The giant was heaving, bleeding through cracks in his armor. Jon grabbed him, pulled his friend along. His head swam with pain. He clung to consciousness like a drowning man clinging to a wet rope.
Ahead, Earth's tanks were firing their cannons. Blast after blast shook the world. Jon and George ran. Other soldiers were running all around, hunched over. One man had no arms. Another was crawling, legless. A few stood in the open, returning fire, only for the shells to tear them apart. One young private just stood there, dazed, looking around with glazed eyes, whimpering for his mother.
We're sitting ducks, Jon thought.
George was limping, leaning on Jon. The weight nearly crushed him. But the two friends made it behind the tanks. Jon would prefer a bunker, but a tank was the best cover he would find now.
They collapsed, coughing, bleeding. Jon examined his wounded hand and winced. It was still spurting blood. With every movement, bolts of pain shot up his arm. This was not a trivial wound, and he prayed an artery wasn't severed. He needed a medic. But he had no time for that now.
Another shell exploded. Another. Nearby, a tank burst into flames. Soldiers emerged from within, screaming, cloaked in fire. The other tanks were still pounding the enemy.
Jon crawled along a tank's treads, sheltering behind the armored vehicle, and peered at the defensive wall. Or at least what remained of it—just a pile of wood, barbed wire, and corpses.
A strange silence fell upon the battle.
The enemy lasers and shells stopped firing.
The wind rustled the ashes, and a distant soldier wept.
Then a chant rose. Boots thudded. And the Bahayan infantry began marching into Camp Apollo.
* * * * *
"The Red Cardinal isn't playing around," George muttered, crouched behind the tank. Shrapnel sprouted from his armor like porcupine quills.
Jon pulled a bandage from his pocket, wrapped it around his mutilated hand, and winced. The pain nearly blinded him. He had a hole in his palm like a crucified man. But the bleeding stopped for now. Gritting his teeth, Jon managed to shoulder and aim his rifle.
Hundreds of enemy troops were marching across the ruins. Santelmos hovered above them like flares.
Jon opened fire.
Across the devastation, his fellow Earthlings shouted and fired their own guns.
In the sky above, balisongs and Falcon fighters swirled and slammed together.
Laser blasts lit the sky. Flames and blood washed over the world.
Jon emptied a magazine, pounding the enemy troops. His bullets sparked off their black and red armor. Only one Bahayan fell.
The other Bahayans turned toward Jon. Their red visors stared from their black helmets like demonic eyes. Their suits looked similar to what Jon wore: formfitting, enhanced with graphene scales and plates. But while his armor was blue like Earth, theirs was black like the basalt of Basilica. Some had male forms. Others had female forms. But to Jon, they all seemed like demons risen from the underworld.
Their rifles cast red lasers, seeking targets. Then they opened fire.
Jon scurried behind the tank. Bullets pinged against it. George knelt beside him, groaning.
An explosion bloomed above, a red rose in the sky. Shrapnel rained. A Falcon starfighter streaked downward like a comet, leaving a trail of smoke, and a blast rocked the camp. The ground shook. The cannons kept booming, and the boots kept marching. More and more enemy infantry marched into the base.
Jon leaned around the tank again.
"Jon, get back here!" George said. "Stop peeking! Curiosity killed the cat."
"I gotta see!" Jon insisted.
And he saw. He saw the enemy come closer. A squad of Bahayans was approaching the tank, only meters away.
Jon slammed in a new magazine and unleashed hell. His bullets hit one Bahayan in the chest. She fell, armor dented. Her helmet muffled her scream. The other Bahayans returned fire. A bullet slammed into Jon's shoulder, denting the armored plate, and shoved him a foot back. Another bullet grazed his helmet, ringing his head like a bell.
Jon retreated. He crouched behind the tank, ears ringing, head pounding. The bullet had dented his shoulder plate. The pain stretched across his chest. Even worse, the hole in his hand was bleeding again. His head spun, and the world seemed hazy.
Don't pass out now, he told himself.
Men and women ran everywhere, firing at one another. A corpse fell beside Jon. Somebody was fighting on top of the tank. Blood dripped. A helicopter exploded, and corpses rained. Santelmos streaked everywhere like stars, plowing through troops, leaving corpses full of smoking holes.
Jon stayed behind the tank, rifle clutched in his bloodied hands. That enemy squad was still there. Just around the tank. He had taken down only one soldier.
Jon could hear the others. Boots thudding. Armor clattering. They were coming closer.
He took a deep breath and raised his rifle.
Two enemies emerged around the tank.
Jon fired on automatic. He tore through one man's wrist, destroying the hand. He pounded the second man's head, shattering his visor. Both soldiers fell.
More Bahayans ran around the tank, howling for death.
Jon's magazine was empty. He reached for a new one, but it slipped from his bloody hand.
George roared, stood above him, and fired his rifle. Bullets pounded the enemy. The Bahayans turned their rifles on the giant. George cried out, bullets sparking against his armor, but stayed standing.
My friend is Goliath, Jon thought. It would take a bullet between his eyes to knock him down.
Finally, bloodied hand and all, Jon managed to reload. He opened fire.
He only got off a single shot. Another bullet hit him, cracking the armor on his chest, knocking him down. He was running low on armored plates and was starting to feel like a cracked egg. He lay on his back, groaning.
I'm a regular Humpty Dumpty, he thought.
Before any horses could attempt to piece him back together, a Bahayan leaped onto him.
The enemy soldier screamed. A high-pitched scream. A woman's scream.
He could see her face through the red visor. Her features twisted with rage. She raised a knife, and the blade sparked with electricity, thrumming with white light. It blinded him.
"Mamatay, pute!" she screamed, driving the blade downward.
Jon caught her wrist. She howled, voice torn with hatred. They struggled. The blade was an inch from his face, ready to carve through his visor.
His opponent was half his size, just a petite Bahayan woman. But she was so strong. Gears turned and servos hummed along her armor. It was some kind of power suit, giving her extra strength. The woman probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, but she fought with the strength of a prizefighter.
The blade came down.
Jon rolled, and the knife sank into the earth, sizzling hot.
He slammed his elbow into the woman's face, cracking her visor. She fell onto her side.
Jon rose and aimed his rifle at her. Her visor hung loose. He saw her face.
She looked just like Maria.
So much that for a horrible instant Jon thought it was Maria.
But no—it was another Bahayan woman. Jon was starting to feel a little bit racist—not all Bahayans looked alike, he reminded himself. Before more guilt could fill him, the woman screamed and drew her knife from the ground. The blade thrummed, burning off the coating of soil.
For a split second, Jon hesitated. He didn't want to kill a woman. He had never killed a woman before.
But then she thrust her knife upward, and Jon opened fire.
His bullets tore into her head.
Moving on momentum alone, her blade scraped across Jon's breastplate. It seared through graphene like a soldering iron, almost reaching his flesh.
And then the electric knife fell with her lifeless hand.
I'm sorry, Jon thought, looking at her shattered face, at the chunk of bones and meat that had once looked so much
like Maria. I'm so sorry.
"Jon!"
George was shouting somewhere in the distance. Jon's ears rang. They felt full of cotton. He looked around him, and the world was a haze. He saw a shell slam into a platoon, scattering limbs and heads. He saw a man running, arms gone. He saw a woman crawling, begging, calling for her mother. He saw men climbing from an armacar, burning, racing like living torches into the enemy lines. He saw a helicopter crash and burn, and the rotor blades tore free and mowed through men.
Blue uniforms. Black uniforms. All humans. All dying. All the same in the fire.
But not everyone was human here. A Santelmo streaked by, leaving a trail of light. The glowing orb plowed into a platoon, carving through men like a flaming star. Jon unleashed on it, emptying a magazine into the luminous sphere. The Santelmo shrieked like a wounded animal, then went dark, revealing its true form. It was just a small black lump, barely larger than a heart, with long spidery limbs stretching out every which way. It crashed down, its tentacles curling inward, and died.
More were already rising behind it.
"Jon, run!" George pulled him. They raced between the tanks. An instant later, a balisong flew above, and a bomb exploded where they had stood. A tank rose into the air, slammed down hard, and cracked open. An entire tank—flung like a toy.
"This isn't a battle, George," Jon muttered. "This is hell."
"Look at the bright side, buddy!" George said. "At least the Bahayans don't have nukes. If they did, we'd be dead already."
"Oh, yes, we're totally lucky." Jon grimaced, fished through his med kit, and wrapped a fresh bandage around his hand. "We'll just get torn limb by limb, screaming in horror. Much more pleasant."
A Falcon flashed above, painted Earth-blue, and unleashed a missile. In the distance, an enemy blimp exploded. Flames spread across the entire balloon, a sphere of fire in the sky like a collapsing sun. Soldiers of both armies pointed and shouted. Jon used the distraction to aim his rifle, to fire at a Bahayan squad. Two soldiers fell.
The squad survivors turned toward Jon, guns blazing. Jon and George ran and knelt behind a tank. Bullets sparked off the hull and fragments whizzed every which way. The tank's cannon boomed, and the enemy screamed. When Jon peeked again, the squad was gone. There was only a crater.
Jon began to feel a little hope. Earth's troops were reorganizing. The infantry was firing from behind the cover of tanks and armacars. The cannons were still pounding the enemy. The Falcons streaked overhead, battling the enemy air force.
We're outnumbered and surrounded, but we won't go down easily, Jon thought.
Then he heard the motors humming.
Men screamed.
The ground shook, and long shadows fell.
The mechas entered the battlefield.
Chapter Five
A Corner of Heaven
Maria walked through paradise, gazing with wide eyes.
The splendor left her breathless.
A graveled path stretched before her, lined with flowerbeds. Palm trees stood in neat rows, as straight as soldiers, their fronds shading bundles of fruit. A peacock ambled across manicured lawns. Maria had seen the wild beauty of the rainforests, perhaps now forever lost, but never such a garden, artwork created by weaving nature like needlepoint threads.
The buildings here seemed just as impressive. They were perhaps built of concrete, a material familiar to Maria, but she had only ever seen raw concrete, weathered and stained with rust and mold. These buildings were painted white, as beautiful as Pilak Mata, the silver moon. Their columns rose like graceful sentinels, and glass windows filled their walls. No rotting plywood, no rusty corrugated steel, no roofs of tarpaulin held down with cable ties. This was nothing like the shantytowns where Maria had spent the past year.
Some of the buildings were clearly administrative, places for senior officers to gather and scheme. That she had expected. But Maria was surprised how many temples rose here in Little Earth. A hundred temples or more, their walls purest white, their roofs tiled red, and lush gardens led to their grand wooden doors. Why would the officers of Earth need so many places of worship?
But then she glanced through a window, saw the furniture, and realized: These were homes.
How could this be? Only churches were this fine, not homes. These buildings were like small cathedrals! Only God deserved to dwell in buildings this fine. Mere mortals only lived in shanties and huts.
But life was different here in Little Earth. Here men were like gods.
Surely, Maria thought, a hundred people lived in each of these grand villas. But when she glanced through another window, she nearly fell with shock.
There was only one bed in each home. Only one couch. Only one table. These palaces weren't just homes. They were homes for individual soldiers.
Was this what Earth looked like? Did Earthlings back home live in such splendor? Were their houses like palaces, their streets so clean, their cities as splendorous as heaven? Did they truly live like kings and queens? Or was this affluence unique to Little Earth?
All this wealth! Maria thought. Spilled here on a war!
This money could have fed all of Mindao. These buildings could house thousands of refugees. Was there no poverty on Earth? No hunger or pain or disease? No problems hungering for money?
Here on this planet of such misery, hunger, despair—Earth's officers had built a corner of paradise. Walking here, one could almost forget that just a few miles north, soldiers were dying by the thousands. That just a few steps south, millions of Bahayans were languishing in the slums.
Little Earth—an island of heaven in a hellish sea.
Maria clenched her fists, rage replacing her awe.
Someday, we the miserable souls of Hell will rise. And on that day, Heaven will burn.
A few soldiers patrolled or stood guard outside these splendorous white mansions. They too wore dress uniforms, the breasts adorned with pins and ribbons. Their cuff links and buttons shone, perhaps forged of real gold. Even their rifles were polished to a sheen, the stocks wooden, the barrels long and slender. These fairy-tale princes looked nothing like the dusty, dirty grunts who filled the Blue Boulevard or fought in the jungles.
This place is not reality, she thought. It's a dream world.
Maria approached the patrolling soldiers.
"Excuse me! I'm here looking for work. Can you direct me to…"
But they marched on by, ignoring her, their every movement like a machine.
She frowned. She walked down a pebbly path, heading toward a house amid palm trees. Maria entered the front yard. The grass was soft under her bare feet, and the scent of lavender and jasmine filled her nostrils.
A woman lay here in a hammock, wearing a straw hat and flowery dress. She was an Earthling woman—she had long limbs, pale skin, and blond hair. Maria thought her very beautiful. The woman didn't notice her. She was busy reading a book and sipping a pink cocktail.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Maria said. "I'm looking for work. Do you know if anyone—"
The woman dropped her drink, nearly fell from her hammock, and screamed.
"Reginald! Reginald!" She tried to hop from her hammock, fell face first onto the grass, and finally scrambled back. "Reginald, damn it, one of your fucking slit whores made it into the compound!"
The house door banged open. A man in a bathrobe emerged, paunchy and gray-haired. He held a newspaper, and he was missing one slipper. He stared at Maria, then groaned.
"Oh for fuck's sake." He shook his head in disgust. "The guards are letting in bargirls again. If I warned them once, I warned them a thousand times." He shooed Maria like a stray dog. "Go, go! Back to the slums with you." He shuffled back indoors, muttering under his breath. "Stray slits sneak in like goddamn mice."
"Shoo, shoo!" his wife cried, hysteria filling her voice. She hurled her glass at Maria. "Get lost, slit!"
Maria fled the yard. Her eyes stung with tears.
It was strange, she thought. She had trudged thro
ugh the jungles, fighting the Earthlings with her rifle. She had fled Ernesto through the shantytown. She had stood on a stage at the Go Go Cowgirl, auctioned off like a piece of meat.
Somehow, this hurt more.
Fleeing that house, tears flowed down her cheeks. Because the colonel and his wife had not just hurt her. They had spat on all Bahayans. They had not mocked her appearance, intelligence, or height—but her race. And that cut deeper than any bullet or blade.
She remembered a phrase an Earthling soldier had taught her at the club.
Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. What a contemptible lie!
As she kept walking through Little Earth, she heard relaxing music, muffled laughter, and clinking dishes. She smelled a savory aroma—foods she did not recognize, perhaps Earthling fare. She followed her nose around a copse of palm trees.
Ahead she saw… she wasn't sure how to describe it. A club? No this was no tacky, rundown club like those lining the Blue Boulevard. No moldy concrete, tangles of electric wires, or graffiti here. A mess hall? Maria had never seen a mess hall, but soldiers often complained about how grungy they were, how they served slop pigs wouldn't eat. This place looked different. More like something Jon had mentioned to her one night, describing the wonders he'd show her on Earth.
"Fine dining," she said to herself, her tongue clumsy around the foreign English words. "Restaurant."
She inched closer, hid behind a frond, and gazed through the restaurant's windows. She beheld palatial splendor. Crystal glasses, wine bottles, and feasts of plenty topped the tables. Maria saw steaming bread and butter, bowls of fruit, roast fowl served on beds of wild vegetables, platters of cheeses—finer food than she had ever eaten. Senior officers and their wives dined inside. The men wore their full regalia, medals clinking on their chests. The wives wore gowns and pearls.
But there weren't only Earthlings inside. Maria also saw Bahayans.
Bahayan musicians stood on a stage, playing Earthling music—a genre called jazz, which Maria had sometimes heard at the clubs. The Bahayans not only played Earth instruments—a piano, a bass, a guitar—but also wore tuxedos. Earth clothes. Other Bahayans, also dressed to the nines, were waiting the tables. Their coat tails hung low, and white cloths draped across their arms.
Earthling's War (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 3) Page 4
