"No," said Ben-Ari. "Fiona, you are capable, strong, intelligent, and ambitious. You are my soldier, and that makes me proud."
Fiona raised her chin, eyes damp, and saluted. "And I'm proud to serve you, ma'am."
Ensign Ben-Ari returned the salute, and both women parted, going their separate ways. Marco hid in the shadows, waiting until they were gone. Then he walked onward to the brig, reported to the guard, and spent the night in the dark, moldy cell, thinking about the conversation, vowing to work a little harder tomorrow with his commanders.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hope "Jackass" Harris joined the Dragons Platoon two weeks into their training, a force as loud and furious as a scum invasion.
"Hello, you sons of bitches!" she cried, grinned, and gave a pirouette. Her voice was raspy as gravel spilling over beaten leather. "Aren't I cute? Aren't I just the most fucking adorable princess you've ever seen?"
"Looks like a goddamn ogre," muttered Dickerson, standing at Marco's side in formation.
"Be nice," Marco said, but when he looked back at Recruit Harris, he cringed. He had to admit, Dickerson was right.
Marco wouldn't win any beauty contests himself, and he never judged people by their looks, preferring to judge them based on their taste in music and literature like a civilized person. But even he found Hope Harris's appearance intimidating. Her nose was a massive beak, and a thin mustache topped her upper lip. A unibrow like a furry black caterpillar formed a V over that nose. Her eyes were beady and black, her cheeks pockmarked, and her hair was a frizzy mess that looked like black iron wool. Her forehead sloped backward, and she had no chin to speak of. Dickerson was right. She looked like an ogre, and Marco hated himself for agreeing with such a cruel thought.
"Recruit Harris!" Sergeant Singh shouted. "Go form rank with the others."
Harris curtsied. "But of course! I know the boys here at Fort Djemila have been waiting for a cutie like me to join their ranks. I tells ya, my good looks and lovely aroma were wasted in the brig. Wasted! A month of nothing but rats for company." She walked toward the platoon, reaching up to stroke Singh's arm as she passed by him. "Aren't you a handsome one, and—"
"Harris, if you don't shut your mouth, you'll spend the rest of your military career in the brig, not just a month."
"They call me Jackass," Harris said. Her voice was so raspy and deep it could have belonged to an aging, three-hundred-pound truck driver with emphysema. "Nobody calls me Harris. Jackass! Must be because I have such a cute little bottom." She emitted a braying, heehawing laughter that hinted at another origin of her nickname. "I'll show you my bottom if you like. I—"
"Harris!" Singh shouted. "Form rank!"
Harris, AKA Jackass, sighed theatrically and went to fill the gap in the Dragons' ranks. "Not appreciated in my time, just like my doppelganger, Marilyn Monroe."
Marco and Elvis glanced at each other, cringing.
"We lost Noodles for her?" Elvis muttered.
David "Noodles" Greene had been an awkward recruit who had spoken little in the Dragons Platoon—a scrawny boy with huge glasses, a concave chest, and an encyclopedic knowledge of Tolkien's Legendarium. After finally collapsing in the obstacle course, the HDF doctors had given Noodles—nicknamed for the thinness of his limbs—a discharge from basic training. He would spend his five years of service working behind a desk. That left a gap to fill in the platoon, and who better to fill it than one who had already completed two weeks of basic training at another fort only to then spend a month in the brig?
"Hey, sweetie." Jackass batted her eyelashes at Marco. "You're cute. Aren't you just glad to serve with a hottie like me?"
"March!" Sergeant Singh commanded, and the platoon continued their day's training.
Throughout the day Jackass could not go five minutes without getting into trouble or annoying her new comrades. With every push-up, she grunted like a beast. Whenever the commanders weren't looking, she danced instead of marched. As they cleaned their weapons, she drew naughty drawings on the ground with her gun oil. One time she planted a kiss on Caveman's cheek, drawing awkward laughter from the platoon. By lunchtime, Jackass had earned ten hours of kitchen duty, three hours of latrine duty, and was doomed to spend next Sunday laundering sheets and cleaning the old machine guns rusting in the armory. Yet with every punishment announced, Jackass only sounded that braying laughter.
As they ate lunch in the mess, Jackass cannibalized all conversation. She stuffed two slices of bread into her mouth, forming a duck's beak, and quacked around the table. She guzzled down yogurt straight from the tin and gave an enormous belch.
"Fucking freak," Pinky said, pelting her with a spoonful of slop.
"She's an ogre all right," Dickerson muttered. A few more recruits laughed.
If Jackass noticed the mockery, she gave no sign of it. She curtsied for the onlookers. "Now now, boys, I know you all have massive crushes on me, but try not to tease me so much." She brayed out laughter and covered her mouth. "Aren't I cute?"
Addy, normally the vocal one in the platoon, was subdued today, watching Jackass with wide eyes.
"There's something wrong with her," she said to Marco. "Must have hit herself too hard on the head."
Marco began to think that Addy was right. Perhaps Jackass was mentally challenged, maybe even worse than Caveman. The soldier seemed oblivious to her ridiculous behavior and appearance. She was now giving a horribly offensive imitation of Sergeant Singh, complete with a thick Indian accent, seemingly unaware that the others were mocking her and pelting her with food.
"Harris," Marco said, gently pulling her back into her seat. He wanted to save her from this self-inflicted humiliation. "Tell me more about the brig. A month must have been horrible. Pinky once spent a day there and nearly broke."
"I did not!" Pinky said. "Fuck you, Emery."
"My name is Jackass," Jackass said. "Harris is my family name. Hope is the dumb name my parents gave me. I'm only Jackass now because I'm cute like a little donkey." She brayed.
"All right, Jackass," Marco said. "Tell me about the brig. Quietly. The commanders can hear you from across the hall."
Jackass sighed and pressed her palms together. "Oh, the brig is lovely! Lovely, Marco! There are no sergeants breathing down your neck. There are no corporals shouting at you. There are no fancy officers with fancy orders. They leave you alone all day long, and you can rest. No push-ups. No jogging. Just quiet." Her eyes lit up. "You think Sergeant Singh will send me back? Maybe if I'm really a horrible soldier, they'll send me back."
"You want to go back to the brig?" Addy said. "You're mental."
Jackass blew her a kiss. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful, darling." She leaned against Marco and kissed his cheek. "Or because I'm stealing your boyfriend."
Addy snorted. "He wishes he were my boyfriend."
Marco glanced across the table, trying to meet Lailani's gaze. She was looking straight at him, met his eyes for just an instant, then looked away.
I ruv you, she had said, nestling against him, her body warm in his arms—a memory seared inside him, a memory that hadn't left him since that day over a week ago. And since then—barely more than this glance.
"Not bad, this Fort Djemila," Jackass said, interrupting his thoughts. "Chow's all right. Over in Fort Timgad, the food's like shit. Sarge here ain't bad either. And you should have seen the sergeant at Fort Setif. The woman had a bayonet stuck up her ass, I swear."
Elvis reached across the table for a jar of jam made from indeterminable fruit. "You were at two other basic training bases?"
Jackass brayed out her laughter. "Two? I've been to six already. Never last more than a week anywhere."
"I can't imagine why," Addy muttered under her breath.
"I've been in the HDF for six months now," Jackass said. "Maybe a year, I'm not sure. Mostly in various prisons. I hope they send me back soon. Not a bad way to go through your service, the brig."
Finally Lailani, who had been silent all thi
s time, rose to her feet. She pointed a butter knife at Jackass. "Don't you want to kill scum?" Lailani said, glaring. "Don't you want to finally complete basic training and fight for your species?"
"Darling!" Jackass held up her hands. "I'm a lover, not a fighter! Besides, I'd serve the troops much better by singing and boosting their morale." She launched into a song, her voice deep, hoarse, and as pleasant as glass smashed against gravel.
They continued their training.
Gunpowder, blisters, torn muscles, the breaking down of the soul.
Fainting in the heat, crawling in the sand, battling the scum skeletons, forgetting who they were.
Another day in Fort Djemila. Another day as recruits. Another day waiting for these ten weeks—this eternity—to end, to emerge from the crucible as soldiers.
That night, Corporal Diaz read out the guard shifts. Marco pulled third guard, after Caveman and before Lailani. Following a day of training and firing and fighting, his body ached, and his soul felt blank. After lights out, he slept, a dark, pitiless sleep like drowning in oil.
I'm okay, Dad, he said in his dream. I'm okay. I'm scared. I'm hurt. There are scum after me. There are scum everywhere. I'm on a dark planet. I'm stuck here. He clutched the phone. I want to go home.
A hand touched his shoulder.
"Poet. Poet, your turn to guard."
He opened his eyes, and he saw Caveman looking down at him through the shadows.
"Poet, have I ever told you about that time I visited Greece?" Caveman said, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, the flowers I picked there! If I were in Greece right now, I would pick such a bouquet for this tent!"
Even as he struggled to rise from his nightmare, Marco couldn't help but smile. He sat up and patted Caveman's shoulder. "Maybe we'll visit together someday, after this war. I can work on my novel there, and you can pick flowers."
"I'd like that. I'll find you some beautiful flowers." Caveman yawned. "Goodnight, Poet."
Marco patrolled outside the tent for fifteen cold, shivering minutes, teeth chattering, and it seemed as if he were still in that dream, standing on a dark planet, that the scum would soon appear, swarming over the dunes toward him.
When his shift ended, he returned into the tent. Fifteen cots stretched here in two rows, and the squad's recruits slept. Jackass was snoring. Marco walked between the cots and knelt by Lailani. He touched her shoulder.
"Lailani," he whispered.
She opened her eyes.
"It's your shift," he said.
She left her bed, pulled on her fatigues and helmet, grabbed her gun, and stepped outside, silent all the while. Marco stood for a moment, then followed her. He stood outside in the night beside her. She stared ahead into the darkness, silent, facing away from him.
"Lailani, is everything all right?" Marco said. "Did I do anything to hurt you?"
She turned toward him. "You should sleep. Inspection's coming soon."
"Lailani, you've barely spoken to me all week. What happened between us . . . did it mean nothing to you? It meant something to me. Is this because of Kemi? We broke up, Lailani. I—"
She pressed a finger against his lips, hushing him.
"It meant something to me too," Lailani whispered. "It meant a lot. It meant too much. And that's why you need to stay away from me."
"I don't understand." He tried to hold her hand, but she took a step away.
"Marco, I'm bad news," Lailani said. "I'll hurt you."
He smiled thinly and rubbed his side. "More than St-Pierre's baton?"
Lailani nodded. "Much more." She turned away from him, staring into the darkness. "Marco, for you, for everyone else, basic training is a nightmare. It's deprivation and hardship and despair. But not for me. Because this is so much easier than my old life. I have food here. I have a cot to sleep on. I have friends. I'm not always afraid. But I still remember the old days. I still remember the men paying my mother a handful of pesos for her body. I still remember my little cousin starving to death. I still remember rummaging through filth in a landfill, a thousand other starving souls around me, seeking banana peels and rotten old chicken bones to eat. I still remember being so sick, throwing up so much, wanting to die until I cut myself. When I said I joined the HDF to die, I meant it. I'm four feet ten and weigh ninety-three pounds. They wanted to exempt me, saying I'm too small, too weak. When they saw the scars on my wrists, they absolutely refused to let me join. But I insisted. I kept showing up at the recruiting center until they let me enlist—and only because my father was a soldier and killed scum. I joined to die in battle, Marco, and that's what I intend to do as soon as basic training is over. This is my suicide. And I don't want you to love me. I don't want your heart to break." She touched his cheek. "You're too sweet for that."
He held her hands. "You don't have to die, Lailani. We can live, both of us. Together."
"And what, get married after the army, have babies? I would never have babies. I don't want to give them my depression. I wouldn't know how to live happily with you. There's something broken inside me, something that cannot heal. But I can still become a heroine. I can die a heroine—for humanity. It would be a good death."
Marco wanted to pity her, but instead he found anger inside him. "Well, it's too late. Because I already love you. I already fucking love you, Lailani. I want you to live, and I want you to know that you matter. That somebody loves you. That there is still a good life for you to live. It's hard to see here, but there is still goodness in the world. Don't die before you claim some of it. Let me help you. Let me show this to you."
Lailani looked away from him, eyes damp, then whispered, "I hate you. I hate you for doing this. For making me care about you. For confusing me so much."
"And hey, I need somebody to share chips with, and Addy just eats the whole bag."
For the first time since Marco had known her, Lailani smiled—not just a thin, hesitant smile but a huge, real grin that showed her teeth. She embraced him and leaned her cheek against his chest. Their rifles and magazines of bullets clattered together.
"I do want to read your novel when it's finally done," Lailani said, "and it'll probably take you years to write."
He pulled her helmet back and kissed her forehead. "So do you still ruv me?"
She nodded. "I ruv you."
"Ruv you too." He kissed her nose, then pulled her helmet down over her eyes.
He returned to his cot. Just as he was drifting back to sleep, as Lailani returned from her guard shift, he felt a gentle kiss on his lips, then saw Lailani crawl into her cot. He slept and no longer dreamed of scum.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Marco and Elvis stood in the guard tower, watching the dark desert, their guns in hand.
"It's a scum!" Elvis pointed. "Look!"
Marco rolled his eyes. "Elvis, it's the same boulder from before. Calm down."
The guard tower's turret was small, cold, and exposed. Behind them spread Fort Djemila, and before them rolled the desert. Elvis seemed miserable here, hopping from foot to foot, tapping the railing, and nibbling his lip. But Marco liked it up here. In the night, it felt like floating above the world, like a sailor in a crow's nest on some ancient sailing ship. There were no shouting commanders up here, no Pinky, no kitchen duty or exercises or screaming bullets. Just a tiny enclosure and darkness.
"Sorry, Poet." Elvis lowered his gun. "I'm a bit jumpy. There's scuttlebutt."
"What scuttlebutt?" Marco raised an eyebrow.
"Scuttlebutt about a scum invasion."
Marco sighed. "Elvis, there are no electronics on this base. How did you hear scuttlebutt? And why do you even call it scuttlebutt?"
"Oh, I have my sources," Elvis said. "You know my sources, right? Remember when you lost your beret?"
Marco nodded. "I was terrified Sergeant Singh would murder me."
"And who got you a new beret the next day?"
"You did," Marco said.
Elvis nodded. "Through my sources. And they've heard scuttl
ebutt. Scum coming. And—" He gasped and loaded his gun. "Scum!"
"Elvis!" Marco pushed down his friend's barrel. "Boulder. Boulder!"
With a shudder, Elvis nodded, opened his gun, and fished out the loaded bullet. "Sorry, the whole jumpy thing."
"We're all jumpy," Marco said. "You and Addy and me. The three Canadian kids. We've seen our share of scum. Well, I suppose the whole world has." He looked at his friend. "Whereabouts back home are you from anyway?"
"If nowhere has a middle," said Elvis, "that's where I'm from. Farmlands. Nothing but soybeans for kilometers around. Not even any good plants like corn, just fucking soybeans, and the damn things taste horrible. Had to drive an hour just to see my girl."
Marco's eyes widened. "You have a girlfriend? All this time, when the boys were sharing photos of our girls, you didn't say anything."
Elvis nodded, quiet for a long moment. Finally he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it. Inside was a photo of a young woman waving at the camera. "That's her. Ellie."
"She's beautiful," Marco said.
"The most beautiful girl in the world," said Elvis. "She died seven months ago."
"God." Marco lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Elvis. That's horrible. Did the scum . . .?"
"Nah." Elvis returned the wallet to his pocket. "Car crash. Just before she died, we talked about getting married after the army. We already planned it all out. Would have helped us get through these five years, you know? We already named our future kids."
"I don't know what to say." Marco touched his friend's shoulder, then pulled his hand back, feeling awkward, feeling like the movement was too cliche, meaningless. "I'm sorry, again."
"When I came here," Elvis said, "I decided to be happy when I remembered her. To remember our good times. To still let her memory help me."
"I understand why you didn't say anything about her until now," Marco said. "But I'm glad you told me."
Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1) Page 18
