The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  She tore free from him, and she ran.

  She ran through the banana plantation, eyes damp.

  She ran across the rice paddies, splashing through the water, ignoring the women who called after her.

  She ran from the dead Earthling. From the mangled plane. From her betrothed. She ran but her world was so small—this valley, these terraces, and beyond them the mountains and the vastness of the jungle, sprawling toward the northern fire.

  We should have let the plane fly on, she thought. Let it cross the mountains and crash into the sea. We shot down a plane, and we brought the war to this oasis, and I will never forget what I saw today.

  Chapter Three

  In the Maple Tree Shade

  A day before they were drafted, before they flew into space to kill and maybe die, they decided to get tattoos.

  "They're forever, you know." George shifted his considerable weight from side to side, hesitant. "Once you get a tattoo, it's for life."

  Jon patted his giant friend on the shoulder. "George, old friend, we'll probably be dead within a year. Life ain't that long."

  They were walking down a sunny street in Lindenville, New Jersey. Two boys. Jon—spindly like a beanstalk. George—like the giant the proverbial beanstalk led to. Two childhood friends. Best friends. Tomorrow the army would take them both.

  Kaelyn walked with them, rolling her eyes. She was only seventeen, too young for the army. In a year, she would be drafted too. Maybe she would join them in the jungle. And maybe she would cry over their graves.

  "You're an eternal fountain of optimism, Jon." Kaelyn brushed back strands of her long red hair. "You won't even have to shoot the enemy. Just talk to them, and you'll drive them to suicide."

  "Or play them that first draft of Falling Like the Rain's overture," George muttered.

  Jon gasped at his giant friend. "Et tu, George? I thought you liked the original overture!"

  "It had a horns section, dude," George said. "We're a metal band."

  "A symphonic metal band," Jon said.

  Kaelyn snickered. "The horns sounded more like an air raid siren than a symphony."

  Jon raised his hands. "God, both of you! Get off my ass, Waldorf and Statler. The horns only sounded bad because I had to approximate the sound with my keyboards. I'm telling you, eventually we'll get real horn players, and—"

  "Dude, we don't even have a bass player," George said. "And you're thinking of a horn section!"

  No, we don't have a bass player, Jon thought. Or a guitarist. Not anymore.

  The three fell silent. They were all thinking the same thing, Jon knew. They were all remembering Paul.

  They kept walking the streets of Lindenville, their little hometown. They had been born here, grown up here, founded Symphonica here. And over the past few years, they had watched the town change. The war was raging in space, many light-years away, yet the grief was everywhere. Paper stars hung in house windows. Some were golden stars, symbolizing soldiers fighting on Bahay. Others were purple stars, symbolizing fallen heroes. Almost every house had a star in its window.

  My house has a purple star for my brother, Jon thought. Soon it will have a golden star for me. And maybe eventually two purple stars will hang in my window, and my parents will be alone, and people will hang their heads low as they walk by my home. But they will not drop in to comfort my parents. They will walk on by, too afraid, too hurt to face the grief.

  Jon tried to push that thought aside. To tell himself that he would survive. After all, many soldiers came home from the war. He saw them sometimes heading toward the veterans' legion down Petty Street. Some on crutches. Others in wheelchairs. Some still whole but staring ten thousand miles away. They came home alive. But nobody came home unchanged.

  I made a promise to Kaelyn, Jon thought. That I will stay pure. Stay who I am. If I ever come home, I must come home as the person I am now. As Jon Taylor the composer. The leader of Symphonica. The artist writing a rock opera. I must not change, must not come home a broken veteran like those who drink in the bars and sleep on the sidewalks. I must stay who I am. Or let that second purple star hang in the window.

  The three friends walked by an old bakery, and they saw a veteran lying on a piece of cardboard. This was a middle class town, its houses large, its streets clean, but every day more veterans came. Not just veterans fresh from the battlefields but older veterans too. Many came from nearby New York City, haunted and broken and seeking a safe sidewalk to sleep on, a kind soul to toss them a coin, maybe to listen to their tale.

  But the three friends walked by, silent, blushing, barely even glancing at the homeless veteran. Jon wondered if someday people would walk by him in the same awkward silence.

  They walked onward. The tattoo parlor was only a few blocks away, but it felt like the longest walk of Jon's life.

  They were downtown now. Cafes, shops, and other small businesses lined the street. Recruitment posters covered their walls.

  "SMACK 'EM DOWN!" announced one poster. "JOIN THE LIGHT INFANTRY MARINES!"

  The poster showed several brave marines leaping from a dropship, guns ablaze. Bahayans were drawn cowering between the trees, their eyes mere slits, their skin the color of mustard, their lips adorned with Fu Manchu mustaches. Caricatures. Barely human.

  "TREAT 'EM TOUGH!" read another poster. "FIGHT WITH THE ARTILLERY!"

  This poster featured Ensign Earth, an all-American folk hero, leaning against a cannon, smiling and giving the thumbs up.

  Jon looked at another poster.

  "BE A LEADER OF MEN. JOIN JULIUS MILITARY ACADEMY. CADET LOANS AVAILABLE."

  Jon didn't like any of those options. He didn't want to be infantry, or artillery, or an officer. Hopefully, they would let him serve in a marching band. Armies had marching bands, didn't they? It wouldn't be Symphonica, but it was still music. And more importantly, it seemed like a good way to survive. Jon had seen many war films, but he had never seen an army band march into battle.

  "The army still has marching bands, right?" he asked.

  George nodded. "Sure. Maybe they even have a horn section."

  Jon punched the larger boy. "Shut up."

  That broke a little bit of the tension. George smiled hesitantly. Kaelyn laughed. And for a moment, just a few breaths, they forgot about the stars in the windows, the veterans on the street, and the posters on the walls. And they were just friends again. Just Symphonica out for a stroll.

  The fear came back, of course. It was never far. But for the briefest while, they had smiled. They had laughed. And that comforted Jon.

  "Ah, here we are!" Jon pointed. "Our friendly neighborhood tattoo parlor."

  George stopped on the street, blanching. "Do tattoos hurt?"

  Jon snorted. "For God's sake, man, you're taller than an NBA player, weigh a metric ton, and give children nightmares. And you're scared of a tiny little needle?"

  The giant gulped. "Yes. I'm pretty much scared of everything. I never asked to be this big, you know. It was a brain tumor that made me grow."

  "Yeah, well, if you survived a brain tumor, a needle ain't shit," Jon said. "Come on, buddy. All three of us. We're doing this. We're getting Symphonica tattoos. Tomorrow…" He had to take a shaky breath. "Tomorrow we'll be separated from Kaelyn, you and I. And who knows what'll happen? Who knows where we'll end up? But with matching tattoos, well… Wherever we end up in the galaxy, we can look at them. And we'll know they link us together. We'll remember this place. Our music. Our friendship. We'll remember who we are." He smiled softly at Kaelyn. "We'll stay pure."

  Her mismatched eyes shone, one brown and one blue, and both so kind. She gave him the slightest of nods and the warmest of smiles.

  "All right, you talked me into it," George said. "You sentimental prick."

  Jon grinned at his oversized friend. "Love ya too, you giant ginger jerk."

  Kaelyn rolled her eyes.

  They entered the tattoo parlor. They showed their design to the tattoo artist. The logo o
f their band. The word Symphonica written in stylized font, a clef forming the S. Kaelyn went first, handling the pain well, and Jon followed. While the other two went under the needle, George kept trembling. At one point he tried to flee the shop, only for them to drag him back. When finally George sat in the chair, barely squeezing in, he whimpered and cried out, "It hurts!"

  "Oh for Chrissake, the needle hasn't even touched you yet," Jon said.

  George clenched his jaw and gripped the armrests so tightly he cracked them, but he got through it somehow.

  He'll have to toughen up, Jon thought, looking at his gargantuan friend. We all will. Or we won't last long out there. The jungles of Bahay are cruel and dark, and the enemy wields more than needles.

  "I did it!" George beamed. "I did it, guys!" He flexed his enormous arm, showing off the tattoo. "Do I look tough?"

  "You should have gotten a skull and bones if you wanted to look tough," Kaelyn said.

  Jon laughed. "George, a beast your size—you could get a winged pony tattoo and you'd look terrifying. Just don't let the enemy see you sniffle at the sight of a needle, and you'll be fine."

  "Sorry." George lowered his eyes. "I couldn't help it. I hate needles."

  For a moment, they were all silent. Images flashed through Jon's mind. Clips he had seen on the news. The enemy firing artillery shells. Booby traps in the jungle, filled with poisonous blades. Hailstorms of bullets and raging fire.

  "George," he said softly, and he touched his friend's arm. "Up there, I'll look after you. I promise. I'm going to make sure you survive. That you come home with me."

  George let out a huge sniffle. "Same to you, buddy. We'll look after each other. We'll come home."

  The tattoo artist, who was trying to fix his cracked chair, looked up at them. "You two shipping off to Bahay?"

  "We're being drafted tomorrow," Jon said. "Unless we shoot off a foot or hand by then, we're jungle meat."

  The tattoo artist gave them a solemn salute. "Respect. I got two brothers on Bahay. One in the marines. The other flying junglers. I want to see you two back here in my shop, getting more tattoos after the war. These ones were on the house." He winked. "Kill some slits for me, huh?"

  Kaelyn opened her mouth to object, but at a look from Jon, she closed it. They left the shop.

  "War no more!"

  The cry washed over them, coming from many voices at once.

  "War no more! War no more!"

  They came walking down Main Street, twenty-odd people holding placards. Jon read some of the signs.

  BRING THE TROOPS HOME

  END THE COLONY WAR

  WHY DO WE DIE ON Bahay?

  PRESIDENT HALE BELONGS IN JAIL!

  A man with dreadlocks, a vintage coat, and a long beard led the protest. He spoke into a megaphone.

  "What is happening on Bahay is not a just war. It's a massacre! It's a war of conquest! When Ben-Ari was our president, we never fought other humans. Hale must stand trial for war crimes! War no more!"

  The crowd behind kept the chant going, placards raised high. "War no more! War no more! Hale to jail! Hale to jail!"

  Symphonica stood outside the tattoo parlor, watching the demonstrators walk by.

  Jon couldn't help it. Anger rose through him, and he clenched his fists. "Look at them. Traitors."

  George's cheeks flushed red. "They're defending Bahayans. Can you believe it? The bastards who killed Paul."

  The bearded demonstrator raised his fist. "All youths of Lindenville, hear me! Reject the draft! Go to prison if you must. But do not fly to Bahay! Freedom for Bahay! Freedom for—"

  "Hey, guy—shut up!" Jon said.

  "Jon!" Kaelyn said, reaching for him.

  But Jon dodged her hand and rushed onto the street. He stood before the demonstrators, blocking their way.

  "Why don't you bastards shut the hell up?" Jon said, anger flowing through him, spinning his head. "You're talking like goddamn traitors."

  The crowd began to boo. To toss things at Jon. A few raised their fists, seeming ready to fight.

  But the bearded ringleader waved them down. "Enough! Let the boy speak." He turned toward Jon. "Did you receive a draft notice, son?"

  "Yes, and I'm happy about it!" Jon lied. "Nobody likes war. But we have to fight for Earth! To serve our planet!"

  The bearded man raised an eyebrow. "Is that what your parents taught you?"

  "My parents lost a son in the war!" Jon blurted out, eyes suddenly stinging. "My brother went to Bahay to help. To liberate the colony from the aliens. And the slits killed him. They…"

  The street was suddenly swaying around him. Maybe it was the joint they had shared that morning before getting tattoos. Maybe it was the heat of the day. Maybe it was just the grief, the terror, and the shame.

  Jon could say no more. His head swam. He turned and fled.

  For a long time, he ran blindly, the town spinning around him.

  His friends found him on Church Hill. He sat on the bench by the ancient stone church. The maple tree shaded him. It was the same tree where he and his brother used to play. The leaves rustled in the wind, and the robins sang, and it was beautiful, and it was music, and Jon knew that he would never see this beauty again.

  I will return killed or killer, he thought. I can't keep my promise.

  George was trying to run uphill toward him, cheeks red. Halfway up, the giant paused, doubled over, and wheezed.

  Kaelyn climbed to the hilltop, her white dress and red hair fluttering in the breeze. Dapples of sunlight fell between the leaves, mottling her freckled skin. Kaelyn Williams. His soprano and muse. As she approached through beams of light, pollen glistening around her, she seemed to Jon an angel, welcoming him to the afterlife. Perhaps he was dead already.

  She sat beside him and placed a hand on his thigh. He gazed in wonder into her mismatched eyes. In the sunlight, her brown eye turned hazel, flecked with green, like a forest in her soul. Her blue eye was a sea crested with foam, leading to distant lands of faerie.

  "Jon," she whispered, and a tear fled her blue eye, a drop from her sea.

  He reached up to caress her hair, and she leaned forward, and they kissed. Just a soft peck on the lips, mouths closed, but so soft and warm, and Jon knew he would always feel that kiss, always remember this moment. It was his first kiss.

  She was Paul's girlfriend. Had been Paul's girlfriend. But now she was kissing him, and it was wrong, but tender and sweet, and Jon knew it would forever haunt him.

  "Think of me up there," Kaelyn whispered. "In the darkness of space, or in the heat of the jungle, think of me. Remember today. I'll be here waiting for you."

  George finally reached the hilltop, flushed and wheezing, sweat dampening his shirt. He spilled onto the bench beside them, nearly shattering it.

  "Goddamn, what a climb." The giant wiped sweat off his brow. "They don't have hills on Bahay, do they?"

  "Mostly mountains," Jon said. "You'll be fine."

  "Just my luck," said George. "Can't we go to war on some flat planet instead? Ideally one with taco bars on every block."

  "Next time I talk to President Hale, I'll ask," Jon said.

  The sun began to set, shining in the stained glass windows of the nearby church. They went home.

  Jon didn't expect to sleep much. Not tonight, his last night as a civilian. Yet as he lay in bed, he remembered Kaelyn kissing his lips, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  His alarm clock woke him at dawn.

  It was time to rise.

  Time to become a soldier.

  Time for war.

  Chapter Four

  Saint Elmo's Fire

  Maria only slowed down when she reached the village huts. Trembling, she walked down the dirt paths, and her heart pounded against her ribs. She forced herself to take deep breaths, to focus on the present moment, on her surroundings, to let the trauma fade. It was a technique she had invented during the long nights when she was so afraid. Just to breathe. To focus on her s
ensations. To live only in the now, a realm with no memory nor worries for the future. To calm down, because her insides often felt like a sea of warring serpents.

  San Luna was a humble village. A hundred nipa huts rose here, sometimes known as bahay kubo—country houses. Each family built their own dwelling, inspired by the traditional huts of the Philippines, their ancestral homeland. The huts balanced atop wooden stilts, protecting them from floodwaters during the monsoon season, as well as rats and mice. The walls were bamboo, and fronds from the nipa tree formed the roofs, giving the huts their name. They were just crude dwellings. Sometimes the monsoons swept them away, stilts and all, and sometimes the typhoons knocked them down, but the villagers always rebuilt.

  They were not helpless here. True, they did not have starships like Earthlings, but the Bahayans had some technology too. They had a generator in the village square, and the big rusty box kept humming and vibrating, pumping electricity to a network of cables that stretched over the village like cobwebs. The constant hum of electricity comforted Maria. It reminded her of many crickets chirping in the night, and she imagined a kingdom of them living, working, and singing inside the machine, generating sparks of electricity with their serrated little legs. It kept the village alive. The villagers could listen on the radio to reports on the war. They could power the rice threshers, rumbling machines that separated grains from husks. The wealthy Santos family even had an air conditioner, a rusty old machine that made an awful racket, and which Ernesto often boasted of. He had promised her an air conditioner in their future home. Maria would prefer the heat of hellfire.

  From a plane flying above, it was probably hard to see the village—even with the crackling electric cables. There were a hundred trees for every hut. Papaya trees filled the air with their sweet scent. The fronds of palm trees hung heavy with fruit. Orange and coconut trees grew in yards. Tarsiers hung from the branches, feasting on insects, protecting the precious fruit. The animals' huge eyes, shockingly large in their furry little heads, peered curiously.