The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Jon finally looked directly at Clay. He lost his breath.

  Dear lord.

  The soldier had gone savage. Clay had sawed off his battlesuit's sleeves, revealing muscular arms. He had painted Nazi runes on his helmet. They were red, perhaps painted with blood. And around his neck…

  Jon felt sick.

  "What the hell is that?" he said.

  Clay laughed. "You like my necklace?"

  Jon nearly gagged.

  A necklace of severed ears hung around Clay's neck. Six ears. Human ears. Strung on a chain.

  "That's right," Clay said. "Slit ears. I killed 'em myself. Back during the raid when you were busy pissing yourself. I earned these kills. Got myself a little souvenir."

  Jon looked away. His stomach roiled.

  "Don't you turn your back on me!" Clay said. "Or one day you're likely to get a bullet in it."

  A muzzle poked Jon in the back.

  And something snapped inside of him.

  He spun around, shoving Clay's rifle aside.

  The brute leaped at him, grabbed his collar. Clay raised a fist, and—

  "Dammit, boys!" It was Corporal Bawden, a lanky soldier, so tall and thin he looked like a stick insect. He loped forward on stilt-like legs, scowling. "As your squad commander, I order you to calm your tits."

  "Commander, the coward caused three Earthlings to die!" Clay said. "Then he dared accuse me of—"

  "Dammit, son, I don't give a damn." Bawden resumed walking down the trail. "I swear, these green privates with their petty bull—"

  The ground opened up beneath him.

  Bawden fell into a gaping pit.

  His screams filled the forest—then died.

  Jon ran forward, heart pounding, and leaned over the pit. He grimaced. Bawden was down there, impaled on spikes. One spike had driven through his skull, emerging from his mouth.

  "Kennys in the trees!" somebody shouted.

  And suddenly bullets were flying.

  A soldier screamed, clutched his wounded chest, and collapsed.

  Jon's hands shook so wildly he could barely cling to his gun. But somehow, he managed to open fire.

  He even remembered to flick off the safety. Improvement.

  He swept his gun from side to side, spraying the trees with bullets. Everyone else was firing with him, forming a ring of hell.

  More bullets whistled.

  A private crashed down dead at Jon's feet—a petite girl from Ontario with long blond hair.

  Another soldier fell, his turban rolled off, and blood flowed down his beard. One of his eyes was blown away.

  The raid only lasted a minute or two. And the Kennys vanished, leaving only echoes of their laughter.

  For hours, the Earthlings swept the forest. They found two dead guerrillas, and Clay carved off their ears, adding them to his collection. Everyone knew there were more Kennys. That they had fled. That they would return.

  Bloodied, down four more soldiers, the Lions platoon trudged on through the jungle.

  * * * * *

  They stood before it.

  A hill rising in the heart of the jungle.

  "Surigao Hill," Lieutenant Carter said. "Last known base of Ernesto Iron Santos."

  Jon stood beside him, drenched in sweat. His wounded leg was aching badly. It was worse today. Scratches and bug bites covered the rest of him. One of the bites was festering, and little eggs quivered inside. The damn alien bugs were always laying eggs in the troops, and their medic could barely keep up.

  The battlesuits only made things worse. The bugs got inside them and were impossible to crush. The armor trapped in body heat and sweat. These suits were leftovers from the Ganymede Uprising twenty years ago, and in the jungle, they became intolerable. Many troops had begun to rip off armored plates, to leave them in the forest. Some were topless now. That only invited the damn fangwood trees to reach out their hungry little leaves and bite. There was no relief in the jungle. If one thing wasn't trying to kill you, it was another.

  Trying to forget the pain, Jon stared at Surigao Hill. Hill? It looked more like a mountain. It soared ahead, draped with rainforest, its steep slopes strewn with boulders. Jon could understand why the Kennys would make their base here.

  "It'll be a tough climb," Jon said. "They have the higher ground, they know every tree, and if we try to climb, they'll butcher us. Sir, this is a job for the air force."

  But the lieutenant shook his head. "No, private. I won't have bombs solve this problem. If we bomb this hill, we'll never know if we got him. We need to see him. We need to look Ernesto in the eyes. Then put a bullet in his brain."

  "I understand, sir, but—"

  "Don't you want to avenge your brother, Jon?"

  Jon stiffened. "Of course. I just—"

  "It'll be all right, Jon." Carter squeezed his shoulder. "We're going to do this. Together."

  Jon stared into his officer's eyes, and he saw something that frightened him.

  Not just determination. Obsession.

  You're Captain Ahab, and Ernesto is your whale, Jon thought.

  Jon licked his dry lips. "I've come this far. I won't turn back now. I'm with you, sir."

  The platoon gathered around the lieutenant. Fifty had set out from Fort Miguel. Thirty-eight soldiers remained. Weary, wounded, haunted. But all stood tall, guns in hand.

  Carter faced them. "Some of you have been fighting in the jungle for years. Others are on your first mission. You are all, every man and woman here, courageous warriors. The enemy has all the advantages in this fight. They know this land better than we do. They hide like ghosts in the trees, while we stumble like giants. But there is one advantage we Earthlings have. Our fighting spirit! The enemies we face are cruel, murderous, pitiless. Let's go kill 'em."

  Sergeant Lizzy raised her rifle overhead. "For Earth!"

  "For Earth!" they all repeated.

  They began storming the hill.

  Enemy fire greeted them.

  Bullets streaked, slamming into trees and soldiers.

  A mortar landed among the platoon, and an explosion rocked the hill, and severed limbs flew.

  "For Earth!" Carter cried, charging uphill.

  "For Earth!" Jon cried, running after his officer.

  They ran, howling, firing at the unseen enemy. Fewer and fewer every moment. Roaring. Killing. Dying.

  For Earth.

  For you, Paul, Jon thought. For a funeral on a cold rainy day. For a memory of a brother. For you, George. For you, Etty. For every son and daughter on Earth who is grieving.

  Jon did not know how this war had begun. Whether it was a just war. Whether Etty was right, claiming they were cruel conquerors, or whether he should believe Ensign Earth, believe they were heroes liberating a planet from alien claws. He did not know if Paul had died in vain. He did not know why his friends were dying in the mud. He did not know why he was killing. He did not know who he'd be when he returned home. If he returned home.

  Private Jon Taylor did not know why he was on this hill, running into enemy fire.

  But he knew that right now, his friends needed him.

  That right now, his brother was watching him.

  That right now, his officer, his sergeant, and his brothers and sisters in arms were running into hell. And he would not abandon them.

  Maybe he was not a hero. But he was a soldier. He would complete his mission or die fighting.

  "For Earth!" he cried, charging into the enemy fire.

  For hours, they fought.

  They climbed.

  They killed and died.

  Bullets flew. Mortars exploded. Jon kept climbing, shrapnel in his leg. Firing. A corpse fell before him.

  "He's there!" Carter shouted. "On the hilltop! Ernesto is there! Onward, soldiers!"

  The lieutenant led them forward.

  The enemy was everywhere. A hatch opened in the ground, knocking back moss and grass, and a Kalayaan fighter opened fire. An Earthling fell. They climbed over his corpse, and an
other hatch opened. Another Kenny emerged from underground, firing, taking down more Earthlings.

  Jon returned fire. The Bahayan fell. The soldiers ran toward the hatch, fired into the tunnel, and screams rose below.

  "Fire in the hole!" Jon shouted and dropped a grenade into the tunnel.

  An explosion rocked the hill. The screams below died.

  They ran onward, fighting every step toward the hilltop. Through the mortar fire. Through the rain and storm. They were soldiers of Earth. They were boys and girls drafted into a war they did not understand. Perhaps they were heroes. Perhaps they were villains. But they did not turn back.

  Another soldier fell.

  And another.

  They were like soldiers throughout history. Teenagers. From big cities. From sleepy little towns. Taken from their parents and trained to kill but never taught how to die. Their blood sank into foreign soil. Their bodies tore apart. They cried for their mothers as they died. They cried for their fallen.

  But they did not turn back.

  Because they were like soldiers throughout history. And they were brave.

  They dropped grenades into tunnels, and they stumbled into traps, and the spikes tore them open. They pounded the trees with mortars, and they saw a severed hand fly, and a corporal crawled, his legs gone. They saw a burning man, a living flame, screaming, melting, still firing his gun, then kneeling, waiting, silently waiting to die. They saw the horrors of hell fill this planet of paradise.

  But they did not turn back.

  Engines rumbled above. Helicopters roared, angels of metal, and their guns pounded the hillside. Shell after shell exploded across Surigao Hill. Boulders cracked open. Trees burned. The enemy spilled from their burrows, charging in wave after wave, howling, on suicide missions of final glory. The hill became like a hive spilling furious hornets. The Kalayaan ran into Earth's lines, howling, strapped with bombs. And more of Earth's blood spilled. And the dead fell across the hillside.

  So many fell.

  So few remained.

  And they did not turn back.

  Finally, after a day and night of battle, the Lions platoon reached the summit.

  A last Bahayan still stood, refusing to flee. He roared out, "Kalayaan para sa Bahay!" and charged at the Earthlings, holding nothing but a knife, and died fighting.

  Kalayaan. The name of a guerrilla army. The Tagalog word for freedom.

  The survivors of the Lions Platoon gathered on the hilltop. Of fifty who had left Fort Miguel, twenty-three remained.

  Jon stood panting, blood dripping down his arms. George and Etty limped toward him, carrying a wounded comrade. Their faces were pale, their eyes haunted.

  We won the hill, Jon thought. We won nothing.

  "Where is he?" Carter barked, stomping across the hilltop. "Where is Ernesto?"

  "He might have died on the hillside, sir," Jon said. "He—"

  "Ernesto!" Carter roared, spinning from side to side. "You coward! Are you here? Come out and face me!"

  Nobody answered.

  The helicopter hovered above. A rope dangled. Captain Pete leaned from the cockpit, and his voice emerged from the platoon's radio.

  "All aboard, boys and girls! Time to go home."

  Lieutenant Carter ignored him.

  "Ernesto!" he howled, then reeled back toward his remaining troops. "Comb this hill. Every last tree and patch of moss. Bring every Bahayan corpse here. Then enter the tunnels and find him!"

  They worked for long hours, seeking the dead on the forest hillside, dragging them to the hilltop.

  Carter distributed photographs of Ernesto. A man with a cruel, angular face. A scar across the cheek. One eye blinded by a cataract.

  There he is, Jon thought. The man who killed my brother.

  They searched for Ernesto among the dead. But he was not there.

  They entered the tunnels, and they found a labyrinth coiling inside the hill. There were warehouses for food and weapons. Bunks with bamboo cots. A little chapel—just an earthen burrow with bibles and a wooden cross. One corporal stepped into a false tunnel, and an explosion rocked the hill. The man never even had time to scream.

  But the tunnels were lifeless.

  If any enemy had survived the battle, they had fled.

  They piled the enemy corpses and burned them. The helicopter returned, and Pete spoke again through the radio.

  "Dammit, Carter, you have orders to return to base. This battle is over."

  The lieutenant marched across the hilltop, stood on an outcrop of stone, and stared north. The two suns of Bahay framed him in searing yellow.

  "He's out there," Carter said. "Ernesto must have escaped. Like the coward that he is. He's out in the jungle, and we'll find him. We'll keep going. We—"

  "Sir," Jon said, "your soldiers are hurt, they—"

  "They can keep going!" Carter said. "You can keep going, can't you, Private Taylor?" He clasped Jon's shoulder. "You'll go on with me, won't you? We'll find him. You and me. We'll catch that bastard, and—"

  "Carter." A soft voice, draped with grief. "It's over."

  Sergeant Lizzy came walking toward them. Her battlesuit was charred and bloody. One sleeve was blasted open, and her arm bled. Her braid had come undone during the battle, and golden hair spilled from under her helmet, caked with blood. Her eyes were damp with tears.

  Jon had never seen his sergeant cry before. And he knew she wasn't crying only for the dead. But also for her lieutenant. For his soul. For a man she loved. A man consumed and lost.

  Carter grabbed her arms.

  "Lizzy, we have to keep going, to catch him," the lieutenant said. "It's why we came back. Why you and me came back to this godforsaken world. To find him. After what he did to you. God, Lizzy." And now a tear flowed down the lieutenant's face. "After the horrible things he did. We have to find him. We have to…"

  Lizzy pulled the lieutenant into an embrace.

  "Today is over, Carter," she whispered. "The battle is done. But not our war."

  The two stood on the hilltop, the wind rustling ashes around their feet.

  Jon could not imagine their pain. He did not know everything they had been through. But he recognized the loss. The trauma. The devastation of the soul. He had tasted of the same pain in this war. He had survived this battle. And he knew that his soul was forever changed.

  Come back pure. Or come back dead.

  He was neither.

  He was victorious.

  He was a killer.

  Jon did not know how many enemies he had killed today. They had trained him to kill slits. He had not expected to find people. He looked at his bloody hands, and he lowered his head.

  The surviving troops gathered in the helicopter. Fireteam Symphonica sat silently. George and Etty stared ten thousand miles into the distance, lost in memories of the horror.

  Jon reached out and clasped his friends' hands. He held them all the way back to their base.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Daughters of Bahay

  The Go Go Cowgirl was a large club, two stories tall. The concrete building was still under construction and already decaying. Smog and rust stained its walls, and plastic sheets stretched across the upper windows instead of glass. But at night, Maria knew, the crumbling top floor would vanish into darkness, and the neon lights would shine like beacons.

  The neon sign was off now. It would only turn on at night. Yet even unlit, the sign was garish and colorful. It depicted a cowgirl riding a bull. Words appeared below her:

  GO GO COWGIRL: HOT GIRLS COLD BEER

  A poster was peeling on the wall:

  SUNDAY NIGHT: MIDGET BOXING

  The words were in English. This place, like thousands of other bars in Mindao, had sprung up to serve the invaders.

  "This is your exquisite palace of the senses?" Maria said. "I'm underwhelmed. This is just another bar. Like a thousand others."

  The Magic Man turned toward her. A flicker of anger passed across his eyes, and he c
urled his fists. But then he relaxed, and his smile returned, full of bright teeth.

  "Ah, you're a saucy one! Has anyone ever told you that, Nini? You are a delight. Yes, this place looks underwhelming during the day. Ah, but when the sun sets! That's when the dreams come. That's when the Go Go Cowgirl transforms into a palace of pleasure."

  They stepped toward the front door. Several orphans and stray cats lay on the cement patio, eating peels. The Magic Man began kicking them.

  "Go, go, get lost!"

  The cats hissed. The urchins blew him raspberries and fled.

  They entered the bar, and Maria began to cough. The place stank of tobacco, shabu, and sex.

  She found herself in a dusty common room, probably large enough for a hundred people, but quiet this morning. It must have been a good night last night. Several marines were passed out on the floor, empty beer bottles lying around them. A few still had bargirls in their arms—petite Bahayans with smudged makeup, their naked bodies covered with bruises, bite marks, and dollar bills. A stray cat hissed on the bar. A unano—a midget boxer—was snoring in the corner, one eye bruised shut. A few bargirls sat on a stage, wearing lacy lingerie, snorting shabu. Their eyes were sunken, set in sallow faces over dark bags.

  Maria's eyes flicked toward an alien at a corner table. He reminded her of a spider. He had eight limbs, but they ended with hands. Disturbingly human hands. His head flared out like a hammerhead shark, each eye staring in a different direction. The alien was busy playing several games of solitaire at once, his many hands flipping and shuffling cards. When he turned one eye toward Maria, she looked away quickly, blushing.

  Back in my village, the only alien I ever saw was Crisanto, she thought. This will take some getting used to.

  Not that there were many aliens in Mindao. The city was almost entirely human. After all, if you had a spaceship, why would you visit this place? Probably the only aliens who came here were outlaws and renegades, hoping to vanish into the slums. Maria had heard that there were cities in space bustling with millions of aliens of every kind—countless species. Aliens made of liquid who swirled inside glass bulbs. Aliens like gaseous clouds. Aliens like living musical instruments whose songs would make grown men cry. Maria yearned to someday travel to space, to meet them, to explore the wonders of the cosmos. The sky was full of stars and life, and she was stuck here.