Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  Marco stuffed his own backpack from home into the duffel bag. But he stored his copy of Hard Times—and the photo of Kemi inside it—in his back pocket. He wanted to feel that book and that photo close to him, to remember that even here, with all this madness, there was a better world somewhere, a world of civilization and of love. Dickens had died centuries ago, and perhaps Kemi was as good as dead to him, but this book and photo still symbolized to Marco that humanity was capable of more than this, that the human spirit could achieve more than warfare, more than pain and fear and loneliness. He vowed to keep book and photo in his pocket at all times.

  At his last stop, Marco approached a wooden crate filled with helmets—thousands of olive-green military helmets like horseshoe crab shells. Nettings topped them, perhaps to hold twigs and leaves for camouflage, and leather straps dangled from them. Hundreds of soldiers were clambering for helmets, and a sergeant was shouting at them to move, damn it, faster. Marco could barely even see the crate through the crowd, let alone browse for a helmet that fit. He simply reached between the other recruits and grabbed the first helmet he could reach. Nobody was even trying them on.

  "Helmets into your duffel bags!" shouted a sergeant. "Move, move, clear room!"

  Hoping his helmet would fit, Marco stuffed it into his duffel bag. He moved away from the crowded crate, desperate for air, and walked between shelves topped with blankets and sleeping bags, which nobody seemed to be taking.

  Well, he thought. Uniform. Boots. Duffel bag with supplies. Helmet. All I need now is a gun, and I'm a soldier. He wasn't sure he liked that thought.

  He was about to leave the warehouse, to find out what awaited him outside in the courtyard, when the voices rose behind him.

  "Hey, you fucking caveman." A guffaw rose. "Look at the goddamn caveman."

  Another voice snorted. "Looks like one of those homo erectus things."

  A wail of fear rose, so loud dozens of heads turned—Marco's among them.

  The boy who had sat beside Marco in the rocket was here. He was a towering beast, all fat over muscles, hunched over as if ashamed of his size, his neck thick, his head lumpy. Despite his mass, he wailed in fear, drooling, trying to fend off a group of smaller boys. When Marco had first seen him—the shelf of a brow, the sliding chin, the heavy lips, the beady eyes—he had instantly thought "Neanderthal," and now guilt filled him. Now he saw the humanity in the boy's eyes.

  "I'm not a caveman!" he howled. "I'm Bruno. Bruno Fabian. I'm not a caveman."

  "Maybe you're an ape," said one boy, smirking. "I didn't know they let apes into the army. Maybe they want to feed apes to the scum."

  The smirking boy was among the shortest, scrawniest people Marco had ever seen. Marco himself wasn't very tall, but this boy barely stood taller than his shoulders. His teeth were crooked and protuberant, his cheeks sunken, his black hair spiked. But if the small bully's physique was not intimidating, his eyes were. Those eyes were black as deep space and cruel as the horrors that lurked in its shadows. If Bruno looked like a caveman, this diminutive boy looked like a wicked goblin from a fairy tale to give children nightmares.

  "Good one, Pinky," said a girl with a mop of brown hair. "He does look like a fucking ape."

  The short, scrawny boy—Pinky must have been a nickname—stepped closer to Bruno and kicked, hitting the larger boy's shin.

  "Cry, Caveman!" Pinky laughed and shoved the larger recruit against the wall. "Go on, ape. Cry. Let's hear you cry for your mommy."

  Marco had heard enough. He placed down his duffel bag and stepped toward Pinky.

  "All right, guys, he's had enough," Marco said. "Let him be."

  The bantam bully raised his eyebrows, those cruel eyes widening. Marco's suspicion had been correct; Pinky barely reached his shoulders.

  "Well, looks like Princess Caveman found a knight to defend her!" Pinky placed his hands against Marco's chest and shoved.

  Marco stumbled back, shocked at the little bastard's strength. He managed to steady himself and remain standing. Pinky stepped closer, raising his fists, and when his sleeves rolled back, Marco saw that those arms were all coiled muscles, tense and scarred. The tendons rose on Pinky's neck, and his crooked teeth thrust out in a snarl. His friends gathered around him—the girl with the brown hair and a handful of others, all tall and hulking yet clearly subservient to their Lilliputian lord.

  Marco raised his open hands before him. "Hey, buddy, I'm not looking to fight you."

  "Oh, but I thought you wanted to defend your lady caveman love." Pinky smirked at his own joke. Bruno, meanwhile, had fled the scene, and no sergeant was to be found. "Maybe you love fucking shaved apes." Pinky shoved Marco again, even harder this time, slamming him against a wall. "You might not want to fight me. You might think I'm weak. I know your type. Rich man's kid. Let me tell you something. Nobody fucks with Peter Pinky Mack. You got that?"

  The boy swung his fist, aiming for Marco's jaw. Marco hadn't fought another boy since the third grade, but his instincts kicked in, and he blocked the punch on his forearm. It hurt like Planet Scum slamming into his bone.

  "What's your problem?" Marco said. "I did nothing to you."

  Pinky grabbed Marco's shoulders, yanked him forward, then slammed him into the wall again. "You mocked me. Your eyes mock me. You thought you could challenge me. You thought I was weak. You thought you were better than me." He punched again, and again Marco blocked the blow. "I'm going to teach you that no fucking rich boy can—"

  Hands grabbed Pinky from behind and yanked him backward.

  "Hey, pipsqueak!" Addy said, towering over the boy. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size like a rat or cockroach?"

  "Addy!" Marco said, relief flooding him. "I thought I'd never see you again."

  He cursed his words as gales of laughter sounded from the bullies—and many of the onlookers.

  "Oh, college boy found his own savior!" Pinky said. "A girl with sweet tits and—"

  Addy's hand flew, slapping Pinky's cheek. The boy snarled and leaped toward her, fists flying. He managed to land a blow on Addy's jaw, and she growled and kicked him, knocking him back.

  Marco took a deep breath. Fuck. Legs shaking, he acted against every instinct in his body. He leaped into the fray, reached for Pinky, and attempted to land his own blows. Damn it, for the first time since third grade, he was fighting, and—

  "Enough, boys and girls, enough!" said a fellow recruit.

  "You're gonna land us all in the brig!" said another. "Sergeant's coming over."

  Quickly, a sea of recruits pulled the combatants apart. Pinky smirked as several recruits pulled him away. He spat and gave Marco and Addy a crooked smile.

  "Pray you never see me again," he said. "Or my gun might just empty into your guts instead of the scum."

  With that, Pinky shook himself free and marched off.

  "Yeah, go run to your mommy, you fucking little cockroach!" Addy shouted after him, still gripped by a few large boys. "You try to attack Marco again, I'll fuck you up!"

  "Addy, please," Marco said, keenly aware of the smirks around him, and he could just imagine the teasing he'd have to endure for the next five years. "It's all right. I was handling myself."

  "Let go, let go!" Addy said, wrenching herself free from the recruits holding her. She turned toward Marco. "What a fucking cockroach."

  Marco nodded. "Yes, well, we managed to defeat the evil Pinky. Good practice for the scum, and I can't imagine them any more loathsome." He looked around. "Anyone see where Bruno went?"

  "The caveman?" said Addy. "Out in the courtyard already. Come on, Poet." She grabbed his hand. "Let's get going. I see the sergeant, and he looks more pissed off than Pinky trying to reach a urinal."

  They stepped out into a massive asphalt courtyard, where thousands of recruits gathered in the searing sunlight, all wearing their rags and new boots. They waited in the heat as a potbellied, mustached soldier stood at a podium, calling out names through a megaphone. As each name was called,
a soldier stepped up, shared a few words with the man, then hurried off down a road. Marco and Addy stood side by side, waiting for what felt like years.

  "What's going on?" Marco whispered to her. Addy hushed him. Those damn sergeants were patrolling the courtyard with their batons, shocking anyone who spoke or so much as swatted a fly. Marco desperately needed to scratch the bug bites, but when he saw a recruit hauled off to the brig—all for the crime of scratching his nose—he remained standing at attention. The names kept ringing across the courtyard.

  Marco realized that despite RASCOM being in South America, and despite the suborbital jets able to travel anywhere on Earth within half an hour, everyone here seemed to speak English. The Human Defense Force was a global military. Where were all the Chinese speakers, the Indians, the Africans, the world? He saw Americans, Brits, Australians, Jamaicans, a few Kiwis, even a few other Canadians, but that was about it, only a thin slice of the world's pie. He supposed that other cultures had their own units, that RASCOM only served those who could speak English, who could obey English orders. There must have been many sorting centers across the globe to recruit soldiers from the rest of the world's nations.

  Finally the mustached man with the megaphone cried out, "Addy Linden!"

  Addy gave Marco a look—a look that spoke volumes, that said goodbye and I hope we meet again soon and I'm scared and goddamn this fucking war and a million other things. Then she turned and walked toward the man at the pulpit. Addy spoke to him, but with the megaphone lowered, Marco couldn't hear, then she took something from the man. She gave Marco a last look across the courtyard, then raced down the road.

  Marco felt empty.

  A few more names rang out.

  Finally—"Marco Emery!"

  He left the crowd of thousands and approached the man. The heavyset, mustached soldier had three chevrons and two semicircles on his arms, a rank Marco didn't recognize.

  "Marco Emery?" the man said, megaphone lowered.

  Marco nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "I'm not an officer. Don't sir me." He shoved dog tags into Marco's hand, then checked his notepad. "2nd Brigade, 5th Battalion, 42nd Company, 4th Platoon, 3rd Squad. Remember, that's two, five, forty-two, four, three. Down the road to the left. Go."

  "2nd Brigade, 5th Battal—" Marco began, struggling to remember it all, but the soldier raised his megaphone and already called out the next name. Marco cringed, his ears ringing. He hurried down the road, leaving the courtyard behind, uncertain where to go or what to do.

  Two, five . . . what?

  As he walked, Marco looked at his dog tags. Two metal disks on a chain. On each disk appeared his name and serial number. The number was larger. That's all he was now, he supposed. An X-ray of his dental signature. Metal dog tags and a number. Awful boots and rags. And in his pocket—a book from home and a photo of the girl he loved. Fodder for the scum. A cog in this machine of three hundred million centipede snacks.

  He placed the dog tags around his neck and walked onward, seeking Addy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The road led Marco toward a dusty field in the center of the base. Concrete buildings, guard towers, and barbed wire fences rose all around, framing the field, and jets roared above, leaving white trails across the sky. As morning gave way to noon—by God, had it only been a few hours since he had left his home in Toronto?—the sun beat down with extra zeal, and soon Marco's fatigues were soaked with sweat. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of recruits stood in this square, organized into units.

  Marco tried to remember what the paunchy soldier with the megaphone had told him. 2nd Brigade, 5th Battalion, Company . . . 42? He cringed, not sure what a brigade, battalion, or company even meant. Again he wished that he had spent less time writing Loggerhead this past year and more time researching the HDF. A few other recruits joined him from the road, looking just as perplexed. There must have been a hundred different units ahead of him, slowly filling up with more recruits, and Marco had no idea where to go.

  "Recruit, move!" a sergeant—Marco recognized that rank now, three chevrons on the sleeve—shouted at him.

  "Sir, which—" Marco began.

  "I'm not an officer." The sergeant raised his electric baton. "To your unit, now, or to the brig."

  Marco looked ahead again, and he noticed that several flags rose in the field, displaying symbols and numbers. He walked between the units, looking at the flags. He saw pictures of jets, of planets, of moons, of swords, beneath them numbers. Finally he saw a flag labeled 42nd Company: Starfire, which displayed a burning planet. A couple hundred soldiers stood here, organized into smaller units, perhaps fifty soldiers in each. In each unit, one soldier held a military standard.

  4th Platoon. The words returned to Marco. He saw a standard displaying a black dragon on a red field over the words 4th Platoon: The Dragons.

  Marco stepped toward them, his eyes widened, and waves of relief flooded through him.

  A tall girl with blond hair stood in the platoon, wearing olive fatigues, her duffel bag slung across her shoulder.

  "Addy!" he blurted out, unable to help himself.

  Oh thank God and the planets and the stars! Addy was assigned to his platoon! How was this possible? Was it because they had been born only a day apart? Because they had enlisted together? Because some kindly soldiers had done a background check and had known they were friends? Or just because they were damn lucky? Marco didn't know, but by the heavens, Addy was with him again, and in this strange, terrifying place, that was a blessing.

  As Marco walked toward her, he saw that the platoon was divided into even smaller units—squads. He wasn't sure which squad to join, so he simply walked up to Addy and stood beside her.

  "Hey, Poet," she whispered.

  "Is this squad three?" he whispered back. He thought that's what the potbellied soldier had told him.

  "Did you even choose the right company, or did you just walk right up to me?" she asked.

  "5th Battalion, 42nd Company, 4th Platoon," he began, then realized he hadn't even checked the brigade. Damn it! He seemed to have gotten the battalion, company, and platoon numbers right, but . . . had he chosen the right brigade?

  He was about to ask Addy when another recruit walked up toward them, and Marco's breath died. All his relief vanished.

  Oh, fuck.

  Pinky—that little bastard, Peter "Pinky" Mack—walked up right to their platoon and joined their squad. The snaggletoothed soldier gave Marco a look that dripped hatred, then stared forward again.

  Fuck fuck fuck, Marco thought.

  A few more recruits came to join the Dragon Platoon. Marco recognized a few familiar faces.

  One was Bruno Fabian. Marco was a little embarrassed that he immediately thought "the caveman." The hulking soldier wore a baggy uniform and, despite his girth, swayed under the weight of his duffel bag. He came to stand in formation near Marco, eyes dark, mumbling under his breath. Marco heard something about his daffodils back home needing plant food.

  Marco also recognized the massive, hulking Russian from the medical building, the one with, apparently, no hemorrhoids. The recruit was huge, dwarfing even Caveman. His bald head was like a boulder, and his arms seemed the size of Marco's entire body.

  "Hey, Beast," Addy said to the Russian.

  The giant grunted at her. "Zdravstvuy, Canada."

  Beast indeed, Marco thought, covered by the Russian's shadow. He won't even need a gun. Can just crush scum in his bare hands.

  The last familiar face surprised Marco. It was the Elvis impersonator from back in Toronto, the one who had performed for the crowd that morning. The boy was shorter and thinner than the real Elvis had ever been, and somebody had shaved off his pompadour, but Marco still recognized the long sideburns. The recruit saw Marco looking and gave him a nod.

  "Canada," Marco said. "Toronto. You sang."

  The Canadian Elvis nodded. "Ain't nothin' but a hound dog." He gave a little karate chop.

  The platoon seemed
full now. Marco counted twice, once counting forty-five soldiers, another time forty-six. The flow of new recruits continued across the field, the other platoons, battalions, and brigades growing. Marco estimated that a platoon included about fifty soldiers, and four platoons formed a company. Battalions were huge, and brigades seemed massive. Marco saw only two brigades in the field, thousands of recruits in each one. He was thankful. That meant his odds of having chosen the right brigade were pretty good.

  When the flow of new recruits into the field finally died down, and everyone seemed to have found their spots, a soldier—not a recruit but a real soldier with insignia on his sleeves—marched toward Dragon Platoon. He was a tall man with brown skin, heavy black eyebrows, and a turban. He wore a beard—the first soldier Marco had ever seen with a beard. His insignia displayed three chevrons—a sergeant. A rifle hung across his back, and a curved knife hung from his belt, the sheath gilded and the handle jeweled.

  "Platoon Four!" the turbaned sergeant shouted with just the hint of an Indian accent. "Form ranks—trio formation!"

  "Yes, Commander!" shouted a few recruits in reply.

  The platoon formed three rows and stood at attention. Addy took the front row, Marco stood behind her, while Elvis—if he had a real name, Marco didn't know it—stood behind him. Other units of three stood at their sides. When the rows were all formed, the sergeant spat.

  "Break apart!" he shouted. "Again! Faster! Three rows!"

  The soldiers formed rank faster this time, snapping into place. The bearded sergeant nodded.

  "My name is Sergeant Amar Singh," he said. "But to you I am more than a commander. I am your mother. Your father. Your god. Your devil. To you I am the entire world. Do you understand?"

  The platoon shouted that it did, indeed, understand.

  Sergeant Singh nodded. "Forget about your homes, boys and girls. Forget about your comfy beds, your boyfriends and girlfriends, your mommies, your cozy little lives on the outside. For the next five years, your asses belong to the HDF, and you are nothing but scum-killing machines. Understood?"