering the destruction around us, Jon thought. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his mangled hand.

  "You're fine, Bucky!" he said. "Look at me. Look at me now! You're all right. You're not hurt. Okay? The blood isn't yours."

  But she kept shaking. She looked at him, eyes haunted. She seemed to be staring through him at some distant battlefield.

  "Jon, this is my fault."

  "What? Becky, this isn't—"

  "Bucky," she said. "My name is Bucky. That's what the recruits always called me at Roma Station during basic training. You remember, right? You called me that too. The kids at school called me that. And at kindergarten. Just Bucktoothed Becky, Bucky for short."

  Jon wanted to keep walking. To seek more survivors, maybe somebody he
could help. He wanted to find his friends. His officers.

  "Bucky, we all have stories from our past, but now you need to—"

  "So I joined Clay's posse," she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "He bullied me too. But in his clique, I could bully others. People even feared me a little. Because I was a Clay minion."

  He patted Bucky's arm. "I remember. It's in the past. Now let's—"

  "He murdered five hundred women and children, Jon." She clutched his arm, stared into his eyes. Her eyes were like bottomless pools of murky water. "For months, I worshiped him. Called him boss. Called him the bravest soldier. I told everyone he'd win great victories. I was just hoping he would see my worth. See me as more than a bucktoothed loser. But I enabled him, Jon. And he went out and murdered hundreds of innocents."

  Jon sighed. "Bucky, we've all grown in this war. We've all made mistakes. God knows I have."

  Bucky looked around her. She swept her arm across the devastation. "This, Jon. This is punishment. This is God smiting us for our sins. I enabled the murder of five hundred innocent people. This is on me." She lowered her head and wept. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm so sorry."

  He placed his hands on her cheeks, and he stared intently into her eyes.

  "Listen to me, Bucky. Listen to me! This was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. Many people are to blame for what happened at Santa Rosa. Clay Hagen. His soldiers. Colonel Pascal, who promoted him. The recruitment officers who drafted Clay in the first place, knowing his violent history. They are to blame for Santa Rosa, not you. And this?" He looked around him. "This devastation? This isn't your fault either. Or my fault. Or the fault of any one of these poor men and women who lie dead around us. We're pawns in this war. We think we have power. That our actions affect this or that triumph or tragedy. But we're nobodies. We're grunts. We're powerless."

  "That's where you're wrong, Jon." Bucky stopped trembling, and her face became solemn and hard like a mask. "We're only grunts in a war of millions. But what we do here matters. We can win this war. Or we can lose it. But mostly I pray that we can end it. One person, no matter how unimportant, can make a difference. One pawn, no matter how powerless, can win a great game of kings and queens. Never believe you are powerless. It's often the young, powerless people who change the world."