But not in here. In here they weren't human. In here they were machines. Killers. That was all.
Come home pure or come home dead.
Maybe there was no more home. Jon had only been here for a day, and he already felt like a different man. If he ever went back to Lindenville, perhaps that town would no longer feel like home. Because he was not the same person.
If basic training broke me so bad, I can only imagine what actual war does to a man, he thought.
"Platoon!" Lizzy barked, tearing Jon away from his thoughts. The sergeant marched past the platoon, cracking her whip. "You will now train to use your assault rifles. I will hand every recruit three magazines of rubber bullets. This is your last day using rubber! Tomorrow you will train with live ammo. For now, I'm going easy on you. Every fireteam, in turn—step up, take your bullets, and go kill some fucking slits!"
Jon frowned. Kill slits? This was just a training base orbiting Earth. What was she talking about?
"Taylor!" the sergeant barked. "Lead your fireteam inside. Then make your way to the back door. Go!"
On the march here, Jon's team had been last in line. He supposed this was the punishment.
"Yes, Commander!" he barked.
He approached the concrete building. George and Etty walked behind him.
He stepped through the doorway, expecting to find an old-fashioned firing range… and found himself in the jungle.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Jon felt the blood drain from his face.
Here, inside the concrete box, the army had recreated Bahay.
Trees rose everywhere, branches coiling, hiding the ceiling. Roots spread across the floor like serpents. Ivy hung from the branches and curtains of moss swayed. A bird cawed, and what sounded like a monkey shrieked among the branches. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and rain fell.
There was only one thing missing. The smell.
They're fake, Jon realized. Just props. A plastic jungle.
It was hyper-realistic. Jon had to pause for a moment, to admire the artistry.
Then figures rose among the branches and opened fire.
A bullet pinged off Jon's helmet, ringing his head like a bell. He ran, leaped behind a tree. Etty and George ran with him. The girl dived for cover, as fast as a gazelle fleeing a predator. The giant was slower. A bullet slammed into him, knocking off an armored plate. George howled and dived for cover.
Jon crouched behind a tree and peeked around the trunk.
Bahayans!
They wore green tunics and straw hats, blending into the jungle. They were hideous creatures. The faces were grotesque, the skin sallow. They barely had eyes, just narrow slits. Their mouths were locked in animal snarls. Fung Shu mustaches hung down past their chins. Humans? No, they could not be humans. Clearly these were more goblins than men.
"Die, bastards!" Etty shouted and opened fire. Her bullets slammed into the figures above.
One of them crashed down beside Jon. The dead Bahayan stared up at him.
A doll. Nothing but a doll with glass eyes.
Etty kept firing, taking out two more Bahayans, and the barrage from the trees died.
The fireteam regrouped. George was limping and mewling, holding onto his wounded leg. Etty beamed.
"I got three!" She grinned and raised three fingers. "Three kills for me! How many for you guys?"
Jon grumbled, "None yet. Come on. Lizzy said we need to reach the end of the building. It's a long way."
Etty's grin widened. "I like it here."
They kept advancing among the trees. Ferns rustled around them. A waterfall cascaded nearby. The plastic brush was so thick every step was a struggle. A bird fluttered overhead, a doll on a wire.
"See any more slits?" Jon said.
"I can barely see a meter ahead," George said. "The brush is so thick."
Jon took another step, and—
He was falling.
He screamed and reached up, but there was nothing to grab.
He landed in a pit, crushing dry bones. A skull rolled.
Eyes flashed. Teeth shone. Somebody was here with Jon—in the pit!
A demonic figure lashed a knife, eyes ablaze.
Jon sidestepped, swung his rifle, and knocked his assailant down. He shoved his muzzle at his enemy and pulled the trigger.
A boom filled the pit. Jon's ears rang and his head spun.
A doll. He forced a deep breath. Just another doll.
He heard more bullets above. More screams.
"George!" Jon shouted from the pit. "Etty!"
They were screaming. Firing their guns.
"They're in the trees!" George shouted above.
"I'll take care of 'em!" came Etty's voice. "Get Jon out!"
Gunfire kept rattling. George leaned over the pit. It was a deep chasm, too deep for Jon to climb out of. But George had long arms, and he gripped Jon mightily and yanked him out.
Jon stumbled into the forest, breathing raggedly. Everything hurt, and his ears kept ringing.
More bullets flew from the trees.
One slammed into Jon's shoulder, denting the battlesuit, nearly knocking him back into the pit. He screamed.
He looked up, saw them there. Two snipers among the branches. He opened fire, roaring, knocking them down. Etty was firing nearby, sweeping her bullets in an arc of suppressive fire.
"Come on!" Jon shouted. "Run!"
Behind them, they heard more fireteams enter the gauntlet. More screams rose and bullets shrieked.
Jon and his fireteam ran.
The enemy was everywhere.
They fired from the trees. They swung on vines. Their bullets streaked. Another bullet hit Jon, this time on the thigh. Without a battlesuit, it probably would have broken his femur. It still hurt like a bitch, and it left an ugly dent in the suit's armored plate. He limped onward, firing, shouting. Another doll dropped down. George and Etty charged at his sides, screaming, spraying bullets into the jungle. The rest of the platoon ran behind, several meters separating each fireteam.
The dolls' faces spun around Jon, grotesque creatures, buck teeth jutting out, narrow eyes inhumanly thin. Jon was running through some nightmare forest from the darkest of fairy tales, and the goblins danced all around.
Here they were. The monsters who had killed his brother. The creatures who had murdered tens of thousands of Earthlings and counting. Traitors. Alien-lovers. Slits.
Sub-humans.
Jon screamed as he fired his gun, emptying magazine after magazine, and he was no longer just firing on dolls. He was firing on the bastards who took Paul.
"Fuck you, slits!" Jon screamed, tears falling, rage pulsing. "I'll kill you all! I'll kill every last fucking one of y—"
"Jon!"
A slit leaped up before him, a creature with shining green eyes, and Jon fired his gun.
His bullet slammed into the slit's chest.
The creature stared at him, eyes wide, frozen for a second.
Etty.
It was Etty.
"Etty!" he cried.
She gasped for air, seemed to be choking. He had hit her right in the sternum.
Rubber bullets wouldn't kill you—not if you wore a battlesuit. But they left bad bruises, could even crack bones. A blow to the solar plexus, right between two armored plates, was the worst place to hit.
Etty collapsed, mouth open, finding no air.
Jon knelt beside her.
"Etty! Oh God. Etty, can you breathe?"
She finally managed to draw in some air. Jon held her in his arms. His hands shook. Had he broken her sternum or ribs? Would she die in his arms?
"Jon," she whispered. "Fuck… you…"
Jon couldn't help it. He laughed. And Etty managed to laugh too. And Jon noticed that they had reached the end of the gauntlet. The back door was just beyond a few more trees, and—
A boot slammed into Jon's side.
He fell onto his back.
A shadow loomed over him. A
soldier.
Far-set blue eyes gleamed with hatred.
Clay aimed his rifle at Jon's chest.
It was set to automatic.
"Tried to blackmail me, didn't you?" Clay said.
"Clay, wait—" Jon began.
"Die, slit." Clay opened fire.
A stream of rubber bullets slammed into Jon's chest.
They dented his battlesuit's armored plates. Then cracked them. The pain was so bad Jon couldn't even scream. And the bullets wouldn't stop.
The agony plowed through him. A magazine of furious pain crashed through his body, and there was nothing but darkness, ringing in his ears, diabolic laughter… and then silence.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Slow Death
She fled him.
His betrothed. The woman he loved. Sweet Maria.
She betrayed him!
Ernesto stood in the village, tossed back his head, and howled.
"Maria!" he shouted. "Maria!"
Birds fled and the sky itself shook.
She had freed the pute prisoner. She had killed a man in the tunnels, activating the booby trap. She had betrayed him and her people.
"I will find you, Maria," Ernesto vowed, fists shaking. "I will break you."
"Sir." One of his guerrillas approached him. She was a young woman, not yet twenty, named Floribeth. "Sir Ernesto, maybe you should let her go. Maria will probably die in the jungle. She can't survive there alone. Why waste time chasing her when we have Earthlings to kill?"
Ernesto spun toward the woman.
He sneered, reached out, and grabbed her.
Floribeth winced, tried to escape. He held her fast.
"You're her friend, aren't you?" he said.
Floribeth struggled in his grip. "Sir! No, sir. I'm friend only to the cause!"
"Liar!" Ernesto shook her. "I saw you two skulking together in the jungle. Claiming you're going off to pee together? To connive! To plan your betrayal!"
Floribeth's eyes flashed. "I'm no traitor! I fight for Bahay. I've killed for Bahay! I—"
She gasped as Ernesto's knife entered her belly.
He dragged the blade across her, carving her open like a roast pig.
She tried to scream. But blood filled her mouth. She could only gurgle.
Ernesto released her, and she fell to the ground. Her entrails were slipping through her cut. She gasped for air, placed her hands on her wounds, and trembled. Pathetic traitor.
The other guerrillas were watching. All across the village, they watched. Ernesto spun in a circle, bloody knife in hand.
"Anyone who dares give her a mercy death will suffer the same fate!" Ernesto shouted. "Anyone who tries to heal her will burn! Leave her here. Leave her to die."
It could take all day, Ernesto knew. Maybe even two days. And every moment would be an eternity of agony. Good. Traitors deserved to suffer.
As the traitor lay bleeding, praying, dying, Ernesto gathered his warriors. Fifteen soldiers, battle-hardened, eager for blood.
They left the village. They entered the jungle. Maria had learned how to hide her tracks. But Ernesto knew he could find her.
"You will be mine again, Maria," he whispered between clenched teeth. "I love you. You are mine. You will be my wife. Or you will envy Floribeth."
Chapter Twenty-Three
War Stinks
Jon floated in a void.
There was no pain here. There was no sound. There was barely any self. He was consciousness in the abyss.
Yet as he floated, he beheld coiling vines in the darkness. Branches. Twisting boughs. Little crawling things. There was no forest floor, and no canopy, merely an eternity of twisting, braiding strands of wood, black and deep purple and shimmering dark green. Luminous beings clung to the branches like mold, and pollen floated, guiding his way.
He traveled deeper into the abyss, floating past ancient pines, their needles poking him a thousand times. Branches hit his chest. Again and again. Pounding him. Breaking him. And the luminous mold stared at him with a billion, billion microscopic faces.
Jon.
A wind through the void. A moan.
Jon, I'm here.
"Paul?" Jon whispered.
Jon.
"Paul! I'm here! Where are you?"
Jon found no ground for his feet. He tried to fly through the forest, to navigate among the coiling branches, to find his brother. But he could only move slowly. And every pine he passed led to an eternity of more trees.
Jon.
"I'm trying to find you!"
He beat his arms, swimming through the glimmering pollen, seeking his brother, seeing nothing but the forest. He was trapped. Lost. A prisoner in the labyrinth of old things.
"Jon. I'm here."
Branches wrapped around his arms with wooden fingers. The trees were holding him. Speaking to him.
"Jon?"
The pollen brightened like a thousand chandelier lights, and Jon opened his eyes, and he gasped for air.
A face materialized before him. A wide, honest face, freckled and topped with red hair.
"George?" Jon whispered, blinking in confusion. "What happened? I was dreaming…"
"Oh, we know," George said. "You were talking in your sleep. Waving your arms around like a maniac too. Almost knocked over the nightstand."
Jon looked around him. He was lying in an infirmary, a cluttered little room. Several wounded recruits shared the room with him, lying on cots. A poster hung on a concrete wall, showing a cat with a bandaged leg and thermometer in its mouth. Through the window, Jon could see the distant curving wall of Roma Station. Troops were running across it. Jon thought he'd never get used to living inside a tube where people walked on walls and ceilings.
He propped himself onto his elbows and groaned. He looked down at his chest, found it wrapped in bandages. "Ow. I feel like an elephant stomped on my chest. And you were riding it, you giant ginger."
"Well, you should feel that way," George said. "The doc says you cracked three ribs. And cracked your sternum. Not to mention a ton of bruises. Doctor says you were lucky. Your broken ribs could have pierced your organs. They patched it all up while you were sleeping. You should be fine in a few days. Ain't modern medicine great?"
Jon rubbed his eyes. "The last thing I remember was a deranged troglodyte in the forest, firing his gun at me. No, wait." He blinked and tilted his head. "More is coming back. Medics carrying me here. A doctor with round glasses. It's all fuzzy." He bolted up. "Etty! I shot her with a rubber bullet! How is—"
"Out of my way, out of my way!"
Etty's voice boomed from the hallway. Clattering and curses followed. Etty came barreling down the hallway, elbowing nurses and medics aside, overturning their trays of medical supplies.
"Move it, my friend is up!" Etty said, shoving her way forward, and barged into the room.
The young Israeli ran toward the bed, bumping into another patient's IV stand, nearly overturning it.
"Sorry, sorry!" she said.
"Etty, try not to destroy the entire space station on your way to my bed," Jon said.
"But I want to destroy it all!" Etty leaped onto his bed and gave him a crushing hug. "Because you got hurt here. How are you? Feeling any better?"
Jon croaked. "Etty! Etty, you maniac! You're crushing me. Ease up!"
She released him. "Sorry! I'm an aggressive hugger. I was worried about you. I thought that jerk Clay had killed you."
"Forget about Clay," Jon said. "Etty, I'm so sorry. For shooting you. How are you?"
She waved dismissively. "I'm fine. Your measly little rubber bullet couldn't hurt me." She cupped her breast. "Luckily I got natural padding." She winced. "The bruise is ugly, though. Purple and yellow. Looks a bit like a Rothko."
Sitting beside them, George gasped. "You shot her in the tit!"
Jon felt his cheeks flush. "I'm sorry."
The girl only laughed and mussed his hair. "Forget about it, dumbass." She slammed her fist into his ches
t—right where Clay had cracked his ribs.
"Ow!" Jon cried out.
Etty grinned and kissed his cheek. "Sorry. Needed some payback."
"You lunatic!" Jon groaned and fell back onto the bed. "At least I got the day off from boot camp. Clay hammering my chest with bullets is only slightly more painful than Lizzy's whip."
He expected his friends to laugh. But George and Etty went dead serious.
"Jon…" George twisted his fingers.
Jon frowned. "What is it? Tell me, buddy."
The giant winced. "Lizzy said that… Ah, hell. You and Clay both."
"What?" Jon rose onto his elbows again.
"I know it's not fair, but…" George wiped sweat off his brow. "After what happened in the plastic jungle, you both have to stand court martial. Today. And Jon… they might even toss you both out of the army."
Those words hit Jon harder than Etty's fist.
* * * * *
Jon shuffled down the corridor, still in lots of pain. The doctors had injected his ribs with InstaHeal foam, using his own stem cells to regrow the bones. It was cutting-edge technology, unavailable during the horrible Alien Wars, marketed as a miracle cure. Jon doubted it worked quite as well as advertised. Every breath was a saw inside him.
"Come on, Taylor," Sergeant Lizzy said. "Fuck the pain and walk faster. We haven't got all day."
Amazingly, the sergeant wasn't screaming, kicking, or whipping him. She was speaking almost normally.
Jon looked at her. Lizzy was accompanying him down the corridor. It was only the two of them here. It was almost jarring to see the sergeant in a normal environment, not hovering over a suffering platoon, meting out punishment. Lizzy still wore her battlesuit, an assault rifle hung across her back, and her prosthetic hand looked as mean as ever, each finger a claw. But Jon could see her as a person now. A young woman. Only a few years older than him.
She's an actual human.
She was tall, as tall as him, and her braid was golden and long. He noticed freckles on her nose. She was quite pretty, actually.
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 17
