Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  "Come on, Marco." The sergeant's voice was kind; Marco had never heard him speak kindly before. "Let's give the medics room."

  The sergeant led Marco through the base, leaving the tents far behind. They walked through a gateway in an iron fence, entering a gravelly compound. Several trailers stood here. Dawn began to rise in the east, casting pink and yellow light across the desert. They stepped into a trailer. Inside, Marco saw a cot, a desk, two chairs, and a cupboard—a simple box of a home.

  "Wait here," Singh said, patted Marco's shoulder, and left the trailer.

  Marco waited for a long time, standing in the chamber, pacing, struggling to breathe. His mind was a roaring storm. The walls of the trailer seemed to close in around him. That gunshot kept echoing, and he knew he'd never forget that sound, never forget seeing that lump in the darkness.

  It must have been an hour before the door to the trailer opened. Ensign Ben-Ari entered.

  Marco stood at attention and saluted her. The young officer returned the salute. Standing close to her, Marco realized how young, how small their platoon's commander really was. He doubted she was much older than twenty.

  But wars are fought by the young, Marco thought. It's always been so.

  "Sit down, Marco," Ben-Ari said.

  Marco sat on the bed.

  "On the chair," Ben-Ari said, pointing.

  Marco stood up quickly. "Sorry, ma'am." He sat on the small plastic chair by the bed.

  Ensign Ben-Ari walked across the trailer, gazed out the window at the yard, then turned back toward him. "Marco, I come from a long line of soldiers. My father was a colonel in the HDF. My grandfather was an officer as well. His father before him too. For generations, the Ben-Ari family has fought against our enemies, going all the way back to my ancestor, a partisan who fought the Nazis in the forests of Eastern Europe."

  Marco nodded. "Yes, ma'am. The scum destroyed your country. Your nation found a new home in the HDF. I know the stories."

  Ben-Ari sat down on the second chair. "I was born to become a soldier, Marco. Born to lead men and women in battle. Maybe even born to die in battle." She sighed. "But the recruits I command . . . they have homes, all but one or two of them. They're teenagers, fresh out of high school, who never wanted to fight a war. You and your friends are not volunteers. You were drafted, and we had to break you here, to turn soft souls into soldiers—souls that were never meant to fight. My job is to train you, to harden you, to turn you into motivated soldiers eager for the fight."

  "You've trained us well, ma'am," Marco said, and he meant it. "I'm proud to have you as my commanding officer."

  Ben-Ari gave him a hard, blank stare. "Marco, when we return to our platoon, we'll tell them that Hope accidentally discharged a bullet into her leg while tripping. We'll tell them that she's in an infirmary off base. Is that clear?"

  Marco gasped. He leaped up, banging his chair against the wall. "But ma'am! How can we lie to them?" He shook his head. "Hope was my friend. And she died. She deserves to be mourned. She—"

  "She will be mourned." Ben-Ari stood up too and placed a hand on Marco's shoulder. "You and I will mourn her. Her family will mourn her. But right now I need my platoon to be strong, to be motivated. In only a week, Marco, you will all leave me. You will all become privates. Many of you will move on to receive specialized training. Some will be ready to start fighting. And your friends will all need to believe that this is a just, noble army, not an army where . . ." She looked out the window again. "Where this happened."

  Marco clenched his fists at his sides. His breath shook. "I can't just sweep this under the rug. It happened. I saw it happen."

  "What you saw, recruit, is classified. If you speak of it, you will be court-martialed, and you will spend the next five years rotting in a military prison." Her voice softened. "I don't want that for you, Marco. You're a good soldier. You would make a good candidate for officer school, if that's a path you choose to pursue. I would recommend you myself. Sometimes good soldiers need to take hard paths like this one."

  "To lie," Marco said.

  Ben-Ari nodded. "Yes. To lie."

  Marco stood still for a long moment, looking at his boots. Finally he raised his head and looked back at Ben-Ari. "Commander, I will remain silent, but I ask for a favor in return. I don't want to lose any more friends. In a week we're all going to be reassigned. If you have any sway at all with our sorting officers, please speak to them. Ask to keep this platoon together. Let me keep serving with Addy, with Elvis, with Caveman, with Beast." His voice dropped. "With Lailani." He thought for a moment, then quickly added, "But maybe not with Pinky."

  Ben-Ari seemed to be struggling to remain stern, but a smile finally tugged at her lips. She nodded. "I'll see what I can do. No guarantees."

  Marco nodded, remaining somber. "I'll miss Hope. Always."

  Ben-Ari's smile faded. "You will lose more friends, Marco. Not all of us return home from our service. But I want you to know this. Look into my eyes." Ben-Ari stared at him, solemn. "I am proud of you."

  He nodded, eyes suddenly damp.

  "Dismissed," she said—softly, kindly. "Go back to your friends."

  He saluted and left the trailer. He returned to his platoon. His last week of training began.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  For their last week of training, they stepped outside the base, but this time no rocket, no airplane, no buses awaited them—only the cruel, vast expanse of the desert.

  The entire Dragons Platoon stood here. Ensign Ben-Ari, clad in battle gear, her blond ponytail emerging from under her helmet, her plasma gun in hand. Sergeant Singh, tall and turbaned, his beard as black as his sunglasses, his ceremonial dagger gleaming. The three corporals: the tough and scarred Diaz, the small and deadly Webb on her metal legs, and the hard and cruel St-Pierre. And with these commanders stood the platoon recruits. All wore their fatigues, helmets, and padded armor. All carried their guns, vests laden with magazines, heavy duffel bags stuffed with equipment, and canteens full of water. The sun beat down with a fury.

  Ensign Ben-Ari spoke to them. "Seventy-five kilometers from here, an air-conditioned jet awaits you. That's forty-seven miles, for the Americans among us. That is a long way, soldiers. That's nearly the length of two full marathons. You will cross this entire distance, carrying all your equipment, within twenty-four hours. Is that understood?"

  A few "Yes, ma'ams!" were sounded, but other recruits grumbled.

  "It can't be done," Elvis muttered.

  "Nobody can walk that far in a day, ma'am," said another recruit.

  "Two marathons in a day?" said another. "Carrying all this? In this heat?"

  Addy snorted. "Piece of cake. I can do this in my sleep."

  "Silence!" shouted Sergeant Singh, reaching for his baton. "Your officer did not ask your opinion. You will complete this journey if I have to shock you the entire way."

  Marco was already exhausted—just from standing here in the heat of the desert, his equipment weighing him down. He couldn't imagine traveling two entire marathons across the dunes. He tried to do the math in his head. If they had twenty-four hours, that meant they needed to cross over three kilometers per hour. He could remember walking from the library to Lake Ontario within an hour, a distance of two or three kilometers. Of course, that had been on a paved road, not a searing death-desert, and it wasn't carrying these heavy magazines, this massive gun, a gas mask, a canteen, and a duffel bag the size of a scum queen, but . . . yes. It should be possible. Just barely, agonizingly possible.

  "Is that understood?" Ensign Ben-Ari asked again.

  "Yes, ma'am!" This time they all understood.

  Ben-Ari nodded. "Good. Since you seem so eager, I'm going to make the task a little harder for you. Sergeant?"

  Singh nodded, approached a truck parked in the sand, and opened the back door. He and the corporals began pulling out litters. On each litter lay a dummy dressed in a military uniform.

  "These dummies represent wounded soldie
rs," said Ben-Ari. "Your comrades. Each one weighs two hundred pounds. You will carry these litters—four soldiers each—to our destination."

  This elicited more groans.

  "Ma'am, we're already carrying a ton!" Elvis said.

  Marco was inclined to agree. His back already ached from his burden—and that was before lifting a litter.

  "In actual battle, you'll have to carry this much," said Ben-Ari. "And you'll have to carry your wounded too. Who will you whine to then? The scum? Will you complain about a wounded comrade's weight as he lies dying, desperate for medical attention? Will you complain about the distance as the scum drive you from their strongholds, as you must seek aid across the wilderness? The scum will be far less merciful than I am."

  This was greeted with silence.

  Ben-Ari nodded. "Good. You understand now. The harder the training, the easier the battle. Now form teams of four—and lift those litters. We begin."

  Marco nodded, choosing Addy and Lailani to be on his team. He wanted Elvis as a fourth, but the rock-loving recruit bit his lip and shook his head.

  "Sorry, buddy," he said to Marco. "I'm with Beast, Caveman, and Pinky. Dudes are fucking strong, even the little one." He glanced at Lailani, then back at Marco. "I'm sorry."

  Marco groaned. He looked around, hoping to find another recruit—preferably one with some muscle, maybe Sheriff or even the brutish Dickerson—but they were all forming their own quartets. They were left without a fourth. Even Sergeant Singh and the three corporals formed one unit, lifting a litter of their own.

  Marco's jaw fell open as Ensign Ben-Ari—his commanding officer herself!—stepped toward them.

  "I'm with you," Ben-Ari said.

  Marco saluted clumsily. "Yes, ma'am."

  Ben-Ari grabbed one end of their litter. "Go on, help me lift it. I'm not carrying this thing myself."

  Marco, Addy, and Lailani lifted the other three corners of the litter. Marco walked at the front with his officer. Addy and Lailani brought up the rear. They placed the poles on their shoulders. The damn thing was heavy, digging into Marco's shoulder and bending his arm.

  "The two-hundred-pound dummy that broke the camel's back," he muttered, then glanced at Ben-Ari. "Sorry, ma'am. Bad joke."

  Their journey began . . . at a run.

  The sergeant and corporals took the lead, racing across the sand. When Ensign Ben-Ari began to run too, Marco had no choice but to match her speed. The dummy wobbled on the litter. When Marco glanced behind him, he saw Addy and Lailani running too, faces determined. Marco began to doubt this configuration; Addy towered over Lailani, a full foot taller, and the litter tilted, putting most of its weight on Lailani. Finally Addy had to lower her end of the pole under her arm instead of carrying it on her shoulder. It was clumsy, and Marco wanted to stop and fix things, but Ben-Ari kept running, and they all scrambled to keep pace.

  "Come on, soldiers!" Ben-Ari said. "We're not letting Sergeant Singh beat us."

  "I'm fine with him beating us!" Marco said.

  Ben-Ari glared at him. "I'm not. Hurry. We're going to win this."

  "It's a contest too, ma'am?"

  The ensign nodded. "Everything is a contest."

  Sand flurried around them. A dozen other teams ran around them, carrying their own litters. Beast, Caveman, Pinky, and Elvis were quickly moving ahead, taking third place, then bypassing Marco's team to trail behind Singh and the corporals.

  The sun beat down. The sand stung them. Their lungs ached, and they ran onward.

  The base became but a smudge behind them, then a glint, then vanished. Everywhere around them was just the desert, dunes and rocky hills and barren valleys. The horizons shimmered with heat, and the sun was as cruel as the litters and duffel bags and unrelenting pace. Finally, even Ben-Ari could no longer run, and they trudged on, breathing heavily, sweat soaking them.

  "We can do this, soldiers," Ben-Ari told them, and Marco wondered if she was speaking to them or to herself. "You're doing great. You can do this."

  "Ensign Ben-Ari?" Lailani said, panting at the back. "Do you think maybe the dummy can take a turn, and I can ride on the litter?"

  The journey continued. They walked across sheets of stone, over rocky hills, and down a narrow path that sent stones tumbling down a cliff—and nearly a few recruits. They ran through a canyon, walls of stone soaring at their sides. Boots sinking, they slogged through sand, climbing dune after dune. Every hour, Ben-Ari allowed them a quick rest—to drink, to breathe, to quickly eat their battle rations. Then they moved again, carrying the litters, alternating between walking and running.

  Marco had thought that the day carrying the radios had been bad, but now he missed that day. Back then, they had alternated between shifts of walking and resting, and the terrain had been easier. Here was an unforgiving, relentless torture, the sun whipping them, burning their skin, burning their lips. The weight creaked their bones. The sand gushed around them.

  A few hours into their journey, their first recruit collapsed. They had to radio in a medical helicopter from Fort Djemila to pick him up. An hour later, another two recruits fell. The helicopter returned. Teams were broken up and reformed. The platoon continued.

  As the hours stretched by, it wasn't the weight, wasn't the distance that brutalized them. It was the terrible heat. They refilled their canteens from jerrycans on the litters, but soon that water ran low too, and the sun kept pounding them, and they kept sweating. Atop a rocky hill, the massive Beast collapsed, vomiting. A helicopter arrived within moments, carrying the dehydrated giant back to the infirmary. Some litters were now carried by only three soldiers.

  The sun was setting when Lailani collapsed.

  Her littermates lowered their burden, rushed toward her, and Marco let her drink the last few drops from his canteen, and he fed her his last energy bar.

  "I'm all right," Lailani said, rising to her feet. "I'm fine."

  "You're dehydrated," said Marco.

  She shook her head. "Just got the wind knocked out of me. The heat. I'll be fine now that the sun is setting."

  She grabbed her corner of the litter. But Marco saw her exhaustion, saw how she swayed.

  "Addy, mind trading places with me?" Marco said. "I'd like to walk at the back."

  Addy herself looked more exhausted than Marco had ever seen her. Her face was sunburned, her eyes sunken, her lips bleeding. She nodded silently. She moved to stand by Ensign Ben-Ari. They lifted the litter together. They walked on.

  As Marco walked at the back with Lailani, he made sure to carry most of the weight, to let the dummy slide toward him. If Lailani noticed what he was doing, she didn't mention it. She trudged on, swaying, limping, her lips a tight line. The tiny recruit nearly vanished under her duffel bag, her gun, her helmet, and the litter.

  She's working the hardest here, Marco knew.

  The sun vanished, and they walked through the cold of night. Sergeant Singh was still at the lead, navigating in the darkness, holding a flaring beacon. The others followed like weary pilgrims chasing a star. The wind gusted and the temperatures plunged. They no longer ran. Every step was a battle. Every dune crested was an army of scum defeated.

  For hours they traveled through the night, their flashlights casting thin beams through endless darkness. The stars shone above, and Marco felt as if he were walking through space, as if he were fighting the scum in their constellations. He looked up at the stars. Right now the elite forces of the HDF were fighting up there. The STC, the Space Territorial Command, operated in that vast darkness, defending Earth's colonies and even venturing deeper to hit the scum in their own territory. As painful as this march was, Marco knew it was nothing compared to what the STC commandos were doing. As cruel as this desert was, it was kind compared to space.

  As they entered the fiftieth kilometer of their journey, Addy began to sing. Voice hoarse, lost for breath, she belted out, "You'll Never Walk Alone." Marco had heard her sing it while watching soccer games at home. He knew the words. He adde
d his voice to hers.

  A verse in, Lailani joined them, then Elvis, and then dozens of other recruits were singing too. Marco was shocked to see that even Ensign Ben-Ari sang with them. Their voices grew louder, filling the night.

  When they reached their destination—a pavilion and jet on a sandy field—they collapsed, laughing in the dawn. Addy rolled around in the sand, laughing, singing, weeping. Lailani lay under the pavilion on her back, just staring, just breathing, a smile on her lips. They cracked open jerrycans of water, spilled it over their heads, drank, hugged. The recruits who had collapsed on the way awaited them here—some grumbling, others ashamed that they had failed, but soon they too laughed and sang and embraced those who had conquered the distance. Marco walked with a limp, his head spun, his lips bled, and his skin was peeling, but he had never felt better.

  Ben-Ari faced them. They all fell silent, watching her.

  "Ten weeks ago," she said, "you came to me scared, soft children from across the world. Today your training is complete. Today you are warriors."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After ten weeks of sand and sweat and screaming bullets, the recruits of the 42nd Company marched through Fort Djemila toward the courtyard, prepared to receive their insignia of rank.

  Marco marched with his platoon, his rifle held at his side. For the first time, the recruits weren't wearing their tattered, shabby combat fatigues. This night, the night they graduated from Fort Djemila, they wore fine service uniforms their sergeant had brought them. Like their fatigues, the uniforms were olive green, but these were woven of rich cotton, neatly ironed, and didn't smell like sweat and dust. On their heads, they wore their berets, and their guns and boots gleamed.

  Ensign Ben-Ari marched ahead of the platoon, leading them into a sprawling courtyard. A wooden stage, still empty, stood at the back between towering speakers. The company's four platoons arranged themselves in the courtyard and stood at attention.