What's your story, Lizzy? How did an All-American girl become a one-handed drill sergeant who breaks the bones of her recruits?
"Problem, Taylor?" Lizzy said.
Jon realized he was staring. He hurriedly looked away. "Sorry, Commander."
He should worry less about her, more about himself now. He was heading toward his court martial.
Goddammit, I've been in the army for just a few weeks, and I'm already being court martialed, Jon thought. Some war hero I'm turning out to be.
He imagined being dishonorably discharged. Sent back home in disgrace. He thought of his father, silent, disappointed. Jon had never wanted to join the army. He had been drafted. But dammit, Paul was dead, and Jon was here now, and he would avenge his brother. He would defend his planet. He would see this through.
Those were his desires now. And they could all be broken like his ribs.
The greatest heroes never wanted to go on their journeys, Jon thought. The call to adventure summoned them. They simply had the courage to accept the call. But my own journey might be ending before it barely began.
It was a long walk down the corridor. The longest walk of his life.
Finally they reached a door and stopped.
Lizzy turned toward him.
"Taylor, you're about to meet Lieutenant Carter, your platoon's commanding officer."
"Our platoon has a commanding officer?" Jon frowned. "I thought you were our commander, Sergeant."
"I'm not an officer, recruit. I'm your drill sergeant. My job is to turn you into warriors. His job is to lead you. Normally, recruits don't meet their commanding officer this early. Not before I've broken them in a bit. We're going to make an exception in your case. When you face Lieutenant Carter, stand at attention and salute. Address him as sir, and answer all his questions truthfully. Understood?"
Jon nodded. "Yes, Commander."
The different ranks still confused Jon. But he was slowly learning. There were two military branches in the Human Defense Force, he understood. Most soldiers were like him. Enlisted men and women. Some had volunteered. Most had received draft notices in little brown envelopes. They went through boot camp, became privates, then corporals, and some—like Lizzy—even became sergeants. They served as grunts, bombers, gunners, drill instructors, and a host of other jobs, some rising high in the NCO ranks. They were the backbone of the Human Defense Force.
But officers were different. Officers were a class above. They went to military academies, sometimes for years, where they studied military history, tactics, and leadership. In the army, they began as ensigns, could then become lieutenants, captains, majors, even colonels. The most successful officers could even become generals. Jon had no officers in his family. Nobody he knew had ever gone to a prestigious military academy, ever commanded troops in battle. In fact, Jon had never even seen an officer up close. To him, they were as alien as the Santelmos.
We're the grunts, even Lizzy, Jon thought. Trained to kill and be killed. The officers are the masters of life and death.
Lizzy knocked on the door. "Sergeant Lizzy Pascal reporting!"
For a moment—silence.
Then, from inside, a voice answered, "Come in, Sergeant."
Lizzy opened the door, stepped into an office, stood at attention, and saluted. Jon entered behind her, snapped his heels together, and saluted too.
First salute and first court martial on the same day, he thought. And maybe it's my last day.
An officer stood behind a desk, gazing out a window. His back was turned to Jon, but Jon could see the insignia on his shoulders. Two golden bars on each shoulder strap. A lieutenant.
The officer spoke again, still facing the window. "I've always thought the plastic jungle is a bad exercise. It's nothing like real warfare. It's missing the smell."
"The smell of the forest, sir," Jon said. "I noticed that too."
Lizzy glared at him. "Soldier! The lieutenant did not ask your opinion."
The officer stood still for a moment. Slowly, he turned to face Jon. He was of average height, average build, graceful and neat. His skin was dark brown, and his black hair was buzzed down to stubble. At first glance, he seemed almost mild, harmless. The face of your friendly neighborhood mailman or pharmacist, not a warrior.
But then Jon noticed his eyes.
There was deep strength in Lieutenant Carter's eyes. There were old ghosts. There was determination, honor, and quiet courage.
"I don't mean the smell of the forest," Carter said softly. "I mean the stench of battle. The coppery blood. The stench of men shitting themselves in fear. Of entrails spilling. The stench of death. The plastic jungle is just that. Plastic. Sanitized. War stinks, recruit. On Bahay…" Carter stared out the window again. "At Bahay the stench of death never leaves."
Jon couldn't help but shudder.
Cheery fellow, he thought.
"Sir, I'm sorry for what happened," Jon said. "For shooting Etty. I was all riled up, and thought she was a slit, and…"
He gulped, unable to say more.
Lieutenant Carter turned back toward him. "Taylor, all platoons have accidents in the plastic jungle. That's why you use rubber bullets until you're used to the terrain. Some incidents of friendly fire are expected. And they're designed to hurt. Even to break bones. Pain is the best teacher. I'm disappointed that you shot Etty from point blank, but not surprised. I'm more concerned about what happened with Recruit Hagen."
"Clay Hagen is a maniac!" Jon blurted out, unable to stop himself. "Sir. With all due respect. We're from the same small town. I know him. He killed a man on Earth, spent time in prison, and he's always hated me, even back on Earth, and—"
"Recruit!" Lizzy barked. "The lieutenant did not ask for your life story."
Jon fell silent. He stiffened, facing his officer. "Sorry, sir."
Carter stepped around his desk and approached Jon. Again, Jon was struck by how phlegmatic he seemed. Carter didn't shout. Didn't get mad. Wasn't any taller or stronger than Jon. At a glance—a perfectly normal, mild-mannered man. But when those eyes fixed on Jon, he saw deep chasms of fire.
"Taylor, what if you must serve with Clay in the jungle? The real jungle. What if his life depended on you? And yours on him? What if you fought side by side with the enemy closing in? Can I trust you then, Taylor? I must know now. If you cannot resolve your feud with Recruit Hagen, you could put my entire platoon at risk."
Jon stiffened. "Sir, I will do whatever I can to defeat the enemy. I will defeat the enemy. That is my only objective. Will Clay Hagen and I ever be friends? No. But we're both Earthlings. We're both on the same side. I understand that. You can count on me, sir. Don't discharge me from the army. I can do this. I…" He hesitated, then plowed on. "My brother died on Bahay, sir. Corporal Paul Taylor." His eyes dampened. "I will finish what he started."
The lieutenant's eyes softened just the slightest. He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "Paul was a good man."
Jon blinked. "You knew him, sir?"
"He was the best man in my platoon. And a good friend." The lieutenant nodded. "You aren't in any trouble, Jon Taylor. I'll mention this on your record, of course. And I'll be watching you closely. Now get out there, rejoin your platoon, and continue your training."
Jon's head spun. The lieutenant knew his brother? Carter had fought with Paul? Had Carter seen him die? Questions wheeled through his mind, all jamming in his throat.
"Recruit!" Lizzy barked. "Dismissed!"
Jon blinked, gulped, and saluted his officer. He stumbled out of the office, feeling dizzy. And it wasn't his injuries this time.
In a daze, he stepped outside and approached his platoon. They were sitting in a circle, cleaning their Oakeshotts. George was grumbling, struggling with his thick fingers to separate the components of his rifle. Etty was singing a jaunty tune in Hebrew, bobbing her head, and oiling her gun's components.
"Hey, George, want me to clean your gun for you?" Etty said, slamming her gun pieces together. "I'm do
ne with mine."
"No, I can do it. I just… need to…" The firing pin slipped from George's fingers and flew across the courtyard. "Dammit! These pieces are so tiny. Why don't they—oh hi, Jon."
Etty spun around, her eyes widened, and she leaped up. "Jon, you're back! Are you still in the army?"
He blinked at his friends, still feeling dazed.
My lieutenant knew my brother. They fought together. Paul was here along this very path before me.
He nodded. "Yes. I'm still in the army."
I'm still alive. And his ghost is with me. And I saw countless ghosts in Carter's eyes.
"Excellent!" Etty said. "We missed you, Jon Jon. Just don't shoot me again."
Jon sat between them. George, his oldest friend. Etty, his newest friend. Both dear to him. Both people he loved.
And soon, we'll be there, he thought. In the real jungle. We'll smell the stench of war. We'll fight where Paul died.
A shiver ran through him, and that night, he was in that dark forest again, hovering with no ground beneath his feet, lost in the mist.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Carter's War
Sergeant Lizzy Pascal stood in the office, fists clenched.
"Carter." She had to force in a breath, to keep her voice calm. "I can understand keeping Jon Taylor. But the other one? Clay Hagen? I can't believe you just gave him a slap on the wrist." She shook her head in disgust. "With all due respect, Hagan deserves time behind bars, then a dishonorable discharge."
The brutish recruit had just left the office moments ago, grinning in triumph. Lizzy was still reeling. She had been sure—sure!—that the psychopath would end up in prison. Shooting Jon like that in the chest? A full magazine? And with Jon already down? Lizzy was tempted to run outside, catch Clay, and break his other arm. Then his spine.
She took another deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. It was the anger. The same damn anger again. Not the show she put on for her recruits, screaming insults at them. No, that was only theater. Lizzy was now feeling the real anger. The deep, simmering, horrible kind that burned you from within. That demon had been coiling inside her since Bahay.
Her commanding officer was gazing through the window at the platoon. The recruits were sitting in the yard, polishing their guns. For a long moment, Lieutenant Carter was still and silent.
Finally he spoke, voice soft, as if speaking to some spirit only he could see. "Do you remember Corporal Campbell?"
Lizzy nodded. "Of course. He commanded Second Squad on Bahay."
"He came from a rough background," Carter said. "His dad would beat him. His uncle would molest him. The kid ended up burglarizing shops, stealing cars, dealing drugs… total mess. Hopeless. Probably never belonged in the army," His voice dropped even lower. "Yet one day, in the jungle, he saved my life. Your life too. He kept going back into the fire, pulling soldiers out. On Earth, he'd have ended up in prison. In the jungle, he became a hero."
Lizzy rolled her eyes. "I seriously doubt Clay Fucking Hagen is built of the same material. Hagen isn't just a troubled youth who needs a hug. He's rotten through and through. And you treated him with silk gloves." She sneered. "He shot Taylor in the chest, Cart. With a full magazine of rubber bullets. On purpose. He could have killed him. Hell, it's a miracle Jon survived."
Carter sighed. He poured himself a cup of coffee, held the thermos out to Lizzy, but she shook her head. Carter took a sip, still standing by the window.
"Mmm. It's good coffee." He lowered the steaming cup. "Lizzy, what is our job here at Roma Station?"
"Cart, please—" Lizzy began.
"Humor me, Lizzy."
She sighed. "To train recruits for war."
"And we do that, Lizzy, by taking in boys and girls, breaking them, and rebuilding them into soldiers. Some of the kids we take are soft. Artists. Thinkers. Even cowards. Some of the kids we take are hard. They come from broken homes. From gangs. They're angry and scared. Lizzy, my father is a general. Your father is a colonel. War is woven through our DNA. But we're rare. The HDF isn't a volunteer force. These are normal kids we pulled from homes across America. Every one is an individual, dealing with his or her own struggles. Our job is to shatter these kids into a million pieces. Shatter them until nothing of their old self remains. Then, Lizzy… then we can rebuild them. Stronger than before."
Lizzy curled her prosthetic fist. The metal creaked. She didn't like it when Carter brought up their parents. Yes, his father was a general. A general who had abandoned him, leaving him to grow up in the slums. Yes, her father was a colonel. And she had flunked out of military academy, ended up an enlisted grunt, and broke his heart. Who cared about famous parentage? A last name did not define a soldier. A soldier was only as good as his gun and grit.
But she let it slide. For now, Lizzy had other grievances to air.
"And you think we can rebuild Clay Hagen? Really? Even the best chef can't make a burger from rotten beef."
Carter placed down his mug. "Clay came to us already broken. You've read his file. His father beat him. Savagely. Throughout his childhood. He came to us broken, and you broke him some more—literally and figuratively. If I sent Clay to prison, or banished him to Earth, I would be sending a million shattered pieces in a bag of skin. A broken soul. A dangerous soul. On Earth, he would kill again. He would destroy and hurt others. He would end up in prison again and again, eventually for good. And he would leave a trail of victims. But in the army, Lizzy, maybe we can save him. Maybe we can turn him into… not a good man. But a worthy man. We'd not only save society from Clay Hagen. We'd also save his soul."
Lizzy snorted. "I thought our job was to win the war, not save civilization."
"Civilization," Carter said softly, as if tasting the word. "There is nothing civilized about war. There is no civilization in the killing fields. That is where civilization falls apart, revealing the bleeding, pulsing organs within. But there is civilization behind us. We soldiers stand with our back to civilization, and we face chaos. We charge, and we bleed, and we die in fields of fire, so that civilization can continue. So that our people, our friends, and our family can live in green lands which we remember but no longer see. We are agents of death, and we are the pillars of life."
"Lovely speech," Lizzy said. "But Clay's still a dick."
"Lizzy." Carter stepped closer. "I know this isn't just about Clay. You can talk to me, you know."
Suddenly tears filled her eyes.
Her goddamn fucking tears.
She turned away from her officer.
"I know," she whispered.
Carter placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's strange, I know. To see Jon Taylor. He looks so much like his brother."
Lizzy lowered her head. A tear splashed onto the floor.
Yes, she had noticed that the first day. Jon Taylor was younger, softer, not yet a hardened warrior. But the black hair, the blue eyes, the somber features…
Yes, he looked like Paul. Like the man both Lizzy and Carter had loved. The man who died in their arms.
Lizzy closed her eyes, and images flashed before her. The fire blooming in the trees. The screams. The smell of blood. Paul holding back the enemy, shouting at her to run, and bullets flying, and the hands grabbing her. The march through the jungle, and the bamboo cage, and the blades and whips, and—
No.
Lizzy took a deep, shaky breath.
No. Not now. Don't remember now.
"Lizzy." Carter's voice was soft, and he brushed her hair. "I'm here for you."
She reeled toward him. "But you weren't here for me then! When the jungle burned, and the Kennys bound me, you—" She closed her mouth and trembled. "I'm sorry, Cart." Her tears flowed. "I'm sorry."
Carter's eyes hardened for just an instant, then softened again. "Lizzy, I love you. And I know it was hard for you. You went through months of hell I can't even imagine. I promise you, I spent those months searching for you. Every day. Every night. I fought through the forest, and—"
> "Cart." Lizzy's voice shook. "Please. Please."
He held her hands. "We've never talked about it. About Paul. And about what happened to you in the camp."
"We just did," Lizzy snapped. "And we'll never talk about it again. Promise me, Cart. I love you too. But I can't talk to you about this. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"All right, Lizzy. All right."
He held her closely. And she felt safe in his arms.
She looked into his eyes. Her commanding officer. Her secret lover. The only other man to survive that day. And she wondered if Carter was being strong for her… or if he needed her strength. Whether he wanted to hear her talk… or needed to talk himself. Gazing into his eyes, she saw the war. And she realized that Carter was still fighting that war every day.
She turned to leave, then looked back at him.
"Cart," she said softly. "We can stay here. On Roma Station. Or even transfer down to Earth. We don't have to go back to Bahay. We don't have to fight again. We've done our share."
Carter's eyes hardened. So did his voice. "Our platoon was wiped out that day. Paul died that day. I cannot let their deaths be in vain. I must go back. I know the army wants me here. They think I suffer from shell shock, that I need to sit out the rest of the war. But I'm going back. I'm going to finish what we started. I'm going to win this war. For Earth. And for Paul."
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "Then I'm going with you."
"You don't have to."
She wept. "Yes I do." She saluted. "Sir."
He returned the salute, eyes haunted.
Lizzy left his office. She stood for a moment in the corridor, wiped her eyes, and composed herself.
Then she stepped outside to her platoon of recruits.
"All right, you stinkin' maggots!" she shouted. "Your guns are cleaner than a nun's diary. Up, worms! Run!"
Training continued. Lizzy kept breaking these soldiers, shattering them into smaller and smaller pieces… like the enemy had shattered her. She would eventually rebuild her recruits, but Sergeant Lizzy Pascal didn't know if she herself could ever be whole.
The Earthling (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 1) Page 18
