The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  We're definitely not in Kansas anymore, Jon thought. I miss Earth's sky. I—

  He started.

  "Hey, hey, let go!" Jon kicked wildly. "What the hell is that?"

  A furry little creature clung to his pant leg. It stared at Jon with huge eyes. The eyes were almost comically large for such a small creature. It was no larger than a hamster, but it had human-sized eyes.

  "Aww, it's a tarsier!" Etty said.

  "It's got my pants!" Jon said.

  Etty knelt and fed the animal some crumbs. "Here, buddy."

  The tarsier snatched her phone from her pocket, stuck out its tongue, and climbed a palm tree.

  "Little fucker!" Etty cried and aimed her rifle. Jon had to push the barrel down.

  "Save it for the enemy, Ettinger. Don't waste bullets on the local wildlife. They're harmless! A few little animals never killed any—ow!"

  A giant insect landed on Jon's arm and bit him.

  Etty burst out laughing.

  "Bastard!" Jon shook the bug off—it was the size of a pigeon—and aimed his gun.

  "Hey now, no firing on helpless animals!" Etty pulled his gun down.

  "That wasn't harmless," Jon muttered. "That was a goddamn incubus."

  They kept walking. Many palm trees rustled around them. Many more had been cut down to make room for Fort Miguel. One couldn't take a step without stumbling over a tree trunk. But outside the camp, the jungle was everywhere. It grew beyond the fort's outer fence, looming like green cliffs. It draped across the mountains. It coated a hundred islands that rose from the eastern sea.

  Heat. Engines. Bugs. That was Jon's first morning on Bahay.

  He was about to find a place to sit, close his eyes, and relax when a flash of light caught his eye.

  He looked up. Sergeant Lizzy was walking through the base, her golden braid hanging across her shoulder. Her prosthetic fist was reflecting the sunlight, flashing like a beacon. Her electric whip hung from her hip. Thankfully, it was turned off. Now that boot camp was over, hopefully that whip would see less action.

  A tall, burly man walked beside the sergeant. His wide chest compensated for an ample gut. His hair was thick and white, his face pudgy, but Jon saw the resemblance to Lizzy.

  He's her father, Jon realized. Yes, they have the same face, only his is male, older, and gone to fat.

  Three stars gleamed on the man's shoulder straps. Jon gasped. A colonel! An actual colonel! It was the most senior officer Jon had ever seen.

  Jon snapped his heels together and saluted. A second later, George and Etty followed suit.

  Walking by, Lizzy raised an eyebrow. "Well, well, if it isn't the Three Stooges." She turned toward the colonel. "Dad, meet Larry, Curly, and Moe. I trained these clowns at Roma Station."

  The colonel looked them over, nodded, and returned the salute. "At ease, soldiers. My god, you look like proper misfits." He squinted at Jon. "Goddamn, son, your arms are skinnier than my granddaughter's wrists. Get yourself a sandwich." He turned toward George. "Holy Mother of God, you're a giant. You're going to attract enemy fire from miles around." He finally noticed Etty. "Dear lord, and this one is tarsier-sized. In fact, you look like a tarsier with those buggy green eyes." The colonel sighed. "No wonder they sent you to my brigade. You're perfect cannon fodder."

  Lizzy glowered at the trio. "You better prove Colonel Pascal wrong. You will show him you're warriors!"

  "Yes, Commander!" they said.

  Lizzy nodded. She and her father walked onward.

  After the sergeant and colonel departed, the friends looked at one another, silent for a moment.

  George shuddered. "What did he mean by cannon fodder?"

  Jon sighed. "We've been assigned to Apollo Brigade. That was Colonel Joe 'Crazy Horse' Pascal. He's the brigade's commander. I've heard of him. My brother served here." He watched the heavyset colonel trundle toward the mess hall. "I didn't realize he's Lizzy's dad until now."

  Etty's eyes widened. "Hey, I've heard of Apollo Brigade too! It's on the news back on Earth a lot. They say it's the worst brigade in the army."

  "That's us," Jon said. "If you barely passed boot camp, they send you here. A place for misfits and troublemakers. Apollo Brigade is notorious. It gets sent on the most dangerous missions."

  "Because… we're the best soldiers?" George said hopefully, though he was already looking queasy.

  Jon laughed. "Because we're expendable. As the colonel said—we're cannon fodder." He slapped George on the shoulder. "But hey, it ain't all bad. Lizzy is still our platoon sergeant. And her dad commands the entire brigade! We might get some preferential treatment."

  Etty groaned. "And attract every goddamn Kenny in the jungle who wants to destroy the colonel's favorite platoon."

  "Yes, well, pros and cons," Jon said. "Come on, guys, let's not think about blowing up just yet. Let's find a commissary. I'm so thirsty I could drink tarsier piss."

  They walked a while longer through the hot, dusty base. They found a commissary among eucalyptus trees, and soon all three were drinking cold Cokes, lounging in the shade. The commissary radio was playing a country song, and tarsiers scuttled between the branches.

  "All right, boys, you gotta admit." Etty leaned against the tree and took a long gulp. "Bahay ain't as bad as we thought."

  "It's horrible!" George said. "So much heat and bugs! And the music stinks. Where's all the heavy metal?"

  But the giant was only joking. Jon knew that. He had to admit: perhaps his fears had been overblown. Jon had imagined something like from the old war movies. Like the trenches of the Somme or the slaughterhouse of Corpus. This, well… this wasn't half bad. Some cold drinks, some tunes on the radio… Jon could see himself passing the time here at Fort Miguel, sipping Cokes, shooting the shit with his friends, and hopefully never facing a bomb or bullet.

  "Ya know," Etty said, "our fireteam needs a name."

  "Oh yeah?" George said.

  "Sure!" said Etty. "Our platoon has a name. We're Lizzy's Lions. Our company has a name. Cronus Company. Our battalion has a name. Horus Battalion. Our brigade has a name. Apollo Brigade. And our division—"

  "We get it, Ettinger," George said.

  She placed her hands on her hips. "My point is—what about us three?"

  "Fireteams don't have names, pipsqueak," George said. "They're just three soldiers. Too small."

  Etty poked his belly. "With you, big boy, nothing about us is small. How about… Fireteam JEG?"

  George tilted his head. "Why JEG?"

  "Jon, Etty, and George!" she said. "Duh."

  "That sounds stupid," George said. "The army has enough acronyms."

  Etty thought for a moment. "How about… The Little Rascals?

  "I'm not little!" George said.

  Etty tapped her chin. "The Little Rascals Plus One."

  George groaned. "No. God no." He tilted his head, lost in thought. "How about Fireteam Symphonica? On account of our band."

  Etty snorted. "I ain't part of Symphonica."

  "You are now, pipsqueak," George said. He looked at Jon. "Tell her. About the flute part you wrote for her."

  Jon felt his cheeks flush. He hadn't meant to tell Etty about that. Ever. It was just something he had done one lonely night. "Um, I…"

  "He wrote you a flute section!" George said. "On the song 'Falling Like the Rain.' Great tune. Flute will sound much better than a damn horn section."

  Etty's eyes widened. "I'm honored!" She kissed Jon's cheek. "Fireteam Symphonica!"

  Jon wasn't sure about this. Symphonica was something deeply personal to him. The band he had created with his brother and Kaelyn. Neither of whom were here.

  But maybe he needed that connection to home. To who he had been.

  Kaelyn's words echoed. Come back pure, or come back dead.

  "All right," Jon said. "We're Fireteam Symphonica. Not that it matters anyway, since fireteams don't even have official names."

  But it did matter. And it felt right. And for a moment, t
he three sat in silence, knowing that something profound had just happened, that they had forged a link to home and identity. That they had tied themselves to art in a world of war. They could not articulate it. But they held hands. And they understood.

  * * * * *

  Boots thumped, and a shadow fell.

  "Hey there!" A young captain in a jumpsuit came walking toward the fireteam, interrupting the deep moment. "You fellas are fresh meat from Earth, right? Horus battalion?"

  "That's right!" Etty said. "Best damn battalion in the army." She placed her hands on her hips. "If you need dumb cannon fodder who don't know what's best for 'em, we're your guys! Especially Fireteam Symphonica, being us three."

  Jon saluted. "Sir, yes, sir."

  "Welcome to Bahay, fellas. And hey, no need to salute officers nonstop here, this ain't boot camp." The captain winked. "Unless you see a general with phoenixes on his shoulders, we're pretty casual here. The name's Pete. No need to sir me either. As I said, we're laid back here. How you guys acclimating so far?"

  "All right, sir!" Jon said. "I mean—all right, Captain Pete. It's not as bad as we thought."

  Pete laughed. "Well, it's a quiet day. Just last week, we had the goddamn Kalayaan raining missiles on our base. The week before, half our force rolled into the jungle. A bunch never came back. That's why they shipped you in. You guys are replacing the dead." He barked a laugh. "Ah, you should see your faces! Don't worry. It ain't that bad. You use common sense, obey orders, and you'll fly home to mama in one piece."

  Jon wasn't sure if the captain was joking or not. So he just nodded and said, "Thank you, sir. I mean—Pete."

  Pete gestured at a helicopter on a nearby patch of grass. "That's my bird. We're giving new soldiers tours of the island. Care to go for a scenic flight?"

  "Hell yeah!" Etty said. "It's boring down here."

  "I like boring," George said. "I don't like helicopters."

  Etty snorted. "Jesus, dude, you flew in a starship through a wormhole. You can handle a helicopter."

  "Starships in wormholes aren't flying over enemy territory," George muttered. Yet as the others began following Pete toward the helicopter, the giant joined them.

  It was a Pelican-class transport helicopter, a large machine with two rotors, a fat hull, and a front hatch that lowered like a beak. A dozen or so soldiers were already inside—familiar faces from Roma Station.

  Fireteam Symphonica took seats, balancing their rifles between their knees. Jon tightened the straps on his helmet.

  "I just hope the helicopter can take off with your fat ass in here," Etty said, poking George.

  "I swear I'm going to throw you out!" George said.

  "Ettinger, leave the ginger giant alone," Jon said.

  "Aww, he knows it's cuz I love him." She ruffled George's hair and kissed his cheek.

  George blushed.

  "Well, well, would you look at that. A tarsier kissing a hippopotamus."

  They turned in their seats.

  Jon's heart sank.

  Clay Hagen entered the helicopter and took a seat across from them.

  "Perfect," Etty muttered. "We're three hundred light-years from home, and we still gotta deal with Private Putz here."

  "Jon and I also had to grow up with him," George said. "He's from the same town."

  "My condolences," said Etty.

  Jon remembered those days. Clay tormented them throughout their childhoods. One time he had dragged George by the hair across a street. That had been before the brain tumor, before George had grown to monstrous size. But Jon knew his friend had never gotten over the pain.

  "What's that, dickheads?" Clay rose from his seat and gripped his rifle. "You wanna say something, you say it to my face."

  "Soldiers!" Captain Pete marched across the helicopter. "There a problem here?"

  Clay snorted. "We got a bug infestation."

  "Sit your ass down, Private," Pete said. "You're itching for a fight, I get it. You been stuck in boot camp, then a starship, then here on base, and you gotta blow off steam. Well, save it for the enemy. You'll get your chance soon enough. Now sit down cuz we're about to take off for the royal tour. I'm flying." The captain glanced at George. "That is, if we can take off with you on board, big boy."

  "It'll take a miracle!" Etty said, chipper.

  But the helicopter managed to rise, carrying the squad of soldiers. After so long in space stations, shuttles, and starships, Jon figured he'd be used to flying. But the helicopter was worse. His belly roiled and he clung to his seat.

  It didn't help that the helicopter's side doors were open, exposing them to the sky. And the ground. And that there were no parachutes.

  The helicopter rose higher, and mustering his courage, Jon leaned toward the open hatch. He could see the entire base from here. Thousands of soldiers. Hundreds of tanks and armacars. Artillery cannons. Row after row of tents. Squat concrete armories. It was a little world carved from the jungle.

  The helicopter flew along the coast, leaving Fort Miguel behind. To one side spread the sparkling sea. To the other—the rainforest.

  "All you see here is South Bahay!" Captain Pete shouted from the cockpit. "The southern slits are our allies. At least most of the poor fuckers. These here jungles? They're full of Kalayaan Kennys. Those are the bad slits. Those are the slits you kill. Those are the slits who turned down our generous offer of liberation, and who chose to rise up against Mother Earth. For that sin, we will smite them down with the fury of gods."

  Several miles up the coast, they came across a village.

  A Bahayan village. The first one Jon had ever seen.

  Hell, he had never even seen a Bahayan person before. Just the robotic ones in the plastic jungle, the little goblins with the Fu Manchu mustaches and buckteeth. He looked with interest at the village below.

  It was a small village, only twenty or thirty bamboo huts. Several reed fishing boats floated on the water. Villagers sat in the grassy commons, rowed the boats, and stood along docks, fishing rods in hands. More moved amid groves of fruit trees and gardens, while some worked in a rice paddy. They wore straw hats and simple tunics.

  "My God," Etty said, voice so soft Jon barely heard over the rumbling helicopter. "It's like something out of ancient history."

  Jon nodded. "Remember your history lessons? The Santelmo aliens brought a group of Filipinos here in the nineteenth century, hoping to save them from the Philippine-American War. Their technology advanced a little. Since arriving here, the Bahayans figured out radio communication, electricity, and combustion engines. They're about where Earth was in the early twentieth century."

  "Why did they advance so slowly compared to Earth?" George asked. "In that time, Earth invented the internet, starships, warp drives, and hot dog flavored Bugles."

  "Still no flying cars, though," Etty muttered.

  "Well, they started with only a few thousand colonists," Jon said. "Considering their humble beginning, they've made remarkable progress in three hundred years. They've colonized a world."

  Clay Hagen rose from his seat. "They're just a bunch of retarded slits." He leaned out the helicopter. "Hey, slitties!"

  Several villagers below were watching the helicopter. One pointed.

  "Yeah, you, slits!" Clay shouted. "You ain't nothing but bugs!"

  Clay aimed his rifle and opened fire.

  A gunshot echoed through the cabin.

  Below, a Bahayan fisherman fell down dead.

  Clay hooted. "Woo! Yeah! Take that, fucker!" He laughed hysterically and fired again. Another Bahayan fell dead. "Two dead slits, yeah! Come on, stop running away, slits! Woo!"

  Clay aimed his rifle again, prepared to kill a third villager.

  Jon grabbed him and pulled him back.

  "Stop that!" Jon shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"

  But Clay just laughed, head tossed back. A deranged, high-pitched laugh.

  "Winning the war, asshole!" He wrestled himself free and aimed at a fishing boat. "O
ne by one, we'll kill the slits!"

  Clay fired again.

  But this time, Jon pulled him back, and the bullet flew wide.

  The villagers below were fleeing. Fishermen were rowing back to the shore.

  "Dammit, Taylor, you slit-lover!" Clay spun toward him, gun hot and smoking. "I should put a bullet in your brain."

  "You should save your bullets for the enemy!" Jon said.

  "I was killing the enemy!" Clay said. "You traitor."

  "You were murdering villagers!" Jon said. "The Bahayan civilians aren't our enemies."

  "They're all fucking slits!" Clay said. He grabbed Jon. "If you love them so much, go down and fight for them."

  He shoved Jon toward the open hatch.

  Jon's heart burst into a gallop. With one hand, he caught the doorframe and clung for dear life. Clay pushed again, trying to shove Jon to his death.

  And then George was there, howling, wrapping Clay in his massive arms, and Etty was screaming, pulling Jon back into the helicopter. Everyone was shouting. A few soldiers were laughing.

  "Fight, fight, fight!" a corporal began to chant.

  Still flying the helicopter, Captain Pete looked over his shoulder. "Goddammit, soldiers, stop acting like kids. Sit your asses down! All of you!"

  "Sir!" Jon said. "I must report that Private Clay Hagen was firing on civilians, violating the HDF's code of conduct, and—"

  "And he tried to murder Jon!" Etty burst in.

  "Soldiers, I said sit down!" Captain Pete said.

  "Sir!" Jon said. "With all due respect, this is serious. He—"

  "Private, this ain't Earth no more," the pilot said. "This is the jungle. There ain't no code of conduct here. We fight the slits here. And we do not rat on fellow soldiers."

  Jon sat down, stunned. Etty and George looked at him, shocked into silence.

  Clay only smirked. He pointed at Jon.

  "You know what happens to rats, Taylor?" Clay swiped his finger across his neck, then burst out laughing.

  The helicopter continued the tour, flying over jungles, mountains, rice paddies, and several HDF outposts.