EARTHLINGS
SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE, BOOK 2
by
Daniel Arenson
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON
Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com
Chapter One
Neon Oasis
Jon fired his gun.
And he missed.
The most important shot of his life—and he missed!
His bullet shattered a lamp. Glass showered like an exploding star. Bargirls screamed and fled the room.
They were in the Go Go Cowgirl, the seediest bar on the seediest world in the seediest corner of the galaxy. The Go Go Cowgirl. A haunt for drug dealers, pimps, prostitutes, and the soldiers they serviced. On this distant planet, so far from Earth, soldiers found their pleasures wherever they could. A neon oasis in the abyss of war, the Go Go Cowgirl welcomed the broken, haunted soldiers limping back from the battlefield. It gave them what they needed. Cold beer. Hot girls. Carnal pleasures in a world of pain. Intoxicating, curvy flesh in a world where flesh so often burned and bled.
The Go Go Cowgirl. The bar where Jon had come to forget. The bar where he found his brother's killer.
There he stood.
The butcher. The torturer. The murderer.
Ernesto "Iron" Santos.
And Jon goddamn missed.
He kept his smoking muzzle aimed at the brute.
"Don't move!" Jon shouted. "Drop your gun!"
They stood facing each other in the bar. Two old cowboys in a saloon. Only this saloon was in a place far wilder than the Old West. This saloon was on Bahay. A planet of jungles. Of death. Of old scores.
"It's you," Jon hissed. "You're the one they call Iron. The man who killed my brother."
They stared at each other in silence.
Jon—a young Earthling. A private in the Human Defense Force. Sent here to drag this rebellious colony into Earth's empire. Jon Taylor. Slender and pale, his black hair cropped short, his blue eyes haunted. Nineteen years old. Already with blood on his hands. With blood haunting his dreams every night.
Ernesto—a wiry Bahayan. All corded muscles and scars. His skin was bronze, his features sharp, his eyes simmering with fire. A scar cleaved his face, leaving one eye ruined, covered with a milky cataract. His snarl revealed a golden tooth. Ernesto Santos. Rebel against Earth's will. Freedom fighter to some, terrorist to most. The dreaded butcher of the jungle.
"Killed your brother? Maybe." Ernesto spat. "I've killed many of you pute weaklings from Earth. Was your brother a scrawny maggot like you?"
The guerrilla held a smoking pistol, the muzzle aimed at Jon. It was an old flintlock, the kind Earthlings had stopped using centuries ago. But it could still put a bullet through Jon.
After all, that gun had just shot a woman through the chest.
Sergeant Lizzy lay on the bar floor, gasping, clutching the bullet hole. Blood dripped between her fingers. Two other soldiers, patrons of the bar, knelt beside her. One was trying to staunch the bleeding. The other ran out onto the street, calling for a medic.
They were Jon's friends. Soldiers he had trained with, fought with. Right now, he barely saw them. Right now, he saw only the man ahead.
"You killed him," Jon said, voice shaking. "His name was Corporal Paul Taylor. My brother. You murdered him!"
Ernesto smirked. "I've done worse than kill pathetic pute soldiers. That woman bleeding on the floor? I raped her. I tortured her. I cut off her hand. Now she's no longer useful. So I put a bullet through her chest." He grinned and licked his golden tooth. "But I've not come here to kill you, little pute. You're not even worth the trouble. I've come for that girl who hides behind your skirt. My beloved betrothed. Come to me, Maria!"
Maria Imelda de la Cruz. Once a humble rice farmer from a village by the rainforest. Now an orphan, a bargirl, struggling to survive on these rough neon streets. She cowered behind Jon. A petite woman with long black hair, olive-toned skin, and rare beauty. A beauty that had pierced Jon's heart the first time he saw her.
Maria. The woman he loved. A daughter of the enemy and the brightest light in Jon's life.
She found her courage. She peeked around Jon's back and sneered at Ernesto.
"Your betrothed?" Maria laughed bitterly. "That was never my choice! When I was a child, our parents arranged that. Now our parents are dead. Now our village is destroyed. Now—"
"And now you fuck the Earthlings who destroyed our village!" Ernesto shouted. "You fuck the pute demons who murdered our parents! You're nothing but a whore now. You—"
"Don't call her that!" Jon said.
Ernesto laughed—a sound like cracking bones. "Are you one of her clients, pute?"
Jon raised his chin. "I'm her husband."
Well, to be honest, Jon had to admit to himself: We're both right.
Yes, Jon had hired Maria as a prostitute. But only to save her from a cruel man! A brute, a murderer, a man who would take Maria's virginity and leave her bruised and battered.
Still, for all his good intentions, Jon had paid for her. And he had slept with her. So he supposed that, yes, Maria was a prostitute, and he was her client.
But there was more to the story. Jon had also married her.
Sure, it had been only a mock service. A bit of fun. A fake wedding dress sewn from a curtain. One bargirl dressed as a priest, a fake mustache on her lip, officiating the ceremony as the guests giggled. A funny little night above the bar. Not a real wedding. Not legally binding.
But right now, defending Maria, Jon felt like her true husband. His love for her was stronger than any contract or ceremony. Someday he hoped to marry her for real—on Earth.
He would protect her from this man.
In all of Bahay, of all the girls in all the bars on this godforsaken world, I had to fall in love with her, Jon thought. With the betrothed of Ernesto Santos, the monster who murdered my brother.
"Maria!" Ernesto reached out for the girl. "Come to me. Leave this shameful place. You're a proud daughter of Bahay! You don't need to work here. To service the enemy. Come to me, my beloved."
"Your beloved?" Maria shook her head. "No, Ernesto. You don't love me. You beat me. And you scare me. I watched you torture that prisoner. Burn him with an iron. I'll never be your wife! Never! Leave now and don't come back. Or Jon will kill you!"
I might kill him anyway, Jon
thought.
He pushed Maria behind his back and took a step toward Ernesto. He kept his rifle trained on the guerrilla.
"I won't let you hurt her," Jon said.
Ernesto smirked. "Go ahead, boy. Shoot if you've got the balls." He kept his own gun aimed at Jon. "Let's see who's faster. Old cowboy standoff, like you say on Earth."
Jon tightened his grip on the rifle. At first, when Ernesto had burst into the club, gun blazing, it had been easy to let off a shot. That had felt like an actual battle. And Jon had trained for battles, fought battles in the jungles. But now, like this, locked in a standoff, Jon hesitated. Killing a man like this… it was not a battle. It would be more like, well…
Like murder? he thought.
"Admit it!" Jon shouted. "Admit you killed Paul."
He needed to hear that confession first. To know for certain this was his man. To gain the courage to pull the trigger.
Ernesto wasn't firing either. Maybe he feared his bullet would tear through Jon and hit Maria, who was hiding behind him.
"I told you, pute." Ernesto smirked. "I've killed many of your kind. You Earthlings don't belong here. This is Bahay. This world belongs only to Bahayans. Our planet and our women are not yours."
Jon's lip twitched. "I'm not interested in having a political debate, buddy. Tell me you killed Paul!" His voice rose to a shout, and he took a step closer. "Tell me it was you!"
On the floor, Sergeant Lizzy raised her head. She was ashen, clutching her wound.
"It's him," she whispered, voice hoarse. "Jon, it's him. I was there. Kill him. Kill—"
"Hey, hey, hey, nobody is killing anyone here!"
The Magic Man burst into the room. The pimp wore a garish purple suit, chains of gold, and glittering rings. Scented oils glistened on his goatee and slicked-back hair. He was a middle-aged Bahayan man, but he wore more jewels than an old French queen.
"Fighting is very illegal!" The pimp tittered nervously. "We don't want to bring the military police in here, do we now? Any violence—please, take it out, take it outside." He stepped closer to Jon and Ernesto, who both still had their guns drawn. Rings glinting, the pimp pushed down both smoking muzzles. Then he winced and put his fingers in his mouth. "Oh, goddammit, I cooked my fingers."
Ernesto's gun was down.
And Jon took his chance.
He raised his rifle and fired.
This time, Jon aimed true.
A chunk of Ernesto's scalp tore off. A piece of skull hit the wall. For a horrible instant, Jon saw the inside of Ernesto's head. A fold of brain. Then just gushing blood.
Ernesto fired his gun. Perhaps just instinct. Perhaps a signal sent from brain to finger before that brain lost its skull.
It was futile. Ernesto was already reeling backward. His aim was off. The bullet shrieked over Jon's head and hit the wall. A few plucky bargirls, who had stayed to watch the fight, wailed and fled behind the bar.
Ernesto screamed. Amazingly, even with his skull shot open, he was still standing.
He even fired a second bullet.
But he could barely aim. This bullet hit the ceiling, shattering a lamp. Glass flew.
Ernesto dropped his gun from trembling hands. He stood, dazed, his skull blasted open, somehow still alive, still standing, still screaming.
Jon was about to shoot again, to put the man out of his misery, when the military police burst through the door.
They wore helmets with dark visors, hiding their faces. They raised assault rifles, sweeping the room with targeting laser beams. The Magic Man stood on the street, peering over the policemen's shoulders. The bastard must have sneaked out the back door to summon them.
"What the hell is going on here?" an MP said.
"Back, back!" somebody shouted. And suddenly medics were rushing in too, barreling through the MPs. They carried a litter, oxygen mask, and medical kits. In the crowded bar, they were trying to reach Sergeant Lizzy, who still lay bleeding on the floor.
"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!" rose a cry from outside, and gunfire rattled. Freedom for Bahay!
Goddammit! Everything was converging here. Police. Medics. And outside—the goddamn Kalayaan terrorists.
In the chaos, Ernesto stumbled outside.
Jon aimed his gun, but he couldn't fire. Not without jeopardizing the medics. They were blocking his aim.
"Stop him!" Jon cried.
One MP, who stood at the doorway, stared at Ernesto, then recoiled in disgust. "My God, his brain…"
Jon tried to push his way forward. To catch Ernesto. But he slammed into an MP, then into a medic. An oxygen tank clanged onto the floor, and medics cursed. Jon cried out in frustration, worming his way outside.
* * * * *
Sunlight washed the street. At nighttime, the Blue Boulevard shone with neon lights. Not just blue but all the colors of the rainbow. Countless bars filled the neighborhood—not just the Blue Boulevard itself but side streets that branched off like electric twigs. These bars, run and staffed by Bahayans, offered everything an Earthling soldier could want. Booze. Drugs. A girl to dance on the stage. A girl to take into bed.
Or, in Jon's case, a wife.
In the night, the signs all shone, and the barkers all barked, and the pimps prowled, promising delights. Cold beer and hot girls! Lady boxing tonight! Midget wrestling! Shabu shabu, the drug of dreams!
But right now, daylight banished the illusion like dawn banishing a ghost. The neon lights did not shine. And in the searing sunlight of Bahay, Jon could see the decay. The stained, crumbling concrete of decrepit buildings. The roofs of rusty corrugated steel, held down with tires. The filth that filled the gutters. The beggars and orphans and twitching junkies on the sidewalks. The Blue Boulevard, so intoxicating at night, became in day a place of grim awakenings and shattered dreams.
Instead of buskers and barkers, bullets filled the air with their song.
One bullet hit an MP.
More pinged against the ambulance parked outside the Go Go Cowgirl.
One bullet hit the neon sign above Jon's head. The electric cowgirl, the club's namesake, exploded into a million shards.
They were there. In windows and on roofs.
Some called them terrorists. Some called them the Kennys. They had been just peasants once. Today they were the Kalayaan, the great uprising of Bahay, the scourge of Earth. And they were all firing at the club.
Jon ducked behind the ambulance, slung his rifle over the hood, and returned fire.
"Ernesto!" he shouted.
He could not see his nemesis. Blood trailed across the sidewalk—Ernesto's blood! But bullets hit another MP, then a passing tuk tuk. The motorized rickshaw crashed into a pole, and more blood spilled, and electricity showered through the air.
Jon squinted, struggling to see through the chaos. His quarry had vanished. Jon wanted to run after the killer, but the bullets kept flying. All Jon could do was crouch behind the ambulance and take potshots at the enemy. He felt helpless as Ernesto got away.
Jon had never wanted to join the army, to fight a war. The desire to avenge his brother had taken him here. Now his hope for vengeance dripped away like blood through a dying man's fingers.
More soldiers streamed onto the street, emerging from bars and brothels. Some were shirtless, and some were hitching up their pants as they ran. One private fell on the street, riddled with bullets. A beer bottle slipped from his lifeless hand.
But most of the soldiers opened fire.
"Kenny raid!" shouted a mustached corporal—as if anyone on the street didn't know. The mustached man was stumbling from a brothel, cheeks pink, pants around his ankles. His polka dot underwear visible to the world, he began firing an assault rifle at the rooftops.
An orphan, one of the myriad who lived on the streets, tried to flee, a bullet in his arm. A shabu addict, only a teenager but already a mother of four, was herding her kids away from the fight, seeking shelter behind a shanty. Over the past twenty years of war, Mindao had swollen to millions of
people. Most were homeless. Most were women and children. Widows. Orphans. Refugees of the burning countryside. They had chosen poverty in the concrete jungle over death in the burning wilderness. And now the war had found them here. Now Earth's soldiers and Bahay's rebels littered this neon oasis with bullets.
With a belch of smog, the ambulance took off, carrying Sergeant Lizzy to safety.
Jon, who had been crouching behind the ambulance, was suddenly exposed.
Shadows moved in windows across the street.
Jon ran. Bullets slammed onto the sidewalk around him.
"Jon!" Maria cried.
"Get back into the bar!" he shouted.
A bullet whistled above, leaving his ears ringing. Another hit the concrete wall just above his head. He rolled behind a fallen rickshaw, its driver dead. It wasn't much cover, but better than nothing. Jon looked up.
There! A man in the window, peering between slats of plywood. Not Ernesto. But a Kenny who'd kill Jon just as gladly.
A bullet hit the tuk tuk Jon was crouched behind. It glanced off the rickshaw, scraped Jon's arm, and embedded itself in the pavement.
Jon fired.
The man in the window fell, neck spurting blood.
"Jon!"
"Jon, dammit, get to cover!"
Jon turned his head and saw his friends running toward him.
Private George Williams—the largest man in the brigade. The giant stood nearly seven feet tall, and his ample belly swayed over his belt. A brain tumor, pressing on his pituitary gland, had swelled George to gargantuan proportions. He looked like an ogre, and his blazing red hair didn't help. But Jon still saw the boy he had grown up with in Lindenville, New Jersey. A kind, sensitive boy who loved drumming, Dungeons and Dragons, and writing science fiction stories.
By the giant's side ran Private Etty Ettinger. The young Israeli joked that her name, with its unfortunate alliteration, made her sound like a superheroine. Peter Parker, Clark Kent, and the amazing Etty Ettinger! Etty joked around a lot. Mostly to hide the pain. A terrorist attack had claimed her entire family, leaving Etty alone in the universe. With her petite frame, smooth black hair, and olive-toned skin, she could almost pass for a Bahayan. But unlike Bahayans, Etty had very round, very green eyes. They were so large and bright people often mocked her, calling her a tarsier—a native animal with bulging green eyes. Etty just laughed along. More laughter to hide the pain.
Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2) Page 1
