He couldn't help but notice a few discolored circles on the left breastplate. Fixed bullet holes?
He picked a helmet from a rack. It too was used. There were a few scratches on the top, a burn mark on the back, and somebody had etched WAR IS HELL on the side. The helmet was the same color as the armored plates. The visor however was tinted yellow, the only part of the battlesuit that wasn't blue.
It seemed a bit odd to wear blue for a jungle war. Olive green or a camouflage pattern would be better choices. But hey, this was the mighty army of Earth, a galactic empire! An apex predator needed no camouflage! Or something like that. Maybe the army's fashion designer just loved ultramarine.
Ultramarine armor for the ultra marines, Jon thought wryly.
He put on the helmet and examined himself in a mirror. An armored suit, every muscle in the human body forged from deep blue graphene. A helmet with a yellow visor, disturbingly alien, like some insect with a single yellow eye. Jon didn't recognize the man who stared back.
I look like a superhero, he thought. Or alien insect. Or both. Jon Taylor is… the Amazing Bugman!
He smirked. But then he looked again at the buffed out bullet holes. At the etching on his helmet.
WAR IS HELL.
Somebody had fought in this suit. Maybe died in it. And soon Jon would be fighting in this armor too.
A shudder passed through him. The armored plates clanked. Great, so it was blue, and it clattered. What could go wrong?
George thumped toward him, wearing his own battlesuit. It clanked even louder than Jon's. The armored plates, meant to snap together like a puzzle, pulled apart across George's ample body like ice floes on a deep blue ocean, threatening to pop off. It was the biggest battlesuit in the warehouse, and it barely fit.
The two friends looked at each other.
"How do I look?" George said.
"Ridiculous," said Jon.
"Yeah, well, at least I'm not a shaved alpaca with a scrawny neck."
Jon snorted. "At least I'm not a giant ginger in tights."
George blinked, silent for a moment, then began to laugh. And then to cry. And then to laugh and cry at the same time.
Jon patted his friend on the back. And suddenly, bizarrely, he felt good. He had gotten through the morning. He was in the Human Defense Force, and he was alive, and he was well, and he was with his best friend. Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this.
"Come on, buddy," Jon said. "Let's go win this war."
George nodded. "We got this."
They exited the warehouse into a sunlit courtyard. Only hours ago, they had been boys, sporting long hair and heavy metal shirts. Now, just like that, they were soldiers.
Chapter Six
The Songs of Bahay
Maria spent the night in the papaya grove, unable to return home, to face her empty room, to feel the walls closing in around her. Not without Crisanto. Not without her beloved friend. The luminous little alien had fled into the jungle, and her life was dark.
She lay on the crumbly earth among the trees. All night, the planet sang to her. The crickets chirped, a starlit choir. The leaves of the papaya trees rustled. Every once in a while, ripe fruit thudded onto the ground. Frogs trilled. Tarsiers cooed. Beyond the trees, reeds stirred along the riverside, and sleeping geese gave the odd snort.
Yet these were all Earth sounds, taken from the ancestral homeland, a song for a lost planet.
There was a deeper song too.
An alien song.
It came from the jungle. The strange, echoing cries of the glimmerbirds as they glided between the trees, sounds like water dripping into underground pools. A few times—the plaintive call of the mourning monks, furry animals that lived in the branches, shying away from the daylight. Creaking wood. Flowing water. The snapping jaws of bibigpuno leaves. Ancient whispers of spirits.
Two songs have become one, Maria thought. The song of Earth and the song of Bahay, mingling together. Two lines of music braiding into one symphony. For centuries, we've lived in harmony. Now we're fraying apart.
Now the Earthlings had come.
Now fire burned in the north.
Now her dearest companion, her connection to this new world, had fled her.
Finally the two songs lulled her to sleep, but Maria found little comfort in that murky realm. Dreams haunted Maria. Dreams of a man with no face, stomping toward her, his burnt feet scattering teeth like so many marbles. He reached out to her.
"My beloved," the faceless man hissed, but he spoke with Ernesto's voice.
The cock crowed at dawn, waking Maria.
She rose to her feet and brushed dirt off her white baro't saya. The papaya trees rose around her, dappled with sunlight.
Usually in the daylight, Bahay sang a new song, a medley of chirruping birds, laughing children, and singing farmers in the paddies. But this morning, the valley was quiet. The rooster crowed in a silent world like an angel of afterlife summoning forth the souls of the dead.
Maria clutched the cross that hung from her neck.
Something is wrong.
She padded through the grove, as silent as the world. She kept waiting to hear something, even a bird's song or an insect's chirp. Nothing. Nothing but the wind among the papaya trees.
Past the grove, she walked among the nipa huts.
Silence.
An old woman sat outside her bamboo home, weaving traditional t'nalak rugs, which her granddaughter would take downriver to sell in the cities. But the elderly weaver was not humming as usual. Two children sat in a doorway, huddling together, peering with wide eyes. They did not run around and play like on normal days. Young Anna Rodriguez, who normally fed her ducks in the morning, peered between the bamboo branches of her hut. On the hillsides, Maria could see farmers in the rice paddies, but they did not chat or sing as they toiled.
There is evil in the air, Maria thought.
When she reached the village square, she understood why.
She froze, and her heart nearly stopped.
They stood by the pineapple tree. Several strange men. Bahayans, yes, but not from this village. They wore plain white tunics, weathered clogs, and wide straw hats. They were thin, too thin, rawboned and wiry, but there was strength in their ropy limbs and a coldness in their eyes. Rifles hung across their backs. Their faces were hard. Faces likes stones. Like slabs of granite. Like cliffs. Faces of men who had seen the fire. Faces of killers.
They wore no insignia, no symbols, no uniforms. But Maria de la Cruz knew who they were.
Kalayaan, she thought.
Guerrillas. Freedom fighters. Spirits of the jungle.
A shiver ran through her.
Then she noticed that Ernesto stood among the men. Taller, stronger. Their leader. Blood still stained the wooden stock of his rifle—the dead pilot's blood. A clothing iron hung at his side like a satchel. A torture instrument. The Kalayaan sometimes used irons to burn their captives. Maria could practically smell the searing flesh.
Ernesto was from San Luna, had grown up with Maria, with everyone in this village. But seeing him like this, standing among the Kalayaan… it was like seeing a stranger.
Whoever you were, Ernesto—that man died in the jungle, she thought. You've gone savage.
Ernesto looked at her, one eye dark and shrewd, the other white and dead. He smiled at her, but it dripped wickedness.
He stepped onto a tree stump.
"People of San Luna!" he called out, voice ringing across the valley. "Proud Bahayans! A plague has come upon our land. The banyagas from Earth, cruel giants with metal machines, have invaded our beloved homeland. In the north, their planes and starships bomb and burn. In the south, they set up a puppet government, traitors to our world. Only the Kalayaan can defeat the banyagas! Only the Kalayaan can free Bahay! You've all heard of the dead Earthling, killed in this village. War is upon us all now. Join us, proud patriots! Join the Kalayaan!"
Maria shuddered. Every instinct in her body called upon her to fle
e. But she found herself stepping forward.
"We're not part of this war!" she said. "Why do you speak like this? San Luna is a peaceful village, nestled between the mountains. We're farmers and fishermen, not soldiers. Don't you know this? You're no longer one of us, Ernesto. What happened to you in the jungle? You became a different man. Return to your war. Leave us. And don't come back."
Ernesto glared at her. "Who are you to speak for this village? To give me orders?"
"I'm Maria Imelda de la Cruz," she said. "A farmer's daughter. That's all. Must I be more? I speak for myself, but I believe that others feel the same. Why must we fight? We've already lost two villagers to the war. Roberto came back in a coffin. You came back a monster."
Those words hurt to utter. With great sweetness, Maria remembered dear Roberto. Her first betrothed. A man she had loved. He had been kind and gentle—nothing like his younger brother. Both brothers had left San Luna to fight. But Roberto had fought because he loved Bahay. Ernesto fought because he hated Earth. To Maria, that made all the difference.
The kind brother died, she thought. And the cruel one inherited three fishing boats, an air conditioner, and me.
A smile twisted Ernesto's sharp face, and he stroked her cheek. The same cheek he had bruised.
"Yes, Maria. I'm a monster. A killer. The weak die in war. Monsters survive."
She refused to be cowed. "Is this why you came back to San Luna? Not to marry me, but to recruit more soldiers. More flesh to feed the beast of war."
A fisherman's son stepped up, no older than fourteen.
"I'll join, Tito Ernesto!" he said.
Another boy ran forward, a rice farmer, thirteen years old, his voice still high. "I'll join too!"
A third boy. "I'll kill the putes likes you, Tito Ernesto! I'll join the Kalayaan."
More villagers approached, vowing to fight Earth. To kill or die for their world.
"You are farmers and fishermen's sons!" Maria said. "How would you fight the Earthlings? They have great machines that can fly among the stars. Huge boxes of metal that can crush trees beneath their treads. They even have strange automatons of metal and cables, no flesh to them at all, yet they walk on two legs like men. Don't you read? Don't you listen to the radio? Don't you know these things? If you fight them, you will die!"
The boys hesitated. They glanced at one another. One took a step back.
But Ernesto just laughed. "My betrothed is fearful! I understand. Her spirit is soft, her heart gentle. But we are strong men! We don't fear the pute machines. What is a machine next to the heart of a warrior, a patriot who fights for his home? I tell you, comrades—a noble heart can defeat ten thousand machines! I fought in this war. I slew enemies. You will too!"
The boys gathered around him, avoiding eye contact with Maria. After all, what did she know? She was just Maria the rice farmer. Just Maria the girl with too many questions. And Ernesto was a hero. A killer of Earthlings. A leader. She could say no more.
Ernesto snickered. "What's the matter, Maria? Are you frightened? Or did you finally learn to be silent when the men are speaking?" He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "I see I finally taught you a thing or two."
Maria paused, licked her lips. Then she spoke carefully.
"Ernesto, I'm proud of you. You're very brave to return to the fight." She stepped closer and stared into his eyes. "I saw how bravely you fought the pilot."
He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her, perhaps seeking some mockery.
"And will you stay here like a coward?" Ernesto said. "There are some women who fight in the Kalayaan. Will you fight with us?"
Maria frowned. Was he serious? Or simply seeking to embarrass her?
"Me?" She shook her head. "No. I'm not nearly as brave as you. You're very courageous, Ernesto, to fight such a powerful enemy, to fight a war that slew so many." She narrowed her eyes, staring at him. "A war you might not survive."
Ernesto laughed and mussed her hair. "I'll return to you a hero, lovely Maria, with a chain of Earthling scalps around my neck. We'll hang it in our matrimonial home, and we'll celebrate Earth's downfall. Tend to my work while I'm gone. My parents will need help on their boats. And don't forget to pray for me."
"I'll pray for all Bahay," Maria said. "I'll pray for peace and freedom."
But not for you, she thought. Because if you never return, I'll be happy.
Guilt flooded her. What a horrible thought! How could she yearn for a man's death? Her betrothed no less? What kind of monster was she? Yes, Ernesto was a hothead, and he hit her sometimes, but she deserved it. She asked too many questions. Spoke too freely. And now—to wish a man dead! A man who loved her!
Am I a monster? she thought. Maybe I'm no better than the Earthlings who bomb the north.
Ernesto leaned forward, gripped her head, and kissed her on the lips. It was a hard, cold kiss, his mouth closed, his hand clasping her hair.
"I love you, Maria," he said. "I'll return a hero or a martyr. Your love will give me strength in the fight."
A handful of other villagers stepped forth. Farmers, fishermen, weavers. Men. Women. Boys. Girls. They followed the guerrillas out of the village. Some kept going, traveling with the Kalayaan toward the fire. Those who remained behind sang songs of freedom and patriotism.
Maria stood still for a long moment, even after the guerrillas were gone.
Then she ran through the village.
She raced by the bamboo huts, through the banana plantation, and up the rice paddy terraces. Her feet splashed through the water, her wet dress slapped against her thighs, and her eyes stung with tears, but she did not stop running until she reached the highest terrace. There she climbed a verdant mountainside and rose onto a jutting boulder. She stood in the sunlight high above the valley, so high she could see the glistening sea beyond the mountains. The rainforest spread below her, and distant sheets of rain swayed like curtains. The wind billowed her long black hair, scented of leaves and water and the distant hint of smoke.
She turned southward, and she saw the trees stir. A foreigner would see nothing but a rustling canopy, a green ripple in the wind, but Maria had been born and raised in these lands, and she knew the movement of every branch and leaf. That was the Kalayaan moving along the Freedom Trail. Heading to war.
"I'm sorry, Ernesto," she whispered, and a tear flowed down her cheek. "I'm sorry I hoped you would die. Live, Ernesto. I love you, despite everything that you are. I love all of you, my brothers and sisters. Live and come home."
A light flashed before her, whisked aside, fluttered toward the paddies.
"Crisanto!" she said.
She gazed with wide eyes at the ball of light. A tiny alien, no larger than a marble. He flew toward her, her old companion, then fluttered off again. Maria swayed on the boulder, nearly falling.
"Crisanto, don't be naughty! Come to me. Into my pocket. You like it in there."
He flew toward her again, then back, forward, and back. Finally he began fluttering toward the valley.
Something is wrong, Maria thought. He wants me to follow.
She climbed off the boulder and ran through the rice paddies, following the mote of light.
Chapter Seven
Dramatization
Thousands of recruits entered a gymnasium. Just that morning, standing outside on the sidewalk, they had all looked different. There were jocks, nerds, music geeks like Jon, rich kids, poor kids, juvenile delinquents, kids as American as baseball and apple pie, immigrant kids who barely spoke English, and every other type of kid known to mankind.
Here in this gym, only a few hours later, they were the same.
Thousands of kids in blue battlesuits, the armored plates bearing the scars of their previous owners. The boys with shaved heads and smooth cheeks. The girls with tight ponytails, not a strand out of place. They all carried duffel bags. They all wore leather boots. You couldn't tell who was rich, poor, popular, or a misfit.
"All cannon fodder looks the same," Jon mutte
red. He glanced at George. "All but you, that is. You still stand out. A giant ginger mountain."
"It's not my fault I'm so big," George said. He hunched over, ashamed, trying to shrink. "The biggest damn target in the army."
"And I'm standing next to ya," Jon said. "Perfect."
"You're just worried about yourself?" George said.
"Buddy, you could probably take ten bullets and stay standing. The slits will need a fucking nuclear bomb to take you down."
"Silence!" A drone hovered near them, and two sparks shot out, hitting the friends. "Eyes ahead. Backs straight. Face the white wall."
The drone flew away, shocking a few other recruits into silence. Soon everyone was facing the same blank white wall. The drone rose toward the gym's ceiling, then projected a beam of light. A crackling video appeared on the wall, showing the HDF flag fluttering in the wind. A golden phoenix reared on the fabric, symbolizing Earth's rise from the ruins of the Alien Wars a century ago.
"Imagine Symphonica playing for a crowd like this," Jon whispered.
"We'd probably need the drones to keep them around once your horn section starts playing," George whispered back.
Jon flipped him off.
"Welcome, new soldiers of the Human Defense Force!"
The voice boomed from the speakers, so loud Jon cringed.
An actor appeared on screen. He wore a gleaming blue battlesuit. Rather than navy blue like normal battlesuits, this outfit was azure like the sea meeting a summer sky. And it certainly wasn't scratched, dented, and perforated with old bullet holes. The man in the video carried a shield painted like planet Earth, America facing the viewer. He wasn't a real soldier. Jon recognized the square jaw, bad tan, and coiffed blond hair. He was a famous actor on Earth, appearing in many tabloids, though Jon couldn't remember his name. He knew more about dead symphonic metal stars than current celebrities.
"Hello, fellow soldiers!" The actor gave a sparkling smile. "This is Ensign Earth, reporting for duty!" He saluted briskly.
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 6
