"Please," David whispered.
Maria stepped forward. "You don't need to hurt him! He'll talk. I'll interrogate him."
Ernesto shoved her back, barely acknowledging her. He plugged his clothing iron into a generator. It buzzed and began to heat up.
"Do you know what they call me, pute?" he said. "They call me Ernesto Iron Cortes. Not only because I'm hard like iron. But also because of my favorite tool."
"No!" Maria cried.
Several guerrillas dragged her out of the chamber. She screamed and kicked, but they pulled her through the tunnels.
She could no longer see David. But she could hear him scream. She could smell his sizzling flesh. She could hear him call her name.
The guerrillas pulled her aboveground, and Maria collapsed onto the grass, trembling, weeping. Her cross dangled on its chain, accusing.
"What have I done?" she whispered.
Chapter Nineteen
Ambush
"We have a problem," Jon whispered.
George sat beside him in the mess hall, stuffing his face with gruel. "Not now. Eating."
Jon didn't know how his friend could enjoy the slop. The military changed it up sometimes. At breakfast, it was oatmeal slop. At lunch, it was bean slop. At dinner, meat slop. Last Friday it was fish stew—code word for slop with bits of tuna in it. It was always awful. But George always polished his plate. And he often ate other recruits' leftovers too.
"George!" Jon rolled his eyes. "This is serious."
"What?" George scooped more of the glop into his mouth.
Jon leaned toward his giant friend and whispered, "Etty is sixteen."
George glanced at him. "No shit!" He returned to his food.
"George." Jon pulled him closer. "Clay knows. And we think he's gonna tell."
That finally made George lose his appetite. The giant pushed his tray away. "Damn."
Jon had spent all that day worrying. Since early that morning, the platoon had been training. Climbing walls and ropes. Racing through obstacle courses. Watching propaganda reels. Running, climbing, swimming, hurting. Throughout the day, Jon kept glancing toward Clay. Would the beefy recruit tell on Etty?
Every once in a while, Clay looked at them. And hatred burned in his pale, wide-set eyes.
"Clay has known since last night," Jon said. "Etty told me in the brig. We didn't know Clay was in the cell next door. He heard us. If he tells the sergeant, Etty is toast. She'll be kicked out of the army. Maybe even tossed into prison for lying."
He spent a while describing Etty's tale. How she had grown up in a war zone. How a suicide bombing had killed her family. How she had nowhere else to go.
George listened carefully. "Maybe we'll be okay. Clay hasn't told Lizzy yet, right?"
"He hasn't had a chance," Jon said. "The sergeant's been drilling us all day. But tonight…"
Every night before bed, Sergeant Lizzy gave her platoon an hour off. They called it PH. Personal Hour. Most soldiers used PH to shower, change, refill their canteens, bond with one another, or sometimes—even the toughest recruits—find a quiet place to cry.
During PH, Lizzy sat in her trailer, accepting visits from recruits like a queen granting an audience to peasants. During this hour, you could approach Lizzy with personal problems. Maybe you needed fresh socks, sanitary pads, or a certain medication. Maybe you had a sick relative at home, and you wanted permission to call them. Maybe you felt suicidal. Whatever help you needed, Lizzy would listen, and her whip remained hanging on the wall.
It was a standard feature of basic training. All sergeants gave their platoons personal guidance during this hour, a chance to talk one on one. After all, a sergeant wasn't just a slave driver, despite how it seemed. A sergeant had to keep her platoon running smoothly, and personal attention was part of that.
Some sergeants helped many recruits during this hour. Some sergeants considered it the best part of their job.
But not Lizzy.
Few recruits dared approach Lizzy Pascal's trailer at night. With her steel claw and fiery temper, she was just too damn terrifying. Nobody could forget the snap of Clay's arm, the sting of her whip, or the agony of her rubber bullets. The sergeant probably spent PH bored in her trailer, torturing little animals to pass the time.
But during PH tonight, Jon feared, Clay Hagen would approach the sergeant's trailer.
And he would rat on Etty.
"Fuck me," George said. "What do we do? We gotta protect Etty. I mean, I know the army is shit and all. But hell, it beats homelessness." He thought for a moment. "Okay, maybe not boot camp. And maybe not war. But… ah well, I don't care what's worse! I ain't letting Etty get in trouble."
Jon nodded. "I was going to spend PH tonight having a long shower. I haven't showered in three days. I smell like a wet dog who just swam through the sewer. Instead, I'm going to make sure nobody tells Lizzy our fireteam's little secret."
"Good evening, gentlemen!" Etty plopped down beside them, holding a tray of slop. "Sorry I'm late. Long line at the ladies' latrine. What are you boys up to?"
They said nothing. Perhaps the plan was best kept between them.
Training continued. They marched around the base. They practiced Krav Maga, fighting robots who flailed from side to side, swinging padded fists. They crawled through tunnels, dodging stinging drones the size of bees.
Finally the lights across the station dimmed.
Personal Hour began.
* * * * *
Jon and George huddled in the shadows, waiting.
Sergeant Lizzy's trailer was a hundred yards away. An alleyway between armories and warehouses led toward it. If Clay was going to rat on Etty, he had to take this path.
And we'll be ready, Jon thought.
It was night in Roma Station. There was no true night or day on the space station, of course. But the lights dimmed and shone and dimmed again, enforcing a circadian cycle. Half the time, Roma Station was in darkness.
Of course, the recruits only got three hours of sleep a night. Four if they were lucky. Jon supposed dimming the lights for a full twelve hours was less about mimicking Earth, more about saving energy.
The station was spinning lazily. Joe knelt behind a concrete barricade, gazing at the distant wall. It sloped upward, then curved along the ceiling. Dim lights from barrack windows shone far above. It almost looked like the stars. Jon knew that they were orbiting Earth, that home was just a short flight away. But he had not seen the blue planet, nor the stars, nor the moon, since entering this base.
He wondered if he would ever see Earth again. Would the next planet he saw be Bahay? And would that be the last place he saw?
In the shadows, he found himself thinking of Kaelyn. Remembering her kiss. Her beautiful mismatched eyes. Her brave soul.
He thought about his parents. His dad jamming with him in the basement, playing bass while Jon played keyboards. His mom so proud, telling her friends that her son was a composer, was in a real band, would someday be a rock star.
And suddenly tears were flowing down Jon's cheeks. During the days, he would never cry. He would never let his platoon see. Here in the darkness, they flowed.
He heard a choked sound beside him. George was crying too.
"You all right, buddy?" Jon said.
George nodded. "Yeah. I just miss home. And I hate always being so scared."
Both boys were cut, bruised, and exhausted, but the pain inside was worse. The homesickness. The fear of the war ahead. Jon suddenly missed the obstacle courses, even missed Lizzy's whip. It was impossible to think during the craziness of training. Impossible to miss home. There was only pain, and that was easier.
In many ways, Personal Hour, the time when the demons and memories rose, was the worst time of basic.
Footsteps sounded in the shadows.
Jon stiffened.
George and him knelt, very still, and peered around the concrete barrier.
"Here he comes," Jon whispered. "We were right. That bastard.
"
The burly figure came walking through the shadows. A passing drone flew overhead, briefly illuminating stubbly yellow hair, a wide face, and wide-set blue eyes.
"Now!" Jon said.
He and George leaped from cover, lunged at Clay, and grabbed him.
Clay tried to scream, but George slapped a heavy fist across his mouth. Jon grabbed Clay's left arm, pinned it back. George struggled to control the right arm.
The thug fought like a madman, and goddamn, Clay was strong. Not unusually tall, not like George, but all bulging muscle. Jon wished they had brought backup. Even little Etty would have been helpful now.
Thankfully, George was the size of two men. With great effort, they dragged Clay behind the concrete barrier, where they knocked him to the ground. George literally sat on him, pinning him down.
Clay knew he was beat. He glared at them, eyes bulging. His face, normally so pasty, was turning red. He could barely breathe with George's hand pressed against his face.
"Why, fancy meeting you here, Clay," Jon said. "I suppose I should tell my giant to let you breathe. But you must promise to be quiet. Can you promise that, Clay? Because if you make noise, George will get angry. And you don't want to make the Giant Ginger angry."
Clay just lay there, crushed under the giant. Glaring.
Jon nodded at George, who pulled back his hand.
Clay took a deep breath, and he didn't scream.
"I'm going to flay you," Clay said, speaking calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Do you know what flaying is, Taylor? It's removing the skin. Peeling it. I've done it to animals before. While they were alive. That's what I'll do to you."
George growled. "You won't dare, because I'll kill you first!"
He pressed his knee against Clay's chest. Clay gasped for air.
"Listen to me, Clay," Jon said. "And listen good. We saw you heading toward Lizzy's trailer. Maybe you were planning to rat on Etty. To get her discharged. Well, you could do that. But I want you to know the consequences."
"We have footage of you," George said.
Clay coughed, struggling, unable to shove the giant off. "You ain't got nothing on me."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Oh, but we do. Remember when Sergeant Lizzy challenged you to a fight? And she kicked your ass? I remember how ashamed you were. Hell, when Etty mentioned it this morning, you flew off the handle. How would you like everyone in America to know a girl beat you?"
"My uncle is a journalist," George said. "He writes for the Sol Chronicles. One call from me, and he'll print the story. Earth might like to know that sergeants are breaking recruits' arms. That a girl broke your arm."
"You can't prove a damn thing!" Clay said.
"Sure we can!" George said. "There are security cameras everywhere in Roma Station. They were filming you when Lizzy kicked your ass. It ain't classified. My uncle can pull strings, get the footage, no worries. The army has to comply with journalists. The public's right to know. It's the law."
"Hey, George," Jon said, "you reckon it'll end up on the front page? With a picture of Clay crying at a girl's feet?"
"I reckon it will," George said. "Sergeants ain't meant to break bones. It'll be a scandal."
Jon gasped. "Hear that, Clay? You're going to be famous!"
"The video will definitely end up online," George said.
"Millions of views!" Jon said.
"We can add the Benny Hill song," George suggested.
Clay fumed. His face was red again, and this time not from lack of air.
"All right, I got it." He spat, nearly hitting Jon. "Call your giant off. I wasn't going to rat on the Jew."
"Her name is Etty." George drove his knee deeper into Clay's stomach.
Clay groaned in pain. "Whatever the hell she's called! I ain't a rat. Get off."
George looked at Jon, who nodded.
Grimacing, Clay rose to his feet and rubbed his torso. "Goddamn, you nearly cracked my bones, you fatass hippo."
"Remember what happened here tonight," Jon said. "If we ever learn you told on Etty, we'll—"
"I was going to the sergeant to talk about my mother," Clay said. "She's in the hospital. She has cancer."
"Yeah right," George said. "We're not buying your sob story."
"It's not a sob story." Clay's voice was suddenly solemn, and he lowered his head. "She's dying. I'm going to ask Sergeant Lizzy if I can head down to Earth. Just for a weekend. To be with her. My dad's in prison, and I don't want my mom to die alone."
Head low, Clay kept walking toward Sergeant Lizzy's trailer.
Jon and George remained behind in the shadows.
"Well, I suddenly feel like shit," Jon said.
"He's lying," said George. "The bastard is a damn liar. Don't believe him for a second."
Jon wondered. Had they truly saved Etty? Or had they started a vendetta they could not stop?
As he returned to his barracks, he wondered if Clay was truly a lost, hurting boy, dealing with tragedy at home. And how swift and horrible his revenge would be.
Chapter Twenty
Pin-Ups
Maria lay in bed, jaw clenched, tears falling.
I slit a man's throat.
She rolled over, tightened the blanket around her.
I shot a man.
She pulled a pillow over her head.
I marched a prisoner through the jungle.
She wept in the darkness.
I smelled hot iron on human flesh.
She curled up.
I found my parents dead.
In the darkness, the visions came. Bloodied faces, dead faces, all dancing around her. Finally Maria could not stand it. She rose from bed.
She shared a bamboo hut with several Kalayaan women, all fighters. The others were asleep, sprawled across straw mattresses. Some had gray hair, others were barely teens. Nobody spoke of their past. Maria wondered how many had once been farmers like her. How many had lost their families. Whoever they had been—those old lives were gone. They were Kalayaan now, and they slept with rifles in their arms.
Maria crept outside the bamboo hut. Darkness cloaked the Kalayaan village, and the palm trees rustled in the night. The chirps of insects rose in a jungle symphony.
A stern guard met Maria outside the hut. The woman wore a homespun tunic, sandals, and a straw hat—peasant clothes—but she carried a large rifle, and her eyes were stones.
"Where are you going?" the guard asked.
"Rosa, I have to pee," Maria said.
The guard glared at her. "Not now. It's night. The putes are out."
"Tell that to my bladder!" Maria said.
Rosa scrutinized her, eyes hard, then nodded. "Fine. Go pee. Be quick."
Maria leaned closer, cheeks heating. "Rosa, I might have to poo poo too, so it might take a while."
"Fine, fine! Just go! Don't tell me your life story."
Maria hurried off, leaving the guards and huts behind. Her feet bent the wet grass. She almost stepped on a trapdoor and plunged onto poisoned spikes. At the last moment, she remembered to turn left at the mossy stone.
The village had a generator and a few electric lamps, but the power was off tonight, and Bahay's two moons were thin crescents. She could barely see a thing. She pulled Crisanto from her pocket. The little Santelmo glowed, illuminating her path. If not for him, she would surely have fallen into the next booby trap.
Nice of Rosa to warn me to be quick but not careful, Maria thought. What a shrew!
She reached the spot by the papaya trees. She paused, looked around. She saw only one guard patrolling the village perimeter, another standing in the rice paddies. They were facing the wilderness, watching for Earthlings, not sneaky little girls with heads full of questions.
Maria reached down, rolled back the grass, and exposed a hole. The entrance to the tunnels.
She crawled through the narrow tunnels, holding Crisanto. The alien shone, lighting the underground. Even with illumination, Maria could not remember the way. She mad
e a wrong turn once, finding herself in a cistern. She climbed another tunnel, took another wrong turn, and almost activated a booby trap. She had noticed the wire just in time.
She felt trapped here underground. The walls were closing in. She could feel the weight of the world above her, and for a moment, Maria panted, struggling to calm herself. Her heart galloped. Noticing her distress, Crisanto nuzzled her cheek. She took a few deep breaths, calming down.
Slowly, she found her bearings. She passed by familiar chambers: storerooms, armories, the infirmary. In one chamber, several Kalayaan slept in hammocks, and Maria closed her hand around Crisanto, hiding his light. She crawled by quietly, not even daring to breathe.
Finally she made it there.
The interrogation room.
A guard was stationed at the door—a wiry man named Oscar, a boxer in his former life. The tunnel was a bit taller here, allowing him to stand. He grunted at Maria and gripped his rifle more tightly.
"What are you doing here, girl?"
Maria stood before him, panting. "Oscar, Oscar! It's urgent! You must go now!"
He frowned. "What? Do the Earthlings attack?"
She shook her head. "Worse! Your wife is running around, all upset! She found the dirty banyaga magazines you hide. The ones that show pute women with blond hair and no clothes."
Oscar inhaled sharply. "What? I don't have any—"
"She's telling everyone, and she says she's going to leave you, Oscar, because you are a dirty man who likes looking at naked dibdibs, and—"
Oscar groaned. "Dammit! Maria, here." He shoved the rifle into her hands. "Guard the prisoner. I must go to my wife."
He ran off.
Maria took a deep breath, then approached the door. It was just a crude slat of metal, perhaps salvaged from a downed plane, bolted into the tunnel. Ragged breathing sounded behind it.
A lock dangled from a chain.
"Crisanto?" Maria said, pulling him from his pocket.
The glowing orb rose, swirled around her, and whipped back and forth, agitated.
"Crisanto…" Maria rolled her eyes and jangled the lock. "I know you can do it. Stop complaining."
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 15