The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hell to Hell

  The recruits ran the plastic jungle again.

  This time with live ammo.

  On their final day of basic training, they fought plastic soldiers with bullets of lead.

  This was a different plastic jungle. Not the one where Clay had shot Jon with rubber bullets. That had been easy. This plastic jungle filled a quarter of Roma Station—a vast labyrinth of darkness, coiling trees, and hidden enemies.

  Jon ran among the trees, shouting. George and Etty ran at his sides.

  The enemy was everywhere. Robotic Bahayans filled the trees, firing electric bolts designed to hurt like real bullets. One hit Jon's arm, and he screamed, but he ran on.

  The enemy was everywhere.

  A soldier fell, an electric bolt buzzing across her chest.

  A pit opened up. Another soldier fell in, landed on electric shockers, and screamed.

  The survivors ran onward.

  The enemy fire, while painful, could not kill them. But the recruits' own guns could. Jon knelt behind a fallen log, aimed his Oakeshott, and fired live bullets at a tree. A Bahayan robot fell, plastic face twisted in anguish.

  "Go!" Jon shouted to his fireteam. "I'll cover you! Cross the river!"

  His friends ran through water and mud. Fire blazed above.

  Electric bolts streaked from the trees.

  Several pounded into George, and he screamed and fell.

  "George!" Jon shouted.

  He emptied a magazine into the trees. Branches snapped and enemies fell into the water.

  Jon slogged through the mud, fell, rose and ran again. Etty was trying to pull George out from the water. The enemy bolts clung to the giant like little spiders, shocking him again and again, mimicking the agony of real wounds.

  "Go on without me," George moaned.

  Jon shook his head. "Not a chance, buddy."

  Somehow, Jon and Etty managed to pull him up. The bastard weighed three hundred pounds, but they pulled him from the water. They ran, holding George between them, limping through the forest, firing on snipers in the trees.

  The plastic jungle seemed to spread forever. Jon knew it was fake. Just a set. An obstacle course. But it felt so real. And he realized this was the place from his dreams, that dark forest without ground or sky, that endless labyrinth he became lost in every night. He was living his nightmare.

  And it was Bahay.

  And it was the place where Paul had died.

  It was the place where Jon was going.

  It was the place that haunted him. The place he had to face—and overcome.

  So he ran onward, carrying his friend, and he kept going even as another bolt hit his shoulder, and then one hit his leg. He ran through the pain, pulling his friends with him.

  He would not die here.

  He had made a promise.

  He had to come home and see Kaelyn again.

  He had to escape the nightmare.

  Buzzing with half a dozen bolts, panting, barely able to move at all, Jon made his way to the other side.

  Etty walked with him, drenched in sweat. The little spider-like bolts clung to her arm, buzzing, shocking her again and again. George limped between them, breathing raggedly, covered with the crackling little machines.

  The three of them stepped out from the darkness into the light.

  The bolts fell off.

  The recruits collapsed onto concrete that felt as soft as a princess's mattress.

  Sergeant Lizzy was waiting there, smiling.

  "Good job, soldiers," she said.

  Jon gave her a weak smile and thumbs up, then closed his eyes. He fell asleep, right there and then. And for the first time in many days, he did not dream.

  * * * * *

  After ten weeks in hell, the day was here.

  It was over.

  It was done.

  The last day of boot camp.

  Jon was both relieved and terrified. One hell was ending. Would another begin?

  The plastic jungle had broken them—their bodies and souls. But they had passed through the gauntlet. And that night, they celebrated.

  Normally, the recruits slept in concrete rooms, a squad of fifteen soldiers in each cell. Tonight, the entire platoon spilled into the hallway, wearing pajamas or just underwear. They caroused, and soon more platoons emerged from their bunks, joining the fun.

  Somebody had lugged candies all the way from Earth, hiding them throughout ten weeks of boot camp. Etty, meanwhile, had pilfered several bags of potato chips from the mess kitchen—snacks normally reserved for the higher ranks. George had even smuggled a harmonica from Earth, and he played, and soon everyone was singing old songs, even Jon.

  "Hey, boys!" Etty said through a mouthful of potato chips. "Do a Symphonica song!"

  Jon's cheeks flushed. "No thanks."

  "What's Symphonica?" somebody asked.

  "It's a heavy metal band!" Etty said. "Jon and George are in it."

  "Symphonic metal," Jon said. "It's a genre that combines metal with classical music, and I don't really have the right instruments here, so—"

  But a chant rose in the crowd. "Symphonica, Symphonica!"

  Jon's cheeks burned even hotter. He was probably red like a tomato. He had never played before an audience. But the chanting grew louder, and Etty was leading it.

  "Fine, fine!" Jon tossed his hands into the air in resignation.

  "Falling Like the Rain?" George said. "I'll drum."

  He began to tap a beat, using two spoons and a bowl.

  Kaelyn, their lead singer, was back on Earth. So Jon sang instead.

  He wasn't a particularly good singer. He hated singing in public. Absolutely hated it, and his knees shook, but after the first verse, a calmness fell upon him. He sang softly, and he was back in his basement at home. He was with Paul, his brother and guitarist. With Kaelyn, his soprano and muse.

  He sang the music that he wrote. His poem about a dead soldier looking back upon his life. Jon had written the song about a fictional soldier, but he realized that the song had changed. It was now about Paul.

  As he sang, silence fell across the company. Everyone was listening, silent. Etty had tears on her cheeks.

  Jon reached the last verse, stopped, and cleared his throat. "Um… there should be a horn section here."

  "Thank God you don't have horns," George said.

  The spell was broken. Everyone laughed. Etty wiped her eyes and hugged him.

  "It's beautiful." She kissed his cheek. "You're brilliant, maestro."

  George grinned. "Hey, that should be his nickname from now on. Maestro."

  "Please don't call me that," Jon said.

  Etty hopped around him, laughing. "Maestro is getting angry!"

  A few soldiers began singing, arms slung around one another. They performed a rowdy version of "Falling Like the Rain," complete with dirty lyrics they invented on the spot. Other soldiers were wrestling, some eating, a few sharing photos of girlfriends back home. They were all exhausted. They all had to wake up again in a few hours. Nobody cared. They were partying tonight.

  Tomorrow we'll be shipped out, Jon thought. Earth or her colonies for the lucky, Bahay for the doomed. So let's party one last night. Let's laugh with friends.

  He reached for a bag of potato chips when the barracks doors banged open.

  Sergeant Lizzy stomped into the corridor.

  She growled, eyes burning, and cracked her electric whip.

  At once, everyone stood at attention. Bags of potato chips rolled across the floor.

  The sergeant glowered. "What the fuck is going on here?"

  Jon gulped. "Commander, it's just—"

  "Is this a party?" Sergeant Lizzy shouted.

  "Yes, Commander, but—"

  Lizzy sliced the air with her whip, silencing him. "Tell me, soldiers. What kind of party doesn't have beer?" She whistled. "Drones!"

  They flew in from behind her.

  A fleet of d
rones, each carrying a case of beer.

  Cheers filled the corridor, so loud they shook the barracks.

  "Yeah, boys!" Etty said. "I knew it! I fucking knew it! Lizzy is a party animal!"

  Amazingly, Lizzy actually smiled. Then laughed. Recruits gathered around her. For ten weeks, Lizzy had tortured them, broken their bodies and souls. Now they were toasting her, slapping her on the back, and a few soldiers even lifted her overhead, cheering.

  She's human after all. Jon gazed at his sergeant in wonder. She's an actual human being, not a demon from hell.

  But even as Lizzy laughed, even as the soldiers carried her across the corridor, he thought he saw sadness in her eyes. He wondered how she had lost her hand. How she had gathered those ghosts that haunted her eyes.

  A drone flew toward Jon. A robotic voice emerged. "Brewski, soldier?"

  Jon pushed aside thoughts of the war, of Lizzy's eyes, of the loss and pain.

  "Don't mind if I do."

  He took a beer and drank.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, they gathered in a courtyard in the center of Roma Station. Earth's banners flew. The planetary anthem played. Thousands of recruits stood in companies, platoons, squads, and finally fireteams.

  This morning, after ten weeks of hell, they were graduating basic training.

  Not everyone was here today. Not everyone had survived boot camp. Jon had no actual data. But he heard the whispers. He saw the dwindling numbers.

  Many recruits had flunked the grueling gauntlet. Obstacle courses, robotic enemies, barbed wire, walls that spurted fire—they had culled the weak. Those failed soldiers flew down to Earth in shame. Back on the homeworld, they would serve in noncombat roles.

  A few recruits had died in Roma Station. Friendly fire had killed some in the plastic jungle. Other recruits, they whispered, had committed suicide.

  Yes, the culling had been ruthless. Only half the recruits were graduating today.

  Today, the survivors became warriors.

  Jon was proud to stand among them. He stood tall, chin raised, singing his planet's anthem.

  He didn't have to be here. He could have given up. Could have purposefully failed the obstacle course, taken the flight of shame down to Earth, and spent the war in an office. He could have bitten a bullet.

  But he had worked hard. He had bled for this. Cried for this. Fought for this.

  He was graduating.

  No, this wasn't a fancy military academy. Not even Officer Candidate School. Not training for some elite unit. It was good old-fashioned boot camp. As basic as could be. A rite of passage for millions of boys and girls throughout the ages. He was not unique.

  But today, Jon felt prouder than he'd ever felt.

  During the training, the recruits had not seen much of Lieutenant Carter. Sometimes the officer would observe the exercises. Sometimes even speak a word or two. Mostly, the recruits had suffered under Lizzy's heel. She had tortured them like an angel of wrath, while Carter had watched from on high, a god on Mount Olympus.

  But today, Lieutenant Carter faced his platoon, and more officers stood across the square, facing their own units.

  When the anthem ended, Sergeant Lizzy approached the lieutenant, snapped her heels together, and saluted.

  "Sir!" she said. "May I present to you—the graduating soldiers of Lizzy's Lions!"

  They stepped up one by one. Recruit after recruit. Boys and girls turning into men and women.

  Jon approached his lieutenant and saluted.

  "Sir!"

  Lieutenant Carter turned toward him. There was old pain in his eyes. But also the hint of a smile on his lips.

  "Hello, Taylor," the officer said.

  They exchanged a look. Just for a second or two. But it spoke of years of pain, of war, of loss. Of understanding.

  Lieutenant Carter pinned insignia onto Jon's sleeves. One chevron on each.

  "Congratulations, Private Jon Taylor," the officer said. "You are now an official soldier of the Human Defense Force. I'm proud of you."

  Canned words, perhaps. The lieutenant probably said the same thing to every graduating recruit. But there was deeper honestly in Carter's eyes.

  Jon hesitated, knowing he should return to his platoon, to let another soldier approach and receive their insignia.

  He looked back at his platoon. They were standing in formation, stiff and still, but George gave him the slightest of nods, and Etty winked. If Sergeant Lizzy noticed the breach of protocol, she ignored it.

  Jon turned back toward his officer. He took a deep breath.

  "Sir, you commanded my brother," Jon said. "And you were his friend. You were with him when he died. I don't know if I can fill his shoes, sir. He was always taller, stronger, faster, braver. But sir, whatever I have, for whatever it's worth, I will give."

  Carter placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good soldier, Jon Taylor. You have a lot to give. To me and to your friends. I'm proud to be your officer. And I know that Paul is watching us now, and that he's proud of you too."

  Jon couldn't stop his eyes from dampening. He saluted. "Thank you, sir."

  Carter returned the salute.

  I will follow you, Jon thought. Together, we will make Paul proud.

  He returned to his platoon. He stood with his fireteam. George and Etty smiled at him, both already wearing their new insignia. He was among friends. More than friends. He had lost Paul, but he had a platoon of brothers and sisters.

  He had come here a scared boy. Today he was a soldier.

  The platoon marched toward the end of Roma Station—the far side of this massive cylinder in space. Over ten backbreaking, soul-crushing weeks, they had passed through the gauntlet.

  The hell of boot camp was over.

  The hell of war was about to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Children of Poison

  The world was aflame.

  Maria stood on a mountaintop, the wind in her hair, gazing upon the devastation of Bahay.

  Red smoke covered the north like a blanket. Distant fires blazed. The Red Cardinal still fought there, leading the Luminous Army, the great military of North Bahay.

  And so Earth punished that hemisphere. Relentlessly. With endless wrath and horrible firepower.

  Standing here, Maria could hear it. Bomb after bomb. She could see the distant planes. See the missiles like comets slicing the sky, hurled from the starships above like lightning bolts from the hands of vengeful gods. She could smell the death. She shed a tear for the millions dying in that inferno.

  She turned toward the south.

  The Earthlings had conquered the south with ease. Twenty years ago, their starships had arrived. Within a single year, their troops had captured the southern hemisphere. Bahay had been unprepared. Shocked. Awed. Half the planet had fallen so quickly.

  The rainforest still covered much of the south. The Earthlings were less likely to burn lands they controlled. But even here, south of the equator, there was so much suffering. The Kalayaan fought in jungles, ports, and villages—a great peasant uprising that terrified even the mighty Earthlings. The Earthling machines rumbled across the sky, tore through the jungle, and polluted the water.

  Farmers and fishermen fought great machines from space. Farmers and fishermen died by the millions. Maria's generation had been born into this war. And now they were taking up the fight. Millions had died. Millions of new warriors picked up arms.

  Two hemispheres. One a hell of war and genocide. Another crushed under conquest, rising in rebellion. Two faces to the great Freedom War. Two nightmares. One world.

  A world where Maria was all alone.

  "Where should we go, Crisanto?" She held him on her palm. "To the north, to fight and die in the fire? Or to the south, where the cruel Earthlings rule over us?"

  A tear fell. She wished she could go home. To her village. To her family. She just wanted to go home.

  But home is gone, she told herself. My family is dead. I must
shed no more tears. Only with strength can I survive now.

  She stared south again. Beyond the horizon it lay.

  Mindao. The great city of the south. Home to two million people, the greatest city on Bahay.

  Maria had never been there. She could not even imagine two thousand people in one place, let alone two million. But everyone had heard of the city. If your harvest failed, and you faced starvation, you traveled south to find work in Mindao. If the Earthlings polluted your river, and all the fish died, you went to Mindao. If you were sick, and no herbs could drive away the illness, you traveled to seek healers in Mindao.

  If you were lost, you went to Mindao.

  And Maria was lost.

  And Maria was hungry.

  Mindao—city of lost souls. Of the wretched and unwanted. A city under the heel of Earth.

  She would go there.

  "We tried to fight the Earthlings, Crisanto," she said. "But I cannot fight anymore. I cannot kill again. I cannot hear more screams or smell more blood. I cannot stand the nightmares. So let us walk into the lion's den. Because we have nowhere else to go."

  * * * * *

  She walked south through the jungle.

  She did not take the Freedom Trail, for the Kalayaan still moved there, streaming fighters and weapons toward the Earthling strongholds.

  She did not walk along the coast, for Earth's machines moved in the water, flew overhead, and spied from above the sky.

  Maria walked in the deep jungle, hidden inside the breathing lungs of the world.

  But after a day, the cover of the rainforest thinned. The trees grew fewer leaves, then none. Ferns wilted. No moss or lichen covered the boulders and fallen logs. The forest was sick, and a foul smell filled Maria's nostrils.

  She walked onward, and the ground became hot and dry. She only had one shoe, and her sole burned. The trees rose naked and thin, reaching toward the sky like skeleton fingers. Bugs scurried underfoot and buzzed over bones. No birds sang.