Kaelyn got out of the car. She stood on the roadside, watching her father drive off.
She stood for a long time as cars drove by.
Finally she turned and walked. But she did not walk home. She walked to the church on the hill, and she sat on the bench under the maple tree. The place where she had often played with her friends. The place where she had kissed Jon.
She sang softly the song he had written for her.
A dead boy cries
His tears fall cold
On the scattered pages of a poem untold
Do not weep
For notes already played
For symphonies composed
For prayers prayed
The wind scattered dry leaves and billowed her long red hair. The robins sang. It was a beautiful place. A place of bittersweet memory. And Kaelyn knew that she would not be a soldier. She would not fight in the battlefields like Jon and George.
But she would be a warrior.
She stood up, tightened her lips, and began to walk.
She had to find Lizzy Pascal. She had to end the war.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Every Last One
"Clay Hagen is our commanding officer." George's face was pale as a ghost. "That psychopathic, murderous, evil monster commands our platoon. How the hell did this happen?"
Jon and Etty sat with him, silent and shocked. It was bad enough to have survived Basilica, a battle that left them all broken and haunted, maybe forever.
Being at Clay's mercy made things much, much worse.
The army bivouacked fifty miles west of Basilica, recuperating from the battle. Officers and NCOs rumbled back and forth in jeeps, reorganizing their units. Some platoons had been butchered down to just a handful of survivors. They joined together, forming new units. Many officers, especially the younger ones, had perished. Battlefield commissions and promotions were being handed out like candy, minting new commanders.
The Lions Platoon wasn't just under new management. It had also absorbed thirty stranded soldiers from other units. All strangers. This platoon had been like a home to Jon. Now it felt like a house full of strangers, its closets full of monsters.
"What do we do?" Etty whispered. "We can't tolerate this. We can't. He'll kill us. That psychopath will kill us and eat our hearts."
Both the giant ginger and the petite girl turned toward Jon, waiting for his advice.
"Why are you looking at me?" he said.
"You're our leader," George said.
Jon sighed. "Seems like Clay is our leader now."
George shook his head. "No. Never! That's bullshit. We're Fireteam Symphonica. We're friends. We're the only thing that matters. And you're the leader of that."
"I'm not your leader," Jon insisted.
"Yes you are, Jon!" George said. "You led Symphonica back home. And you lead Symphonica here. Maybe we're not a band anymore. But Symphonica has always been more than just a band. We've been friends. A family."
Etty nodded. "Hell, I wasn't even part of Symphonica the band, but I'm proud to be part of Fireteam Symphonica. So what do we do, fearless leader?"
Jon looked around him at the camp. Thousands of soldiers, jeeps, armacars, and tanks sprawled across the coast. The ocean spread to one side, the jungles to the other. Helicopters roared above. Clay stood by a nearby palm tree, chewing out a few new troops. Enemy skulls dangled from his belt like canteens, and his new officer insignia shone on his shoulders.
Jon looked back at his friends. "We keep our heads down. We survive the next few days. When the dust settles, when we're back at Fort Miguel, we can ask for a transfer."
"Or we can frag Clay!" Etty said, eyes lighting up.
"No fragging people, Etty," Jon said. "Not even him. We're not murderers."
Though privately, he wondered. He had already killed so many people in this war. He had shot so many Bahayans. True, that had been in battle. They had been charging at him, guns blazing. But they had not been evil, merely defending their homes. If he assassinated Clay, would that truly be worse? After all, he'd be ridding the world of a monster.
His mind reeled. For killing enemy soldiers, Jon had been promoted to corporal. If he killed more enemies, he might even earn a medal. Yet if he killed a monster like Clay, he would be a murderer.
Some world, he thought.
"Fine!" Etty rolled her eyes. "So we won't frag the bastard. Yet."
Boots thumped. A shadow fell. Clay Hagen strutted toward them. Scalps dangled from his vest like lurid tassels.
The beefy lieutenant—it made Jon sick to think of him as lieutenant—smirked.
"Hello, corporals." Clay spat out that last word as an insult, like some medieval lord spitting out the word peasants.
Etty placed her hands on her hips. "Oh, you're really savoring this, aren't you?"
Clay stepped closer, looming over Etty. He snarled and leaned so close their noses almost touched. Their helmets clanked together.
"When you see your commanding officer, corporal, you stand at attention and salute."
Etty sprung to attention. Her chin rose so high she was almost staring straight up. She gave the stiffest, most ridiculous salute in the history of warfare, more like a karate chop to her forehead than anything.
"Oh yes, mighty sir!"
Clay twisted her collar. "Are you mocking me?"
"Hey, lay off, man." Jon approached and grabbed Clay's shoulder.
The newly minted officer spun toward Jon. "Well, if it isn't little Jon Taylor the slit-lover."
Jon refused to cower. Clay might be an officer now, but he was still the same lowlife.
"We've decided to accept your command, Clay," Jon said. "We don't want trouble. So don't cause any."
Clay's lips peeled back, revealing blood on his teeth.
My God, Jon thought. Who did he bite? He glanced at the skulls hooked to Clay's belt. Did he… eat the corpses?
"You don't accept my command, Taylor," Clay said. "You suffer it. Now get down and give me thirty."
Jon scoffed, but inside a chill washed him. "This isn't boot camp, Clay."
Clay stepped closer, growling. "You call me sir. Now get down and give me thirty, corporal, and shout out sir every time."
Jon stood still. He crossed his arms.
Clay shoved him. Hard. With both hands. Jon stumbled back a few steps, and Clay guffawed.
"Come on!" Clay shoved him again. "Come at me, slit-lover." He punched Jon in the shoulder. "Come on! Fight back. Swing at me." Another shove. "You wuss. You know what I'm going to do to that slit whore you married? I'm going to fuck her first. Then make every man in my platoon fuck her, one by one, as you watch."
Fury exploded through Jon. George and Etty could only stand there, watching with wide eyes.
"Don't hit him, Jon," George whispered.
Clay shoved Jon another time, knocking him into the mud, and kicked his side. "Come on! Stand up and fight like a man."
Jon balled his fists. Rage bloomed inside him like a nuclear bomb. If he struck an officer, he knew what would happen. They all did. He would stand trial. Spend time in the brig. Maybe be dishonorably discharged.
To hell with it. Jon had faced the Luminous Army in battle. He could face a court martial.
He stood up, pulled back his fist, and prepared to smash Clay's pasty face.
"Lions Platoon!"
A jeep rolled up with a cloud of dust. A stocky, white-haired man hopped out, his battlesuit dented and scratched, his assault rifle slung across his back. It was Colonel Pascal, the very man who had promoted Clay and plunged the platoon into hell.
Pascal was an idiot, if you asked Jon. But he was a colonel. Both Jon and Clay sprung to attention. Clay stood especially rigid, his salute particularly brisk. Clay perhaps hated everyone else. But he seemed to adore the beefy colonel who had crowned him king of the lions.
"Sir!" They both saluted.
"Get your asses to Apollo field. Join your company. We're about to deploy."
>
Dark sacks sagged under the colonel's eyes. His left boot was unlaced, and stubble covered his jowls. The man had lost half his NCOs in Basilica, according to the scuttlebutt. He was now handling twenty jobs at once—including rallying his troops. And yet, beneath the weariness, a fire still burned in the burly man's eyes.
He loves this, Jon thought. He was born for this. For me, every moment of this war is hell. But Pascal fucking loves it.
"Yes, sir!" he and Clay said.
And then the colonel was off, his jeep rumbling toward another platoon. There was something almost comical about the sight. Colonel Pascal, a sixty-year-old man, a decorated colonel, commander of an entire brigade… bustling back and forth in a beaten-up jeep, moving from platoon to platoon like a mother hen rustling up her chicks. Any other time, Jon might have laughed. But the news stabbed him with an icy spear.
We're deploying again. So soon after Basilica—another battle.
He barely had the will to move.
The platoon trudged toward the field where their company mustered. Their boots scattered ash, burnt branches, and skeletons of both animals and humans. Once this land had been verdant. Once Jon too had been full of life. Both land and soldier were now charred husks.
I can't do this anymore, Jon thought, barely able to even hold his head up. I can't keep killing. I can't keep watching friends die. I can't fight this war anymore.
He knew that he was Jon Taylor of Lindenville. That last year, he had been a composer. A keyboardist. A quiet, reflective boy who wrote poetry and music for his friends. A boy who loved walking alone in the woods—a place to think and imagine and create. That he had been happy in his own melancholy way.
He knew all these things logically. But it seemed bizarre now—to connect this current beaten soul, this bruised body, with that boy from another world.
They had taken that boy. They had locked him in a space station, a tube of metal, and they had broken him. They had taught him to kill. They had made him a machine of killing. A machine that could only obey, run, kill, die.
They had killed Jon Taylor in that space station. In that factory in space. Whoever had emerged from the other side—it was not human. It was a robot. Mechanical. Programmed to inflict maximum destruction.
In the dark jungles. In the decaying streets of Mindao. In the basalt labyrinth of Basilica. In these levels of hell, the machine had hunted. Killed. And more and more of Jon's soul had died. There was nothing left now. Just a bruised, bloody husk with a wisp of despair trapped inside.
And then he thought of Maria.
Like an angel, her image emerged through the bleak miasma of his mind.
He saw again her bright smile. Her laughing eyes. He felt again her smooth black hair, flowing between his fingers, and her lips pressing against his.
And something Jon had thought dead and burnt flickered inside him. Faint. Nearly drowning in the murk. But it was there, a beacon in the black wilderness.
Joy.
There was still joy in him. Maria was keeping that flame alive. And if he could return to her, Jon thought that she could nurture that flicker, grow it into a roaring fire. Perhaps he would always be damaged. Perhaps his hands would forever be bloodstained, his soul forever shattered. But perhaps there was a chance, the slightest of hopes, that she could wrap around those shards inside him, could piece them back together. She could not heal him. He was beyond healing. But perhaps she could collect the scattered pieces of his soul. The Japanese practiced the art of kintsugi, collecting pieces of broken pottery, and gently gluing them together with molten gold, making what was broken more beautiful than before. Perhaps Maria could do the same to him. Perhaps she could be like a melody holding together the fluttering notes of a dying song.
So I must keep going. I must keep fighting. I must survive. For you, Maria. I love you. I'm dead and broken and full of ghosts, but I love you. You keep my life inside me.
He wiped a tear off his cheek. George noticed and slung an arm around him.
"I'm with you, buddy," the giant said. "Always. No matter what."
Etty leaned against Jon. "Me too. Always. We're a family. We'll always be a family." She smiled at Jon, eyes glistening with tears. "And someday Maria will be with us again."
"And Kaelyn," George said. "My sister is part of our gang."
Jon managed a weak smile. "We'll get through this. We'll get back home. We'll all hang out at my house. We'll play music in the basement. Maria and Kaelyn will be there. And we'll forget all of this."
He knew that last part was a lie. They would never forget.
But maybe, with Maria's smile, I can live with the memories. Maybe, with her love, I can live with the guilt and shame and the blood on my hands.
* * * * *
They approached a dusty field surrounded by tanks and armacars. Thousands of soldiers were mustering here—the entire Apollo infantry brigade, affectionately known as Pascal's Punks. Pascal himself was still riding around in his jeep, herding the last few scattered units to the field. The brigade's banners fluttered in the wind, featuring golden suns on blue fields.
Apollo was the most infamous of infantry brigades. Even back on Earth, during his civilian life, Jon had heard of them. They were not the elite soldiers. In fact, Apollo was known for taking almost anyone. They were the grunts. The lowly soldiers nobody else wanted. Yet Apollo fought on the front line of almost every major battle. They were the expendables. They were the heroes. They were the dumb kids who couldn't get into elite units, trudged through mud and fire, and won wars.
They were, in short, cannon fodder.
The brigade was divided into several battalions, each commanded by a lieutenant-colonel. Jon and his friends approached Horus Battalion. It was easy to find; Horus raised distinctive banners featuring falcons clutching quivers of arrows. The battalion was divided into several companies, each containing two hundred soldiers, each commanded by a captain or major. Jon soon spotted lightning bolt banners. Here was Cronus Company, home to four platoons—including the Lions.
They formed rank—Lizzy's Lions, still bearing the name of their wounded sergeant. This little unit of haunted soldiers. This family.
And Clay Hagen stood before them, a smirk on his face.
"Every family has one asshole," Jon muttered under his breath.
Clay was only a junior officer. He commanded a mere platoon, the smallest unit an HDF officer could command. But it still sickened Jon to see the psychopath wearing an officer's insignia. It sickened him even more to serve that officer.
When the entire brigade was assembled, Colonel Pascal stepped onto a makeshift wooden stage. A young, blond private hurried onto the stage too, her ponytail bouncing. With a dimpled smile, she handed Pascal a microphone. Jon couldn't help but notice that she wore a very tight uniform. Those buttons were clinging on for dear life. The colonel smiled, winked, and patted the private on her sizable backside, much to the delight of the soldiers, who hooted and catcalled. The curvy private gave the troops an adorable salute, blew them a kiss, and swayed offstage.
"I'm in a goddamn loony bin," Etty muttered.
The colonel watched his private shimmy away, a smile on his face. He lost his smile as he turned toward the troops.
"All right, you sons of bitches!" he said. "You're here because the top brass has still got use for your asses. We dealt the slits a major blow. We wiped their goddamn capital off the map."
Cheers rose from the brigade. Jon thought the celebrations inappropriate.
We lost too many soldiers. This was a Pyrrhic victory. If it was a victory at all.
The colonel waited for the cheers to die down, then continued. "But the enemy still fights! According to our boys in Military Intelligence, the Red Cardinal escaped the city. The bastard is in hiding. But he's still commanding his army. Even worse, the goddamn Santelmos have woken up. The aliens are bombarding our forces across this whole godforsaken planet."
A few troops booed. But an uneasy silence fell over
the rest. They had all seen the Santelmos fight in Basilica. Seen the aliens rip through their friends. Fighting humans was one thing. Fighting glowing balls of searing energy was quite another.
Isn't this what I wanted? Jon thought. To fight aliens instead of humans?
He thought of armies of Santelmos plowing through HDF brigades, and he changed his mind very quickly.
"We're the Apollo Brigade!" Pascal said. "They call us Pascal's Punks. You know why? Because they think we're useless. They think we're cannon fodder. They think we're the most miserable sacks of shit in the army. And they gave us a new mission. A mission they think is a punk mission. But one I happen to be proud of! Our new mission, my dear punks, is to wipe out the Kalayaan once and for all."
Massive cheers erupted from the brigade. Perhaps it was because, after years of war, these soldiers hated the Kalayaan with a passion. Perhaps they were just glad they wouldn't be fighting Santelmos anymore. Facing those glowing balls of death once had been quite enough, thank you very much.
"My dear punks, this is a turning point in the war," Pascal said. "Until now, we were fighting a limited war. A war of attrition. We were in first gear. Call it what you will, we weren't giving it our all. But now things have escalated. The Santelmos are no longer just advising and arming the Red Cardinal; they're fighting at his side. The Luminous Army isn't just defending the north; they're attacking our bases across the equator. The Human Defense Force is, in turn, ramping up its own operation, determined to liberate this whole damn planet this year. In short, my dear punks, shit just got real."
Etty muttered something under her breath about shit always being plenty real to her.
"Dear punks," the colonel continued, "we'll be moving deep into Kenny territory. I don't mean the damn southern jungles where they sneak around like rats. I mean their home bases. Territory where the cockroaches have been free to train, build, breed, and overall fuck shit up. We're gonna hit 'em where it hurts!"
Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2) Page 20