They marched through the base, three lines of recruits, following the red-haired soldier. Several other soldiers moved at their sides, batons ready to goad them back into formation. Marco wished he could think of them as more than just "soldiers" and identify their individual ranks. Over the past few hours, he'd heard talk of "sergeants" and "lieutenants" and "corporals" and "privates," but he didn't know what those meant. He couldn't interpret the insignia he saw on the soldiers' uniforms, wouldn't understand the hierarchy even if he could. To him, he and his comrades were recruits, still in their civilian clothes, and everyone else in this base was a different breed, as alien to him as the scum.
Speaking of scum, he thought, gazing ahead at a massive scum that rose in a small fenced yard. His heart leaped before he realized it was just a stuffed specimen. Even so, it was damn imposing. It had been mounted on metal rods into a rearing position, like a cobra about to strike, twice Marco's height. Its body's segments were black and shining. The exoskeleton was harder than steel, he knew, impervious to all but the most powerful weapons. But worse than its size or armor were the legs. Thirty-six of those legs thrust out from its sides, two sprouting from each segment, tipped with claws as long and sharp as scimitars. The mandibles that crowned the creature seemed tame by comparison to those rows of blades.
Looking at the dead alien, it was easy to mistake it for just a big bug, but these bugs were sentient, as intelligent as humans if not smarter. With their mandibles they could construct organic starships composed of sticky membranes and hardened shells, could clone human spies, could control technology even humanity hadn't yet developed.
The scolopendra titaniae. The scum. They were a race of apex predators who had been sweeping across the galaxy, destroying civilizations in their path. And now Earth lay on that path. Fifty years ago they had nearly destroyed Earth, killing billions of humans in the Cataclysm, reducing the population by sixty percent. The Cataclysm had ended with the nuke lobbed onto the scum's planet, but the War of Attrition raged on. The scum had not forgotten their quest to destroy humanity, even if they had to destroy it one human at a time.
Fifty years ago we nuked them, Marco thought. We killed millions of them. We showed them that we will not die easily. That if they destroy one of our cities, we can destroy one of their hives. And still we fight.
And strangely, for the first time that day, Marco felt his fear fade, felt some pride in humanity. Service would not be easy. The next few days, maybe even the next five years, would be hellish. But damn it, here—all around him—was humanity fighting back against the bugs. And Marco would be a small part of that. He was only a writer, not a warrior, but if he could do his part to stave off the scum, he would give it his all.
Though if I could still serve in the archives like my father, instead of actually firing guns at these bugs, that would be preferable, he thought as they walked by and the scum's shadow fell onto him.
They had to leap to the roadside as several tanks rolled by. Farther down the road, monkeys swung from towering pehuen trees, hurling nut shells down at the recruits and hooting in laughter. Soldiers stood outside concrete barracks, gazing at the new recruits. One soldier whistled and hooted. The recruits walked on. They passed by a yard where a hundred uniformed soldiers congregated. They looked like fresh-faced recruits who had just received their uniforms—there was no insignia sewn onto the sleeves—which didn't stop them from scoffing.
"Look at the fresh meat," one soldier said.
"Scum fodder!" cried another soldier.
The group laughed, then fell silent and stood at attention as a ranked commander approached. Soon the group was shouting "Yes, Commander!" and drilling in the dust.
Marco noticed that, despite the thousands of soldiers he passed, he barely saw any guns here. Only the ranked soldiers, those with bars or stars or citrons stitched onto their uniforms, carried weapons. The vast majority of soldiers here were mere recruits. They wore uniforms, but they had no insignia or guns. Some must have been here for only days, maybe just hours.
Marco noticed, too, that the uniforms here were different than those he had seen soldiers wearing back home. The soldiers who patrolled Toronto's streets wore finer uniforms, the green cotton ironed, the buttons polished, and they wore berets. The uniforms here looked like . . . well, they looked like rags. Holes had been cut into the armpits. The fabric was tattered, sometimes threadbare, the color all but washed away. Barely anyone wore anything that fit. Marco saw soldiers with baggy uniforms and some with uniforms so tight they threatened to pop their buttons. Their berets hung under straps on their shoulders, not on their heads.
"Addy," he whispered as they marched, leaning toward her. "What's with the ragged uniforms everywhere?"
She glanced over her shoulder at him. "BDUs. Battledress. Rags. Fatigues. Call them what you like. It's what the HDF wears in their bases." She grinned. "Soldiers only wear the nice stuff in public. Sort of how you wear pajamas at home but pull on your old man corduroys when you go to the coffee shop."
"They're not pajamas," he said, "they're sweatpants, and—"
He grimaced as electricity crackled across him. The tall soldier with the red hair dug her baton into his side, snarling. "I hear you talk one more time, soldier, you'll spend the next week rotting in a dungeon. March!"
The soldier pulled back the baton, and Marco marched on, wincing. Addy flashed him a quick grin and winked.
You're loving this, aren't you, Addy? he thought, and suddenly a lump grew in his throat. After his brief moment of patriotism, an icy blend of fear, homesickness, and despair flooded him. He couldn't even imagine doing this—marching, shouted at, shocked—for the rest of today, let alone the next five years. When he passed by a public clock, he learned that, despite everything he'd been through today—and it felt like ages—it was only 8:14 in the morning.
Normally I'd still be asleep, he thought. And here I am, tasered and shouted at and marching through a massive military base in South America.
They marched by concrete barracks, electrical towers, and a yard of armored vehicles topped with machine guns. Ahead in another fenced yard, Marco saw a sight even more impressive than the dead scum farther back. Two spaceships sat in the yard, both burnt and dented yet—judging by the fence and armed guards—still quite valuable.
Marco recognized one of the vessels at once. It was an L16 Firebird. An actual L16 Firebird, and one that had seen service, judging by the burns and dents and scrapes. Marco had owned several Firebird models as a child, but he'd never seen one in real life. These weren't like the jets that constantly screamed over Toronto, defending the North American Command's skies. No. While Firebirds did sometimes fly in Earth's skies, they were primarily space fighters, single-seater assault spaceships, the deadliest weapons humanity had. An early-model Firebird had nuked the scum's planet fifty years ago, ending the Cataclysm and ushering in the ongoing War of Attrition. To this day the Firebirds and their brave pilots battled the scum as part of the STC, the Space Territorial Command. Marco had never even met anyone who'd served in the STC, only soldiers of the Earthbound ETC. Only the elite fought in space, hitting the scum in their own backyards.
He turned his eyes toward the second craft in the yard. He couldn't help but shudder as he marched by. This one was a scum ship. It barely looked like a ship at all, more like an organic, veined egg. The scum didn't use metal for their crafts but pliable materials they spewed from their own bodies, the way spiders could excrete gossamer and clams could produce pearls. The walls of these alien pods looked like skin, but they were harder than steel.
"Looks like a giant, purple testicle, doesn't it?" Addy asked.
Marco dared not reply, not after suffering a shock last time he had spoken, but he was inclined to agree.
Firebirds. Scum pods. War in space.
As Marco kept marching, he just prayed to stay on Earth, as far away from the scum as possible.
* * * * *
The chirps of insects grew, but wh
enever a recruit tried to swat the tiny bugs away, they earned an electric shock. Marco resigned himself to tolerate the biting critters. Finally they reached yet another squat concrete building, one of thousands that filled this base. Brutalism—an old and much-reviled architectural movement, mostly involving blockish buildings of raw concrete—was obviously still in style here in the HDF.
With shouts and electric prods, the commanders hustled the recruits through the doorway. A crowded, stifling room awaited them. The ceiling fans did nothing to cool the room; they just roiled the heat and stench of sweat. Hundreds of recruits stood here, stripped down to their underwear, both male and female. A few soldiers in drab uniforms were shoving carts full of civilian clothes.
"Strip!" shouted the red-haired commander, her crackling baton raised. "Clothes and shoes in the carts, now! Keep your underwear only."
"What if somebody's going commando?" asked a recruit, a tall boy with spiky dark hair.
"You've got hands, right?" the soldier said. "Cup 'em!"
Reluctantly, Marco removed his corduroy pants and T-shirt, remaining in his boxers. He couldn't help but sneak a glance—just a glance!—toward Addy. Back home, she had never let him see her unclothed, and he couldn't help but notice her—
No. He shook his head and looked away. Ridiculous. He would not think of Addy that way. Especially here, he had no time for such thoughts.
"Men to the left, women to the right!" barked a balding, paunchy soldier in a corridor. "Line up for inspections! Go!"
"Now!" shouted the red-haired soldier.
Addy poked Marco's naked chest. "Maybe you'll grow some hair in the army." Before he could reply, she winked, stuck out her tongue, and went to line up with the girls.
It was a long, hot, miserable wait among thousands of other eighteen-year-old boys. All stood in their underwear—aside from one boy who kept his hands firmly on his privates. Some tried to talk, only to be silenced by the uniformed commanders. Finally, when Marco felt ready to faint from the heat and thirst, they rushed him into a small room. A heavyset, bald doctor sat there, looking utterly bored. The man checked Marco's vitals, then had him drop his boxers. Marco cringed as the doctor squeezed his balls, but he thanked God that the HDF didn't yet require prostate exams.
As miserable as Marco felt with a strange man grabbing his little scum pods, he thanked his lucky stars. I'll probably just spend the next five years battling giant centipedes, not spending every day in a sweaty room grabbing balls.
In the next room, a technician sat Marco down in a chair and covered said balls with a lead apron. The man then wheeled a massive, clicking machine toward Marco. The machine featured a large cone, like those in old barbershops.
"What's this?" Marco said.
The technician was a wiry man in an olive-green uniform, missing one leg. "We just need to x-ray your teeth."
Marco frowned. "Why? My teeth are in perfect health."
The technician nodded. "And they might be the only thing left after the scum hit you. If you want your grave to feature your name, we need to recognize you by your teeth." He gave Marco a sparkling, toothy smile.
Marco cringed. "If the teeth are the only thing left, how would you even bury me?"
"Well, sometimes there's a bit more left, but we'll need a mop and a bucket." He plunked the cone down around Marco's head like a helmet. "Say cheese!"
Marco smiled grimly as the X-ray machine clattered and hummed.
As he moved room to room, subjected to test after test, poked and prodded, Marco wondered how he'd ever find Addy again. Countless recruits were moving through these halls in their underwear, and whenever they herded him to another room, Marco scanned the crowd for a tall, blond girl in Maple Leafs underwear, but to no avail.
Goddammit, he thought, ice washing his belly. Addy was the only person he knew in this military of three hundred million soldiers. If he couldn't find her now, he might not see her for years, just like Kemi.
Kemi.
As Marco sat in a chair to have his hair buzzed off and inspected for lice, he thought back to his girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend now, he supposed. He thought of Kemi's mane of black curls that always smelled so good, her smiling lips that he loved to kiss, her warm eyes, her fierce intelligence, how she could speak for hours about math, classical music, and space yet still enjoy a cold beer on the couch and an episode of Robot Wrestling. He missed holding Kemi, kissing her, reading to her the latest chapter of Loggerhead, dreaming of a future with her. Again his damn tears stung his eyes, and the lump grew in his throat. He had to swallow hard, to remind himself that he was a soldier now—or about to become one somewhere in this maze they called RASCOM—and would fight the scum. What kind of alien-killing warrior cried from homesickness and a broken heart?
The examinations continued. In a crowded room full of hundreds of recruits, a soldier moved between them with a clipboard, examining and taking notes of their levels of acne. In a room full of teenagers, there was a lot to go around. When he was done, the soldier with the clipboard stood at the back of the room, calling out different maladies, asking recruits to raise their hands if they had ever suffered from them.
"Syphilis!" the soldier called. "Shingles! Herpes!"
Chuckles sounded in the room as a few soldiers, faces red, hesitantly raised their hands. The soldier kept calling out illnesses, marking down names on his clipboard. Marco hadn't even heard of many of those diseases.
"Hemorrhoids!" the soldier called out. "Has anyone here ever had hemorrhoids?"
Awkward laughter rolled through the room, amplified when one recruit, cheeks crimson, sheepishly raised his hand.
"What's hemorrhoids?" asked a massively muscular, bald recruit, speaking with a heavy Russian accent.
"If you had them, you'd know," answered the soldier with the clipboard.
"I had lots of things, how can I know?" said the bald Russian. "What is it? What is hemorrhoids? Why you no tell me?"
The soldier with the clipboard seemed suddenly embarrassed, but another recruit groaned beside the Russian.
"It's when your ass hurts and you can't sit down," the boy said.
"Ah!" said the Russian. "No, ass is okay. Niet problema."
Finally the interrogation was completed. With shouts and crackling batons, soldiers herded Marco out from the crowded room.
He found himself trudging through an open courtyard—barefoot and still wearing only boxers, his hair shaved down to stubble. Soldiers stood around the perimeter, guns in hand, while hundreds of half-naked recruits stumbled across the hot asphalt toward a second concrete building. Monkeys hooted from a tree as if mocking these poor, naked apes. One of the guards whistled appreciatively at the "fresh meat." The girls rejoined them here, their own hair spared the razor. Marco sought Addy in the crowd but couldn't find her.
The new building was a massive warehouse, large enough to store rockets in, filled with row after row of shelves and counters. Millions—it had to be millions—of uniforms covered the shelves, a sea of olive green. Higher up, countless black boots spread across wooden shelves, enough boots to blister the feet of nations.
"Recruits!" shouted a tall soldier with tanned skin and one arm. "Grab a duffel bag, two uniforms, and boots—then out into the yard."
"Yes, Sergeant!" a handful of recruits replied.
Sergeant. Marco stared at the one-armed soldier. He saw three chevrons stitched onto the man's single sleeve. He remembered seeing some soldiers with one chevron or two chevrons.
So sergeant is the third rank, Marco thought, wishing he had spent less time reading Dickens and writing Loggerhead and more time researching the military. He bet that Kemi knew all this and more. Addy too, probably. Everyone but him, the bookworm son of a librarian with that lump that wouldn't leave his throat.
"Duffel bag! Uniforms! Boots!" shouted a man behind a wooden counter. "Move, damn it, ten minutes and out in the yard!"
Marco crowded with a hundred other half-naked, sweaty soldiers, both male
and female, struggling to reach the counter and grab his supplies. All the while the sergeant shouted, pestering them to move faster, to step out into the yard or end up in the brig. Finally, blessedly, the one-armed soldier moved toward another counter to howl at the recruits there.
Marco rifled through the uniforms on the counter, finally finding pants and a shirt his size. Both were, as Addy had put it, indeed rags, stained with years of sweat, the armpits split open, the hems frayed. At another counter he grabbed leather boots that were horribly uncomfortable, and he could already imagine the blisters they'd give him. He watched a few other soldiers, then imitated how they bloused their pants, rolling the hems inward into rubber bands—supplied along with the pants—leaving the entire length of the boot exposed. Finally he grabbed a green beret.
Next, he approached a counter where a soldier was distributing duffel bags. Marco grabbed one. It was essentially a sack with a single shoulder strap, olive green and so large Marco could have fit inside. It was heavy. When Marco opened the duffel bag, he found it stuffed with supplies. There was shoe polish, a sturdy brush, a few pairs of underwear and socks, an empty canteen, a bar of soap, a flashlight, a gas mask, a first aid kit with some disturbingly large bandages, and possibly more items lurking beyond Marco's reach. Everything aside from the bandages and soap looked secondhand, and he wasn't so sure about the soap.
Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1) Page 5