Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  Someday my father, my friends, and the man I love will return home in this ship or one like it, Lizzy thought. And I don't know if they'll return as passengers or cargo.

  The shuttle entered the mothership. Great engines churned, glowing lavender, filling space with eerie nebulae of light. A warp bubble formed, bending space and time, and the stars streaked into lines. The starship blasted forth, and Sergeant Lizzy Pascal never saw Bahay again.

  Chapter Five

  The Road North

  Jon sat inside the armacar, rumbling toward the northern front.

  He was, he decided after examining his feelings, scared shitless.

  Sitting beside him, George Williams wiped his forehead. "I feel sick." The giant gulped. "I'm going to throw up."

  "Throw up in your helmet if you must," Jon said.

  His gargantuan friend was turning green. "Hey, I need my helmet! Especially with us driving toward a million Bahayans eager to fire bullets at my head."

  The armacar kept rattling his bones. Armacars were cramped, noisy, clunky vehicles, designed to transport troops over rough terrain. Armored plates covered their walls. There were no windows, only a small dusty monitor showing a view from outside. The Lions Platoon squeezed inside here, backs to the hull, rifles propped between their knees. George needed two seats.

  "It reminds me of our childhood in Lindenville," Jon said. "Taking the school bus together. You'd get carsick there too."

  "Sure, exactly the same thing," George said. "That is, if school buses were covered in armor and the kids all carried assault rifles."

  Etty sat beside the giant, as small as a mouse beside an elephant. She slapped George on the shoulder. "Welcome to the Mechanized Infantry, dear boy! See a new world through a tiny dusty monitor! Visit exotic destinations and blow them up! Travel there in a box of metal, come home in a box of wood! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in the Mechanized Infantry of the Human Defense Force, every day is an adventure."

  Jon rolled his eyes. "We get it, Ettinger."

  "Why the hell do we need to drive anyway?" George said. "I mean, this is the HDF! We have starships, for Chrissake! And we're moving through the jungle in glorified school buses."

  "Good luck flying a giant starship in atmosphere," Etty said. "That would be like gluing feathers onto your arms and expecting your fat ass to fly."

  George growled. "Shut up, pipsqueak. You weigh as much as a feather. We could use shuttles or something. Like how we got down to the planet."

  Etty nodded. "Sure. Transport hundreds of thousands of soldiers to the front line with a fleet of a few dozen shuttles barely larger than you. Sounds practical. Especially when the Kennys start firing rockets from the ground."

  George fumed. "What I'm saying is that in the twenty-third century, there's gotta be a better solution than rumbling, rattling, bumping, and—" He turned green and covered his mouth. "I'm gonna hurl."

  Jon patted his friend on the shoulder. "Hang in there, big guy. Think of something else. Like all the cold beer we'll drink to celebrate after we win the war."

  He knew his friend wasn't just carsick. It was also the fear. The all-consuming terror. The kind that dug deep into your belly and spread icy tendrils through your body. They had all fought in the jungles before, but that had been in South Bahay, facing the Kalayaan. In the north, they would face worse than an uprising of skinny peasants. They would face the Luminous Army, a modern fighting force, trained and armed by the Santelmo aliens.

  From everything Jon heard, the Lumis made the Kennys look like girl scouts.

  Suddenly he felt sick too.

  He looked around him. Lizzy's Lions filled the armored car, everyone in battlesuits, their guns oiled, their belts heavy with grenades and magazines. Some of them had scribbled words onto their helmets. Jon read the slogans.

  WAR IS HELL

  Kill the slits!

  Gunslinger

  Slit Exterminators Inc

  Fighter AND Lover

  The Earth Patrol

  Just boys and girls, scribbling silly, patriotic, or murderous slogans with trembling hands, laughing and feigning bravado. Few of them were older than twenty. Just scared kids, most of whom had killed already. All of whom had watched friends die.

  Lizzy's Lions. Jon's old platoon. But so many were gone. Only last month, half the platoon had fallen in the battle of Surigao Hill. New faces had replaced them, privates and corporals from other decimated units. Lizzy herself, sergeant and eponym of the platoon, wasn't here. She was flying back to Earth

  George. Etty. More friends from other fireteams. And Lieutenant Carter was here too, sitting by the armacar's driver, dour and determined.

  This isn't going to be like Surigao Hill, Jon thought. It won't be just the Lions in the wild. An entire brigade is moving north. Thousands of troops. And we'll join with more on the way. There's strength in numbers. We'll win this war, and then Maria and I can—

  Gunfire shattered his thoughts.

  Jon stiffened. Everyone looked up. A rotary gun was mounted atop the armacar. It was now roaring.

  "Woo! Die, slits, die!"

  The voice came from the gun turret, barely audible over the roaring bullets. Finally the gunfire died.

  A soldier climbed down from the gun turret.

  Heavy boots hit the deck.

  "Woo! Killed me some slits! Up to seventy-three confirmed kills in the war." The soldier thrust his hips forward. "Fuck yeah!"

  Jon groaned. It was bad enough being at war. It was worse sharing a platoon with Private Clay Hagen.

  I've seen evil in my life, he thought. But nothing like Clay.

  On his first day on Bahay, Jon had seen Clay strafing villagers from a helicopter, celebrating every kill. Who had Clay just shot? Guerrillas? Or more women and children?

  The brute strutted down the aisle, thrusting his hips this way and that. He too had drawn letters onto his helmet. His spelled out slitfucker. He had drawn a swastika beside the word.

  "Yeah, that's right!" Clay said, parading through the armacar, reeking of gunpowder. He tapped his helmet. "Slitfucker. Ain't none of you bitches kill as much as me. They're gonna give me a goddamn trophy from the Guinness Book of Records. Most slits killed."

  "Psychopath," Etty muttered.

  Clay spun toward her. His strange, wide-set eyes narrowed.

  "What you say, Jew?"

  Etty snorted. "I said you're a goddamn psychopath. Are you deaf as well as dumb?"

  Clay aimed his rifle at her. At once, Jon and George grabbed him, pulled him back.

  "Let go of me!" Clay howled.

  But they held him back, shoved his muzzle down.

  "Enough, Clay!" Jon said. "Cool it."

  Clay was a powerful man. But George was even bigger. Through sheer size, George managed to subdue Clay. Jon helped, but he felt a little redundant.

  "She threatened me!" Clay said. "You heard it. That tarsier-looking bitch threatened me!"

  "Actually, I insulted you," Etty said. "Want to hear another insult? You look like a naked mole rat."

  Clay roared and lunged toward her again, but now more soldiers had stood up, were pulling the combatants apart.

  "Etty, stop provoking him!" Jon said.

  The petite Israeli shrugged. "Eh, he's boring to rile up anyway. No challenge."

  Clay spun toward Jon, snarling. "You. Jon Taylor. You feel the need to protect the little Jew, don't you? You like protecting vermin. Just like you protect that slit-slut at the club."

  Jon sucked in breath. "Her name is Maria. Don't you call her that."

  Clay laughed. "I touched a sore spot, didn't I? The men are saying you hired her for a whole week. That you married her." His laughter grew louder, shrill, demonic. "You married a slit whore!"

  "Don't call her that!" Jon shouted, grabbing Clay by the collar.

  But Clay just kept laughing. "The brave Jon Taylor, saving the innocent little Oriental flower from the cruel, brutish Clay Hagen. Yes, I was going to fuck her then, Taylor. I
was going to fuck her for a night, and then never look back. But now that I know you love the whore…" A tight smile spread across his face. "I'm going to go back to her, Taylor. After you die in the jungle. I'm going to find Maria and make her mine. I'll show her what Slitfucker really means."

  Jon howled and charged at Clay, fists flying.

  For a few seconds, the two soldiers were kicking and punching. Clay's fist slammed into Jon's helmet, ringing his head like a bell. Another fist drove into his chest. If not for his armored battlesuit, it would have cracked Jon's ribs.

  And then other soldiers were pulling them apart.

  "Cool it, boys, cool it!" a corporal was saying.

  A few soldiers started to chant, "Let them fight, let them fight, let them fight!"

  Soon everyone was on their feet, some chanting for blood, some laughing, others trying to break up the fight. Jon managed to land a blow on Clay's chin. He took some pleasure seeing blood on his opponent's lip.

  "What is going on here?"

  A deep voice boomed.

  Boots thumped.

  A shadow loomed.

  Lieutenant Carter stomped toward them. At once, everyone fell silent. A few soldiers even stood at attention and saluted.

  Carter was not tall like George. Not muscular like Clay. He looked completely ordinary. A young man with dark skin, closely cropped black hair, and a clean shave. But his eyes were anything but ordinary. They were fiercely intelligent. Determined. Hard eyes, yet haunted. Eyes like iron doors imprisoning ghosts.

  "Sorry, sir!" Jon said, saluting.

  Clay licked blood off his lips. "The young maestro lost his temper."

  The lieutenant stared at them, first one, then the other. Those eyes could make most men wither, but Jon remained standing tall, and Clay only smirked.

  "Sit your asses down," Carter said. "You two don't have to like each other. But you do have to fight together—and not each other." He looked at the rest of the platoon. "Save your aggression for the enemy, soldiers. God knows you'll need it."

  He returned to the front of the armacar.

  George pulled Jon back toward their seats. "Ah, fuck it, man. Clay will probably step on a grenade soon anyway. Let's forget about him and—"

  A pop.

  A blast only an instant long—louder than a shattering planet.

  Fire.

  Screams.

  Jon fell, hit the deck, and white light washed over him. Metal twisted and tore. Shrapnel slammed down around him. His ears rang, his head spun, and smoke filled his lungs. Firelight bathed him, searing-hot.

  "We're hit!" somebody shouted, stating the obvious.

  "The engine's on fire!"

  "Get the men, get them—"

  The ringing flowed over their voices. Jon lay on the deck. A corpse lay before him, burning, melting. Another man slumped in his seat, riddled with shrapnel.

  Fire was moving closer.

  Jon pushed himself onto his elbows.

  The fire was spreading through the armacar. Smoke filled the cabin. Jon looked around him, saw Etty lying nearby, eyes closed.

  "Etty!" he cried, and he could barely hear his voice.

  Through the smoke, he could just make out George. The giant slumped on the deck, blinking, dazed. Blood flowed down his forehead. Other soldiers were scrambling up the ladder, heading toward the top hatch.

  "George, up!"

  Jon groaned, lifted Etty, and slung her over his shoulder. The girl was tiny. She probably only weighed a hundred pounds. But that was still a lot to carry, especially here. Jon struggled under the weight.

  "George!"

  The ginger giant was three times Etty's size. No way Jon was carrying him. But he grabbed George by the collar and pulled hard, yanking the giant to his feet.

  "George, up the ladder! Go!"

  George nodded, stumbled toward the ladder, and climbed toward the hatch in the armacar's roof.

  Jon remained below, holding Etty, not even knowing if she was alive or dead. The smoke was everywhere. Jon couldn't stop coughing. The inferno flowed closer like a swarm of fire ants.

  Finally George, gut sucked in, managed to squeeze through the hatch. Then Jon climbed the ladder, still carrying Etty across his shoulders. He reached the top, where the hatch was open to the sky.

  "George, pull Etty out!" Jon said, hefting the unconscious girl.

  George grabbed Etty and pulled her onto the armacar's roof.

  Jon looked down. The fire was roaring through the armacar, consuming chairs, corpses—and a few living soldiers.

  They were screaming below.

  Jon only had a second to make his choice.

  He made it and leaped back down into the fire.

  He stumbled through the smoke and found Lieutenant Carter on the floor. The officer was still alive, but mumbling incoherently, legs bleeding, lungs full of smoke. He coughed.

  "Jon… Jon, we have to get the wounded ou—"

  "Right now, that's you, sir," Jon said, dragging his lieutenant out of the smoke.

  He helped Carter up the ladder, and George pulled the officer onto the roof.

  Jon went back down.

  He pulled out another soldier.

  And another.

  Fire was licking Jon's legs now. The soles of his boots were melting. He coughed, and he was bleeding. He didn't even know what had cut him.

  Only one living man remained below now. The armacar driver. The explosion had taken all four of his limbs. He still sat in the driver's seat, burning, screaming. Against all odds, he was still alive.

  Jon took a step toward him, but then recoiled from the fire.

  The driver's screams finally died.

  I'm sorry, friend, Jon thought. I'm sorry.

  He climbed and emerged onto the roof, coughing, bleeding, barely able to see or hear.

  That's when the bullets began to whistle.

  * * * * *

  They were out there in the jungle. The enemy. Invisible. Ghosts in the brush. And their bullets flew.

  One bullet pinged off the armacar only centimeters away from Jon.

  Another grazed his helmet. Jon yelped, head ringing. Standing atop the armacar, he swayed.

  A third bullet slammed into his armored chest, and he fell.

  He slid over the armacar's edge.

  He reached out, blinded by dust, and grabbed a handle.

  He pulled himself back onto the roof. The bullet had dented his armor, cracked an armored plate, and left him alive.

  "Jon, get down!" George cried. He was crouching by the armacar's treads.

  Jon looked toward the jungle.

  Several other armacars, farther along the road, were firing at the trees.

  Jon did not take cover. He stepped toward the machine gun that topped his own burning armacar. A gunner lay there, dead. Ignoring the flames from below, ignoring the blood on the roof, Jon pulled the dead gunner aside.

  He gripped the machine gun.

  More bullets streaked from the jungle. They pinged off the armacar. One hit the gun turret's shield. Another whistled by Jon's ear.

  He remained at his post.

  He opened fire.

  The machine gun rattled. Bullets roared out, spraying the trees, carving branches off. Along the road, the other armacars were doing the same. Trees collapsed. Trunks burst into flame. They kept firing.

  Everything hurt. A bullet was embedded in Jon's battlesuit. The tip pressed against his skin like a lead thumb. The dented armor was crushing his ribs, making it hard to breathe. His head rang. Smoke still filled his lungs. But Jon stayed on the armacar roof, even as the enemy snipers fired from the trees.

  And he kept fighting.

  And as he fought, mowing down more trees, he thought of his brother.

  He thought of Ernesto out there in the jungle.

  He thought of Maria waiting for him.

  He thought of the lies he had been told.

  But mostly, he thought merely of firing more bullets. Of killing more ene
mies. Of doing his duty.

  The battle didn't last long. The enemy pulled back. Like they had in Mindao just days ago.

  It was the Kalayaan who had done this. Guerrilla warfare. They came. They struck. They pulled back.

  They left death.

  Standing atop the armacar, Jon touched his helmet, took it off, looked at it. A bullet had scraped the metal. He touched his scalp. He was fine. Miraculously, he was alive.

  He climbed off the vehicle. Fire was still blazing inside the cabin, consuming anyone who hadn't gotten out in time.

  George rose from cover. He stared at Jon with wide eyes.

  "You are insane!" the giant said. "Standing atop a burning armacar, exposed like that?"

  Jon shrugged. "Beats being inside the armacar."

  "You go behind the armacar!" George shouted, pointing toward where he had been crouching, and where several other soldiers still knelt. "Behind the giant box of armor!"

  "I had to fight them, George. I had to…" Jon swayed, nearly fell. George had to catch him.

  "Etty," Jon whispered, stumbling forward, leaning against George. "Where is she?"

  He found her lying by the armacar. Medics were already tending to her. One placed an oxygen mask on her face, and another was bandaging her wounds. The girl looked at Jon, smiled weakly, and gave him a thumbs up.

  "Thanks, buddy," she said, voice muffled inside her mask. "You saved my ass."

  Jon fell to his knees, then onto his back, and soon medics were treating him too, and he was breathing through a mask. Other wounded lay around him. Lieutenant Carter stood nearby, staring at the forest, ignoring the blood dripping down his leg. A medic approached him, but the officer shooed him away.

  "He was there," Carter mumbled. "Ernesto. He was in the forest. I know it. I feel it."

  Carter tried to run toward the trees, only for medics to pull him back.

  "Sir. Sir! You need to lie down. You probably have a concussion. Sir!"

  A horn blared.

  "Hey! Hey there, you're holding up traffic!"

  Jon looked down the road. Other armacars were lining up. Dozens of them—a line of armor snaking through the jungle. A soldier stood in an open hatch, a smirk on his face.