She whispered into his ear. "I need to smuggle out these photographs. You heard what Jon said. The colonel tore up the prints. He confiscated the phone with the files. But I have a codechip in my pocket, carrying copies of the photographs. I need to make my way to Mindao in the south. To find a spaceport. To smuggle myself off this world and bring these photographs to Earth. I'm not just going AWOL, George. I'm going on a mission. To show Earth what's happening here. And to end this war."
George gave a little whimper. "But Etty, I've always been there for you. To help you. Protect you. And… No, it's not that. You've always been here for me. To protect me. Or maybe we protect each other. The point is, Etty, I love you. I love you very much. And I don't know how to let you go."
Etty closed her eyes, holding him close, and then kissed the kneeling giant. A warm kiss on the lips which tasted of her tears.
"I love you too, George Williams," she said. "You're a big fat ginger jerk. But you're a good man. You're a kind man. And you're so adorable I could burst. If we ever get back to Earth, I'm going to kiss you a thousand more times. Remember this not as our last kiss. But as a promise of many more." She smiled. "Something to look forward to."
She left him there, dazed. She scuttled up the fence, cut the barbed wire, then turned and looked back. George stood below, a towering shadow in the night, the most courageous man she knew. Etty gave him a last smile, not sure if he could see. Then she hopped and vanished into the dark jungle.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Living
She journeyed south alone.
She was a deserter. A criminal. If she was caught, she would spend years in prison.
Etty didn't care.
"I refuse to be evil," she whispered.
She had seen so much evil in her life. Her parents—slaughtered. Her homeland—brutalized. She was Israeli. Her people had suffered throughout history. Invasion after invasion. Slavery and captivity. Genocide after genocide. All the horrors of humanity had been inflicted upon her nation, and now Etty found herself here.
On Bahay.
A soldier inflicting evil upon others.
A soldier in a genocidal empire.
Tears flowed as Etty walked through fields of devastation.
"I betrayed my family," she whispered. "I betrayed my people. I betrayed humanity. And I betrayed myself."
True, she had not murdered civilians herself. Not in Santa Rosa, at least. But she had fired rifles into the jungle. Who's to say she had not killed good men and women, honest peasants fighting for their homes? She had fired artillery shells onto Basilica. Who's to say some of those shells had not killed an innocent family?
Etty looked at her hands. Small, slender hands. Dust and grime covered them. But to Etty's eyes, they were covered in blood.
All around her, across the wilderness of Bahay, spread the work of Earth.
Charred forests, their ancient ecosystems destroyed.
Smoldering villages, bombed or brutalized.
Mutated peasants crawled, eyeless, starving.
Bahay—a world so beautiful, a jewel of the cosmos. Earth had come, and Earth had destroyed.
"For what?" Etty whispered. "Just because the Santelmos brought people here. Just because they're aliens. Just because other aliens hurt us long ago, and we're so afraid. And our fear destroyed a world."
When she looked around her, more than she saw evil or cruelty, Etty saw fear. Earth's terrible fear. Her lingering shell shock from the Alien Wars a century ago. That fear exploded here with fire and shrapnel.
She looked at her battlesuit. The uniform of the Human Defense Force.
Once Etty had been so proud to wear this battlesuit. The HDF—the military the Golden Lioness had once commanded! Etty's heroine! The military that had beaten back the scum, the marauders, the grays, the cyborgs. The military that had birthed legendary warriors like Marco Emery, Addy Linden, Lailani de la Rosa—war heroes everyone on Earth idolized. As a child, Etty had hung posters of those heroes on her bedroom walls.
The first day Etty had donned this uniform, her chest had swelled with pride. She had felt like Einav Ben-Ari, the Golden Lioness.
Now Etty ripped the insignia off her sleeves. She threw the chevrons at the charred forests.
Then, after a moment's thought, she ripped off the entire battlesuit. She tossed it aside, remaining in her undershirt and boxer shorts. To hell with it.
A donkey brayed.
A man sang.
Wood rattled.
Etty turned. A cart was trundling along the dirt road. Peasants sat inside, huddled together. They were bandaged. Some were scarred with burns. All seemed to be starving. The cart driver was an old man with a long white beard. He sang a sad song of Bahay.
Behind the cart walked many other peasants. A hundred or more. They wore rags. A few of the children were naked. Everyone was scarred, burnt, cut. Many were diseased. One child stumbled and fell. She was too thin, maybe dying. A man lifted her, shuffled onward.
Etty approached the group.
"Who are you?"
A few peasants recoiled.
"An Earthling!"
"Run!"
"She'll hurt us!"
"I won't hurt you," Etty said. "I'm no longer a soldier."
They cast fearful looks at her rifle.
"With those weapons, you slaughter us!" said an old woman.
"With this weapon, I will protect you," Etty said. "I'm going to Mindao. Can I join you?"
Gradually they accepted her, and Etty walked with them. A young mother walked beside Etty, holding her baby. The baby was deformed. Its eyes bugged out, nearly popping from the sockets. Its head tapered into a point. It kept crying.
Poisoned, Etty knew.
Another mother walked ahead. She looked so young, barely into her teens. Yet she too had a baby. This baby was healthy, but it had blond hair and blue eyes. A mixed child. A mestizo. A child of rape, born of a Bahayan girl and an Earthling soldier. It would not have an easy life, perhaps no easier than those kissed by Mister Weird.
A young boy walked beside Etty. He had one leg, and he limped on crutches. He spoke of a battle in the jungle, of dead brothers.
A hundred people walked here—and each one had a story. A tragedy. And Etty felt at home with them. She felt like she belonged here. More than she had ever belonged in the Human Defense Force. More than she had ever belonged in America. She was not a Bahayan, but nor did she feel like an Earthling. Not anymore.
I'm just an empty husk in the wind, Etty thought. I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm already dead.
They shuffled forward. Refugees. The undead.
As the days went by, they kept singing. Even wounded, starving, mourning—the people sang. They embraced. Held hands. Comforted one another. Carried those who collapsed. Buried those who died. They moved ever onward. They clung to hope.
I was wrong, Etty thought.
They were not the undead. She herself was not dead already. She realized that they were more alive than they had ever been. They were life triumphant. They were survivors. They were the true spirit of humanity that craved life, that fought for life through the unbearable darkness. And she was proud to walk among these refugees, for here on this sundering world, they were more noble than the mightiest brigade of soldiers.
She reached into her pocket, and she felt the codechip there. A little data file, containing the photos from Santa Rosa. The evidence of Earth's cruelty. Evidence she had to share.
She walked onward, weak but in many ways stronger than ever. They saw it in the distance past smoke and scattered fires—Mindao, the great city in the south. Etty walked with more vigor.
From here I will unleash the truth like a dove from an ark. I must send these photos home.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Etty's Sacrifice
"Maria, Maria!" The child ran toward her, barefoot. "Maria, you must come to the Go Go Cowgirl at once."
Maria was in an alleyway, feeding soup to hungry orpha
ns. She often came to these alleys, bringing not only her camera but food and clean water, whatever she could collect from the clubs. Millions of children lived in Mindao, most of them homeless, many of them orphaned. They were everywhere. They begged outside the neon clubs. They huddled in alleyways or hid in shanties. They slept along the train tracks, waiting to run alongside any train that rolled by, to beg for scraps, to catch whatever passengers threw. They crawled over landfills, seeking bones and peels to eat.
Maria could not save them all. Not speak to them all. She could record a few of their stories. She could give what little she had. She could save a life, maybe two, bringing an orphan back from the brink of starvation.
But if she wanted to truly save this world, she needed to end this war.
She needed to shame Earth.
She needed to bring Hale down.
And so Holy Maria walked the alleyways, feeding, healing, listening. Recording.
Now a child ran toward her, out of breath, eyes wide. "Maria, Maria! You must come now! To the Go Go!"
Maria recognized the child. One of Charlie's boys. He was mestizo, the son of an Earthling soldier. He had the dark, almond-shaped eyes of a Bahayan, but his hair was brown instead of black, and his skin was pale. He was a beautiful boy but doomed to a life of hardship. Even among the poorest Bahayans, mestizos were a class below, the untouchables among the untouchables.
I wonder what my child with Jon will look like. She placed her hand on her belly. Will he have Bahayan eyes like mine, or round blue eyes like Jon's? Will he have brown skin like mine, or white skin like his? Will he look like this boy who runs to me?
"Rodrigo, what is it?" Maria said.
"Come, Maria! My mom says you need to come!"
The boy turned and ran out of the alley. Maria hesitated for a moment. Ernesto had already visited the Go Go Cowgirl once. Would he be waiting there? Was this a trap?
I'll take that chance, Maria decided. She patted her skirt, feeling the pistol strapped to her leg. If Ernesto was there, good. She would finish this.
She ran, following the boy.
They ran down the Blue Boulevard, the city's entertainment strip. It looked so different during the day. At night, this was a dizzying wonderland of neon and music, of bargirls strutting in miniskirts, or drunken soldiers carousing, hunting for booze and flesh. The poverty of the city disappeared during those nights, fading behind the neon glow. But now, in the daylight, it was everywhere. Now, with the neon signs dimmed, Maria could see the concrete foundations of the clubs, decaying and stained. She could see the rusty balconies. Half-completed upper floors. Roofs of rusting steel held down by tires. She could see the poor beggars lying on the curb. It all seemed not only poorer but smaller somehow, the boulevard narrow, the buildings squat, a place of bitter reality after a fanciful dream.
But the street was unusually subdued, even for the daytime. Normally countless people bustled here back and forth, day and night, frenzied bees in a field of intoxicating nectar. But now people were gathering outside shops and kiosks and clubs. A few radios were on, leaking snippets of crackly news reports.
"… across the northern border. Early reports say the massacre has claimed…" The radio crackled, muffling a few words. "The Luminous Army had vowed retaliation, and—" More static. "South Bahayan President Santiago is expected to make a statement in—"
Maria kept running, following the boy. She could hear no more.
They approached the Go Go Cowgirl. The club, so flashy at night, seemed particularly miserable during the day. Just a decaying box of concrete and plywood, rotting away. The cowgirl sign, which at night draped the club with a luminous garment of particolored light, was now dark. A few of the unanos—the club's midget boxers—sat on the curb, snorting shabu, wasting away their paltry earnings.
Maria stepped inside to find a club like a graveyard. There was no music. No dancing.
The Magic Man and his bargirls sat at a booth, surrounding a shadowy figure. The Magic Man turned toward Maria, and she paused, expecting him to grab her, to chastise her for fleeing his club. But he only gave her a somber look, then turned his back to her.
Maria approached slowly, her heart thudding.
She joined the other girls at the booth, and then she saw the shadowy stranger.
It was an Earthling soldier. A young woman with black hair, skin as dark as a Bahayan's, and startlingly green eyes, as large and bright as a tarsier's.
"Etty!" Maria said, gasping. "You're back!"
Etty looked up, and Maria took a step back.
She clutched her cross. My God.
The young Earthling looked like she had been to hell and back. Her eyes, once full of light and laughter, now seemed dead. Bruises and scratches marred her face and arms.
"Maria," she whispered.
Charlie rose from the table. The beautiful bargirl, queen of the cowgirls, stared at Maria with mournful eyes. She stepped closer and held Maria's hand.
"Come, little sister," she said. "Sit with us. Etty has a tale to tell." She wiped a tear from her eye. "And you need to record it."
Maria sat with the others, and she pulled out her camera.
And Etty spoke.
For a long time, Maria listened and filmed. And her tears flowed.
Etty spoke of the massacre at Santa Rosa.
She spoke of the hundreds of dead.
She spoke of the rape. The soldiers laughing as they shot babies. As they dumped corpses into wells.
She spoke of a village wiped out.
And she showed them the photos.
"Jon took these," she whispered, looking at Maria. "Your husband is a good man. He wanted the world to know."
Maria looked at the first photo. Bodies strewn across a road, piled up. Babies on top.
She wept.
"I left," Etty said. "I ran. I had to run. I couldn't be part of this army anymore." She cradled a mug of beer, not drinking. "I had to leave. I had to tell you. Earth must know."
"Earth will know," Maria vowed.
The club's front door banged open.
Several Military Police officers stormed inside, guns drawn.
The Magic Man hopped to his feet, his golden chains jangling. "What are you doing in here? This is a private club! This—" When a gun pointed at him, the pimp cringed. "Um, I will go… get you some beers. Bye bye!"
With a flash of his purple coat, he retreated into the kitchen. They heard him storm out the back door.
The Military Police stomped toward the booth.
"Corporal Ettinger?" one said, voice emerging metallic from his helmet. "Come with me."
Etty sat still, head lowered, staring into her mug.
Maria leaped to her feet and faced the police. They towered above her. She barely even reached their shoulders. But she stood firmly before them, chin raised.
"You'll have to get through me first."
Charlie looked at the scene, and her eyes seemed sad. Then they hardened, and she stood up too.
"And through me."
The other bargirls all rose, hands on hips.
"Get lost, pute!" one bargirl said, an eyebrow raised.
"Yeah, get out of here!" said another bargirl, chin thrust out.
"Out of our club."
"Get off this world!"
"Earthlings go home!"
The chant spread among the bargirls. "Earthlings go home! Earthlings go home!"
The soldiers cocked their guns. They aimed the barrels at the bargirls.
Maria found herself staring into an open muzzle.
Fear flooded her, but she refused to back down.
She drew her own gun, and—
"Wait." Etty stood up. "I'll go with them. It's all right, girls. I knew what I was getting into. I went AWOL. That makes me a criminal."
She held out her wrists. The military police handcuffed her and grabbed her arms.
As they led Etty away, Maria ran after them, clutching the damning photos against her chest. On the side
walk, she leaned toward Etty and spoke urgently in her ear.
"I'll let them know, Etty. What happened in the village. What happened to you. I'll let everyone know. You're not alone."
Without anyone seeing, Etty slipped something into Maria's hand. A little piece of metal.
A codechip.
"Get back, slit!" grunted an MP.
The soldier shoved Maria. She hit the ground, banging her tailbone. For long moments, she could barely see or breathe with pain.
When the agony finally cleared, Etty was gone. Maria was left sitting on the curb, the photos scattered around her, shreds of tragedy scuttling across the pavement.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The River
The Bargirl Bureau was giving goodbye kisses when the storm came, both a storm of rain and furious Earth vengeance.
It was a miserable morning in Mindao. Monsoon season had come, and the rain kept falling, washing through the streets, carrying away trash, human waste, and collapsed shanties. Throughout the city, the surviving shanties teetered on stilts, and the water glistened everywhere, silvery and pure and almost beautiful in a city of such decay.
The city shut down during a monsoon. Streets flooded, pulling jeepneys and rickshaws downstream like a child sweeping aside colorful blocks. A few intrepid people built makeshift rafts from particleboard, and they rowed back and forth, rescuing stranded orphans and cats stuck on rusty roofs. In a few days, Maria knew, the water would recede and the people would rebuild. They would collect driftwood, metal sheets, and windblown scraps of tarpaulin, and the stilts would rise anew, and new shanties would pop up like mushrooms after the rain. The people of Bahay would survive and move on.
If only we can survive this war too, Maria thought. We are sturdy people. We are brave and optimistic and industrious. We are only Bahayans, not mighty Earthlings with their towering height, big muscles, and clever technology. We are lowly compared to those gods. But even the mightiest hurricane blows over. Even the wettest monsoon floats away on the wind. Like a storm, their empire will scatter in the wind, and the sun will shine again. And we will live on.
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