The Santelmo hovered, then bobbed and squeezed into the lock. The tunnel dimmed. Crisanto's light beamed from the keyhole.
The lock clicked.
Crisanto emerged.
Maria kissed the little orb. It felt like kissing a feather. "Thank you, my dear friend."
She hesitated for a moment, fearing what she would find inside. But she had to hurry. Before Rosa and Oscar and the others discovered her ruse.
She entered the room.
He was there. David. The Earthling.
Maria gasped, covered her mouth, and tears leaped into her eyes.
She could barely believe he was alive. He still hung from the rafters, shirtless, his toes grazing the floor.
The clothing iron's marks covered him. Three ugly red scars across the chest. Another across the side of his face. He looked up at her, one eye burned shut.
"Maria," he whispered. "I didn't know. What they asked me. I didn't know…"
Her heart trembled in her chest. Fingers shaking, she drew her father's knife and cut the ropes. David fell to the floor, moaning.
"Can you walk? How about crawl?"
He nodded. "To get out of here, I can fly."
"Hurry! They don't know I'm here."
He was wounded, could barely move his arms. Perhaps they were dislocated. But he managed to crawl, the fear driving him on. Maria crawled ahead, leading the way.
"Hurry!" she whispered. "Faster! And be quiet. Don't even breathe."
They passed by the chamber of sleeping men. They crawled in darkness, not breathing. They made it by the sleepers. They passed the infirmary, the armory, the storehouse, and—
Grunting sounded behind her.
A voice echoed.
"Who goes there? Oscar, is that you?"
Maria's heart froze.
She kept crawling.
Another voice cried out. "The pute is gone!"
Dammit!
David gave a strangled cry. Maria grabbed his hand. "Come on, faster! Crawl!"
He was wounded, maybe dying, terrified, but David crawled onward. No, these Earthlings were not weak, not dependent on machines. That was the lie the Kalayaan told. Peel back the metal, the guerrillas said, and you find only soft baby flesh. But the Earthlings were strong. Just as strong as the Bahayans.
David pushed onward, dragging his wounded body through the tunnels. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his jaw clenched. He winced with every moment, swaying with pain, but kept crawling.
Strong, yes. But David was still very large and slow.
And the guerrillas were crawling in pursuit.
Maria inhaled sharply, fleeing as fast as she could, and David followed, and there she saw it.
The false tunnel.
Maria winced and shoved David ahead of her.
"Go, go!"
He dragged himself ahead, leaving a trail of blood. Maria glanced behind her. The guerrillas were crawling closer.
One reached for his gun.
Maria took off her shoe, hurled it into the false tunnel, and crawled after David at top speed.
A pop.
A blast so loud the tunnels shook.
Fire and dust raged behind her. Light washed across her. A shock wave pounded her like hammers.
She fell, and a siren rang, louder and louder, an air raid siren filling the tunnels, and she realized it was her ears ringing.
She could not move.
"Maria!"
A voice from beyond the ringing. Barely audible. Somebody grabbed her hand.
It was David. He pulled her along.
They emerged from the tunnels into a village in chaos.
"Run!" Maria whispered, clinging to his hand. She could not even hear herself. Only the ringing. "Before they get the generator going!"
They ran in darkness, crouched over. People were emerging from the huts. Shouting. Somebody was trying to kick-start the generator.
Lamps flickered on, casting yellow light across the village.
Maria and David leaped into the papaya grove.
They rushed between the fruit trees and vanished into the jungle.
For a long time, they traveled in darkness. Maria dared not even take Crisanto from her pocket. The Kalayaan would see the light, know to follow. She and David moved blindly, hitting trees, boulders, stumbling, rising and moving onward.
Maria banged her head against a branch.
She fell. She hit a stone.
She tried to run onward, stumbled again. She shivered. The trees coiled all around her, and branches grabbed her like cruel hands, and shouts rose in the distance. The Kalayaan was following.
I can't escape. It's too dark. I'm too afraid.
Crisanto burst from her pocket and shone.
"Crisanto, no!" she whispered.
He whisked away, and Maria dared not breathe, sure that the Kalayaan would see.
And then they rose.
A dozen or more.
Orbs of light.
Dim. Barely glowing at all. But enough for the Kalayaan to detect.
"Santelmos!" the men shouted. "Santelmos will show us the way to the traitor."
The orbs of light scattered, each flying in a different direction. And the Kalayaan followed.
Maria understood. "Our friends are drawing them off."
David's eyes widened. "Are those… the aliens? Saint Elmo's Fire?" His eyes shone. "The army told us they were evil. But they're beautiful. They're so beautiful."
Crisanto dimmed. He became so dim Maria could barely discern him. A mere hint of gray in the night. The Kalayaan would not see him this way. He hovered forward, and Maria and David followed.
Crisanto shone too dimly to illuminate the trees, but enough to guide them around trunks, over roots, and under branches. The rainforest, which Maria had always feared, became almost beautiful in the darkness, and she could hear music in the rustling leaves, the creaking branches, and the scattering soil beneath her feet.
The rainforest was always different, she reflected. Sometimes imposing and alien, a den for monsters. Sometimes a torturous bog full of insects and weariness and hunger. And sometimes, like tonight, it was like a dark ocean, beautiful and full of secrets.
The jungle seemed so vast, so eternal, that it was easy to forget: Bahay was a world of islands.
And Maria reached the sea.
She emerged from the trees onto a sandy shore. Bahay's two moons shone above, one deep blue, the other white. Both were narrow crescents, barely visible from inland, but above the sea they shone brightly. Beads of light danced on the waves. The smell of salt filled her nostrils, and a breeze tousled her hair. A memory filled her: going to the beach with her parents as a little girl. And this time she did not cry at the memory. She smiled and wiggled her toes in the sand. She was still missing one shoe.
David walked across the sand, fell to his knees, and wept.
Maria knelt beside him and embraced him. He flinched. His wounds still hurt. Maria wished she could heal him.
"I'm sorry, David," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I was so afraid."
He looked at her with one eye. The iron had ravaged half his face, sealing one eye shut. "And I'm sorry too."
"For what?" she said.
"For what happened to your village. For what we did. For coming to your world. Maria, I… I killed people. I don't know how many."
She studied him. Just a boy, scared, missing home. But yes, also an Earthling. A killer. An enemy.
Terror filled Maria.
And I freed him. I threw everything away, and I freed a killer. What have I done?
"David, walk north along the beach. Walk all night, and you'll reach it. An Earthling base. We've seen it from the mountains. And when you get there, David, tell them about me. Tell them that a village girl saved you. That we're not evil. That we just want to be free. And if you ever return to Earth, tell them of Maria de la Cruz. Tell them that a slit showed you mercy."
He reached out to touch her cheek. "You're not a slit. And I
'm not a pute. We're both human. Goodbye, Maria de la Cruz."
He limped along the beach, leaving her behind.
Maria knew she could never return to the Kalayaan. They would kill her for what she had done. Nor could she go with David. The Earthlings would treat her no better.
She held out her hand, and Crisanto landed there.
"It's just me and you, old friend," she said. "The north is burning. Our village is gone. We're alone."
Crisanto bobbed on her hand, glowing bright, comforting her. Maria sat on the sand, her feet in the water, gazing up at the twin moons.
Chapter Twenty-One
Plastic Jungle
"Behold, troops!" Sergeant Lizzy smiled crookedly. "Oakeshott Mark 3s. The best damn assault rifles in the galaxy. And your new best friends."
The recruits stood in an asphalt courtyard. Other troops ran along the curving walls to their left and right, singing marching songs. Along the ceiling far above, troops were racing through an obstacle course. Every platoon here was in a different circle of hell.
"Sweet gun!" Etty said, eying the assault rifles. Her large green eyes grew even larger. "Beauties."
George winced. "I don't like guns. They scare me."
Jon looked at the pile of weapons. He wasn't scared of guns like George. Nor did he find them beautiful. Mostly, he thought about his brother's gun back home. Paul's name was engraved in the stock.
Will my rifle someday rest beside his? Jon wondered. All that remains of two brothers?
"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Oakeshott Mark 3!" Lizzy continued. "Named after Ewart Oakeshott, an ancient weapons expert. And what a weapon this is! She's a sweet bullpup assault rifle, selecting between semi-automatic and full automatic mode. Bullpup means your magazine of bullets go in behind the trigger. That gives the Oaky an extra-long barrel for increased accuracy."
"What, a magazine?" rose a voice from the platoon. It was Bucky, the girl with buckteeth. "You mean bullets? Like from last century? Don't she shoot plasma bolts? My brother is a lieutenant, and he always shoots plasma."
Lizzy raised her eyebrow. "Oh, is that so, your brother's a fancy officer? La dee da." The sergeant's face flushed red, and her voice rose to a shout. "Well, I ain't no blue-blooded officer, and neither are you sorry lot! So shut the hell up, recruit, before I jam this rifle up your ass, pull the trigger, and show you how mean bullets can be."
Bucky gulped. "Yes, Commander! Sorry, Commander."
Lizzy turned away from her. She swept her eyes across the platoon.
"Yes, bullets! The Oakeshott fires good old classic bullets! No plasma charges, no lasers, none of that junk. Good old bullets, just like grandma used to make. They won the Alien Wars a century ago, and they sure as hell will beat the slits today."
Clay whooped and rushed toward the guns. "That's right! We're going to slaughter those fucking slits!" He puffed out his broad chest. "I used to fire Oakys all the time at home." He scoffed at Jon. "When you fire a gun for the first time, ballerina, try not to piss yourself."
"All right, enough!" Lizzy barked. "Get into formation, Hagen. Don't make me break your dick this time."
Clay snorted. "It would take a sledgehammer."
Lizzy raised her whip. "Want to test that hypothesis?"
Clay recoiled.
A few recruits laughed. Clay grew very pale and very silent. His eye twitched, and a vein bulged on his neck. He glared at Lizzy, opened his mouth, but she stared him down. He turned away, muttered a curse, and stepped in line. He formed a fireteam with Bucky and Ugly Hank, a hulking kid with a scar across his head and bad acne.
"Good one, boss!" Bucky said. She grinned, and the fluorescent lights flashed across her thick glasses. "You sure showed her."
"Shut up, shut up!" Clay hissed at her.
"Hey, Clay!" Etty said, leaning toward the other fireteam. "You don't have to worry. Your dick is safe from Sergeant Lizzy. It's much too small for anyone to find."
Clay growled and prepared to attack. But then Lizzy swung her whip overhead like a lasso. Electric bolts rained onto the platoon. Even Jon took a hit and grunted. His battlesuit could perhaps protect him from bullets, but it didn't do much to stop electricity. Soon Lizzy had the entire platoon giving her thirty push-ups. Etty also earned latrine duty for the night.
"All right, worms!" Sergeant Lizzy said. "Come up and get your guns. It's time to learn how to kill."
They stepped up to grab their Oakeshotts. They weren't the most elegant weapons. Not graceful like the plasma rifles you saw on military parades or in action movies. Oakys were crude weapons, bulky, with squat stocks. They were also clearly second hand, scratched, the muzzles charred.
Jon knelt and reached for an Oakeshott that looked in decent shape.
"Out of the way, ballerina." A boot kicked him down. "That one's mine."
Jon leaped to his feet and found himself facing Clay. The brute lifted the rifle, smirked at Jon, and turned the muzzle toward him.
For a split second, Clay was pointing the gun right at Jon's chest.
"Boom!" Clay said, then laughed. "Pissed your pants?"
Jon glanced toward Sergeant Lizzy, but she had her back to them.
Clay snorted. "Gonna tell on me to your mommy?"
But he lowered the gun. And Jon remained silent. He didn't feel like involving the sergeant. That could result in more push-ups, runs around the base, or even broken bones. Lizzy's wrath was like a wildfire. It was likely to burn anyone who got close.
During the brief altercation, the other recruits had grabbed their own assault rifles. That left only one for Jon to choose. It was the worst gun, the barrel scratched, the handle cracked, and the stock engraved with a certain part of the male anatomy.
Jon tried to hide the rude etching, but Clay noticed and snickered.
"You enjoy holding dick, don't you?" the brute said.
"It's bigger than yours!" Etty said.
George approached the group. The Oakeshotts were large, heavy guns, but George made his seem as small as a pistol.
"Here, have mine, Jon." The giant handed him his rifle, which looked relatively new. "I'll take yours."
Jon patted his friend's arm. "Thanks, buddy, but it's all right." He hefted his dented and defaced weapon. "I bet this girl killed the most slits in the jungle. All worked in. She's perfect."
He clutched the gun, and a sudden feeling of power surged through him. Jon imagined himself in the jungle, fighting the enemy. Firing his assault rifle. Roaring. Filling the bastards with bullets.
For what you did to Paul.
His grip tightened, and Jon sneered. He would not be weak. He would not be a victim. He would not die like Paul.
I'll kill you all.
The daydream changed, and he remembered mismatched eyes. One blue, one brown. He remembered soft lips.
Come home pure or come home dead, Kaelyn had told him.
I can't, Jon thought. Because the pure die. The weak die. The artists die. I must become a killer. Because I refuse to die.
And he wondered if that was not another sort of death. The death of the artist inside him. Of the musician. The boy he had been.
Then let the boy die, Jon thought. Let me become a killer. I'm sorry, Kaelyn. I'm sorry.
"Hey, Jon, you all right, buddy?" George said. "Come on! Lizzy will be pissed if you straggle behind."
Jon blinked, returning to the present. Sergeant Lizzy was leading the platoon across the base. The soldiers were marching in single file. Etty was marching with them, gesturing madly for Jon and George. They hurried to catch up.
Lizzy's Lions marched through the base, following their sergeant. Bucky walked in front, holding the platoon's banner. The gangly girl marched briskly, knees rising to her chest, her frizzy hair flying every which way. She chanted: "Left, right, left, right!"
Jon wasn't surprised that Bucky had become the flagbearer. The girl seemed to love authority, never missing a chance to kiss up to Clay, Lizzy, even the damn cooks in the mess hall.<
br />
We should be called Lizzy's Loonies, Jon thought. We're all crazy here.
* * * * *
The platoon marched by an armory, a few barracks, a yard where soldiers trained in Krav Maga, and an obstacle course. As they were walking along Roma's inner curve, Jon noticed an airlock opening at the cylinder's end. Shuttles flew in, and new recruits emerged into the station. They blinked, stumbling around like newly-hatched chicks, trying to form rank as their new sergeant shouted and shocked them.
"Fresh meat," George muttered.
"That was us not long ago," Jon said. "But it seems like forever. We're old hands now."
"A day in the army lasts a year. That's just science." George pulled out another tube of battle paste. "That's why I'm always hungry."
They approached a concrete building, the largest Jon had seen inside Roma so far. It was a crude edifice, rust leaking down its craggy walls. A sign hung above a gateway: ROMA FIREARMS TRAINING.
Jon had been to a firing range a few years ago. His uncle had taken him and Paul. He was looking forward to the exercise. He wasn't much of a marksman or gun nut. But a nice, quiet firing range sure as hell beat obstacle courses, runs around the base, or endless push ups and sit ups. Okay, it probably wouldn't be quiet. But beggars couldn't be choosers.
"All right, platoon!" Lizzy shouted. "Form rank!"
The platoon formed into fireteams. They stood at attention, three by three.
Only days ago, we stumbled and tripped over our own feet, Jon thought. Now we can form rank like pros. Goddamn. Lizzy broke us into a million pieces. And now she's putting us together.
He found himself wondering about the sergeant. How had she lost her hand? Had she seen battle? Fought slits in the jungle? When she wasn't brutalizing recruits, was she as mean? Or was this all an act? Did she have hobbies, loved ones, a personality beyond always shouting and whipping?
Jon would never know. Whoever they had been outside? Those people were dead. He was no longer Jon the musician. He was Jon the soldier now. They all had sob stories, he supposed. Jon had lost his brother. George had suffered his brain tumor and grown to prodigious size. Etty had grown up in a war zone. Clay had been to prison. Bucky, no doubt, struggled with low self-esteem. Every soldier here, Jon realized, had fought some battle on the outside. Had likes, dislikes, loved ones, enemies, a real personality.
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 16
