Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2)

by Daniel Arenson

  Finally Earth's tanks responded with shells of their own. Finally the cannons of Earth dug down, aimed their bores, and began bombarding the city.

  Jon stared at Basilica upon the mountain. Boom after boom rocked the enemy city. Fire bloomed over the basalt walls and towers. A black tower crumbled, then collapsed with a cloud of dust. Shell after shell pounded Basilica.

  And the Basilicans kept firing back.

  Even under massive assault, their shells kept flying.

  George hit the brakes, joining the other jeeps of their brigade. The vehicles crowded together upon the plain. Carter stood in a jeep ahead, shouting something. The tanks formed a wall before them, pummeling the enemy, but more shells flew from Basilica, and—

  "George!" Jon shouted, pointing.

  A missile streaked from the city.

  Heading right at them.

  "Our jeep is stuck!" George shouted, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it cracked. Tanks and other jeeps surrounded them.

  They had no time to think.

  They leaped from their jeep, and—

  Fire washed over Jon.

  The explosion deafened him.

  A shock wave pounded him.

  Jon slammed down hard, and his face hit stone, and he tasted blood.

  Stars floated around him. Dwarves filled his head, pounding his skull with little hammers. Blood dripped down his arm.

  And then everything went dark.

  Chapter Eleven

  Scattered Pages

  Kaelyn Williams was only seventeen, too young to be drafted. She never imagined she would end up fighting the Colony War here on Earth.

  But there were many realities she had never imagined.

  She had never imagined she would become a soprano, a singer in a symphonic metal band.

  She had never imagined she would fall in love with the guitarist, a boy named Paul Taylor, a boy with black hair and laughing eyes.

  She had never imagined Paul would be sent to fight on Bahay. That he would come back to her in a coffin.

  She had never imagined that Jon and George, keyboardist and drummer for Symphonica, would leave for war just days after Paul's funeral.

  She had never imagined that she, Kaelyn Williams, would remain alone here in Lindenville, New Jersey. A girl with wild red hair. With mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown. With so much grief and fear in her heart. The last member of Symphonica, like some princess from a tale, the last survivor of her kingdom.

  She was Kaelyn Williams, and she was alone.

  Lindenville Military Cemetery was a place of sad beauty. Maple and oak trees rustled around her, their leaves turning red and gold. Sunbeams fell between the boughs, mottling the tombstones with beads of golden light. Flowers bloomed, filling the air with sweet scent. The crisp breeze ruffled the grass, billowed Kaelyn's long red hair, and scattered dry leaves around her feet. She shivered and tightened her coat around her.

  Yes. A beautiful place. A place of marble statues, gurgling fountains, and singing birds. A place of death and so much life. A place for so many of Lindenville's boys and girls.

  They had come home from the horrors of the jungle. They rested around Kaelyn Williams, with only the autumn breeze to carry their whispers.

  She walked between the graves. Row by row.

  This was an old cemetery. Many of the graves were from the Alien Wars a century ago. Hundreds of Lindenville's youths had died in those wars, repelling wave after wave of alien invasion, fighting under the banners of the legendary President Ben-Ari, the Golden Lioness from the history books. Many of the graves were even older, dating back to the twentieth century, that century of man-made slaughter. Hundreds of these graves contained heroes of the world wars, youths who had died on the battlefields of Earth, some even younger than Kaelyn.

  And there were new graves too.

  Row after row.

  White tombstones like soldiers.

  Most featured crosses. Some were engraved with Stars of David, moons and stars, or a circle to symbolize Earth. Different faiths. Different backgrounds. But all were the same in death. All had given their lives for Earth.

  The dead of the Bahay War rested here.

  "You are all heroes," Kaelyn whispered. "But only the heroes of the Bahay War died in vain. Some of you gave your lives to defeat Nazism. Some of you gave your lives to cast back the aliens. But you, heroes of the Bahay War… you died for no reason."

  Those words hurt to speak. Those words shattered her heart into a thousand pieces like shards of glittering glass. But those were words she had to speak here. Not just to the dead. But to herself.

  She finally came to it. The grave she visited every day.

  She read the epitaph engraved in the stone.

  Paul Taylor

  HDF Corporal

  The Bahay War

  2204 — 2223

  Purple Heart

  That was it. A rank. A war. A medal. A name and some numbers. Paul had given his life to the military. And this was all they could give him. A few stats.

  "You were more than this, Paul," Kaelyn said. "They didn't write that you played the guitar. That you jogged in the mornings, painted on the beach, and loved the sea. They didn't write that you loved me. And that I still love you."

  Sudden guilt filled her.

  The memory resurfaced. The bench under the tree by the church. Sitting there with Jon. Kissing him. A kiss goodbye before the war.

  And with her guilt—terror. Terror that Jon should return to her dead like so many in this cemetery. That she would come here every morning to visit two souls she loved.

  "Symphonica is broken, and so is my life," Kaelyn whispered.

  But Symphonica's music was still in her soul. The band was broken, but she had never forgotten Jon's music.

  You are my muse, he would tell her, composing songs for her to sing. Even back then, Kaelyn had known. That the younger Taylor brother loved her.

  Paul was taller, stronger, faster. An athlete, a guitar player, a hero in this town.

  Jon had always been different. Thinner. Introverted. Reflective. When Paul was leading the swim team, Jon was at home, composing on the piano. When Paul was shredding his guitar on stage, a god of music preening for his adoring fans, Jon was playing keyboards in the background, barely visible in the shadows, the phantom in the cloisters. They were Jon's own songs, yet the maestro would shy away from the limelight.

  And Kaelyn had known that he loved her. That the songs he wrote, cryptic as their lyrics might be, were love songs about her. She knew it broke his heart that she had chosen Paul. Perhaps Jon himself had never known. Perhaps he had lied to himself, told himself that Kaelyn was perhaps his muse but not his love.

  But Kaelyn knew. She had always known.

  And now she sang "Scattered Pages," one of those songs Jon had written for Symphonica. The overture for Falling Like the Rain, his uncompleted rock opera. A song he had written for her voice.

  A dead boy cries

  His tears fall cold

  On the scattered pages of a poem untold

  Do not weep

  For notes already played

  For symphonies composed

  For prayers prayed

  In the silence they echo

  Marble halls they haunt

  Death is only dry ink

  Of notes written for naught

  A dead boy cries

  For those fallen young

  On the scattered pages of a song unsung

  Do not weep

  For notes already played

  For symphonies composed

  For prayers prayed

  A dead boy cries

  His tears fall cold

  On scattered pages for a dead boy's soul

  Kaelyn sang those words. That song Jon had composed for Symphonica, for her to sing.

  A soft song. A bittersweet ballad. Her voice rose high in the cemetery, a voice that brought Jon to tears so many times. A voice he had once called clear as a b
eam of moonlight trapped in crystal.

  She sang. The song was part of Falling Like the Rain, Jon's uncompleted masterpiece, ostensibly the tale of a dead soldier looking back upon his life. But Kaelyn had always known. That dead boy was Jon, for he felt dead inside, lost without her love. She had chosen Paul, and she had killed a part of him. That part emerged with the music that he wrote.

  Now, as she sang here, this song took on a third meaning.

  It became a song for Paul.

  It became a song, perhaps, for all the dead in this war.

  And thus it came full circle. A song of the dead, looking back upon life. And Kaelyn prayed that she would never have to sing this song about Jon.

  She heard a song behind her. A new song. An old song. This one sung by deep baritone.

  She turned to see a funeral procession moving through the cemetery. A priest was singing, leading the mourners. Pallbearers carried three caskets, each draped with the blue flag of Earth.

  Kaelyn approached, and she stood with the mourners. Three youths of this town. She had known them well. All three killed on Bahay. All three buried here in this beautiful place.

  Scattered pages for a song unsung, Kaelyn thought. And their song is done.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blood and Basalt

  "Help. Help!"

  A voice called through the fog.

  Jon blinked and opened his eyes.

  I was unconscious, he realized.

  He found himself lying in blood. A battle raged around him. Basilica mountain loomed above, a demonic shadow overseeing rivers of carnage.

  The voice returned. "Help. Please. Help…"

  A soldier was crawling toward Jon. A young man from his platoon.

  His name is Patrick, Jon remembered in a haze. He recognized the private's freckled hands, which were clutching his rosary beads; he always held them, even in battle. Patrick from Ohio.

  Patrick didn't have a face anymore. Just a hole above his mouth. But still he begged.

  "Help. Help…"

  Jon knelt beside him. Patrick was bleeding from the chasm in his head.

  How do I stop this? What do I do?

  More explosions bloomed all around. The earth shook. Another jeep exploded nearby, the tanks kept bombarding the enemy, and fire hid the sky.

  In a daze, Jon pulled off his boot, took off his sock, tried to stanch the bleeding on Patrick's face. His sock sank into the skull. And then Patrick fell, gurgling, dying. He died in Jon's arms.

  A shell exploded overhead. Shrapnel rained, pattering around Jon, sinking into corpses. He crawled. He crawled through gore. Through mangled bodies. Through screaming, wounded soldiers. He crawled over severed limbs. His hand sank into mush, and he realized it had once been a soldier. He couldn't tell who.

  Oh God, is it Etty? Is it George?

  With a shaky hand, Jon tore off the soldier's dog tags. Corporal Alissa Campbell. Jon had just talked to her that morning.

  "Jon!"

  Etty limped toward him, covered in blood. Her helmet's visor had shattered. Shrapnel had seared a sizzling line on her thigh. Her eyes were huge, green, and dazed, peering from a face covered in ash.

  "Etty, where is George?" Jon shouted. He could barely even hear himself.

  She pointed, and a tear streamed down her cheek, carving a line through the soot.

  George lay nearby, buried under an overturned jeep.

  Jon's heart shattered.

  He ran.

  He ran as shells rained all around. As people screamed, shouted, died. He ran toward his friend.

  The blast must have lifted the jeep, then slammed it down onto George. He lay pinned under the heavy machine, the door pressing against his chest.

  "Etty, help me!" Jon shouted.

  He grabbed the jeep, strained. Etty helped, but it wasn't enough.

  "We need more help!" Jon shouted.

  A few more soldiers approached. They heaved together. Two soldiers grabbed a fallen cannon's bore and used it as a lever. They lifted the jeep.

  George moaned. He was still alive.

  "Etty, help me pull him to cover!" Jon said.

  "I'm helping, I'm helping!"

  They grabbed the giant, dragged him across the battlefield. All around the fire rained, the shells exploded, and bullets rattled. They pulled George behind a tank, seeking cover from the shelling. The tank's cannon faced the city, shelling the basalt walls again and again. The entire tank kept jerking. They huddled behind the thundering mass of metal.

  "I don't see any injuries!" Etty shouted to be heard over the noise. "The damage could be internal."

  "George, buddy!" Jon touched his friend's cheek. "You with us?"

  The giant moaned. "Ow."

  George's battlesuit was cracked and dented. But amazingly, it had withstood the jeep's weight. George even managed to stand up. Then take a step.

  Jon gazed in wonder. "Fucking hell. A goddamn jeep fell on you, and you're walking."

  "That's because he's bigger than a fucking jeep," Etty said. "Fat bastard."

  But then she was crying and hugging George.

  The giant winced. "Ouch, ouch, I'm tender! I think I cracked a rib."

  Jon shook his head. "Goddamn, George, that thing should have crushed every bone in your body. I forgot our friend is an elephant. I—"

  A shell exploded nearby.

  Then a shell hit the tank they hid behind.

  It burst into flame. Mangled metal clattered to the ground. The friends ran together through the barrage, hunched over. Shrapnel pattered their battlesuits, embedding in the armored plates. They found shelter behind an overturned armacar. More shells streaked, etching red lines across the sky like claws through sallow flesh. The dead lay strewn over the land.

  Roars sounded overhead. Jon looked up to see HDF planes blaze toward the city. Blasts bloomed in the basalt streets. A tower collapsed. Anti-aircraft fire rose from beyond the walls, and a plane caught fire, then crashed into the city. Smoke blazed skyward, more defensive fire rose, and the surviving planes scattered.

  "Hey!" shouted a sergeant wearing heavy earmuffs. "Hey, you privates! Get over here, we need more gunners!"

  Jon looked. The sergeant was standing by an enormous cannon on wheels. It was the size of an oak tree. A few dead soldiers lay around it, mangled.

  "We're not gunners!" Jon shouted. His ears kept ringing.

  "You are now!" the sergeant shouted. "Get over here, we need more! I'll talk you through it."

  Jon, George, and Etty approached the cannon. They dragged the dead gunners away, then took position and accepted earmuffs.

  A bit too late to save my ears, Jon thought ruefully. They still rang.

  The sergeant barked orders. George and Etty loaded a shell—it was the size of a fire hydrant. Jon pulled the massive chain.

  The cannon jerked, shaking the world.

  A blast roared.

  Smoke and dust and fire blazed.

  Jon watched the shell fly. It streaked overhead, crossing several kilometers within a split second, and slammed into the walls of Basilica.

  Atop the mountain, the walls shook. A hole ripped open in the basalt.

  Etty cheered, and even George managed a smile. Jon felt sick.

  "Again!" the sergeant barked.

  They loaded another shell. They fired again.

  Around them, hundreds of tanks and cannons were firing too. Hundreds of shells slammed into Basilica. They bombarded the walls. The mountainside. Some shells made it into the city, and fire raged, and smoke billowed over the mountain.

  The volcano is active again, Jon thought. But this is our fire.

  They kept firing.

  They fired all day, and they fired through the night. There was no darkness that night. There was no rest. There was the red fire, and the red blood, and the endless bombing.

  The soldiers dug trenches. They huddled behind sandbags as the shells flew. The tanks kept firing. The cannons kept booming. The soldiers kept dying. A r
ed night. The longest night of Jon's life.

  Dawn rose with more fire.

  The shells from the city kept flying.

  "The goddamn enemy is desperate," Carter said.

  The lieutenant had joined his platoon in the trench. They shared a bleak breakfast of battle rations under enemy fire. Every few moments, a shell hit nearby, and dirt and stones and chunks of metal pattered into the trench. Jon brushed dust off his tin of coffee.

  "They don't seem desperate to me," Etty said. "With all due respect, sir, they seem to be kicking our asses."

  Carter snorted. "They know the end is near. That's why they're using every last bomb they have. They're emptying their reserves. They want to go out with a bang." Carter climbed to the edge of the trench and stared at the city. "You're in there, Ernesto, aren't you? Yes. You're there. You're waiting. We'll meet again soon."

  "Sir." Jon shivered in the dawn even as fire blazed all around. "Ernesto Santos is probably still somewhere in the south. He's Kalayaan, remember. We're fighting the Luminous Army here, not the—"

  "I know who we're fighting, goddammit!" Carter spun toward Jon, his eyes burning. But then his face softened, and he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I know, Jon. But Ernesto isn't a normal Kenny. Not some scrawny little rice farmer lost in the jungle. No. He's clever. He's strong. He's more than human. He survived a bullet to the skull. What kind of man can survive that? Tell me, Jon. What kind of man can survive a bullet to the skull?"

  "I don't know, sir," Jon said. "George survived being crushed by a jeep, though."

  The lieutenant turned toward George. He slapped the giant on the back. "Yes, you're a strong soldier. The biggest goddamn soldier in this army." He turned toward Etty. "And you're fierce. You're Israeli, aren't you? Like the old president. You're a race of elite warriors. The modern Spartans!" He turned back to Jon. "But you, Jon… you're special. For you, it's personal. What Ernesto did to your brother…"

  "Sir—" Jon began.

  "Yes, we're going to do it together!" Carter said. "We're going to find Ernesto. He's here in this city. Our platoon! We're going to find him! We're going to stab the bastard right in the chest."