Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3)

by Daniel Arenson

  Pippi gasped, lifted the zirconia, and examined the hidden compartment. "Ingenious! Think how much shabu you could hide in here! I mean—not that I would. Because, um, I never do drugs. Ever." She nodded. "You don't have any shabu in this apartment, do you? So I could properly dispose of it."

  Maria glared. "Pippi, focus on your task! Don't make me slap you. My zirconia needs to record everything I hear, and to transmit the recordings to a computer here in this apartment. Can you do it?"

  The bargirl raised an eyebrow. "Of course I can! Just give me some pesos, okay? Because I need to go shopping for the right equipment."

  "I swear, if you buy any shabu—"

  "I won't, I won't! You know I'm off the stuff. Maybe I'll buy a healthy apple or something, is that okay, Mom?" Pippi rolled her eyes. "Oh wait, apples are Earth fruit, and you'll say I'm trying to be a pute. Okay, I'll buy your equipment and a nice rambutan."

  Maria smiled. "Buy me one too." She kissed her friend's cheek. "Thank you, Pippi."

  * * * * *

  A few hours later, the work was done.

  Maria put on her choker. The cubic zirconia shone in the center. Hidden inside—a little recording device, installed by Pippi's clever hands. On the kitchen table sat a computer with an antenna, ready to record any incoming transmission.

  "Will it work?" Maria chewed her lip.

  Pippi bristled. "Of course it'll work. I made it!"

  Maria scrunched up her lips. "We must test it."

  "You wound me! Fine, fine, we'll test the damn thing." Pippi rolled her eyes.

  The girls stepped outside, took a jeepney across town, and tested the device.

  "Ahoyhoy!" Pippi said, speaking to the gemstone. "Testing, testing! Maria is a horrible card player and she has a big head! Can you read me?"

  Charlie's voice emerged from the fake diamond. She was back in the penthouse, speaking from across the city. "And she has tiny dibdibs!"

  Maria groaned. "Can you two idiots stop it?" But she couldn't help but smile. She loved her friends. And her device was working.

  They returned to the penthouse, and after the children were all asleep, the bargirls met in the kitchen. Charlie found a few bottles of wine in the cabinet, and she poured them all drinks. Meanwhile, young Grace and Joyce served pancit noodles and lumpia rolls, which they had been preparing all day.

  "So tell us," Charlie said. "Before we drink and get too dumb to understand. What is this all about? How did you get a diamond? And this penthouse? And money to bribe us out of prison?"

  "And how did you get such a big head?" Pippi added. "Ouch, Charlie! Stop hitting me. It's a legitimate question."

  Maria told them.

  She told them everything. About singing her songs at Little Earth. About seducing the general, becoming his paramour. And about her plan.

  "He's opening up to me," Maria said. "And he's going to tell me something important. Something that hurts Earth and help us. Battle plans. Or a confession of war crimes." She touched her fake diamond. "Whatever it is, we'll record it—and bring him down."

  The girls stared at her, silent, eyes wide.

  "You mean… the General Ward?" Pippi's jaw nearly hit the table. "Commander of the entire Earth army? And he bought you all this? Maria, if you don't want him as a boyfriend, can I have him? Ouch, ouch, Charlie! Okay, okay. Stop hitting me!"

  Maria raised her wine cup. Her friends were drinking wine, but Maria had juice in hers.

  "We're going to win this war, girls. The Bargirl Bureau is back. For Bahay!"

  They all raised their drinks. "For Bahay!"

  And for Earth, Maria thought. Earth is our homeland too. And Earth is where I'll one day live with Jon. I pray that someday we are no longer enemies, and we are all Earthlings.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Retribution

  Colonel Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal was reviewing logistic reports when the girl burst into his office, carrying an urgent message from Earth.

  "Sir! Colonel Pascal, sir! An urgent message arrived via our portable wormhole generator, sir!"

  Private Rebekah "Bucky" Allenby stood at the trailer door, panting. In the Apollo Brigade, the infamous home of misfit soldiers, Bucky was an outcast among outcasts. With her buckteeth, mop of untamed curls, and bottle glasses, she wasn't much to look at.

  Good! Pascal thought. I hire too many pretty blondes with big bottoms and tiny brains. Bucky is as homely as a mule. But she's damn loyal.

  The gangly private constantly sought approval. She called even mere corporals "sir." The other soldiers mocked her relentlessly. But Pascal knew: Bucky will serve me till her death.

  So he had given her an important job. Bucky was in charge of guarding the brigade's wormhole generator. Most soldiers hated guard duty. But Bucky was eager to serve.

  Sometimes too eager.

  "Private, you shouldn't just burst into your colonel's trailer without knocking," he said.

  Bucky blinked. "Sorry, sir. It's just that this message came by wormhole, and—" She raised a codechip, dropped it, then blushed and picked it up. "It says urgent, and—oh damn, I forgot to salute, didn't I?" She gave a clumsy salute, dropping the codechip again. "Sorry, sir! Should I come in again?"

  Pascal heaved a sigh. "Just put the codechip on my desk, Private."

  Messages from the wormhole generator were never good news.

  The message had come directly from Earth, via wormhole and at great expense. It wasn't easy sending messages back and forth between Bahay and Earth, a distance of three light-centuries. Using radio was cheap, but radio waves could only travel at the speed of light, and nobody wanted to wait six hundred years for a reply. So the Human Defense Force had brought a handful of wormhole generators with them.

  A long time ago, some brainiac had figured: Hey, we fly starships through wormholes, why not talk through them? Hence the wormhole generators—big, bulky, and damn expensive machines. Each one could generate a tiny wormhole, as narrow as a thread, all the way to Earth. Pascal imagined them as telephone wires hundreds of light-years long, stretching between planets. The physicists said they were more like portals through spacetime, but Pascal could never quite visualize that, so he kept thinking of them as telephone wires.

  Pascal commanded the Apollo Brigade, also known as Pascal's Punks, Cannon Fodder Force, or sometimes Kenny Food. They were infamous for rowing far up shit's creek. And now they were deep behind enemy lines, stranded in North Bahay. If anyone here came home in one piece, it would be a miracle. So they gave Pascal one of those precious, ultra-expensive wormhole generators. The top brass insisted that every brigade traveling northward lug one around. Pascal carried his inside the brigade's biggest, thickest armored truck.

  He hated the damn thing.

  First of all, wormhole generators were serious energy hogs. A single message from Earth could suck up ten entire power cubes—energy he needed for pounding the enemy. Even worse were the goddamn grunts always calling home. Every once in a while, some snot-nosed private got too homesick, sneaked into the truck, and called dear old Earth, needing a good whine to his girlfriend or mother. Another ten energy cubes down the train, just so sniveling little Timmy could tell Mommy that he loved her, and that he just couldn't wait to come home and eat her apple pie. Pascal kept three guards around the wormhole generator, 'round the clock, but even they sometimes got homesick and called home. Bye bye more power cubes.

  Useless little whiners.

  There was a second reason Joe Pascal hated his wormhole generator.

  The news from Earth was never good.

  Ever.

  News from Earth meant pain.

  It was usually orders to drive deeper into enemy territory, risking the lives of every soldier under Pascal's command. To Earth, the soldiers of Apollo Brigade were cannon fodder. Just misfits and losers to send into the meat grinder. But to Joe Pascal, every soldier under his command was like a child. Sniveling, homesick, yes. But dear to him. And every life lost broke his heart.

>   For a long time, his actual child—his sweet Lizzy—had served in his brigade. He was the colonel. She was just a sergeant. He led the entire brigade. She had flunked out of officer school, too wild and headstrong to obey orders. For generations, the Pascal family had graduated from Julius Military Academy, the finest officer school on Earth. When Lizzy had failed, it had broken Joe Pascal's heart.

  But over time, he had moved beyond that. His love for Lizzy only grew stronger every day. And whenever Pascal had to lead his brigade into battle, he worried about her so much his chest ached. That Lizzy would die in battle.

  Lizzy was safe on Earth now. She would never fight again. But that did not make things easier. Now, with every battle, Pascal worried that he would die without ever saying goodbye. Without telling her how much he truly loved her.

  That was usually the wormhole news from Earth. Go farther north. Fight another battle. And maybe never see your daughter again.

  But today the news was different.

  Today, when the wormhole shone, it was not an order.

  It was a condolence note.

  Colonel Pascal plugged the codechip into his minicom and stared at the message on his monitor, feeling numb.

  Sweet Lizzy, who had survived so many battles on Bahay, had died on Earth.

  She had not died in battle. Not even died a soldier. She had died an anti-war activist. A traitor to the military Joe Pascal loved.

  He stared at the words. And all context vanished. All anger faded. Only the numb truth remained.

  My daughter is dead.

  He looked up at Bucky.

  "Thank you, Private. Dismissed."

  But the bucktoothed private just stood there. Her eyes dampened.

  "Sir." She glanced at the monitor on the wall.

  Pascal had forgotten that monitor. It was linked to the minicom in his hands.

  It displayed the message there in large letters.

  "Sir, I'm sorry," Bucky whispered. "Sergeant Lizzy trained me at boot camp. Oh, sir, I'm so sorry."

  Pascal looked at the message again. He reread it. It was not sinking in.

  Lizzy had been found dead in a river. She had jumped off a bridge. Committed suicide, they said.

  But no. That was impossible. His Lizzy would never do that. She was a Pascal, dammit. And Pascals were fighters. He, Colonel Crazy Horse, fought in this war. And she fought against it. They had become something akin to enemies at the end. But dammit, they were both still fighters.

  The words slipped out of his mouth.

  "She was a prisoner of war once." He looked at Bucky, but he was staring ten thousand miles away. "The bastard slits tortured her. Took her hand. And a year later, she just came back to fight again. I thought she was so strong. So brave."

  "She was!" Bucky said, taking a step closer. "She was the bravest, strongest woman I know. Maybe she didn't die on Bahay, sir. But she died in battle. I know that in my heart. She died a soldier, fighting for what she believed in."

  Fighting against me, Pascal thought. Oh, my sweet Lizzy, why did you choose this new war, a war you could not win?

  Pascal looked at his private again. This young woman with the buckteeth, thick glasses, and frizzy hair. And suddenly anger filled him. Rage. Why should Bucky live and Lizzy be dead? Why should so many lesser soldiers survive while his daughter, his precious angel, was gone?

  He remembered the day Lizzy had been born. Remembered countless hours spent playing with the baby. Loving her every day. Watching that girl grow up into a woman, and… and then it hit him.

  That she was gone.

  That Lizzy was dead.

  His only child.

  Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal had led armies into battle. He had killed countless enemy soldiers. Had stormed into the fire with a grin. And now tears flowed, and a sob racked his body.

  Bucky embraced him. "Sir, I'm so sorry for your loss."

  He held her tightly. "My daughter trained you."

  Bucky nodded and sniffed. "She did."

  "Then you are my child too," Pascal said. "You and Jon and George. And all the other soldiers my daughter trained. Everyone in this brigade. You are all my children."

  After the private left, and Pascal was alone in his trailer, he pulled a photograph from his wallet. It was twenty years old, showing him as a younger, thinner man, his hair still dark blond instead of white. He was holding his daughter in his arms. She was laughing, eyes glinting, reaching for a butterfly.

  Damn this war, Pascal thought. Damn this whole war to hell.

  Maybe Lizzy had died on Earth. But this war had killed her nonetheless.

  "This is my punishment," Pascal whispered to himself. "I promoted Clay Hagen to lieutenant. I sent my brigade to the villages. I caused the massacre of hundreds of innocent children. So my child was taken."

  He lowered his head and wept.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On Linden Bridge

  Thousands of people came to Sergeant Lizzy Pascal's funeral.

  They could not all fit into the cemetery. They filled the streets of Lindenville, weeping, watching her hearse drive by.

  Billions watched across Earth and her colonies.

  Kaelyn stood at the graveside, dressed in black. The breeze billowed her hair and dried her tears, but more tears kept flowing. She had buried Paul here, the man she loved. Now she was burying her best friend.

  Paul died on Bahay, she thought. Lizzy died on Earth, but she died in battle. She died in this war. She died fighting for Earth.

  Drones hovered above, filming the funeral, broadcasting it across the Human Commonwealth. Other drones hovered outside the cemetery, filming the crowds. People had come from across the world. Some chanted to end the war. Others shouted that Lizzy Pascal had been a traitor.

  Walking toward the cemetery that morning, Kaelyn had seen their signs across Lindenville. She had heard their voices.

  "Ding dong, the witch is dead!"

  "Burn in hell, Lizzy the Louse!"

  "Lizzy Loved Slits—good riddance!"

  "Support our troops! Bury all traitors!"

  Alongside them, other voices.

  "War no more!"

  "Bring our soldiers home!"

  "Lock Hale up! Lock Hale up!"

  Kaelyn had ignored them all. She had walked down the streets of Lindenville, her beloved hometown, as protesters shouted, jeered, tossed refuse at her. The police had walked around her, riots shields raised. The same police that had gunned down protesters on these very streets, the police that had tossed her into jail—they were now protecting her.

  Finally Kaelyn had come to the grave of her friend. And since then the tears would not stop flowing.

  As the drones hovered around her, broadcasting her to billions, Kaelyn began to sing.

  She sang a song Jon had written a year ago. She sang "Broken Things," a song off Falling Like the Rain, the rock opera Jon had been writing for Symphonica. A rock opera never completed. The entire album was bittersweet, but "Broken Things" was his saddest song.

  It was a song of lights going dark. Of leaves falling off autumn trees. Of raindrops on a cold morning of despair. Of boys and girls falling in war.

  Jon had written this song before Paul had died. Before he had become a soldier. But Jon had known, even then. He had understood the pain of loss.

  For years, we dreamed of fame for Symphonica, Kaelyn thought as she sang. But not like this. Now the world hears our song.

  Bedtime stories told

  Songs sung in the cold

  Of knights and heroes bold

  And quests through forests

  To steal a dragon's gold

  They shatter like waves on the shore

  And music boxes that play no more

  Like marionettes with cut strings

  Like childhood dreams

  And many other broken things

  When boys and girls come home

  Hearses row by row

  Along the last road

  A tale th
ey were never told

  Falling like the rain

  We're falling like the rain

  * * * * *

  Kaelyn walked across Central Park, leading a hundred thousand souls.

  The drones broadcast her face across the world. Billions saw it. Her red hair billowing in the wind. Her mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown, glaring in defiance. Her freckled face, once so innocent, as delicate as porcelain and as hard as marble. Kaelyn Williams, only seventeen years old. The face of the anti-war movement sweeping across Earth. She had not begun this movement. But she gave it a voice.

  Behind her, the crowd raised placards and posters. Some showed photographs from Santa Rosa—heartbreaking scenes of the massacre. Other signs displayed slogans—hopeful, angry, wistful. Other placards featured a painting of Lizzy Pascal, chin raised, her blond braid flowing in the wind.

  Kaelyn was perhaps the movement's new figurehead. But Lizzy had become its martyr.

  "Justice for Lizzy Pascal!" somebody cried out.

  A chant swept across the crowd. "Justice for Lizzy! Justice for Lizzy!"

  Kaelyn kept walking, leading the procession among the trees and flowerbeds.

  They found you dead in a river, Kaelyn thought. They said you committed suicide, jumped off a bridge. I don't believe that for a second.

  Nor did anyone else in the crowd.

  We will get justice for you, Lizzy, Kaelyn vowed. But right now, you are underground, a victim of our fight. And another brave woman is alive and needs my help.

  She came to stand before the Ivory Tower, the grand skyscraper of President Hale.

  A thousand policemen surrounded it, carrying riot shields and rifles. Helicopters flew above. A few tanks rumbled toward the protesters.

  Kaelyn knew they might open fire. She had seen them gun down the people of Lindenville. But she came to face them nonetheless.

  A young girl, slender and pale, Kaelyn stood before this mighty monolith, the center of this great galactic power.