EARTHLING'S WAR

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE, BOOK 3

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

Vampire

He pinned her down in the filthy alleyway, and his teeth sank into her flesh.

Maria screamed.

She tried to raise her gun. But Ernesto struck her. Her gun clattered across the asphalt.

War orphans and stray cats fled, scattering paper cups and old bones. Mice rushed into holes, and a tarpaulin sheet fluttered like a blue ghost. Shanties lined the alleyway. Their walls of rotten plywood tilted inward. Their roofs of rusty steel nearly touched, forming a tunnel, one more twisted passageway through the shantytown labyrinth. And like an explorer in a labyrinth of myth, Maria had encountered a monster.

Ernesto tossed his head back and howled, blood on his teeth. Her blood. With hands like claws, the fingernails black and curled, he clutched her. A minotaur. A killer hungry for human flesh. A metal plate was bolted into his skull, the screws rusty. His right eye shone with malice, and the left one blazed, milky white with cataracts, an eye like a collapsing sun.

The fisherman Maria had known was gone. He was no longer that simple villager, her proud and petty betrothed. The war had made him a beast.

Ernesto lowered his head, sniffed her, nostrils flaring. He licked the blood off his lips.

"You're mine now, prey," he hissed. "I hunted you. You're mine to devour."

She struggled against him, her back on the ground. Ernesto was not a large man, not as large as an Earthling. Like most Bahayans, he was skinny, malnourished. But there was a burning strength inside him, and his muscles were like ropes tightly coiled around steel frames. She could not free herself. She could sooner push off a tank.

He bit again. His teeth dug into her shoulder.

"Ernesto, stop!" she cried.

He pulled back. Blood dripped from his mouth onto Maria's chest. His one good eye swiveled toward her face. He blinked.

"Maria?" he whispered, as if waking from a spell.

"Ernesto, let me go!"

He blinked again. A tear fell from his eye.

"Maria! I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I love you, Maria. I did not come to hurt you." He howled and tugged his hair, ripping out strands. "Why did I hurt you? I love you, Maria! I came to bring you back. To marry you. I love you. I'm sorry."

But he still did not release her.

"Ernesto." She forced herself to go limp. "Let me go."

He still pinned her down, lying atop her. A gust of wind shrieked through the alleyway. Slats of corrugated iron, forming the rusty roofs of shanties, clanged together. Cigarette butts, paper cups, condom wrappers, and shabu needles scuttled across the ground like insects.

Ernesto seemed like a part of this alleyway. A person woven of filth and decay. Slime covered him. He must have been swimming in Mindao's polluted rivers. Algae and strips of plastic dangled from his black hair. The metal plate in his head was rusting, the edges leaking pus. Perhaps the infection had reached his mind. There was madness in his black eye and molten, eternal fury in the white eye.

His dark eye shed another tear. His white eye was dry and dead.

"But I can't let you go. I've been seeking you for so long." He tightened his grip on her. "Maria, I've sought you through burnt forests. Through lands of poison and mutation. Through war and fire. I lived in ashes and filth, and I danced with death. For a year, I've quested. And I found you now. I'm here. Broken, haunted, deformed… but here. To win my princess. To rescue you from this dark place." He gave a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Our love is like a fairy tale."

Maria stared up into his eyes.

Rage blazed through her.

You murdered people, she thought. You tortured them. You stalked and hunted me and terrorized me. You are no hero.

But she swallowed her rage. She forced herself to smile. Fighting back disgust, she caressed his cheek. Scars flowed like rivers across his leathery skin. She remembered him burning in the shantytown fire.

"Ernesto, I love you," she whispered.

He wept. "You do?"

She nodded. "I've always loved you."

"But… what of Sergeant Jon Taylor?" He howled again, head tossed back. A minotaur's howl. It echoed through the labyrinth of alleyways. "What of that filthy pute? You married him! You married him instead of me. I will kill him!" He balled his fists. "I will burn him with my iron. I will make him beg!"

Maria clenched her jaw. She remembered the last time Ernesto had tried to kidnap her.

Jon shot out a chunk of your skull, she thought, staring at the iron plate. And if he were here now, he would finish the job.

But her beloved Jon had been shipped north. He was fighting on the front line now, facing the Red Cardinal in battle. Here in South Bahay, in this city of poverty and pain, Maria must survive alone. At least for now. At least until this damn war ended and Jon could return to her.

When the war ends, so will this pain, Maria told herself. Jon will take me to Earth. We'll live in a cozy house among trees. I'll give birth to our child in an Earth hospital, not in a filthy alleyway. We'll be a happy family, far away from all this misery.

Tears flooded her eyes. She was pregnant with Jon's child, and he did not know. She had to continue her work. To fight the Earthlings. To unmask and shame their army. To end this war. So that she could be with her husband again. So she could give birth far from this place of blood and tears.

But right now, before she could defeat a galactic empire, she had to defeat one madman.

"I love you so much, Ernesto," she lied. "Can you help me stand? Please. I want to hug you properly."

He nodded. "Of course, my love."

He stood up, finally lifting his weight off her. He reached down to help her up.

Maria rejected his hand. She sprung up. With a snarl, she drew her father's knife.

She had carried this knife through all her battles. A knife with an antler hilt. A knife she had peeled from the burnt corpse of her father.

In the rainforest, a dreamtoad had shown her a vision.

It will be the only way to save her. You must use his knife, the toad had said.

And now Maria knew who the toad had meant.

The child in my belly, she thought. She's a girl. And with this knife, I will save her.

Ernesto saw the knife. He gasped, betrayed shock in his eyes. He reached out to her, perhaps a gesture of peace, perhaps trying to grab her.

With all her strength, Maria swung her blade in a wide arc.

Ernesto screamed and pulled his hand back.

His severed fingertips flew across the alleyway. They rolled across the ground like dice.

Maria turned, ran down the alley, and lifted her fallen gun. She aimed at Ernesto, pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed.

Ernesto laughed. He was already leaping toward her, fingertips be damned. Instinctively, Maria hurled her gun, and it slammed into his forehead. He recoiled, screaming in pain, but did not fall. He lunged toward her again, even as blood dripped into his eyes.

Briefly, Maria considered standing her ground. After all, he was unarmed, he was wounded, and she had a knife.

But Ernesto was more than a man. The war had transfigured him, possessed him like a demon. He was wildfire taken form. Impervious to pain. He had already survived a gunshot to the head, the shantytown fire, and whatever damage she was doing now. And yet he would not die! Not even slow down! Some unholy spirit possessed him, a dark magic that propelled him ever onward.

Maria could not defeat him. Not with a knife. Maybe not even with a working gun. Maybe he was beyond life and death, a creature like the Red Cardinal, an immortal manananggal, the vampire of Filipino folklore.

Maria considered all this within a split second. Then she spun and ran.

Ernesto followed.

Rats fled before her. She ran fast, arms pumping, and whipped around a corner. She raced down another lane, sending more animals and orphans into a flutter. When she glanced over her shoulder, Maria saw Ernesto keeping pace. He ran with arms extended like wings, vampiric, a bat filling the road, swooping on the wind.

Maria looked away. She focused on running as fast as she could. The walls of particle board and rusty metal blurred at her sides. Children watched from inside the shanties, peering between the slats of wood and metal like tarsiers peering among branches.

"You will be mine, Maria!" Ernesto howled behind her. "I'll cut off your legs so you can never escape me. I'll make you eat them!" He cackled. "Come back and be my legless bride!"

Maria spun around a corner, raced down an alleyway. Thousands of these narrow, filthy tunnels of despair sprawled across Mindao. A scrawny woman lay on the ground, holding a baby in one hand, a glass shabu pipe in the other. Maria vaulted over the junkie and her child, but Ernesto stumbled over them. He crashed onto the ground.

Maria reached the end of the alley. A dead end! A tower of stacked shanties rose before her. She cursed and spun around.

Ernesto pushed himself up, sneering. He advanced toward Maria slowly, arms extended, and a grin spread across his scarred face. In the shadowy slum, his blind eye caught the moonlight. It shone like a star.

Maria grabbed the wall and began to climb the shanties, sticking her fingertips and toes between slats of particle board.

She had climbed several feet when Ernesto reached the dead end, leaped up, and grabbed her ankle.

She screamed and clung to the wall. Rotting drywall crumbled between her fingers. She fell a foot, caught a rim of metal. It cut her fingers. She clung on, ignoring the blood.

Ernesto kept tugging from below.

"You're mine, Maria!" He pulled harder. "You will be my wife!"

Suddenly—hands reached out from the wall! The hands of children—reaching between the rotting slats!

Maria saw their peering eyes. Children of the shantytown. Children she had interviewed on camera. Refugees whose tales she had shared with Earth. Children she had comforted on long nights, embraced, fed whatever scraps she could spare. Children she had fought for. Children who now fought for her.

"Holy Maria, climb!" they said.

They stabbed at Ernesto. With pencils. With forks. Some just with their fingernails.

Ernesto's mutilated hand slipped off Maria's ankle, slick with blood.

And she was climbing again. The children's hands reached between the slats, helped her up.

The shanties were stacked three or four high in this neighborhood. Refugees had been flooding the city, coming from wastelands across Bahay. Millions of people crammed into Mindao—nearly the entire population of Bahay's southern hemisphere. Earth kept its headquarters here, and the city swarmed with Earthlings. That made it safe. At least, as safe as a place could be on this burning planet.

That also made it incredibly crowded.

When Maria climbed onto the roof, she saw countless shanties spreading across the city. An ocean of them, flowing to the horizons. They were just makeshift dwellings. The refugees and the poor built them from whatever plywood, scrap metal, and debris they could find. The millions huddled inside this sprawling maze as the countryside burned. Most roofs were corrugated iron, rusting away. Cloven artillery shells formed tiles on other roofs. A sea of rust surrounded Maria, burnished in the sunset.

Only two splashes of color broke the monotony. The Azure Cathedral rose beside the river, a shimmering edifice the color of sky, rising from the slums. It was the finest building in Mindao, so resplendent it could rival even Earth's grandest cathedrals. Then there was New Manila, a complex of concrete towers along the coast, envisioned as a luxury district. The concrete was stained now, its paint long gone, replaced with graffiti and mold. Countless refugees and junkies hunkered in the shadows of those towers. New Manila was a symbol of Mindao's lost hope, of the city they had begun to build, of the war that had shattered their dreams.

Cathedral and concrete towers—heart and bones of Mindao. The Blue Boulevard stretched between them like an artery, a neon strip of brothels and bars where Maria had once worked. The first of its lights were turning on, luring Earthling soldiers with promises of cold beer, hot girls, and dark secrets. The Blue Boulevard catered to every sin—home to midget wrestling, lady boxing, prostitutes of every kind, and all the drugs a broken soul could drown in. Thousands of bargirls worked there, enough to service an infantry division. To Maria, the red lights district seemed even more miserable than the shantytown.

Standing on the roof, Maria took all this in within only a few seconds. Then she looked back down at the alleyway.

Ernesto stood below. He began climbing after her, knocking aside the little hands trying to stop him.

Maria ripped a sheet of corrugated steel off a roof, revealing children huddling inside.

She tossed the metal sheet. It slammed into Ernesto like a guillotine. He screamed and fell onto the alley floor, buried under the slab.

Maria ran.

She leaped from rooftop to rooftop, hopping over narrow roads. But not for long. Ernesto was still alive. He seemed impossible to kill. He would never stop hunting her. If he climbed onto the rooftops, he would see her. And she would die.

Maria hopped across just a few more roofs, then descended back into the labyrinth. Among the rickety stacks of shanties, she disappeared into the crowd.

Kiosks lined the road, selling everything from greasy noodles to exotic pets to shabu crystals. City folk bustled back and forth, children scampered underfoot, and squatters lay against plywood walls. Mopeds rumbled, belching smoke. Men raced by, pulling rickshaws, shouting, "make way, make way!" Even a jeepney managed to squeeze by. The jeepneys had once been army jeeps, damaged in the war and sold for scraps. The Bahayans had repaired them, painted them with psychedelic colors, then set them loose across the city like iridescent beetles.

After the jeepney had clattered by, an elderly woman limped down the road, clanging a pot, selling pagpag to anyone who could bring their own bowl. Pagpag was scraps of meat plucked from landfills, washed, fried, stuffed into plastic bags, and sold for a handful of pesos. Edible garbage. It often carried diseases, but to the hungry orphans, it was manna from heaven. Children ran after the old woman, penniless and begging, earning smacks from her cane. Without a peso to spare, they would have to hit the landfills themselves for rotten scraps.

Maria took in the scenery, the garish colors, the intoxicating smells. Life went on. Nobody knew about Jon fighting in the north, or Ernesto pursuing her, maybe not even of the terrifying Santa Rosa massacre. Mindao—a city of refugees, junkies, and squatters. A city where children ate trash, where girls sold their bodies to soldiers, where riverpox and syphilis ran wild. A city of so many tears. And yet—also a city of life. The children of the slums laughed as they played. A girl was cooing over her pet cat, a raggedy old tabby with one eye. A few women were gossiping and giggling, while several old men sat under an awning, playing Go. A young girl danced on a barrel, a boy played the flute, and a crowd cheered.

Here is a testament to Bahay's spirit, Maria thought. Even in this time of war, even rotting in the bowels of hell, we laugh. We play games. We gossip. We find joy and hope.

She was only a Bahayan. They were the most downtrodden people in the galaxy—smaller, weaker, poorer than Earthlings. Her people had no mighty starships, no glittering cities of glass and electronic wonders, no beautiful golden hair and powerful bodies like gods of Olympus. But standing here, gazing upon her people, Maria had never been prouder to be Bahayan.

She placed a hand on her belly.

When you're born, my daughter, Jon and I will raise you to love both cultures. You will unite Earth and Bahay. You will bring peace.

A howl tore through her reverie, distant and echoing.

"Maria!"

She stiffened. So Ernesto was still alive. He sounded several blocks away. And he was still hunting her.

She walked along the maze, twisting left and right, keeping to the shadows, vanishing in a crowd of millions. For now, she had shaken him off. But she knew he would find her again. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow or in a week. He would never end his hunt.

But there was a place where he could not reach her.

A place where even Ernesto would dare not tread.

To end this war, to save her world and husband, Maria would have to enter the lion's den.

She raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and headed toward the most dangerous place on Bahay.

Chapter Two

Prisoners of War

The Luminous Army rolled toward the military camp, vowing death.

Jon stood on the wall, facing the greatest force he had ever seen. He clutched his assault rifle. Before this mighty host, the weapon felt woefully inadequate.

We're proud soldiers of the HDF, Jon thought. We're the Human Defense Force, the legendary imperial military of Earth, ruling a hundred worlds. And we're about to get our asses kicked.

"We might as well be wielding peashooters, George," he muttered.

George Williams towered beside him, a gargantuan corporal, nearly seven feet tall and as wide as a bison. "Oh, stop whining. I'm the one who's the biggest target."

Thousands of North Bahayan troops were emerging from the jungle, marching in tandem. Tens of thousands. These were not the Kalayaan, not just scrawny guerrillas in homespun tunics and straw hats. Deadly as it was, the Kalayaan was just a peasant uprising.

But this? This was a modern military. Here marched Bahayan troops in black battlesuits, the skintight fabric inlaid with armored plates. They wore dark helmets with red visors, and they carried assault rifles. They moved like a true army, units within units, so precise one could think them robots.

"When we invaded this planet twenty years ago," Jon said, "the Bahayans were rice farmers and fishermen. How they've learned!"

George nodded. "We taught them."

"Not just us, George." He pointed. "Them too."

They were hovering above the Bahayan troops. Balls of light the size of watermelons.

Santelmos.

These aliens didn't look so intimidating, perhaps. They had no fangs, no claws, no drooling jaws. Nothing like the bloodthirsty monsters Jon's grandparents had fought in the Alien Wars. But Jon had seen them tear through soldiers at Basilica, ripping through torsos, severing limbs, scattering charred remains across the city streets. They were like small suns fallen upon the world, beautiful yet deadly.

These aliens, patrons of Bahay, did more than glow and burn. The Santelmos were an ancient, spacefaring species. And they built technological horrors.

Blimps floated above the enemy troops, tentacles dangling from their underbellies. They were like jellyfish risen from the murk, bloated and monstrous. Silver fighter jets hovered between the blimps, shaped like daggers, their engines humming and glowing. Here were the dreaded balisongs, which meant butterfly knives in Tagalog. These silvery planes could hover in place like helicopters, streak forth like bullets, and pound their enemies with the fury of gods. Below them walked several gargantuan mechas, machines shaped like men. Their hydraulic arms ended with grasping claws, and cannons topped their shoulders. Bahayans stood inside the mechas' chests, strapped into controls, operating the machines.

George cringed. "Jon, how is this possible? I know the Bahayans are human and all, and that they used to live on Earth. But they've been on Bahay for centuries, cut off from the rest of humanity. When we discovered them, they were just inventing radio antennae and crude airplanes, and we were already traveling among the stars. How the hell did they manage to build blimps and hover-jets and mechas, for Chrissake?"

"They didn't." Jon looked at the white circles painted onto the machines. "The Santelmos built them. The aliens are arming the Luminous Army."

"And fighting among them," George muttered, eying the Santelmos hovering above the Bahayan infantry. "Those glowing buggers didn't just come here to advise and arm, make no mistake. Those are Santelmo fighters or I'll eat my helmet."

Jon shuddered. He looked around at his own army, seeking a sense of safety in numbers.

The Apollo Brigade, under the command of Colonel Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal, was far from home. Affectionately known as Pascal's Punks, they were the military's prime cannon fodder. The punks were the expendables, sent on the most dangerous suicide missions. And this mission was the most suicidal yet.

Normally stationed in South Bahay, Pascal's Punks had ventured far north, a mad quest to strike the enemy on his home turf. The war had brutalized the Punks. The brigade was like an aging boxer, his eyes blackened, his nose broken, barely any fight left in him. The Battle of Basilica had decimated the brigade. The battles against the Kalayaan, and the massacres in the villages, had broken their morale.

But we can still swing a few punches, Jon thought.

Three thousand Earthling soldiers filled the camp. The last survivors of this brutalized brigade. The last punks. They stood along the wooden palisades and in the dusty courtyard. They were far fewer than the enemy, but they wore navy-blue battlesuits, armored and somewhat bulletproof, and they carried Oakeshott assault rifles, renowned for their deadliness. Helmets with yellow visors enclosed their heads, giving them a vague insect look.

Most importantly, they had their backs to the wall. Hopefully that gave them some desperate strength.

A hundred tanks sat amid the troops, cannons primed. A hundred helicopters rose, their stubby wings bristling with missiles. Ten Falcon starfighters completed the force. The Falcons weren't much larger than helicopters, but they were far faster and deadlier, able to fight in both space and air.

Looking at Apollo Brigade, Jon felt a little better. Yes, there was some safety in numbers. They were stranded here in North Bahay, far from the rest of the Human Defense Force. And instead of a fortified army base, they were living in a jungle camp—really just a bunch of tents crowded within a ring of wooden walls. But these were good soldiers, all of them. Soldiers who had survived the jungle and the inferno of Basilica. They were tough bastards and would not die easily.

The Apollo Brigade was infamous in the Human Defense Force. They weren't elite troops. They undertook no commando missions, nothing that required any finesse. The qualifications to join were dirt low. Pascal's Punks were the misfits. The losers. The cannon fodder.

And Jon could think of no better soldiers to have his back.

We survived hell together, he thought. If anyone has a chance against the Luminous Army, it's us pigheaded punks.

* * * * *

Muttering and cursing, a burly figure stepped onto the wooden wall with Jon.

Colonel Pascal had to suck in his gut to fit into his armor. But there was a lot of muscle underlying that fat. His arms bulged, and his barrel chest thrust out like a jeep's grill. Commander of Apollo Brigade, Pascal had a bulbous nose, a cleft chin, and thick hair as white as snow. He stared at the enemy outside the walls, spat, and shook his head.

"Goddamn, I swear those Bahayan boys brought their whole goddamn army just to pay us punks a visit."

"Door to door salesmen, probably," Jon said. "They're always a pain to get rid of."

The colonel slammed a magazine into his rifle. "Not with the right tools."

Jon pursed his lips. He wasn't sure how he felt about his brigade's commander.

For a long time, Jon had nurtured a deep hatred of Colonel Pascal. After all, the man had promoted Clay Hagen to lieutenant. Clay Fucking Hagen—the most bloodthirsty monster in a war of monsters. To make things worse, Pascal had then deployed Clay into a peaceful village, armed to the teeth, tasked with ferreting out guerrillas.

The result horrified both Earth and Bahay. Instead of hunting guerrillas, Clay had murdered hundreds of women and children.

If you asked Jon, Colonel Pascal should have known better. That innocent blood was on his beefy hands. No, Jon wasn't going to forgive the colonel anytime soon.

And yet… and yet…

Over the past few weeks, Jon had seen a different side to the gruff, white-haired man. He had seen regret. Guilt. Even something akin to honor.

The massacre shock Pascal to his core, Jon reminded himself. He pulled his troops back the instant he learned about it. He sent a monster into a village, and hundreds died. But he learned from it. I can respect that.

Right now, thousands of lives were at stake. Jon just hoped the colonel wouldn't make any more deadly mistakes.

The brigade had cleared the jungle around the fort, spraying defoliant in a wide radius, removing any trees or shrubs an enemy could hide behind. The Luminous Army now arranged itself upon this ring of barren land, forming a chokehold around Camp Apollo's wooden walls. A mecha towered behind every infantry company like a giant protecting his children. The silvery balisongs and blimps hovered above, engines humming. The Santelmos shone, stars fallen upon the world.

Colonel Pascal grunted, spat again, and raised a megaphone.

"Welcome to Camp Apollo!" he boomed. "Nobody has to die today. Pull back your forces now, or we will be forced to destroy you."

For long moments, there was silence. The enemy soldiers merely stared. The aliens and silvery craft hovered.

Then, in perfect unity, the lines of infantry parted like the Red Sea. A path of dead, poisoned earth stretched between them. Mister Weird's Patented Defoliant had done its work, killing trees, grass, even the microorganisms and fungus in the soil. The cleared path looked like a scar.

Farther back, the jungle rustled with wind and shadows. A figure emerged from between the trees and began walking down the path of poison.

He wore crimson cardinal robes, and a hood shadowed his face. He held a silver thurible. The censer swung from a chain like a medieval flail, spreading smoke.

Jon inhaled sharply.

The Red Cardinal. Commander of the Luminous Army and self-proclaimed ruler of Bahay.

He was here.

* * * * *

"How can this be?" George whispered, staring off the wall. "We saw him die!"

"No," Jon said. "We saw our planes bomb his city to dust. We saw Basilica turn into a fireball. But we did not see him die."

"No man could have survived that!" George said.

Yet here he was.

The Red Cardinal.

Somehow, he had survived the devastating bombing of Basilica. His cathedral had crumbled around him. Yet now he approached Camp Apollo, robes fluttering.

Soldiers on the walls grumbled. A few gasped. The colonel muttered, "What the hell?"

Jon saw it then. His eyes widened.

Wherever the cardinal stepped, blood-red flowers grew. Footstep by footstep. Patch by patch of flowers. They bloomed like drops of blood and spread out leafy tendrils, covering the path, sprouting more blossoms. A crimson carpet flowed behind the cardinal, blooming wide upon this poisoned earth.

Even from his perch on the wall, Jon could smell the flowers. They were sweet, cloyingly so, but he could see their thorns.

The cardinal came to stand below the walls. He raised his head, letting his hood fall back.

His face was ancient. Cadaverous. Dark pouches hung beneath his eyes, and shadowy grooves carved a pasty white face. He gave a thin smile, revealing the tips of his sharp teeth. Piranha teeth. His gums were deep red, jarring against his milky white skin.

He's not Bahayan, Jon thought. He has no Asian heritage. He's a white man. And maybe, if the stories are true, part alien. Or part demon, depending on who you listen to.

"Greetings, imperial forces of darkness!" the cardinal said, his voice like crinkling papyrus. "In the name of the light, I call for your immediate surrender. Lay down your arms. Disable your flying machines of death. Open the gates to your outpost of devilry. Surrender to us—and they will live. Fight us—and they will die."

The colonel harrumphed, armor clattering. "Who are they?"

The cardinal smiled. A sickly smile. He licked his lips. His tongue was long and scaly, a serpent emerging from its lair.

"Why, my prisoners, of course." The cardinal looked over his shoulder. "Bring them forth!"

Soldiers emerged from the jungle, carrying bamboo cages on poles like gruesome palanquins.

There were people inside the cages. Filthy. Starving. Wearing rags. Blood and mud matted their long beards. Bruises covered their skin, a tapestry of pain in black and deep purple. They were so battered and filthy Jon couldn't tell if they were Earthling or Bahayan.

Jon clenched his jaw, fighting back nausea. He had never seen people look so miserable.

And then he noticed one more detail.

The caged prisoners wore military dog tags.

"They're soldiers," Jon whispered. "Our soldiers."

The enemy dumped the cages on the ground outside the fort walls. Bahayans pulled the prisoners out. They were bound with ropes, starving, close to death. They looked like skeletons draped with dry skin, unearthed from a mass grave. Their captors forced them to kneel and drew curved blades.

On the fort walls, Earthlings aimed their rifles.

A few cried out.

"You bastards!"

"Let them go!"

"Stop this!"

The colonel glared at his soldiers. It was enough to silence them. But Pascal too was pale, and his fingers tightened nervously around his gun.

Jon's heart pounded against his ribs. He looked down at the captive soldiers, and his breath caught.

He recognized a few of them.

He saw Alana Lisboa, a girl he had trained with at boot camp. They had once spent an evening talking about their favorite metal bands. Her teeth had been bashed in, and cuts covered her body. Thomas Kruijin was there too, a muscular sergeant they called Thomas the Tank. Now his fingers were gone, leaving red stumps, and a bruise hid his left eye. Greg "Gigabyte" Botkoveli was there, a military intelligence corporal and computer genius. He was trembling and weeping, a rope around his neck.

Jon knew those soldiers well. He had trained with them. Fought with them. Shared his hopes and fears with them. There were many others he did not know. Older prisoners. Prisoners with long beards and hair. Some with white hair, withered down to skin and bones. They must have been prisoners for years. Maybe some had been captive since the war began twenty years ago.

The Bahayan captors raised their blades high.

Jon shouldered his rifle, lip twitching.

Just give me the order, Pascal, he thought.

The colonel spoke into his megaphone. "Be advised, Cardinal, that mistreating prisoners of war is against the Ganymede Convention, and—"

"And tell me, Colonel," the Cardinal interrupted, "what does your convention say of poisoning ancient rainforests, ecosystems that have grown and evolved over ten billion years? What does it say of raping our daughters and sisters? What does it say of burning villages and slaughtering millions of innocents?"

The colonel's lip peeled back in a sneer. "If you hadn't aligned with aliens, if you had joined South Bahay in cooperation, we—"

"You mean become your puppet," said the cardinal. "No, Colonel. I will not bend the knee. I will not wear a collar and let you hold the leash. I am a free man. I will banish the scourge of Earth from this pure world, and I will revive the wastelands you corrupted with poison and fire. I will water this ravaged soil and watch new life grow. If you do not surrender, I will water it with your blood."

Colonel Pascal lowered his megaphone. He turned to look at Jon and spoke in a low voice. "Son, you faced that sonuvabitch in Basilica, didn't you? In his goddamn cathedral."

Jon nodded. "I did, sir."

The colonel leaned closer. His voice dropped even lower. "Tell me about him. Not just what I read in your official report. What the hell is he? Some kind of alien? Mutant? He's got to be more than human."

Jon shuddered. "I don't know, sir. But I saw him change forms. Shapeshift. He pretended to be my dead brother to lure me closer. And…" Jon felt the blood drain from his face. "I saw him kill my captain. He sucked his blood like a vampire. Sucked him dry."

"Goddamn," said Pascal. "What are we dealing with here? Vampires? Shapeshifters? For Chrissake, son, I don't believe in magic."

"Me neither, sir. But he has powers. I've seen them. And he survived a bombing that could melt a tank." Jon shuddered. "Maybe his powers come from alien technology. Something we don't understand. Maybe they're just parlor tricks. But one thing is certain. I saw him kill Captain Carter. He won't hesitate to kill these prisoners. He's not bluffing."

Pascal stared at Jon for a long moment, eyes hard. He nodded and turned back toward the cardinal.

"All right, Cardinal!" Pascal said into his megaphone. "We'll make a deal. Return the prisoners to us, and we'll pull back south. We'll fall behind the third parallel armistice line."

The cardinal's smile never faltered. "No, Colonel Pascal. I'm not interested in playing games. If you retreat now with the prisoners, you'll be back here within days. Bombing, raping, murdering. Surrender now. Unconditionally. Lay down your weapons. Your rifles, your tanks, your flying machines—lay them all down. Then stand trial for your crimes. Surrender to me. Or you will all die."

He can't be serious, Jon thought. He knows we'd never accept that. This is theater.

"A prisoner swap," Jon blurted out. "Colonel, we can offer him a prisoner swap. We have many Bahayan prisoners in the south, and—"

"I will accept no prisoner swap!" the cardinal said from below. "Only your utter surrender."

Jon inhaled sharply. He was standing high on the wall, far from the cardinal. He had spoken without a megaphone, his words meant for the colonel alone.

How the hell did he hear me? he thought.

The colonel raised his megaphone. "If you're not willing to negotiate, we—"

"You have ten seconds to surrender," the cardinal said. "Nine seconds. Eight…" He smile widened. "Seven…"

The colonel spat. "Ah, to hell with this sonuvabitch. Men! Fire!"

Bullets rang out.

The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

The colonel himself fired his rifle, aiming at the cardinal.

Jon aimed at the man holding Alana Lisboa captive. The Bahayan held a curved knife to Alana's throat. Jon pulled the trigger, aiming at the man's head.

As the guns boomed, the cardinal stretched out his arms, palms facing the fort.

The bullets slammed into a force field, shattering on impact.

Jon winced. He had never seen such tech.

He fired again. Again. But the bullets kept sparking against the invisible shield. The cardinal kept his hands outstretched as if holding back the assault with sheer willpower.

"He's a goddamn sorcerer!" a soldier shouted.

"Leave the prisoners alone!" somebody else cried.

The cardinal cackled. His tongue flicked like a serpent. "Three."

More voices rang out from the wall.

"The prisoners!"

"Wait!"

"Two," said the cardinal.

The Bahayan captors gripped their Earthling prisoners by the hair. Their curved blades gleamed, sickles ready for harvest.

The colonel shouted into his megaphone, "Cardinal, stop this! Come into my fort, and we'll negotiate, and—"

"One."

The Bahayan soldiers lashed their blades.

The prisoners' headless corpses collapsed onto the dirt.

The Bahayans held aloft scores of severed heads.

Earthlings on the wall cried out in horror.

"Bastards!

"You fucking slits!"

"Murderers!"

More bullets rang out, only to bounce harmlessly off the force field.

Finally the Earthlings held their fire. They stared down at the enemy.

The Red Cardinal stared back, a thin smile on his face.

"Do not say that I am merciless. You may keep their heads."

He raised his arms high. The severed heads levitated.

The cardinal thrust his arms forward as if tossing a baseball with each hand.

The heads flew toward the fort. They flew right through the force field.

One head thumped onto Jon's chest. He cried out and nearly fell from the wall. The head dropped to his feet and rolled along the wooden walkway. Alanna's head. Other heads hit soldiers around him. A few tumbled into the camp's courtyard, and soldiers below cried out in dismay.

Jon clutched his rifle, trembling. His lips peeled back in a snarl.

From the poisoned land below, the cardinal looked up at Jon. He made eye contact.

The memories flooded Jon. Battling the cardinal in Basilica Cathedral. Seeing the wretched sorcerer take Paul's form. Seeing him suck Carter's blood, leaving a shriveled husk.

I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch, Jon vowed.

The cardinal gave Jon a small smile and nod.

And then the Luminous Army unleashed all its fury.

Chapter Three

The Last Bargirl

Maria took slow steps. Every step felt like a mile. Like a war.

There they rose before her.

The walls of Little Earth.

Maria halted. She looked away, wincing. Her fear itself felt like an impenetrable wall, holding her back.

She had to step behind a palm tree, to catch her breath, to steady her shaking hands. She peered between the fronds.

Little Earth was the grandest neighborhood in Mindao. This city, capital of South Bahay, was a sprawling hive of poverty, despair, and crime. But Little Earth was different. Attached to the city, it was like a gleaming, golden prosthetic snapped onto a withering, diseased stump. Its outer walls were not rotting plywood, not rusty corrugated steel, not even stained concrete. They were shimmering white walls, perfectly smooth and freshly painted, soaring so high nobody could see above them. They looked to Maria like the walls of Heaven.

A shiver ran through her. She cowered behind the palm tree. A few plywood huts rose around her. Children scampered between the shanties, playing with stray cats and dogs. A rooster crowed on the rusty tin roof. An old man pushed a cart, hawking halo halo, a Bahayan treat of purple taro potatoes, sweet beans, and syrup served over crushed ice. Everything was familiar here, comforting Maria. And just a few meters away—an alien world. A piece of Earth here on Bahay.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out Crisanto, her best friend.

The alien rested on her palm. He was as small and light as dandelion fluff. He glowed soft white, appearing to the world like a mote of moonlight. But when Maria squinted, she could see his true form—a delicate creature with a tiny torso, barely larger than a pea, that stretched out a ball of delicate limbs as narrow as strands of hair.

He was a Santelmo. One of the aliens who was helping North Bahay and the Red Cardinal. Well, not Crisanto personally. Crisanto was just a baby, just her pet, not some warrior of the Luminous Army. But if any Earthling caught her with a Santelmo, they would execute her. Maria was sure of it.

Today she took the risk. Today she pulled him from her pocket, even out in the open. She needed her friend.

"Crisanto, I'm scared," she whispered. "I must enter Little Earth. The lion's den."

He bobbed on her palm. His glow dimmed and brightened again and again. A warning?

"I must," Maria said. "I'm used to Earthling soldiers. I would entertain them when I was a bargirl. That's how I met Jon, after all. But those had all been young enlisted soldiers. Just the grunts, out for a beer, bad karaoke, and a local girl to comfort them for a night. But in Little Earth…" She shuddered. "That's where the generals live. That is the beating heart of Earth's might on Bahay. So that's where I must go. That's where I must strike!"

Crisanto levitated off her palm. He flitted toward the shantytown like a dragonfly, fleeing those gleaming white walls. He paused, floated a short distance back toward her, then toward the huts again. Beckoning.

Come with me! he seemed to say. Back into the city!

But Maria called him back, and reluctantly Crisanto returned to her palm.

"Crisanto, for months, I moved through the city of Mindao, collecting stories. I spoke to refugees in the slums, scarred and traumatized by war. I spoke to orphans. To grieving parents. To people poisoned and burned. I spoke to bargirls along the Blue Boulevard, once the daughters of farmers and fishermen, forced to sell their bodies to Earth's soldiers. Some were as young as six. I recorded them all, Crisanto. Stories of the evil that Earth's soldiers do here. Stories that the people on Earth have never heard. I shared these stories with Earth. And I made a difference."

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She remembered what David had told her. Her dear friend, sweet David who had endured torture, who had returned to Bahay to speak to her. To tell her that across Earth, people were listening to the cry of Bahay. People were weeping for the pain of her people. All her suffering—it was heard.

Bahay finally had a voice.

Crisanto floated to her cheeks and dried her tears. His body was soft and warm like a cotton ball. It tickled her. Perhaps he was tickling her on purpose. He was, after all, only a few decades old, a baby among his race, and playful. Maria couldn't help but laugh, but she quickly grew somber again.

"Crisanto, what I've been doing is important," she said. "But it's not enough. I've swayed many minds on Earth. But most Earthlings still support the war, still plan to reelect President Hale. Crisanto, if Hale wins the upcoming election… he will destroy Bahay. He's already killed millions of us. He won't stop until we're all dead. We must do more! We must make sure Hale loses."

Crisanto swiveled as if tilting his head. How?

Maria took a deep breath. "I'm not sure how. But one thing I know. Tales of weeping Bahayan orphans, of murderous Earthling soldiers—those will only sway some people. Not enough to end the war. But there beyond those white walls, there in Little Earth—that's where the generals live. From there General Ward himself, commander of all Earthling forces on Bahay, leads the war. We must get in there and find information that can hurt Earth. That can disgrace its general. Not just stories of rogue grunts but of corrupt generals. Such information would hit Earth like a bomb. It would shame the president—and make sure he loses the election. It's the only way to save Bahay, Crisanto. If we fail, if we cannot dig up dirt on the generals—Bahay will burn."

Crisanto dimmed, going nearly dark. He shivered on her palm.

She placed him back in her pocket, hiding him. She would have to hide him particularly well in the lions' den.

I walked through fire, and I pulled a blade off my father's corpse, she thought. I fought in the Kalayaan, and I killed giants from Earth. I faced the military police and Ernesto's wrath, and I survived them. I can do this. I will do this. For Bahay.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and left the shelter of the palm trees and shanties. She approached the white walls of Little Earth.

* * * * *

A towering gateway broke the white walls. Its steel doors were closed. A handful of Earthling soldiers stood guard here. Several watched from the guard towers that flanked the gateway, while one Earthling manned the doors.

The guards wore pressed white uniforms, different from the blue battlesuits Maria was familiar with. In the clubs along the Blue Boulevard, Earthling grunts wore dusty, dented armor, sometimes charred, sometimes bloodstained. Maria remembered cuddling against Jon, feeling the cold armored plates, then removing them one by one like scabs, revealing the warm skin beneath. But these guards wore uniforms as fine as tuxedos, brimming with polished buttons and pins. She had never seen anyone wear clothes as fancy. They looked like princes from picture books. These soldiers looked readier for a banquet than a battle.

Yet their rifles, held in gloved hands, seemed serious enough. For all Maria knew, their bullets were gilded, yet they could kill her just as easily.

As she approached, Maria felt very plain. She wore the white dress the Magic Man had given her at the Go Go Cowgirl club. Her pimp had dressed her in angelic white, auctioning her virginity to the highest bidder. The dress had once been so beautiful, but now it was tattered, stained, and charred. Her feet were bare and filthy. Her hair was bedraggled. Living for months in the shantytown did not improve one's appearance—nor smell. She had washed herself as best she could, but even the rivers that crisscrossed Mindao were filled with trash.

Somehow, despite her shabby state, she would have to rely on her feminine graces today. She did not think herself beautiful. Her skin was too dark, the color of a commoner. Everyone said that only Bahayan girls with pale skin, perhaps mixed with Earth blood, were beautiful. There was a reason that skin whitening creams were all the rage in New Manila, Bahay's most affluent neighborhood. And she was too short, only five feet tall. It was above average for a Bahayan, but short compared to Earthling women. Her breasts were too small, her hips too narrow. Only eighteen, uneducated and barely literate, she had no wisdom nor class.

Overall, she was hardly a prize.

Yet somehow, despite all her flaws, Earthlings seemed to like her. At least judging by how much they catcalled whenever she walked along the Blue Boulevard.

As she approached the gate, the Earthlings weren't shooting her. Yet. That was a good sign.

Still got it, she thought.

"Halt!" cried a guard, the one who manned the doors. His body stiffened, and his chin shot up. He seemed very young, probably no older than Maria. His friends watched from the guard towers. They seemed older and quite bored. One was chewing cashews. Another quickly hide a dirty magazine behind his back.

Maria halted. She smiled at the young soldier at the doors. Hopefully a sweet smile. She tried.

"Good morning, Private! My name is Maria de la Cruz." She curtsied. "I come looking for employment in Little Earth."

The young guard cocked his rifle. His hands were shaking. It took several attempts before a bullet clicked into the chamber. "Step no closer!"

Maria just smiled again, hiding her fear. "Are you new on Bahay? I know, it's a scary planet. But I promise you. I don't bite."

The young soldier gripped his rifle so tightly his knuckles turned white. "We're not supposed to let anyone approach. I must order you to step back! If you don't, I'll have to point my gun at you! Or do I point my gun first, and then order you to step back? Maybe… wait, do I fire into the air first? Dammit. I studied this. What's the protocol again?"

He glanced nervously toward the guard towers, where the older guards were watching.

"Oh for God's sake, Jayden," a corporal said from the tower. "Calm your tits. She's just a hungry bargirl looking for money. Toss her a few pesos, bang her in the supply shed, and she'll bugger off."

Maria looked up at the guard tower. "Is that what you read about in your dirty magazines? Does your officer know?"

The guard in the tower blushed. He hid the magazine more carefully behind his back. "Um… you're a dirty magazine!"

His friend, who stood in the second tower, snorted. "Good comeback."

Maria sighed. She took a step closer to Jayden, the young private guarding the doors. His hands were still shaking. She smiled at him softly.

"I'm just here to look for work," she said. "Can you let me in, Jayden? Please?"

The private squinted at her, then gasped. "Hey, I know you! You're that dancer! The one from the Go Go Cowgirl! I saw you on stage that night. You were wearing the same dress."

Maria lost her smile. She would never forget that night. The night of her eighteenth birthday.

She had been new in Mindao, this dizzying city of crumbling concrete and neon lights. Just another refugee girl from the provinces, her parents dead, her village destroyed. The Magic Man had dressed her in white, shoved her onto the stage, and auctioned her to lustful troops—the very men who had slaughtered her family. The cruel Clay Hagen had bought her, the Butcher of Santa Rosa himself.

You saved me that night, Jon, Maria thought. You protected me from Clay, and we fell in love. I miss you.

She wiped a tear away. "Yes, that was me."

"You were wonderful!" the private whispered. "I was too shy to bid. On you or any other girl. I just drank a beer in the corner, but… I remember you." His cheeks flushed. "You were so beautiful that night."

Ah, so here's my way in, Maria thought. The boy is in love with me. I cannot fight these big, strong Earthlings with weapons. But I can fight with whatever charm they think I have. That's how we bargirls fight.

"You're sweet, Jayden." Maria touched his arm. "Maybe someday you'd like to visit the Go Go Cowgirl again, and we can have a drink?"

The soldier gulped. "Um, is… Charlie Wonder still there? The cowgirl with the chin-length hair? Who wore the high heels and red lingerie?" He lowered his rifle, hiding his crotch. "She's very pretty."

Maria couldn't help but laugh.

So it's not me he wants. It's Charlie!

But her laughter quickly died on her lips. Her best friend, Dalisay "Charlie" Cortez, was in an Earthling prison. So were Pippi, Kim, Joyce, and the rest of the Bargirl Bureau. Maria had lost her army. Her foot soldiers had fought not with guns, but with smiles and caresses, with push-up bras and curved hips, with a burning desire to end this war. In the alleyways and bars of Mindao, they had coaxed out stories of horror, of bloodshed, of genocide, and leaked them to Earth.

Now the bargirls languished behind bars. Only Maria remained. So now, the last bargirl, she must fight the final battle alone.

"If you let me into Little Earth," she told the private, "I can introduce you to Charlie."

Just a little white lie. For Bahay.

Jayden dried sweat off his brow. "Can she wear the same high heels and red lingerie?"

Maria didn't like pimping her friend, but right now, she would say anything. "I'm sure she can."

Jayden glanced up at the guard tower, seeking approval from the older guards.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" said the corporal above. He was reading his dirty magazine again. "Let her in. She's hot. All the slits who work in the kitchen are old ladies. I wouldn't mind a sweet young thing serving my beers."

Jayden gulped. He looked back at Maria. "Okay. But don't forget our deal."

He pulled opened the heavy doors of Little Earth, and Maria stepped into paradise.

Chapter Four

Assault on Apollo

The Luminous Army unleashed its wrath.

The balisongs shot searing white lasers. The mechas fired the rocket launchers on their shoulders. The blimps extended cannons and blasted forth shells. The infantry opened up with roaring bullets.

All around Jon, the walls of Fort Apollo exploded.

The wooden palisades tore apart like toothpicks. The barbed wire lining the walls ripped apart, scattering metal spikes every which way. Soldiers fell with the crumbling heaps of wood and metal.

Jon screamed as the wall below him collapsed.

"George, jump with me!" he shouted.

He leaped into the air, soaring off the toppling wall. George jumped too—twice his size and falling fast.

The giant thumped down with a boom, cracking the earth. Jon crashed down beside him, banging his ribs and elbow. He howled. Other soldiers landed around them, groaning, hitting the ground hard. If not for their armored battlesuits, the fall would have broken their bones.

A second later, the remains of the wall pummeled them.

Metal shards hailed down. Some were spikes from the barbed wire, others were shrapnel from shells. The barrage pounded Jon's back. He cried out in agony. His armored battlesuit took the brunt of the assault, saving his life. One shard struck his hand with incredible force. It was like an invisible hammer driving down a nail. The shard cracked Jon's armored glove, and his blood spurted. Beside him, shrapnel ripped an arm off a soldier.

Chunks of the wooden palisade followed, slamming down like the spears of gods hurled from the heavens. A wooden spike drove into the ground beside Jon, missing him by mere inches. Nearby, a spike drilled through a soldier's back, carving through armor and bone and flesh, pinning the poor man to the ground.

For a moment, the sound of explosions died.

The soldiers lay on the ground. Some moaning. Others screaming. Others dead.

Jon tried to rise. The shrapnel pinned his hand down like a nail to a cross.

A rumbling rose in the sky. Missiles whistled.

Screaming, Jon pulled the shard from his hand and freed himself.

Explosions bloomed around him.

"George!"

The giant was heaving, bleeding through cracks in his armor. Jon grabbed him, pulled his friend along. His head swam with pain. He clung to consciousness like a drowning man clinging to a wet rope.

Ahead, Earth's tanks were firing their cannons. Blast after blast shook the world. Jon and George ran. Other soldiers were running all around, hunched over. One man had no arms. Another was crawling, legless. A few stood in the open, returning fire, only for the shells to tear them apart. One young private just stood there, dazed, looking around with glazed eyes, whimpering for his mother.

We're sitting ducks, Jon thought.

George was limping, leaning on Jon. The weight nearly crushed him. But the two friends made it behind the tanks. Jon would prefer a bunker, but a tank was the best cover he would find now.

They collapsed, coughing, bleeding. Jon examined his wounded hand and winced. It was still spurting blood. With every movement, bolts of pain shot up his arm. This was not a trivial wound, and he prayed an artery wasn't severed. He needed a medic. But he had no time for that now.

Another shell exploded. Another. Nearby, a tank burst into flames. Soldiers emerged from within, screaming, cloaked in fire. The other tanks were still pounding the enemy.

Jon crawled along a tank's treads, sheltering behind the armored vehicle, and peered at the defensive wall. Or at least what remained of it—just a pile of wood, barbed wire, and corpses.

A strange silence fell upon the battle.

The enemy lasers and shells stopped firing.

The wind rustled the ashes, and a distant soldier wept.

Then a chant rose. Boots thudded. And the Bahayan infantry began marching into Camp Apollo.

* * * * *

"The Red Cardinal isn't playing around," George muttered, crouched behind the tank. Shrapnel sprouted from his armor like porcupine quills.

Jon pulled a bandage from his pocket, wrapped it around his mutilated hand, and winced. The pain nearly blinded him. He had a hole in his palm like a crucified man. But the bleeding stopped for now. Gritting his teeth, Jon managed to shoulder and aim his rifle.

Hundreds of enemy troops were marching across the ruins. Santelmos hovered above them like flares.

Jon opened fire.

Across the devastation, his fellow Earthlings shouted and fired their own guns.

In the sky above, balisongs and Falcon fighters swirled and slammed together.

Laser blasts lit the sky. Flames and blood washed over the world.

Jon emptied a magazine, pounding the enemy troops. His bullets sparked off their black and red armor. Only one Bahayan fell.

The other Bahayans turned toward Jon. Their red visors stared from their black helmets like demonic eyes. Their suits looked similar to what Jon wore: formfitting, enhanced with graphene scales and plates. But while his armor was blue like Earth, theirs was black like the basalt of Basilica. Some had male forms. Others had female forms. But to Jon, they all seemed like demons risen from the underworld.

Their rifles cast red lasers, seeking targets. Then they opened fire.

Jon scurried behind the tank. Bullets pinged against it. George knelt beside him, groaning.

An explosion bloomed above, a red rose in the sky. Shrapnel rained. A Falcon starfighter streaked downward like a comet, leaving a trail of smoke, and a blast rocked the camp. The ground shook. The cannons kept booming, and the boots kept marching. More and more enemy infantry marched into the base.

Jon leaned around the tank again.

"Jon, get back here!" George said. "Stop peeking! Curiosity killed the cat."

"I gotta see!" Jon insisted.

And he saw. He saw the enemy come closer. A squad of Bahayans was approaching the tank, only meters away.

Jon slammed in a new magazine and unleashed hell. His bullets hit one Bahayan in the chest. She fell, armor dented. Her helmet muffled her scream. The other Bahayans returned fire. A bullet slammed into Jon's shoulder, denting the armored plate, and shoved him a foot back. Another bullet grazed his helmet, ringing his head like a bell.

Jon retreated. He crouched behind the tank, ears ringing, head pounding. The bullet had dented his shoulder plate. The pain stretched across his chest. Even worse, the hole in his hand was bleeding again. His head spun, and the world seemed hazy.

Don't pass out now, he told himself.

Men and women ran everywhere, firing at one another. A corpse fell beside Jon. Somebody was fighting on top of the tank. Blood dripped. A helicopter exploded, and corpses rained. Santelmos streaked everywhere like stars, plowing through troops, leaving corpses full of smoking holes.

Jon stayed behind the tank, rifle clutched in his bloodied hands. That enemy squad was still there. Just around the tank. He had taken down only one soldier.

Jon could hear the others. Boots thudding. Armor clattering. They were coming closer.

He took a deep breath and raised his rifle.

Two enemies emerged around the tank.

Jon fired on automatic. He tore through one man's wrist, destroying the hand. He pounded the second man's head, shattering his visor. Both soldiers fell.

More Bahayans ran around the tank, howling for death.

Jon's magazine was empty. He reached for a new one, but it slipped from his bloody hand.

George roared, stood above him, and fired his rifle. Bullets pounded the enemy. The Bahayans turned their rifles on the giant. George cried out, bullets sparking against his armor, but stayed standing.

My friend is Goliath, Jon thought. It would take a bullet between his eyes to knock him down.

Finally, bloodied hand and all, Jon managed to reload. He opened fire.

He only got off a single shot. Another bullet hit him, cracking the armor on his chest, knocking him down. He was running low on armored plates and was starting to feel like a cracked egg. He lay on his back, groaning.

I'm a regular Humpty Dumpty, he thought.

Before any horses could attempt to piece him back together, a Bahayan leaped onto him.

The enemy soldier screamed. A high-pitched scream. A woman's scream.

He could see her face through the red visor. Her features twisted with rage. She raised a knife, and the blade sparked with electricity, thrumming with white light. It blinded him.

"Mamatay, pute!" she screamed, driving the blade downward.

Jon caught her wrist. She howled, voice torn with hatred. They struggled. The blade was an inch from his face, ready to carve through his visor.

His opponent was half his size, just a petite Bahayan woman. But she was so strong. Gears turned and servos hummed along her armor. It was some kind of power suit, giving her extra strength. The woman probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, but she fought with the strength of a prizefighter.

The blade came down.

Jon rolled, and the knife sank into the earth, sizzling hot.

He slammed his elbow into the woman's face, cracking her visor. She fell onto her side.

Jon rose and aimed his rifle at her. Her visor hung loose. He saw her face.

She looked just like Maria.

So much that for a horrible instant Jon thought it was Maria.

But no—it was another Bahayan woman. Jon was starting to feel a little bit racist—not all Bahayans looked alike, he reminded himself. Before more guilt could fill him, the woman screamed and drew her knife from the ground. The blade thrummed, burning off the coating of soil.

For a split second, Jon hesitated. He didn't want to kill a woman. He had never killed a woman before.

But then she thrust her knife upward, and Jon opened fire.

His bullets tore into her head.

Moving on momentum alone, her blade scraped across Jon's breastplate. It seared through graphene like a soldering iron, almost reaching his flesh.

And then the electric knife fell with her lifeless hand.

I'm sorry, Jon thought, looking at her shattered face, at the chunk of bones and meat that had once looked so much like Maria. I'm so sorry.

"Jon!"

George was shouting somewhere in the distance. Jon's ears rang. They felt full of cotton. He looked around him, and the world was a haze. He saw a shell slam into a platoon, scattering limbs and heads. He saw a man running, arms gone. He saw a woman crawling, begging, calling for her mother. He saw men climbing from an armacar, burning, racing like living torches into the enemy lines. He saw a helicopter crash and burn, and the rotor blades tore free and mowed through men.

Blue uniforms. Black uniforms. All humans. All dying. All the same in the fire.

But not everyone was human here. A Santelmo streaked by, leaving a trail of light. The glowing orb plowed into a platoon, carving through men like a flaming star. Jon unleashed on it, emptying a magazine into the luminous sphere. The Santelmo shrieked like a wounded animal, then went dark, revealing its true form. It was just a small black lump, barely larger than a heart, with long spidery limbs stretching out every which way. It crashed down, its tentacles curling inward, and died.

More were already rising behind it.

"Jon, run!" George pulled him. They raced between the tanks. An instant later, a balisong flew above, and a bomb exploded where they had stood. A tank rose into the air, slammed down hard, and cracked open. An entire tank—flung like a toy.

"This isn't a battle, George," Jon muttered. "This is hell."

"Look at the bright side, buddy!" George said. "At least the Bahayans don't have nukes. If they did, we'd be dead already."

"Oh, yes, we're totally lucky." Jon grimaced, fished through his med kit, and wrapped a fresh bandage around his hand. "We'll just get torn limb by limb, screaming in horror. Much more pleasant."

A Falcon flashed above, painted Earth-blue, and unleashed a missile. In the distance, an enemy blimp exploded. Flames spread across the entire balloon, a sphere of fire in the sky like a collapsing sun. Soldiers of both armies pointed and shouted. Jon used the distraction to aim his rifle, to fire at a Bahayan squad. Two soldiers fell.

The squad survivors turned toward Jon, guns blazing. Jon and George ran and knelt behind a tank. Bullets sparked off the hull and fragments whizzed every which way. The tank's cannon boomed, and the enemy screamed. When Jon peeked again, the squad was gone. There was only a crater.

Jon began to feel a little hope. Earth's troops were reorganizing. The infantry was firing from behind the cover of tanks and armacars. The cannons were still pounding the enemy. The Falcons streaked overhead, battling the enemy air force.

We're outnumbered and surrounded, but we won't go down easily, Jon thought.

Then he heard the motors humming.

Men screamed.

The ground shook, and long shadows fell.

The mechas entered the battlefield.

Chapter Five

A Corner of Heaven

Maria walked through paradise, gazing with wide eyes.

The splendor left her breathless.

A graveled path stretched before her, lined with flowerbeds. Palm trees stood in neat rows, as straight as soldiers, their fronds shading bundles of fruit. A peacock ambled across manicured lawns. Maria had seen the wild beauty of the rainforests, perhaps now forever lost, but never such a garden, artwork created by weaving nature like needlepoint threads.

The buildings here seemed just as impressive. They were perhaps built of concrete, a material familiar to Maria, but she had only ever seen raw concrete, weathered and stained with rust and mold. These buildings were painted white, as beautiful as Pilak Mata, the silver moon. Their columns rose like graceful sentinels, and glass windows filled their walls. No rotting plywood, no rusty corrugated steel, no roofs of tarpaulin held down with cable ties. This was nothing like the shantytowns where Maria had spent the past year.

Some of the buildings were clearly administrative, places for senior officers to gather and scheme. That she had expected. But Maria was surprised how many temples rose here in Little Earth. A hundred temples or more, their walls purest white, their roofs tiled red, and lush gardens led to their grand wooden doors. Why would the officers of Earth need so many places of worship?

But then she glanced through a window, saw the furniture, and realized: These were homes.

How could this be? Only churches were this fine, not homes. These buildings were like small cathedrals! Only God deserved to dwell in buildings this fine. Mere mortals only lived in shanties and huts.

But life was different here in Little Earth. Here men were like gods.

Surely, Maria thought, a hundred people lived in each of these grand villas. But when she glanced through another window, she nearly fell with shock.

There was only one bed in each home. Only one couch. Only one table. These palaces weren't just homes. They were homes for individual soldiers.

Was this what Earth looked like? Did Earthlings back home live in such splendor? Were their houses like palaces, their streets so clean, their cities as splendorous as heaven? Did they truly live like kings and queens? Or was this affluence unique to Little Earth?

All this wealth! Maria thought. Spilled here on a war!

This money could have fed all of Mindao. These buildings could house thousands of refugees. Was there no poverty on Earth? No hunger or pain or disease? No problems hungering for money?

Here on this planet of such misery, hunger, despair—Earth's officers had built a corner of paradise. Walking here, one could almost forget that just a few miles north, soldiers were dying by the thousands. That just a few steps south, millions of Bahayans were languishing in the slums.

Little Earth—an island of heaven in a hellish sea.

Maria clenched her fists, rage replacing her awe.

Someday, we the miserable souls of Hell will rise. And on that day, Heaven will burn.

A few soldiers patrolled or stood guard outside these splendorous white mansions. They too wore dress uniforms, the breasts adorned with pins and ribbons. Their cuff links and buttons shone, perhaps forged of real gold. Even their rifles were polished to a sheen, the stocks wooden, the barrels long and slender. These fairy-tale princes looked nothing like the dusty, dirty grunts who filled the Blue Boulevard or fought in the jungles.

This place is not reality, she thought. It's a dream world.

Maria approached the patrolling soldiers.

"Excuse me! I'm here looking for work. Can you direct me to…"

But they marched on by, ignoring her, their every movement like a machine.

She frowned. She walked down a pebbly path, heading toward a house amid palm trees. Maria entered the front yard. The grass was soft under her bare feet, and the scent of lavender and jasmine filled her nostrils.

A woman lay here in a hammock, wearing a straw hat and flowery dress. She was an Earthling woman—she had long limbs, pale skin, and blond hair. Maria thought her very beautiful. The woman didn't notice her. She was busy reading a book and sipping a pink cocktail.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Maria said. "I'm looking for work. Do you know if anyone—"

The woman dropped her drink, nearly fell from her hammock, and screamed.

"Reginald! Reginald!" She tried to hop from her hammock, fell face first onto the grass, and finally scrambled back. "Reginald, damn it, one of your fucking slit whores made it into the compound!"

The house door banged open. A man in a bathrobe emerged, paunchy and gray-haired. He held a newspaper, and he was missing one slipper. He stared at Maria, then groaned.

"Oh for fuck's sake." He shook his head in disgust. "The guards are letting in bargirls again. If I warned them once, I warned them a thousand times." He shooed Maria like a stray dog. "Go, go! Back to the slums with you." He shuffled back indoors, muttering under his breath. "Stray slits sneak in like goddamn mice."

"Shoo, shoo!" his wife cried, hysteria filling her voice. She hurled her glass at Maria. "Get lost, slit!"

Maria fled the yard. Her eyes stung with tears.

It was strange, she thought. She had trudged through the jungles, fighting the Earthlings with her rifle. She had fled Ernesto through the shantytown. She had stood on a stage at the Go Go Cowgirl, auctioned off like a piece of meat.

Somehow, this hurt more.

Fleeing that house, tears flowed down her cheeks. Because the colonel and his wife had not just hurt her. They had spat on all Bahayans. They had not mocked her appearance, intelligence, or height—but her race. And that cut deeper than any bullet or blade.

She remembered a phrase an Earthling soldier had taught her at the club.

Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me. What a contemptible lie!

As she kept walking through Little Earth, she heard relaxing music, muffled laughter, and clinking dishes. She smelled a savory aroma—foods she did not recognize, perhaps Earthling fare. She followed her nose around a copse of palm trees.

Ahead she saw… she wasn't sure how to describe it. A club? No this was no tacky, rundown club like those lining the Blue Boulevard. No moldy concrete, tangles of electric wires, or graffiti here. A mess hall? Maria had never seen a mess hall, but soldiers often complained about how grungy they were, how they served slop pigs wouldn't eat. This place looked different. More like something Jon had mentioned to her one night, describing the wonders he'd show her on Earth.

"Fine dining," she said to herself, her tongue clumsy around the foreign English words. "Restaurant."

She inched closer, hid behind a frond, and gazed through the restaurant's windows. She beheld palatial splendor. Crystal glasses, wine bottles, and feasts of plenty topped the tables. Maria saw steaming bread and butter, bowls of fruit, roast fowl served on beds of wild vegetables, platters of cheeses—finer food than she had ever eaten. Senior officers and their wives dined inside. The men wore their full regalia, medals clinking on their chests. The wives wore gowns and pearls.

But there weren't only Earthlings inside. Maria also saw Bahayans.

Bahayan musicians stood on a stage, playing Earthling music—a genre called jazz, which Maria had sometimes heard at the clubs. The Bahayans not only played Earth instruments—a piano, a bass, a guitar—but also wore tuxedos. Earth clothes. Other Bahayans, also dressed to the nines, were waiting the tables. Their coat tails hung low, and white cloths draped across their arms.

Slaves? Maria wondered.

It disturbed her to see. Not only that Bahayans should serve Earthlings. But that Bahayan culture was forgotten here. These servants dressed like Earthlings, played Earthling music, served Earthling food. There was no sign of their own culture.

When the Spanish conquered the Philippines many centuries ago, Maria thought, we lost so much of our culture. Then the Americans conquered us, and we lost more of our heritage. Then we came here to Bahay, and we began to build a new culture—only for new invaders to come, to take everything we've rebuilt over the generations.

And this too, like the words of the colonel and his wife, hurt Maria more than bullets.

"Hey, you there, girl! What are you doing here?"

A voice speaking Tagalog! Maria spun away from the restaurant windows. She found herself facing a tuxedoed Bahayan. She read his name tag: Buddy.

"Hello, sir," she said. "I'm here looking for work. I'm hoping you could—"

"You stink!" Buddy sniffed, then wrinkled his nose. "You've come here straight from the shantytowns, haven't you? I can smell it. I worked hard to climb my way out! I didn't just waltz in, smelling of the gutter. I fought to reach this lofty position, the maitre d' of a fine dining establishment. And I'll have you know that Maison de la Terre is the finest restaurant in Bahay."

Maria crossed her arms. "I asked for a job, not your life story."

"You'll never get a job with that kind of attitude." Buddy puffed out his chest. "This is my restaurant. And I won't let a gutter rat taint it."

Maria frowned. She poked his chest. "You're just a Bahayan like me! Pretending to be some fancy Earthling in your fancy Earthling tuxedo. Don't put on airs! Have you forgotten who you are?" She looked at his name tag, then into his eyes. "Is your real name even Buddy? Or did the Earthlings name you like a pet?"

He raised his chin. "This is my real name now. I might be a pet, but you are a filthy stray."

She glowered, hands on her hips. "I'd rather be a stray dog than a leashed pup!"

The restaurant door opened. Two officers spilled out, swaying, cheeks flushed. Both wore fine dress uniforms, and they held bottles of even finer wine. Maria had never seen anyone make public intoxication seem so sophisticated.

"Ah, come on, Buddy!" said one officer, a tall and slender colonel. He slapped the maitre d' on the back. "Give her a job."

The second colonel, a pudgy man with pink cheeks, swept his eyes across Maria, lingering on her breasts. "She's a sweet one. Buddy, you've been holding out on us!" He licked his lips, never removing his eyes from Maria. "Strip this sweet little rose of her rags, and dress her as a waitress. I want her serving our wine by dinner."

His lanky friend nudged him in the ribs. "By dinner, you'll most likely be passed out drunk in the garden."

The plump colonel flushed a deeper red. "I won't! I can hold my liquor. I…" He swayed, had to grab his friend for support, then puffed out his chest. "I'll be perfectly fine by dinner. Just need to piss out the booze. That said…"

He stumbled toward the bushes and struggled to unzip his fly, cursing as the zipper jammed. A few diners, sipping wine inside the restaurant, stared in silent horror through the windows.

"Not here, Stanley, not here!" The lanky colonel grabbed his friend before he could expose himself. "Let me take you home. Try not to piss your pants for the next five minutes. Last time was embarrassing enough."

As the two officers stumbled away, the portly Stanley pointed back at the restaurant. "You heard me, Buddy! I want to see that fine piece of ass in a cocktail dress tonight!"

The maitre d' bowed. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

And then the two officers vanished behind some lavender bushes. A startled peacock fled the scene.

"Well, well." Maria raised her eyebrow at Buddy. "Look who got a job."

The maitre d' growled, "Very well! You start tonight, you fine piece of ass." He mimicked the colonel's accent. "But I warn you. One wrong move, and that fine ass is back in the gutter."

Maria glanced into the restaurant. The senior officers were drinking, dining, even dancing to the music. She saw some other colonels, and even officers with phoenix insignia on their shoulders.

Brigadiers, she thought. Among the highest ranking soldiers in the HDF.

If everyone here was like the drunk Stanley, Maria would find some very juicy secrets.

Maybe the key to winning the war, she thought, will not be in the fiery hell of battle, but here in this corner of heaven.

Chapter Six

Death Electric

The mechas stormed into the ruins of Fort Apollo, vowing death.

They were as large as tanks. But they stood upright, shaped like men. Servos rumbled in their joints. Their enormous feet flattened corpses—and a few soldiers who didn't flee fast enough. Machine guns wheeled atop their shoulders, mowing Earthlings down.

Each mecha had a cockpit on its chest. Bahayan soldiers stood inside, strapped into control rigs. Whenever a Bahayan operator moved, the mecha moved in tandem. The operators looked like tiny parasites controlling metal giants.

Jon doubted the Bahayans had built these machines themselves. He did not doubt their ingenuity or intelligence. But by Earth standards, Bahay technology was barely into the twentieth century. The Santelmos must have designed and built these machines specifically for Bahayan soldiers.

A mecha thumped toward the line of Earth tanks. It gripped a tank with hands like forklifts. Jon, George, and a handful of other soldiers shouldered their rifles. They opened fire, but their bullets barely dented the mecha's metal plating. Even the glass canopy, revealing the operator inside, withstood the assault.

We're like peasants given crude iron swords, Jon thought, facing knights on horseback in full plate armor. We're powerless.

The mecha's gargantuan fingers coiled under the tank's underbelly. The mecha strained like a weightlifter attempting a deadlift. Its motors hummed and whirred and sparked. Its legs creaked. Inside the canopy, the operator grimaced, tendons rising on his neck.

And then it happened. The mecha managed to lift the tank.

It was a rhino-class tank, a powerhouse of Earthling might, weighing in at sixty-five tons.

And the mecha lifted it overhead.

The humanoid machine trembled. Its feet sank into the dirt.

Then it hurled the tank.

The tank plowed through an Earthling company, crushing dozens of soldiers.

The mecha turned toward another tank—the one Jon and George were hiding behind. The tank swiveled its cannon, but the mecha easily dodged it. A shell flew into the distance, missing the giant robot.

The mecha grabbed this tank too. The tank rumbled and spun its treads, but the mechanical fingers had already gripped it. Straining, the mecha lifted the tank overhead. Again its legs quivered, motors shrieking in protest. The thick metal feet, each large enough to crush a car, sank into the dirt.

Before the mecha could hurl the tank at its enemies, Jon stomped forward.

He stood before the mecha, as small as a toddler facing a heavyweight prizefighter.

The mecha turned its head toward him. Inside the cockpit, the Bahayan operator made eye contact with Jon.

Jon slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, shouldered the weapon, and opened fire.

He aimed at the servos on the mecha's legs. They sparked. One burst into flame.

The colossal robot wobbled. One leg buckled, a metal arm twisted, and then the tank fell from its hands.

The tank, all sixty-five tons of it, crushed the mecha like a boulder crushing a cocky weightlifter.

"That still only counts as one," George said.

Jon rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Gimli."

He took a deep breath, allowing himself just a moment of relief. And then he saw the other mechas.

A hundred more were plowing into the HDF lines.

Rockets fired from their shoulders, tearing platoons apart. Their arms swung, hurling soldiers into the air. Their feet thudded, crushing soldiers. It was like watching boys stomp upon ants. The Bahayan infantry roared with new vigor. They charged alongside their metal champions, emboldened.

Colonel Pascal, in the unfortunate position of leading this Earthling camp, was shouting somewhere in the distance, his megaphone crackling, "Goddammit, get our rhinos on those mechas! Shoot them down, shoot them down!"

The rhino tanks were slow compared to the mechas. But slowly, they were wheeling toward the giants, and their canons boomed. Spheres of fire bloomed through the air. One shell slammed into a mecha's chest, knocking down the immense machine. The Bahayan operator slumped inside the shattered cockpit, blood leaking through the mangled chassis.

"We can take 'em!" Jon said, standing among the tanks. "They can't break through the armor of Earth."

George pointed. "Jon, look!"

Jon looked up and cursed.

An enemy blimp was hovering over the battlefield.

This time there were no Falcons to stop it. Perhaps Earth's starfighters were busy fighting the balisongs. Perhaps all the Falcons had fallen. Whatever the case, the airship approached unopposed.

As tanks and mechas fired their cannons, as infantry troops crashed together, the blimp hovered above like a giant jellyfish. Silver tendrils descended from its bloated belly. A shadow fell upon the battlefield.

The tentacles moved like living things. For a moment Jon thought the blimp was some giant alien, a beast of flesh and blood. But he could see cables along the arms. Joints. Gears. It was a machine but unlike any Jon had ever seen, its movements fluid, eerily organic.

The tentacles suddenly ignited and crackled with electricity. They formed living strands of lightning. The searing white light banished the shadows. The stench of ozone filled the air. Tentacles reached down and grabbed tanks.

The tanks lit up. Electricity raced across them. Men screamed inside—then fell silent.

Jon screamed and fired at the sky. His bullets pounded the blimp, but a force field was protecting its underbelly. His bullets slammed back down around him. One pounded into his shoulder, denting what little armor he had left. Others soldiers were firing too, only for their bullets to ricochet.

The tentacles curled up, then swung downward and swept across the battlefield, shearing through Earthlings. Whoever the tentacles touched blazed with electricity. Soldiers lit up like Christmas ornaments. They screamed and flew through the air. By the time they crashed down, they were just smoldering corpses.

"George, we have to take that blimp down!" Jon said.

The giant stared with wide eyes. "How? It's got one of those goddamn force fields!"

Jon pursed his lips, thinking. "The fire truck."

"What?" George raised an eyebrow.

"Come on!"

They turned and ran.

The Apollo Brigade didn't just have tanks, Falcons, armacars, jeeps, and other battle vehicles. It also maintained a fleet of supply trucks. The trucks followed the brigade everywhere, carrying ammunition, fuel, food and water, tents and blankets, and everything else an infantry brigade needed. The jungles of Bahay were treacherous, scattered across a thousand islands, creating a logistical nightmare. Shuttles could deliver some supplies from motherships in orbit, but here beyond enemy lines, anti-aircraft artillery had a field day whenever the shuttles flew. So Apollo Brigade traveled heavy. Colonel Pascal insisted on carrying enough munitions to survive the enemy cutting off their supply lines.

Right now, that might save the brigade.

Jon and George ran through the battlefield. Earthlings ran around them, shouting, firing guns. A Bahayan squad raced ahead, and Jon and George opened fire, tearing the enemy down. They hurried onward, leaping over corpses.

An electric tentacle swung toward them from the heavens, sweeping through soldiers.

Jon dived and flattened himself on the ground. He pulled George down too. The tentacle swung above them, just missing them. The crackling electricity raised Jon's hackles. Other soldiers had not been so quick. The blimp's tentacle slammed into them. The soldiers screamed and flew through the air, pulsing with electricity.

Jon and George rose and ran at a crouch. A mecha thumped forward, feet cracking the earth. A rocket flew. The two friends swerved left, dodging the missile, and ran onward. An explosion blazed behind them, lighting up the night. Jon and George kept going, zigzagging around smoldering artillery craters full of twisted metal and human remains. They ducked as shrapnel rained. Through fire, smoke, and blood, they kept running.

Finally they saw it: the supply fleet.

And there among the trucks of munitions: the fire truck.

It was painted army green. Its hull was armored. At a glance, it looked like an oversized armacar, ready for war. But Jon knew its purpose. It wasn't filled with soldiers or bombs—but with water.

"George, you drive, I'll spray!" Jon said.

George gave him a cockeyed look. "Are you crazy?"

"War made us all crazy long ago. Now come on! We've got a giant jellyfish to fry."

The fire truck rumbled into the battlefield, rattling and grumbling and coughing smoke, a beast that could dwarf even the tanks. George was driving, while Jon clung to the truck's side.

They drove over corpses, cracking bones and armor. They sank into a crater and rose on the other side. The blimp was hovering ahead, tentacles tearing through the troops. A few more blimps joined it. They seemed like giant alien squids feeding from the seabed.

One blimp turned toward the rumbling fire truck. Its tentacles rose, buzzing with electricity, showering sparks.

"Jon, now!" George shouted.

"Closer!" Jon cried. "Get us closer!"

The firetruck accelerated.

The blimp floated toward them, all tentacles pointing their way.

Jon aimed the water pipe—a thick tube of metal. There was currently no hose attached. Jon didn't need one. He aimed the spout like a cannon.

He waited.

He winced.

He waited some more.

Closer. Closer…

George drove the fire truck under the blimp's shadow. The tentacles swung toward Jon.

And Jon turned on the waterworks.

The spout erupted with wet fury. The torrent crashed into the tentacles like a watery demon, knocking them back.

Electricity sparked.

Jon grabbed George, pulled him from the driver's seat, and they leaped off the truck. Electricity crackled through the air, searing their hair, singeing their armor. They ran across the field.

The spout kept spraying, dousing the tentacles.

White light filled the world.

Lightning bolts flew.

Thunder boomed.

As Jon ran, he looked over his shoulder. The doused tentacle caught fire. Flames raced up toward the blimp. More tentacles burned. Electricity slammed into the fire truck, flowed back into the blimp, and more fire spread.

The tentacles flailed. Wisps of fire fluttered toward the other blimps like birds woven of flame. The inferno spread across the sky. Tentacles burned and curled up like wounded worms.

The blimps still floated, but the fire short-circuited their force fields. The invisible shields crackled with static, then vanished. Soldiers below began firing at the sky, piercing the blimps. The mighty machines burned, deflated, and crashed onto the battlefields. Some soldiers cheered. Others died under the raining inferno.

Jon turned toward George. "Think that just counts as one too?"

His giant friend blinked at him, face pale. "Jon, do you realize that we were on that fire truck?"

Jon nodded. "I remember."

"Do you realize that we were almost fried by that electricity? That if we had jumped off a second later, we'd be toast?"

Jon patted his friend on the shoulder. "I knew we'd be fast enough."

George swayed. Jon had to catch him

"You're a goddamn lunatic, Jon," the giant said. "And I love you."

They surveyed the battle. The last blimps were falling. A few of Earth's tanks were still operational, pounding the mechas. Earthling and Bahayan infantry, so small by these massive machines, were duking it out in the mud.

"Maybe, just maybe, we can survive today," Jon said.

The enemy infantry suddenly parted like the Red Sea.

A cloaked and hooded figure, all in red, came walking between the troops. The Bahayans alongside stood at attention.

Earthling soldiers ran forth, guns blazing. An invisible force slammed into them, hurling them aside like rag dolls.

The Red Cardinal looked at Jon and smiled.

"You just had to jinx it, buddy," George muttered, reaching for a fresh magazine.

Soldiers ran toward the cardinal, assault rifles booming. The cloaked figure kept advancing, swinging his arms. The soldiers tumbled through the air.

"He's coming right at us," Jon whispered.

The cardinal stepped over corpses, eyes alight inside his hood. His white lips peeled back, revealing small, sharp teeth and gruesomely red gums.

"Jon Taylor!" the hooded creature said. "Come and kneel before me. It is time."

Jon turned to run, but a mecha stepped up, blocking his way. More of the robots advanced, circling him. There was no way out.

"We charge right at him," George said.

Jon nodded. "We go down fighting."

The two friends roared, charged at the cardinal, and opened fire.

Chapter Seven

A Vision of the Past

The Red Cardinal walked between the lines of his infantry, stepping over the corpses of dead Earthlings.

He was walking straight toward Jon.

Jon ran, roared, and fired his assault rifle. George ran at his side, his own gun booming.

The cardinal just looked at them, palms held before him. And their bullets vanished with puffs of smoke.

"Jon!" said the elderly man. "You cannot hurt me."

Jon stood in the smoldering battlefield. The fighting still raged all across Camp Apollo. Starfighters clashed overhead. Tanks and mechas pounded one another with rockets and metal fists. Infantry slugged it out the mud, soldiers in blue clashing with soldiers in black. But here, on the north side of camp, Jon and George stood alone. Only enemy troops surrounded them.

"What do you want, Cardinal?" Jon cried.

The cardinal stepped closer. He came to stand before Jon. Only a few steps away.

He looked ancient beyond measure. Barely human. His skin was papery white, deeply lined. Dark bags hung under his bloodshot eyes. The cardinal raised a liver-spotted hand. His fingernails were painted crimson, and rings shone on his fingers.

"It's you…" he hissed. "It really is you. Jon Taylor. Don't you remember?"

Jon sneered, his rifle still shouldered, for all the good the damn thing did. "I remember seeing you in Basilica. You were drinking my captain's blood."

The cardinal licked his lips. "Yes, I drained him of his life force. He tried to kill me. So I took his essence to prolong the life he would cut short. But you, Jon… you will not die. You will join me."

Jon barked a laugh. "Why would I join you? Is this when you tell me that you're my father? That we can rule the galaxy together?"

"No, Jon," the cardinal hissed. "I am too old to be your father. I am nearly four hundred years old. But I am your direct ancestor."

"Bullshit!" Jon said. "First of all, nobody's cured aging yet. If all the scientists on Earth couldn't figure it out, you sure as hell didn't. Second, there's no way I'm related to you. I'm an Earthling. And you're…" Jon grimaced. "I don't know what the hell you are. Are you even human?"

"I've heard enough!" George suddenly boomed. The giant stomped closer to the cardinal. "You might be bulletproof, but I'm going to crush you with my bare—"

The cardinal swung his arm.

George flew into the air. The giant weighed hundreds of pounds, yet some invisible force hurled him like a rag doll. He slammed into the lines of enemy infantry, knocking several soldiers down. The Bahayan troops grabbed him, held him back.

Jon was about to run to his friend. But the cardinal grabbed his arm. Those bony fingers tightened with incredible strength, holding Jon back. The cardinal's other hand reached up, tipped with claws, and gripped Jon's face like a vise. He was a skeletal man, short and frail, yet he held Jon with inhuman might.

"Look into my eyes, Jon Taylor. You will see the truth. I was there. Three hundred years ago. When the Santelmos came to Earth to deliver my people from evil. I summoned them!"

A vision filled Jon's mind.

He gasped.

He saw a tropical island long ago. He saw farmers and fishermen gathering outside a church. The peasants were Filipino. But the priest who stood on the church staircase was a white man, elderly, his hair gray, his back stooped.

It was him. The cardinal. But he was only a humble priest then, wearing simple clerical garb.

"Come, gather before me, my flock!" the priest said. "You know me as Clement Taylor. I've come here from America, which has lost its way. Which shunned the true Catholic faith. I've come here to find a place of grace and worship. Yet now American ships have come here to burn and destroy!"

The vision zoomed out like a film. It revealed American sailing ships arriving in the Philippines. Soldiers emerged. Judging by their uniforms, wide hats, mustaches, and antique rifles, it was the late nineteenth century. They were firing their guns. Bodies filled pits.

Then the vision returned to the church on the island.

"My flock!" the priest said. "Enemies keep coming to our islands. The Spanish. Now the Americans. Already the Japanese whisper of conquering our shores. They will never stop. It's time to sail away, to seek another land. We will sail among the stars! I will lead you to a paradise no foreign power can touch. No more will you be colonized, oppressed, murdered. On our new planet, a world called Bahay, we will be free!"

The priest raised his arms high. A starship descended, shaped like a cathedral.

The starship I saw in Basilica, Jon thought. The one that perched atop the mountain, forming a true cathedral. They coated it with basalt, and they adorned it with gargoyles. But it was this ship.

The alien starship landed on the island. Santelmos glowed inside, beckoning. The islanders entered the silvery ship, and it rose to the sky.

The vision faded. Jon found himself back on the battlefield, three centuries later.

"I left Earth then," the Red Cardinal said. "I led my people here. In this promised land, God granted me an unnaturally long life, so that I may watch over my flock. I left my children and grandchildren on Earth. I left everything. But I've been watching. Child after child. Son to son. It all led to you, Jon Taylor. You are my direct progeny. You are my heir. And now you've come to me. You've joined me on this paradise world. You came here as an enemy. But you will become my greatest ally. Join me now! Rule at my side."

Jon sneered. "Even if we are related, which I seriously doubt—I don't care! You're a monster."

"Am I the monster, Jon?" The cardinal smiled sadly. "I delivered these people from evil. I brought them to a land of milk and honey. Then you and your army came here from Earth. Like so many colonial powers came to my island. And you burned. And killed. And destroyed the rainforest. You turned paradise into hell. You are the monster, Jon. You and all other Earthlings. But you can find redemption. You can seek forgiveness from God. You can turn away from evil, join the light, and work to cast out the demons from this burning heaven."

Jon hesitated. There was some truth here. He could not deny that.

Then he remembered the cardinal drinking Carter's blood.

He remembered the cardinal executing the prisoners, hurling their heads over the walls.

"We Earthlings are not a force of goodness," Jon said. "We did not come here to liberate the innocent nor fight evil. We came as conquerors. Throughout the war, this truth has tormented me. How could I be a good man in an evil army? How could I maintain my morals in a world of nihilism and chaos? And I don't have an answer. I struggled to cling to morality, but I killed men and women who were merely defending their homes. I stood up and resisted the massacre of innocents at Santa Rosa, but I also marched with armies that dropped poison on a thousand villages like it. I fell in love with a Bahayan girl, but I wear the uniform of those who slaughtered millions of her brothers and sisters. You come to me now, Cardinal, and you offer me a path out of darkness. But the path you offer only leads to more shadows. We are not good men, Cardinal. We fight on opposite sides, but we are both killers. A road paved with sin will never lead to salvation. And just because a man fights evil does not mean he is good."

"Yes, that is true," the Cardinal hissed. "We are both cruel. We've both killed many enemies. But I kill for freedom, while you kill for conquest."

Jon thought about this for a long moment. "Yes, maybe that's true. Sometimes monsters fight for justice. Stalin led a war against Hitler, but that did not make him a good man. My own war is unjust. My leader is evil. But my friends are good, and I am good, though we are lost. Why do I wear this uniform of a force that has burned, raped, slaughtered? Why do I still march for a cause I cannot believe in? Because of George Williams, my friend, the most honorable man I know. Because of Etty, who sacrificed everything to save the innocent. Because of Carter, who took a bullet for me. Because of my brother who fell here, a brother I love."

"You have a chance to fight on the side of justice," the Cardinal said. "Do not die fighting for evil."

"Evil?" Jon said. "Yes, maybe we Earthlings are evil. By marching here, we've all sinned, and that will forever be our shame. There is no forgiveness for what we've done on this world, no path to redemption. Though I'm ashamed, I'm loyal to my friends, to my fallen brother, to my planet. I can't betray them. Maybe that's a misguided sense of honor. Maybe that makes me a bad man. Maybe a stronger soldier would have the courage to defect. That's what Etty did, and maybe she's braver then I'll ever be. There's no honor fighting where I fight. But nor is there any honor in you. I saw your crimes, Red Cardinal. I will never join you. We must remain enemies."

"No, Jon," said the Cardinal. "You do not understand. We will not remain enemies. Only I will remain. You have chosen death."

Chapter Eight

The Last Rose of Summer

Let nobody say that I'm not moving up in life, Maria thought, examining herself in the mirror. I went from cheap whore to fancy courtesan.

She sighed.

She wore a cocktail dress, yes, not red lingerie like Charlie or Pippi. That was something. But the dress was far too revealing, the skirt too short, the neckline too low, the entire thing too tight. To make things worse, Maria teetered on high heels, so clumsy she could barely take a step. At least her new employer had given her stockings. They would hide all the bruises from her inevitable falls.

White gloves, a bow in her hair, and a choker completed the ensemble. It was not a look Maria particularly liked. Clearly, serving wine was only part of her job. The rest was to tantalize the men she served.

Maria already knew how this worked. She had seen it in the Go Go Cowgirl. True, the Cowgirl was a rundown bar in the seedy Blue Boulevard, and the Maison de la Terre was a fine dining club inside Little Earth, the fanciest neighborhood on the planet. Grunts filled the Cowgirl, thirsty for cheap beer, while senior officers frequented the Maison to sip fine wines. But the premise was the same. They just wore different costumes—both the buildings and the girls.

Once a bargirl, always a bargirl, Maria thought.

But no. That wasn't entirely true. She shouldn't think like that.

It's a disguise, she told herself. This isn't who I really am. I'm not really a bargirl anymore. I'm a spy. I'm here to collect information from these officers. She looked at her reflection, at this girl in a tiny cocktail dress, this expensive prostitute. This isn't me. This is just me undercover.

And she didn't have much time.

Maria looked at her reflection again. She stood in profile and placed a hand on her belly. She wasn't too far along, but she imagined that she could feel the baby inside. Jon's child.

I won't be able to hide my pregnancy for much longer, Maria thought. She was barely showing. She could easily explain it away as a big lunch. But not for long. Soon enough, her belly would swell larger, and her career here would end. Earthling men wanted to fantasize about an Oriental seductress, docile and dripping sex. Nobody wanted to fantasize about a pregnant woman.

I'll have to seduce a general here quickly and get the information I need. Before my belly is bigger. And before anything can happen to Jon in the war.

She looked around her at the little room. White concrete walls. A wooden dresser. Bunk beds pushed against the walls, currently empty, with only a narrow passageway between them. Here did the waitresses of Maison de la Terre live. To an Earthling, Maria suspected, the room probably seemed plain, even claustrophobic. To her it was a palace.

The roof here didn't leak, and the walls wouldn't collapse during hurricane season. No rats and cockroaches scurried across the floor. No mold infected the mattresses. Eight waitresses lived in this room, each with their own cot, not thirty refugees huddling together in a shanty half the size. This was luxury.

But I can't stay long, Maria thought.

She checked under her mattress. Her father's knife was still there. Good. It was a beautiful blade, the hilt carved from a greendeer antler, a mystical animal from the deepest shadows of the rainforest. She could not carry this weapon around Little Earth. Not dressed like a cocktail waitress. Wearing such a little dress, she had no room to hide a big knife. Hell, in a dress this small, she probably couldn't hide tweezers.

She lowered the mattress, concealing the blade. She would keep it hidden, keep it secret. It was more than a memento from her father. The knife had a destiny. A grand purpose to fulfill. The dreamtoad had spoken in the forest long ago on a night of fever dreams.

It will be the only way to save her. You must use his knife.

Maria did not know what those words meant. But they kept echoing through her mind.

She looked at the mirror. Her face stared at her. For the first time in her life, she wore makeup. She barely recognized herself. But she knew those hard dark eyes.

I am Maria de la Cruz. I am from San Luna, a village in the provinces. I am a rice farmer. I do not forget who I am. I am a warrior.

The door banged open.

Maria started and spun toward it.

Buddy entered the room, dressed in his tuxedo, his chest puffed out. "You still here, girl? Get down there!"

Maria crossed her arms. "You said I need a name tag first. You didn't give me one."

The maitre d' nodded, pulled a name tag from his pocket, and pinned it to her chest. Maria read the name. She frowned.

"Candy?" She raised an eyebrow. "My name isn't Candy! What kind of silly pute name is that?"

Buddy, himself the owner of a silly pute name, slapped her forehead. "Don't call them putes! That's a dirty slur. It's like when they call us slits."

"But they call us slits all the time!" Maria said, hands planted firmly on hips.

"Well, now they can call us Buddy and Candy." The maitre d' snorted. "Who cares what they call us anyway? They let us live here. That's good enough for me. Do you want to return to the slums?"

"I want to be proud of who I am!" Maria said. "Not grovel like a leashed pet. We're not dancing monkeys."

Buddy snarled, and he seemed ready to slap her again. But then he turned away. He looked at a spot on the wall, perhaps gazing at some distant memory, and his voice softened. "We can be dancing monkeys. Or we can be dead lions. My brothers chose to be dead lions. What good is that?" He tightened his lips, looked back at her, and flicked her forehead again. "Enough of your nonsense! Get down into the club and dance, little monkey."

Maria crossed her eyes and scratched under her arms. "Ooh ooh ah ah!"

Buddy sighed and shoved her out the door.

* * * * *

Maria stepped down the spiraling oak staircase, a little wobbly on her heels, and entered the Maison de la Terre's dining hall.

I'm like goddamn Cinderella entering a goddamn palace, she thought, gazing around with wide eyes.

She had never seen anyplace so fancy. Tablecloths covered the tables—actual white linen, fabric that cost a fortune! In Maria's village, they normally wore piña, fabric woven from banana leaves. These tablecloths could be used there for wedding gowns. And that was just the start of it! Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a million beads of light. The napkins were folded into swans. Grapes, oranges, and apples rested in crystal bowls—Earth fruit, probably shipped all the way through space. Flowers bloomed in golden vases, and high windows displayed views of the gardens in sunset. You couldn't even see the shantytowns from here.

Is this what Earth is like? Maria wondered. Did they bring a piece of Earth with them here to Bahay?

Jon had promised to take Maria with him to Earth. She had imagined a place of comfort, yes. But nothing like this. This dining hall, all this wealth… it scared her.

She didn't belong here. She was too plain. Too poor. Her skin was too dark, and she was too short. Just a Bahayan, that was all. Not a powerful, wealthy, beautiful Earthling. If Jon took her home, would she feel so ashamed there too?

She took a deep breath.

No, she told herself. If Jon brings me to Earth, I won't be a servant. I won't wear a revealing cocktail dress with Candy on the name tag. I will be his wife, and I will be proud. And if anyone mocks me, and anyone calls me a slit, Jon will punch them in the face.

Shoulders squared, Maria took the last few steps into the dining hall.

Many officers sat in the Maison de la Terre, enjoying a fine luncheon. They were all middle-aged men, dressed to the nines in formal uniforms. In the dingy clubs, Maria had only met young enlisted soldiers—cannon fodder for the jungle. But she had learned a little about Human Defense Force insignia. She spotted many golden stars on shoulder straps—senior officers like majors and colonels. But some men here, generally the older ones, had golden phoenixes pinned to their shoulders. They were brigadiers.

This is the high command, here in this room, Maria thought. These are the men who run this war. Who ordered the bombing of my village. Who killed millions of Bahayans. These are the architects of genocide.

If she could, she would have dropped a bomb on the whole damn place. She would gladly burn with these brigadiers to save her planet and avenge her people. Here in this palace of crystal and lights—here the ghosts of her people cried in anguish. And suddenly, standing here, gazing upon the dining hall, Maria had a vision of blood filling the goblets. Of corpses strewn on the floor. Of her parents, burnt beyond recognition, served on platters.

She took a deep breath, and the vision vanished. But Maria would never forget why she had come here. To serve wine. To flirt. And to destroy these people.

Buddy came walking downstairs behind her. He smacked the back of her head.

"Stop gawking like a villager fresh from the provinces! Go to them. Smile at them. Laugh at their jokes. Take their drink orders. Move, you useless cow!"

He smacked her again. Maria glared at the man, then rubbed her head, grumbled, and walked into the dining room.

"Hey, sweetheart!" A brigadier whistled and snapped his fingers. "Yeah, you. Over here!"

Maria approached him. The brigadier had rosy cheeks, a handlebar mustache, and an impressive potbelly. Several empty wine bottles stood before him. A few other senior officers shared his table.

One brigadier was here with his wife, a stately woman with blond hair, icy blue eyes, and milky white skin. Some Bahayan women spent their life savings on skin whitening cream, but they would never be so pale. This woman looked like a fairy-tale princess, and Maria marveled at her Earthling beauty. But the other officers…

Maria gasped. These officers were sitting with Bahayan girls!

The girls were young, probably no older than Maria, and they were dressed like Earthlings. They wore richly-woven gowns, string of pearls, and golden earrings. Their hair was done in elaborate curls, dyed blond or light brown. But there was no mistaking their almond-shaped eyes, their olive-toned skin, their delicate Bahayan beauty.

Are they courtesans? Maria wondered. Or did these brigadiers marry Bahayan girls?

"Look at her!" said the mustached brigadier. "Standing there with her mouth open like a fish. Must be new here."

Another brigadier slapped Maria on the backside. "She feels fresh."

They all laughed. Even the Bahayan girls.

Maria glared at her fellow Bahayans.

How could you betray your people? she thought, trying to transmit the accusation through her eyes.

But the other girls did not meet her gaze. One sipped her wine and smirked. Another cuddled closer to her brigadier.

Maria forced herself to smile, even with her bottom stinging.

"Some wine, sirs?" She gave the girls a penetrating gaze. "Ladies?"

The mustached brigadier grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap. "I'd rather have you."

His girlfriend, a young Bahayan girl in a purple gown, glowered. "She's just a province girl! I can tell from her accent."

The brigadier, still holding Maria on his lap, squeezed his girlfriend's thigh. "Are you jealous, my dear?"

Maria wanted to slap the man. But he had a phoenix on each shoulder. He probably commanded thousands of soldiers. This man had information.

I'm not a courtesan, she told herself. I'm not Candy. I'm just playing a role. I'm a spy. I'm not one of these girls.

Instead of slapping the brigadier, she forced herself to giggle. "Oh, you're so silly!" She mussed his thinning hair. "You can never have too much wine."

"Quite right, quite right." The mustached man nodded. "Go, fetch us another bottle! I would rather like watching you walk away."

He licked his lips, and when Maria walked away, he gave her backside another slap. The other officers laughed. Maria tightened her lips, swallowing her rage.

I must save my anger. I must fight the way I can. And then I will kill them all.

* * * * *

For the next couple of hours, Maria served the tables. She let them pinch her backside. She sat on their laps. She giggled and flirted. She poured their cups, and she hand-fed them grapes.

And mostly she listened.

To snippets of conversation. To news of the war.

"Don't you worry, we'll beat the bastards back."

"The Red Cardinal? Hell, he won't get much farther south."

"Ha, the cardinal! The only thing those bloody Catholics are good at is breeding like rabbits. Oh, sorry, Oliver, forgot about your wife."

"The goddamn Santelmos can fight all they like, we'll beat 'em back too."

"The Luminous Army? Please. A bunch of barbarian slits playing dress up. The Apollo Brigade will mop the floor with them."

"Pascal's Punks? Ha! They're barely better than slits themselves. But they'll do their job, even if half of them are wiped out. As usual!"

A slender brigadier adjusted his monocle. "If you ask me, that Pascal is a brute. Not worthy of the officer class."

A portly brigadier nodded. Drops of butternut soup glistened on his mustache. "He's a grunt in officer's clothing, make no mistake. Heavens know how they ever let him into Julius. But his punks are good cannon fodder."

And Maria kept giggling, kept pouring wine, and kept learning.

The Red Cardinal is growing stronger. Her belly knotted. The Apollo Brigade is fighting him. Jon's brigade.

A white-haired colonel snorted. "Hell, even if the entire Apollo Brigade is wiped out, so what? We'll replace 'em. We ain't surrendering. Let Pascal's Punks all die for Earth!"

Maria dropped her tray.

Dishes shattered on the floor. Scattered applause filled the room. Somebody laughed, and somebody else muttered something about clumsy slits.

Maria knelt, cheeks flushing, and cleaned the mess.

She retreated into the kitchen, carrying the broken shards. She found herself in a bustling inferno, filled with ovens, stoves, and harried cooks, all of them Bahayan.

Buddy was waiting for her. He slapped the back of her head.

"You clumsy fool! Breaking plates on your first day. I should never have hired you."

"Ow!" She glowered. "People need to stop slapping me."

"Then stop being an impudent little gutter rat!" Buddy puffed out his chest. "I clawed my way out of the gutter. I started from the bottom. Nobody gave me this. I earned it! For years, I labored, starting as bus boy, then waiter, and now finally the maitre d' of the finest establishment on—"

"Are you done?" Maria yawned. "I'm falling asleep here."

Buddy straightened his tuxedo, then flicked her forehead. "Impudent fool! You're not suited for being a waitress."

"Well, these heels aren't suited for walking."

He rolled his eyes. "Always a clever quip with you. You know, I can snap my fingers and send you back to the gutters. Would you like that? I'll do it. Those drunk colonels who saved you outside? They already forgot who you are. One word from me, and you're back in the slums."

This gave Maria pause. Was Buddy bluffing?

No, she did not think he was. And she needed this job. Not only for the salary, which she had to admit was generous. But for the knowledge. She had been here only a couple of hours, had already learned so much. She must stay.

I must find the men who ordered the bombing of my village, and of a hundred other villages, she thought. I must record their confessions. And I must spread their shame across the galaxy.

It hurt her pride, but Maria lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Mister Buddy. I disrespected you. I know you worked hard to claw your way up, and I can only hope to someday accomplish half as much. What can I do to keep this job? I want to work hard like you."

Buddy's eyes softened. He nodded. "I see I'm finally getting through to you." He sighed. "You're hopeless as a waitress. You wobble on your heels. You break dishes. And your dibdibs are too small anyway. The brigadiers like girls with big dibdibs to lean over and pour their drinks. Do you have any other skills?"

The kitchen doors banged open. A harried waitress entered, tears on her cheeks. Greasy hand-prints stained her dress. Earthling hands. The girl spent a moment composing herself, grabbed a tray of drinks, then rushed back outside. As the kitchen doors swung, Maria glimpsed the band on the stage. They were still playing smooth jazz.

Maria looked back at Buddy. "I can sing. I'm a good singer. My mother said so at least. This place needs better music."

Buddy crossed his arms. "These are Earthlings, dummy! They like this music. What will you do, sing them Bahayan pop songs?" He snorted.

"There is better Earth music than this!" she insisted. "At least music with more… pizzazz. The Go Go Cowgirl used to play Earth music too for soldiers, and it wasn't music that puts you to sleep."

"The Go Go Cowgirl." Buddy snickered. "What, some sleazy bar in the slums? This isn't a brothel, girl!" He flicked her forehead yet again. "This is a fine dining establishment. You know, I worked very hard to get here. I didn't bring the slums with me. I—"

She patted his cheek. "Trust me, Buddy."

If only I could trust myself…

She left the kitchen, heart trembling like a caged bird. She had sung for crowds before. On the streets as a busker. In the Go Go Cowgirl for a crowd of rowdy soldiers. In a roadside cafe with Jon playing the piano. That last memory filled her with bittersweet longing.

He played "Hey Jude," and I sang and the whole cafe joined us, she thought, eyes damp. I miss you, Jon.

Heels clattering, Maria hurried across the dining hall and stepped onto the stage. The jazz musicians kept playing a smooth medley. A few glanced up at her, perplexed.

Maria looked at the crowd. A few officers noticed her. Somebody cheered, and another man whistled.

Suddenly Maria's heart was pounding. Cold sweat washed her. Her fingers shook. It was strange. She had faced enemies in battle, had killed men, had seen fire rain. And she had stage fright!

Her cocktail dress, scanty as it was, came with a very small pocket on the chest, perhaps made for keeping a pen and paper for drink orders. She patted that pocket. She felt him inside. A bit of warmth against her heart. Crisanto was with her.

You can do this, Maria, she told herself. This isn't you. This is Candy. A character you play. Dance and sing for them.

"Give us a dance!" somebody cried from the crowd.

"Dance for us, sweetheart!" said a brigadier, bouncing a Bahayan girl on his lap. The girl glared at Maria, jealousy burning in her eyes.

Maria turned toward the band.

"Do you know 'On the Good Ship Lollipop?'" she said.

She had heard the song played at the Goodbye Kisses booth. Pippi, a particularly flirtatious bargirl, used to dress up like a schoolgirl, complete with pigtails and an oversized lollipop, and sing it for the troops. The men would always go wild. Maria had watched the performance several times.

The bass player nodded. "Sure do. It's a classic."

Maria snapped her fingers, pointed at him, and winked. "Hit it."

The band paused for a moment, then began to play the song.

Maria spun toward the crowd. She struck a pose—head tilted, hip thrust out, pinky finger held innocently to her mouth. Pippi would be proud.

And she began to sing.

"On the good ship Lollipop…"

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. But the crowd cheered, and oddly, that gave her confidence. With every line she sang, with every flirtatious pose she struck, she was less Maria and more Candy. She was less the refugee and more the seductively innocent cocktail waitress.

Soon she was strutting across the stage with gusto, even on her high heels. She turned her back to the crowd, looked over her shoulder, and pouted. The officers stood up and clapped. She could practically see their hearts beating under their shirts. A few men stuck fingers into their mouths and whistled. Other pounded the tabletops, catcalling, much to the chagrin of their wives and girlfriends, who crossed their arms and pursed their lips.

"On the good ship Lollipop…"

Maria continued her song, drizzling this innocent tune with every drop of sex she could.

Thank you, Pippi, she thought. You taught me how to seduce.

"It's a sweet trip to the candy shop…"

As she strutted, hips swaying, Maria examined the crowd. From here on the stage, she could see them all. Colonels. Brigadiers. And there, at the back…

Maria nearly fell off the stage.

She nearly lost her place in the song, forced herself to keep going.

"And there you are, happy landings on a chocolate bar…"

And there you are, she thought.

He was sitting at the back of the club. She recognized him. She had seen his photos on the little televisions in the grungy clubs. A tall man with gray hair, a square jaw, and broad shoulders. A man with two phoenixes on each shoulder.

Most officers in Maison de la Terre had two, sometimes three stars on their shoulders. They were colonels, great leaders who commanded thousands of troops. A few had a golden phoenix on each shoulder. They were brigadiers, commanders of entire divisions. Each brigadier could command tens of thousands of soldiers.

But that man at the back—he had two phoenixes on each shoulder. He was a general. The highest ranking man in the room. Indeed on the planet.

Maria knew who he was. Here sat General Charles Ward. The high commander of the entire Earth force in Bahay.

He did not command the entire Human Defense Force. His bosses were back on Earth, some with three phoenixes on their shoulders, overseeing the war from afar. But General Ward commanded every other officer and soldier on Bahay. He was the architect of the war. He was the executioner of three million dead Bahayans and counting.

And there he was. Right there before Maria. Sipping wine and watching her dance.

The man who murdered my parents. It's his fault. More than any other man here.

Her legs felt weak. She wobbled on her heels. But she managed to keep swaying seductively, and she looked across the room, making eye contact with the general.

Ward stared back, face expressionless. Maria faced a crowd. But she sang for him alone.

"See the sugar bowl, do a tootsie roll…"

She looked away, not wanting to be too obvious. But she had sparked his interest. She felt his eyes following her as she continued her song.

Finally, with a little wiggle, she finished her performance. The men cheered, howled, and whistled. Standing below the stage, even Buddy was applauding.

"That's my girl!" the maitre d' said. "I hired her myself. Isn't she something? Marvelous, marvelous!" He clapped vigorously. "I found her in the downtown clubs and insisted she sang here!"

Only one man wasn't cheering.

Maria looked at him again.

From across the room, General Ward looked back. Their eyes snapped together.

He sat very still, his face hard, expressionless. The face of a stone statue.

But Maria saw the fire in his eyes. She knew this fire. She had seen it enough in the Go Go Cowgirl. It was the same in generals as it was in grunts. The fire of desire.

I kindled it.

She looked away.

"Can I sing another song?" she asked Buddy.

Buddy turned toward the crowd. "Would you like another song, gentlemen?"

The men roared and clapped. "Encore, encore!"

Maria turned toward the band. She thought for a moment. And she knew what she should sing.

"Play me 'The Last Rose of Summer.'"

The musicians glanced at one another.

"Candy, are you sure?" whispered the bass player. "We're not supposed to play Bahayan songs. The Earthlings like Earth songs."

Maria nodded. She was thankful that Buddy stood below the stage, not on it—too far to hear the whispered conversation.

"I'm sure. Play it."

The musicians glanced around uneasily, but finally the bass player shrugged, and they began to play.

"The Last Rose of Summer" was an old ballad of Bahay. It told the story of Lilibeth de la Rosa, a Bahayan folk heroine. According to legend, Lilibeth had been the first baby born on Bahay. Her parents were among the First Settlers, the Filipinos who came on the Santelmo starship, seeking a world away from war. As a young woman, Lilibeth explored the wilderness of Bahay, planting seeds from Earth—guavas, bananas, coconuts, avocados, spreading bounty across the planet.

Her beauty was legendary. Whenever she walked, the birds sang for her, the plants bowed before her, and even the stars admired her grace. But the moons of Bahay became jealous. Before Lilibeth's arrival, the two moons had been the most beautiful sights in Bahay. They had been the beauty the animals and plants adored. Mad with jealousy, the moons cast stones upon Bahay, destroying the groves Lilibeth had planted. The fruit trees burned. Famine gripped the land.

Lilibeth begged the moons to spare her people. But they remained envious of her beauty. To save Bahay, Lilibeth entered the rainforest, where she magically transformed into a rose. There she still grows, the legends say—the most beautiful flower on the planet. And yet she is hidden in the depths of the forest, a place no human could ever reach, and no moon could ever see. The stones from the sky ceased to fall, the fruit trees flourished, and the people were saved. And the last rose of summer still grows today, her beauty forever hidden.

Maria sang this story. She sang it in Tagalog, the language of her people. She did not dance. Did not sway. Did not pout nor wink nor flirt, for it was a sad song. A song of lost beauty. A song of a new home. A song of sacrifice and yearning. It was an anthem of Bahay, and as Maria sang it, she realized that "The Last Rose of Summer" was not only about the past. Not only about that old folk heroine.

It was about today. It was about this war. It was about death falling from the sky, and it was about beauty hidden, cast away, cloaked forever in shadows. It was about a rose that still bloomed even as the fire rained. Even as bombs fell. And as she sang, tears flowed down Maria's cheeks. And she saw tears on the cheeks of the Bahayan girls in the audience. Tears even flowed down the cheeks of the colonels and brigadiers. They could not understand her words, for she sang in her own tongue, but perhaps they could understand everything they needed to. Perhaps the music and her voice told the story more than words ever could.

Here she was, singing a song of Bahay's lost splendor to the men who had ruined the world. To men who were like the envious moons, hurling rocks upon a beautiful world. And they listened with tears in their eyes.

She looked again across the crowd. She looked into General Ward's eyes.

He stared back, face still hard, eyes dry. But the fire was there, brighter than ever.

And Maria knew: I got him.

Chapter Nine

Mecha

Standing in the smoldering battlefield, the Red Cardinal swung his thurible on its chain. The heavy incense holder cast out smoke. Once perhaps the censer had been used for worship. Today the cardinal wielded it like a medieval flail. Hot embers crackled within.

With a shrill cry, the cardinal lashed the smoldering censer at Jon.

Jon raised his rifle, parrying the blow. But the thurible whipped around the barrel and slammed into his helmet, spilling embers.

The heat blazed. Jon cried out in pain, fell back, and clawed at his visor, scraping off bits of burning ash. The embers were melting the joins on his helmet.

The thurible swung toward him again.

Jon raised his arms defensively, for all the good it did. The chain wrapped around his forearm, and the heavy metal censer pounded his head.

His visor shattered. An ember fell into his helmet and sizzled against his cheek. Jon screamed, pulled off his helmet, and ripped the white-hot ember off his flesh.

The cardinal kept advancing, lips peeled back in a rabid sneer. He spun his thurible faster and faster, like a deranged Ferris wheel. Soon it was moving so fast it blurred, becoming a disk of red light and smoke.

Jon kept stepping backwards, arms raised protectively, trying to fend off the assault. Desperately, he lowered his guard and fired his rifle. The bullet sparked off the thurible, not even slowing its spin, and whizzed off into the distance. The cardinal kept closing the gap, casting out flame and red-hot ashes. He was so fast. Jon couldn't aim.

His back hit enemy troops. They did not attack him, merely formed a barrier. There was no way out. George was fighting nearby, trying to cast off a dozen enemy soldiers. He was a whale trapped among sharks. He could not help Jon now.

I'm cornered, Jon realized.

The cardinal realized it too. His rheumy eyes lit up like more embers. He stormed forward, shrieking. His jaw unhinged, fell lower and lower, soon dangling halfway down his chest, revealing a chasm full of sharp teeth, rows and rows of fangs leading into a red gullet. Jon thrust his rifle, prepared to fire into that hellmouth. But the jaws snapped shut, shattering the steel barrel like a branch.

"What the hell are you?" Jon cried.

He dropped his mangled rifle. It had fired its last bullet. The cardinal swooped toward him, jaws wide.

A cry rose from behind.

Enemy soldiers tumbled back.

George was barreling through them, twice their size.

"Jon!" the giant cried, tossed off two enemy soldiers, and pointed. "Get to the mecha!"

Jon looked and saw it. An enemy mecha. The colossal machine was standing there in the field, immobile. The steelglass canopy had shattered on the chest. A Bahayan hung inside from straps, dead.

He looked away from the Red Cardinal for only a second.

That was enough.

The cardinal seized his chance and lunged at Jon.

Twisted, knobby fingers tightened around Jon's arm. They crushed him like a vise. Crimson fingernails punched through Jon's armor and pierced the skin beneath.

He howled in pain.

The creature's jaws widened, bathing Jon with the reek of death.

Jon roared, swung his fist, and pounded the old man's head.

The cardinal grunted. The talon-like fingers released Jon. The beast snapped his jaws like a piranha. Jon pulled his hand back, nearly losing his fingers.

He turned and ran. The cardinal laughed behind him. Jon raced through the opening George had created among the enemy troops.

The Bahayan troops were closing in fast. They dared not attack Jon—perhaps they had orders to leave him for the cardinal. But they were leaping over George, swarming like wolves over a bison, pulling him down into their midst. The giant roared, hurling them off, only for more to dogpile.

Jon wanted to run to his friend. But he was unarmed. He needed that mecha.

With the cardinal hot in pursuit, Jon reached the mecha and began climbing the humanoid machine.

The cardinal grabbed his leg. Jon kicked wildly, freed himself, and scurried into the cockpit—a cavity inside the machine's chest.

The dead Bahayan, the original operator of the mecha, still hung there. A grenade or shell must have shattered the canopy. Shrapnel and glass shards bristled across the dead man.

The cardinal shrieked and leaped toward the cockpit.

Jon unstrapped the dead Bahayan and shoved the corpse out. The body thumped into the cardinal, knocking the creature onto the ground.

Jon replaced the dead Bahayan at the controls. There were four tubes to stick his limbs in. He thrust his arms and legs into place. Controls snapped shut around his limbs, tightening like gripping hands. Sensors descended and wrapped around his head.

Suddenly Jon felt twenty feet tall. He was not just Jon anymore. Not a mere man.

He became a mighty machine.

* * * * *

The colossal body awakened.

Jon's nerves tingled, connecting to sensors across the machinery. He could feel everything. Stones beneath his metal feet. Wind against his gargantuan head. The weight of cannons mounted on his shoulders.

The mecha felt like his own body. He pulsed with energy, towering and inhumanly strong.

Earth had some mechas in its arsenal, smaller ones, barely larger than the men inside. Jon had always wanted to try one. Now he got to operate something much bigger and stronger.

How do I fire the machine guns on the shoulders? he thought.

The Red Cardinal rose from the charred ground, shoving off the dead Bahayan. The old man swung his thurible.

From up here inside the mecha, the cardinal seemed so small. But the cardinal began to levitate. Fire rippled and coiled around him. His red cloak billowed. The creature rose upon wings of flame, and hellfire haloed around his brow. From holy man, he became a demon, and his eyes burned bright with rage.

He swung the thurible at Jon.

Jon raised his arm. Motors hummed. And the mecha raised its arm too—a massive metal arm, as wide as a tree trunk.

The mechanical limb blocked the thurible. Sparks showered, and embers flew through the air.

Inside the tube encircling his arm, Jon made a fist.

With whirring gears, the mecha formed a metal fist the size of an anvil, and Jon drove it into his enemy.

The mechanical fist slammed into the elderly man.

The cardinal flew and hit the ground.

The blow should have shattered every bone in his body. But amazingly, the cardinal rose to his feet. Cracks spread across the ground around him. Cloak billowing like demon wings, the cardinal hovered upon swirling fire. He came at Jon again, mouth open in a furious roar, fangs gleaming.

Jon swung his arm. The mecha was a big, slow brute, its every movement sluggish. Gears whirred and motors hummed. The mechanical arm swung, but it failed to hurt the cardinal. The old man caught the metal limb, wrapped claws around its pistons and pipes, and began scurrying up the forearm.

The cardinal reached the elbow, kicked off the heavy joint, and came flying toward the cockpit in the chest.

The protective canopy was missing. Strapped into the mecha's chest, Jon was exposed. He could only stare in dread as the fiery demon lunged toward him.

The cardinal leaped onto Jon, gripped him, and shrieked. His eyes blazed with fire, and his teeth thrust like a hundred little daggers.

Jon moved his arm. Dented gears creaked, snapped back into place, whirred. He gripped the cardinal with fingers the size of baseball bats, then ripped him off like a leech.

For a brief moment, holding the cardinal at arm's length, Jon allowed himself to survey the battle. The carnage spread around him and the cardinal. Earthling and Bahayan forces were clashing with blood and fire and metal. Some turned to watch the duel, not interfering. They knew this must remain a match between two—a man engulfed in metal and a man engulfed in flame.

Good versus evil? Jon thought. No. That doesn't exist in this war. We're both killers. Both monsters. There is metal here and there is fire. There is no grace. But I must survive today. Because Maria is pure. She's the only pure thing I found in this goddamn war. And she makes life worth living.

If he could not proudly fight for his army, even for his planet—he could fight for her.

I must live to see you again, Maria. I am not good. But you are. And I fight for you.

Jon tossed the man—or whatever this creature was—onto the ground. He still didn't know how to work the goddamn shoulder guns. But he didn't need them. He raised his metal leg, prepared to stomp the cardinal. That should do the job nicely.

The cardinal rose to his feet.

The mecha's foot came down.

The cardinal grabbed it.

The mecha was bigger than a tank. Its foot alone probably weighed several tons, and its motors were whirring, exerting all their force, trying to crush the cardinal. The mecha should have crushed the man like a bug.

But the cardinal stayed standing, gripping the metal foot above his head. The frail old man howled, yanked the mecha's foot, and tossed the gargantuan machine like a rag doll.

The mecha flew across the battlefield, a meter above the ground. The enormous machine drove through an Earthling platoon like a bowling ball through pins. Jon screamed, jangling inside the cockpit. He saw his fellow soldiers. Saw their terror. Saw them try to flee. Saw them splatter against the machine.

Their screams died in Jon's ears.

Then the mecha hit the ground. It plowed forward, digging a deep furrow. Jon dangled from the straps, coughing, the breath knocked out of him.

The mecha finally came to a stop, lying on its side.

Nearby, the cardinal laughed. A sound like snapping bones.

Jon moved his limbs, and gears screeched. Shedding dirt, dripping blood, the mecha rose to a crouch.

With a roar, Jon lunged at the cardinal—and the mecha lunged with him.

The Red Cardinal was already leaping toward him on an arch of fire.

Man and mecha slammed together.

The world exploded.

* * * * *

Metal bent and snapped and fury blazed.

The cardinal shrieked inside a ball of fire. Yet the flames did not consume him.

His claws lashed in a fury, emerging from the fire like the claws of demons.

Jon grabbed him with metal hand like a lifting clamp. But the cardinal kept swinging his claws, reaching into the broken canopy. A claw caught Jon across the chest, carving open his armor, cutting his skin. Jon screamed and leaned back, trying to dodge those lashing talons.

He's like a goddamn living chainsaw, Jon thought.

"What the hell are you?" he shouted.

The cardinal's sleeves had rolled back in the battle. Dark tattoos shone across his arms, shaped like coiling serpents. They glowed with black light. Some kind of sorcery? Alien tech? Was there a difference?

Whenever the cardinal snapped his teeth or lashed his claws, those tattoos glowed more brightly. Or perhaps more darkly. Jon couldn't explain it. But somehow those tattoos were emitting darkness.

They're the source of his power, Jon thought.

He winced, then loosened his grip on the cardinal, allowing him deeper into the mecha's chest turret.

The claws sank into Jon's shoulder, cracking armor, cutting flesh.

Though he screamed in pain, Jon waited until the cardinal's grip on him was secure.

The cardinal's arm was now exposed before Jon—skinny, bony, covered in the glowing tattoos.

Jon had no knife, no free hands. His limbs were all strapped into the mecha's control tubes.

As the cardinal gripped him, Jon lowered his head. And like an animal, he bit into the cardinal's arm, then pulled his head back, ripping off the skin.

Liquid filled Jon's mouth. Not blood. After months of war, he knew the coppery, hot taste of blood. This was something cold, slimy, fungal. He spat. Shreds of rubbery skin splattered the mecha's control panel. Bits of the tattoos still glowed on the scraps of skin. But as Jon watched, the glow dimmed. The tattoos squirmed like halved worms, then shriveled up and vanished with plumes of smoke.

The cardinal, his arm mangled, screamed.

The fire engulfing him died. His jaw returned to normal size. His claws retracted. He seemed even older now. Ancient and decrepit, barely alive at all. If a man could truly live to be four hundred, this one looked it.

He still had ink on his arm, but the tattoos had been broken, their strange circuitry shorted. The remaining ink twitched, glowed, dimmed again, unable to activate its power.

The cardinal fled.

He leaped off the mecha, landed on the ground with a thud. His leg snapped, and he screamed.

Just an old man, Jon thought, staring from inside the mecha. Not a demon after all.

Jon ran after him, his mecha's feet pounding the earth. But two other mechas, Bahayans inside them, stomped toward him. Machine guns swiveled on their shoulders.

Jon cursed and leaped aside. His mecha hit the ground hard. Bullets whizzed overhead. A few pinged off his mecha's body, thankfully missing the cockpit.

Hanging inside the hollow chest, Jon stared toward the Red Cardinal. The wretch fled behind his troops. His right arm was a bleeding mess. But tattoos still shone on the other arm, perhaps still granting him some power. The old man drew a wide circle with his hand, and a luminous ring appeared.

A portal, Jon thought. It looked like a smaller version of the wormhole Jon had flown through to reach Bahay.

The cardinal turned toward Jon, ringed with fiery light. He stared across the battlefield, his beady eyes flaming with hatred.

"Jon!" the Red Cardinal called. "I will find Maria. She will scream so beautifully before she dies."

Then the wounded man leaped through the portal. The ring of fire vanished.

* * * * *

The enemy mechas thundered towered Jon, their feet shaking the battlefield, their machine guns hot.

Cannons boomed.

Explosions blazed across the two mechas. Their canopies shattered. The Bahayans inside burned.

Jon, still inside his own mecha, spun to see Earth's last tanks rumbling toward him.

"Wait, hold your fire!" he shouted. "I'm an Earthling!"

The tanks aimed their cannons at him.

Jon twisted around, pulled hard, and finally managed to free his arms from the controls. He waved.

"I'm an Earthling! Hold your fire!"

The tanks lowered their cannons. Jon breathed in relief.

He looked around him. With the blimps burning, with the mechas destroyed, and with the cardinal gone, the enemy morale had shattered. The last few Santelmos dimmed and floated away like wayward balloons. Already the Bahayan infantry was pulling back from Camp Apollo.

At least what remained of it.

Some Earthlings began to cheer. "Victory, victory!"

But most were not cheering, even as the enemy retreated. The Luminous Army had failed to capture the camp, perhaps. But they had dealt a devastating blow.

Hundreds of corpses covered the land. Maybe thousands. Wounded soldiers crawled through the devastation, burnt, mangled, some crying out for their mothers.

"George," Jon whispered.

He leaped from his mecha, abandoning the huge machine, and ran toward where he had last seen George.

The giant was lying in a pool of blood.

Jon's heart shattered.

"George!"

He ran faster, leaping over corpses. Wounded men and women lay around him, begging for help. Jon kept running, ignoring them, hating himself for it.

He ran toward George and knelt by his friend.

"George? George!" Jon grabbed him, shook him.

George was covered in blood. For a horrible instant, Jon was sure he was dead. But then the giant groaned and sat up.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He winced. "Just got the wind knocked out of me."

Jon looked at his friend's armor. Several bullets had hit the chest, denting the metal. Every one of those hits must have felt like a god's hammer.

George would be bruised. Maybe he had cracked ribs. Maybe other injuries too. But he was alive, and he was even able to stand up.

"We won the day," Jon said. "But the cost is so great. I don't know if we can recover."

"Jon, is it true?" George asked. "That the cardinal is your ancestor?"

"I don't know," Jon said. "He's a master manipulator. That's probably how he became the leader of this world. Even if it's true, I don't care." He hugged George. "I'm not leaving my friends."

George pulled him into a crushing embrace. They stood together, two friends in a sea of death and despair.

Chapter Ten

The Art of War

Maria hummed softly, sweeping the floor of Maison de la Terre. "The Last Rose of Summer" still lingered on her lips, a sad song of moonlight from a time when hope had shone brightly.

The officers had left the dining hall. The band was gone, the music silent aside from the last notes that Maria still hummed. The chandeliers were dark, and only a few scattered lamps illuminated the hall. Outside the windows, the cooks stood on the grass, smoking cigarettes. Every few moments, they burst out laughing, perhaps over a dirty joke Maria could not hear through the glass.

It was a quiet time. A peaceful time. Maria was busy sweeping the floors, clearing the tables, replacing the tablecloths, tiding up the entire banquet hall. It would probably take her all night. Buddy had told her she would have to wash the dishes too. It was backbreaking work. But it beat singing on stage for a crowd of killers. It beat wandering the shantytowns. It beat bullets and bloodshed in the jungle.

She had the dining hall to herself. Maria could almost imagine that it was a palace, that all this splendor—the oak staircase, the chandeliers, the glittering goblets—was hers. That she was a princess in a palace.

But no, she was no Cinderella, and she did not crave to be a princess. She would give all the wonders in the galaxy to be home again.

As she swept the floor, Maria remembered her little home in San Luna, her village between the mountains and sea. As a girl, she would sweep the floor of her bamboo hut, and she had always enjoyed the task. Mother would be cooking chicken adobo in the cast iron pot, and Father would be husking rice outside, singing old songs. Maria had found joy in those times of toil. There had been honesty to that labor, a sense of purpose draped with the love of her family.

Her parents lay burned in the husks of the hut.

They had no faces.

Maria ran through the fire, screaming.

She paused, clutching her broomstick, and closed her eyes.

Don't remember that part, she told herself. Don't remember the fire and blood. Remember the good times. Remember your parents as they looked in life, not the faceless bodies among the ashes.

"Candy! Candy!"

A door banged open. Buddy rushed into the dining hall.

The maitre d' still wore his tuxedo, even this late at night. Maria wondered if he slept in it. He stomped toward her, coattails fluttering.

"I'm sorry, Buddy!" Maria took a step back. "I know I shouldn't have sung a Bahayan song. I should have sung just Earth music. But I think they liked it, they—"

"Silence! I didn't ask for your excuses." Buddy gripped her arm. "Come with me."

He pulled her from the dining hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door. They walked across the grass under the light of the twin moons. Dragging behind him, Maria struggled to wrench her arm free.

"Leave me alone! If you want to fire me, fire me. I'll leave and you don't have to drag me."

Buddy stopped. He spun toward her, eyes boring into her. "Fire you? Fire you? Do you want me to hang, girl?"

She tilted her head. "What? Why would you—"

He groaned. "Silly girl! Don't act as if you don't know. You knew what you were doing! You flirty little floozy."

"Hey!" She yanked her arm free. "What are you talking about?"

The maitre d' rolled his eyes. "Don't feign innocence. The general, girl!" Buddy dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. "General Ward. He sent word. He summoned you to his home tonight."

Maria blinked. "Why?"

"How should I know why?" Buddy scoffed. "I'm not a mind reader, girl! I'm a maitre d'. It took a long time to become a maitre d', you know. I had to climb my way up. I started as a bus boy, but I was willing to work hard, to put in the hours without complaining, and—"

"Just take me to the general." Maria sighed.

He led her through the moonlit gardens. Several Earthling guards were patrolling here, dressed in full regalia, marching with perfect precision. They didn't even turn to look at the two Bahayans walking by.

The song of the night filled the gardens. Moonbugs chirped in the bushes, seeking mates in the moonlight. A wide-eyed tarsier leaped from a branch, caught one of the bugs, and crunched it between its teeth. A glimmerbird cooed somewhere among the trees. Beyond these animal sounds rose the hum of Mindao. That city was so close, just outside the towering white walls that surrounded Little Earth. Mopeds and jeepneys rumbled, barely more than white noise. But it was enough. A reminder of why Maria was here.

There in that city, her people suffered. Refugees. Prostitutes, some of them only children. Orphans eating trash and selling their bodies to survive. Her fellow bargirls, languishing in prison. The cry of her people. It sounded like white noise perhaps, but Maria knew that it was a great keen, a howl of anguish. And even the thickest, tallest walls could not silence that cry. It rang in her heart and through her soul.

They reached a little home among the trees. Little was a relative term, of course. It was larger than Maria's childhood hut, and it dwarfed the shanties that filled Mindao. But still, the house was smaller than most in Little Earth, a modest abode among mansions. Simple white walls. Red tiles on the roof. A guard manned the door, and another guard was patrolling around the house.

The general's home, Maria knew.

Buddy gripped her arm, leaned closer, and sneered into her ear, "Make him happy. Whatever he wants, you give it to him. You want to survive? You do as the Earthling masters say. One day maybe you'll be like me."

I would rather be free in the slums than a slave in a tuxedo, Maria thought. But that was something Maria would say. Right now she had to be Candy. And Candy was a slave. And Candy nodded.

"Good advice, Buddy."

His voice softened. "Good girl." He nudged her forward. "Go."

He's just another pimp, Maria thought. No different from the Magic Man. This entire place, all of Little Earth—this is just another brothel.

She took a deep breath.

For my people. For my planet. For Bahay.

She stepped toward the door. The Earthling guard stared at her, tall and dour. His cap shadowed his face. He opened the door and took a step back, silent.

Maria stepped into the house.

On the inside too, the home was probably simple for an Earthling. Yesterday, Maria might have called it palatial. But after seeing the splendor of the banquet hall, she realized that this house was downright austere for a mighty general. There were two armchairs, a deerskin rug with the face still attached, and an oak table topped with leatherbound books. More books, hundreds of them, crammed bookshelves along an entire wall. Maps and antique swords hung on two other walls.

A fireplace dominated the fourth wall, its flames crackling—even here in the heat of Bahay, this sweltering world. A man stood there, gazing into the fire, his back to Maria. He wore a crimson robe, and he held a pipe. She smelled aromatic tobacco blended with cinnamon and a touch of hintan, a popular drug some soldiers smoked—milder than shabu, relaxing rather than stimulating.

Maria could not see the man's face. But she recognized his towering, broad frame and steely gray hair. Here stood General Ward, commander of Earth's forces on Bahay.

She stood very still, listening to the flames crackle, not sure if she should say anything.

Finally the general spoke, though he still faced the fire.

"Do you wonder why I light a fire in the heat of Bahay?"

Maria blinked. He was speaking in Tagalog!

"You speak our language, sir?" she blurted, unable to hide her shock.

He turned his head only slightly, revealing his profile. He had a face like a craggy cliff, painted red and gold in the firelight. A lantern jaw. An aquiline nose. Steely gray curls neatly cropped. A noble face like some old conqueror of Earth's unknown lands and seas. He smiled thinly, a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle." He finally turned to face her. "Sun Tzu wrote those words three thousand years ago. I live by them. That's why I learned your tongue. I study my enemy—his culture, his martial code, his language, his deepest fears. I know my enemy."

Maria blinked at him. "Well… I learned how to sing 'The Good Ship Lollipop.'"

He did not laugh. But it seemed to Maria that his thin smile widened just a bit, and this time amusement sparkled in his eyes.

"So it seems we are enemies, Maria de la Cruz. An officer of Earth who knows the tongue of Bahay. And a girl of Bahay who can sing Shirley Temple."

"Because it reminds you of home," Maria said.

The general arched an eyebrow. "What does?"

"The fireplace," Maria said. "That's why you light a fire even in the heat of Bahay, isn't it? Because it reminds you of cold nights on Earth."

He stepped toward her, placed a finger under her chin, and tilted her head back. He stared down into her eyes. He was a towering man, even for an Earthling. The top of her head didn't even reach his shoulders.

"Clever girl."

She smiled crookedly, her chin resting on his fingertip. "Do I get a prize?"

His movements were so swift she barely saw them. He gripped the small of her back, pulled her close. A spider reeling in a fly.

"You were marvelous tonight, Maria. The song you sang. It moved me."

His body pressed against hers. She rested her chin on his chest, gazing up at him. "You have a thing for lollipops, sir?"

He ran his fingers through her hair. "I don't mean the first song. I mean the other song. The song in your language. The Last Rose of Summer."

Despite his size, his hands were gentle. Yet Maria suspected that if she resisted, she would find those gentle hands as strong as manacles.

"You're probably the only man there who understood the words," she whispered.

"I don't care about the words, Maria. Some old fairy tale is not what moved me. It is your balls!"

She blinked at him. "I didn't realize I had any."

He kept stroking her hair. "Oh you do, my little rose. Bigger balls than half my brigadiers. To step on stage before me, to sing a song of Bahayan patriotism, of national pride—to the men who rape and pillage and burn your world. That takes gall!"

Maria frowned. She had heard Earth propaganda before from a million soldiers.

"Rape and pillage? I thought you came here as liberators, sir. To save us from the Red Cardinal and his alien army."

He stroked her cheek, and the firelight haloed him. "And I thought you were clever."

"I know this much," Maria said. "You light a fire to remind you of Earth, and you summoned me here to forget Earth. Because I'm not like Earth women. Not like your wife back home. Not like any Earthling woman you've ever met. You conquered half my world, sir. And now you can conquer me. That's why you called me here."

He tightened his grip so powerfully that she yelped. He lifted her, carried her like a bride into his bedroom. He laid her down on his bed, stood at the bedside, and stared at her. His smile was gone. His face was hard, his eyes blazing with dark fire.

"Undress," he said. "First yourself. Then me."

Maria lay on the bed, gazing up at him. It reminded her of a childhood terror. Sometimes during the long nights in San Luna, she would awake when it was still dark, and she could not move. Could not make a sound. She could only stare at the foot of the bed, where she would behold a demon. Often the demon sat on her feet, keeping her pinned down, but sometimes it just stood at the edge of the bed, a dark lord from another realm, towering and judging. She would try to move, to scream, to call her mother—but was paralyzed with shock. Lying here, with the general standing at the foot of the bed, that same fear seized her.

I know what he wants. He wants what Jon and I shared.

She thought of the child in her belly. And she thought of Jon, her husband, the love of her life. And she knew that even for Bahay, even to save her world, she could not sleep with this man.

"I… I can't."

All her confidence, her flirtatiousness—it all fled. She trembled. She had only ever slept with one person. With Jon, a young and gentle man. Here before her stood an aging lion. She feared his rough touch. Fear that when thrusting into her, he would harm her baby. She feared betraying her husband.

But her fear only seemed to intoxicate the general. He undressed slowly, meticulously, until he stood naked before her. His body was muscular despite his age, and battle scars covered his chest. His arousal was evident.

"You can and you will." He stared at her with all the aura of command—as if he did not stand naked before her.

She glanced at his manhood, back into his eyes. "Sir, I'm only a Bahayan girl. I'm small. I'm not like Earth women with large hips. You're too big for me. The mechanics don't work."

"You flatter me," he said dryly. "Undress now. I am not asking you."

Maria pulled off her dress, eyes downcast, exposing her small breasts, her slender hips. She hoped her belly was still flat enough. Her fingers trembled.

I'm just Candy. I'm not Maria at all. A tear flowed down her cheek. I'm just Candy the courtesan, not Maria at all.

"I…" Instinctively, she placed a hand on her belly. "I will pleasure you in other ways."

He frowned. Did he know? Could he see? That she was pregnant?

He nodded. "Good."

She pleasured him, and she did not think of Jon, because she was Candy now, and Candy had no husband, and Candy did not betray a man she loved. And Candy did not cry.

When he was satisfied, he kissed her lips and stroked her hair.

"You are beautiful, Maria de la Cruz. You are brave like a lioness yet delicate as a rose. You will be mine from now on. You will accompany me to dinners and galas. You will wear the gowns and jewels I buy you. You will pleasure me like you did tonight—every night. Your rose will no longer grow among thorns but here in this splendorous garden. Now leave. The dawn is near. When it's sunset again, return to the Maison de la Terre. Not to the stage but to my table. Goodbye, my little rose."

As Maria left the house, as she walked across the grassy lawn under the moonlight, she wondered how he knew her true name.

"Know your enemy," she whispered. "You know me, General Ward. And I intend to know you very, very well."

Chapter Eleven

Scouring

Jon walked across the smoldering battlefield, gazing upon the bodies of his fellow soldiers.

Hundreds, maybe thousands had fallen here.

The Red Cardinal was gone. But he had left carnage in his wake. Jon walked in a daze, his soul numb like fingertips after playing with snow for too long. Twisted metal littered the landscape. Bullet casings. Mangled artillery shells. Chunks of tents, bent and burnt. Twisted flesh lay among them. A severed leg. A hand reached from a crater, no body attached. A man lay, his entrails spilling like a polluted pink river. A woman lay beside him, the top of her head blown off, chunks of skull discarded across the charred land. A man crawled, begging, his legs amputated. Another man walked in a daze, moaning, burnt. His skin hung in strips like peeling wall paper.

Jon walked through this nightmare scene. Smoke rose from the artillery craters. A few corpses burned, filling the air with black smog and fluttering white ashes like Christmas snow. A burnt man lay on his side, weeping. A woman stood in numb shock, one arm gone. She was looking around, eyes sunken into a face coated with dust, perhaps seeking her missing limb.

Jon wanted to help them. He didn't know how. He just walked, dazed, numb, as if he were only half alive.

The Battle of Camp Apollo had ended. Jon knew it would haunt him forever.

"Help… me…"

A soldier stumbled toward him, lurched, almost fell, kept stumbling forward.

"Help me…"

Blood, mud, and ash covered the soldier, but Jon recognized the buck teeth. It was Becky Allenby, known around the brigade as Bucky. Her glasses hung askew, one lens cracked. She looked at him, and tears streamed down her face, drawing white lines in the filth.

"Jon. Jon, help me…"

For a moment, Jon almost turned away. Almost left her. Was almost glad to see her distress.

Memories from boot camp filled him. Bucky had trained there with him. A fellow recruit in the Lions Platoon. A girl with buck teeth, frizzy hair, and a braying laugh. She had always followed Clay Hagen around, worshiping the ground he walked on, calling him boss and obeying his every whim.

Jon had seen Clay Hagen massacre hundreds of innocents in Santa Rosa. True, Bucky had not been there at the time. During Santa Rosa, Bucky had remained at Camp Apollo, cleaning latrines and scrubbing pots. But she was still a Clay lackey. And Jon had no interest in helping her.

"Jon, please…" Becky begged. "Help…"

His anger flowed away. Yes, Clay had committed horrible sins. But Jon could not blame this gangly, awkward, terrified girl. He stepped over a corpse and approached her.

"Becky, are you hurt?" he said.

She looked around, then back at him. She was a tall girl, as tall as him, her limbs like sticks, her head bulbous on a slender neck.

"Bucky," she said.

Jon blinked. "What?"

"Everyone one calls me Bucky, not Becky. On account of my front teeth being so big."

"Becky—I mean, Bucky—are you hurt? Let me see."

He searched her for wounds, turned her around, looked her all over. Her armored battlesuit was cracked, dented, and covered in blood. But he found no wounds, at least nothing more serious than bruises and scratches. This blood was not her own. Though she trembled and shed tears, Bucky was unharmed.

A miracle, considering the destruction around us, Jon thought. He tried to ignore the throbbing in his mangled hand.

"You're fine, Bucky!" he said. "Look at me. Look at me now! You're all right. You're not hurt. Okay? The blood isn't yours."

But she kept shaking. She looked at him, eyes haunted. She seemed to be staring through him at some distant battlefield.

"Jon, this is my fault."

"What? Becky, this isn't—"

"Bucky," she said. "My name is Bucky. That's what the recruits always called me at Roma Station during basic training. You remember, right? You called me that too. The kids at school called me that. And at kindergarten. Just Bucktoothed Becky, Bucky for short."

Jon wanted to keep walking. To seek more survivors, maybe somebody he could help. He wanted to find his friends. His officers.

"Bucky, we all have stories from our past, but now you need to—"

"So I joined Clay's posse," she continued as if she hadn't heard him. "He bullied me too. But in his clique, I could bully others. People even feared me a little. Because I was a Clay minion."

He patted Bucky's arm. "I remember. It's in the past. Now let's—"

"He murdered five hundred women and children, Jon." She clutched his arm, stared into his eyes. Her eyes were like bottomless pools of murky water. "For months, I worshiped him. Called him boss. Called him the bravest soldier. I told everyone he'd win great victories. I was just hoping he would see my worth. See me as more than a bucktoothed loser. But I enabled him, Jon. And he went out and murdered hundreds of innocents."

Jon sighed. "Bucky, we've all grown in this war. We've all made mistakes. God knows I have."

Bucky looked around her. She swept her arm across the devastation. "This, Jon. This is punishment. This is God smiting us for our sins. I enabled the murder of five hundred innocent people. This is on me." She lowered her head and wept. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm so sorry."

He placed his hands on her cheeks, and he stared intently into her eyes.

"Listen to me, Bucky. Listen to me! This was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. Many people are to blame for what happened at Santa Rosa. Clay Hagen. His soldiers. Colonel Pascal, who promoted him. The recruitment officers who drafted Clay in the first place, knowing his violent history. They are to blame for Santa Rosa, not you. And this?" He looked around him. "This devastation? This isn't your fault either. Or my fault. Or the fault of any one of these poor men and women who lie dead around us. We're pawns in this war. We think we have power. That our actions affect this or that triumph or tragedy. But we're nobodies. We're grunts. We're powerless."

"That's where you're wrong, Jon." Bucky stopped trembling, and her face became solemn and hard like a mask. "We're only grunts in a war of millions. But what we do here matters. We can win this war. Or we can lose it. But mostly I pray that we can end it. One person, no matter how unimportant, can make a difference. One pawn, no matter how powerless, can win a great game of kings and queens. Never believe you are powerless. It's often the young, powerless people who change the world."

Jon smiled sadly. "You're wiser than you let on, Bucky."

She smiled too—a beautiful smile that broke through the dirt and blood and despair across her face. "You mean, a gawky girl with huge glasses, frizzy hair, and buckteeth doesn't look wise?"

Jon laughed. "Hey, next to my ugly mug, you're downright adorable."

A jeep rolled up beside them. Colonel Pascal leaned out the side, his armored plates straining against his belly. Dust and blood caked his hair.

"Soldiers," the colonel said. "Report to Supply Tent B. Grab body bags. And begin cleaning this battlefield. Everyone's helping. Me too."

Jon and Bucky lost their smiles. They nodded.

More troops gathered around them. Everyone wore dented, scratched armor. Dust, blood, and ash covered them. Some soldiers bristled with shrapnel and bullets that jutted from their armor like spikes on the backs of some primordial reptiles.

They began their work. They moved through the battlefield, collecting corpses into body bags.

A few people cracked jokes.

"Hey, this battle was a blast!"

"Looks like this soldier had good luck. He didn't just break a leg, he lost one!"

"This corporal lost his head. Literally!"

But Jon saw the pain in their eyes. The tears on their cheeks. Their shaking hands. And soon the jokes ended, and everyone worked in dour silence, broken only by the odd sob or sound of vomiting.

The grisly work took hours. Sometimes Jon pulled bodies into bags. Sometimes just body parts. Sometimes just goo. Sometimes he found somebody who had to be dead, had to be—they were just burned or mangled too badly. Yet sometimes even these mockeries of humanity were whispering, or begging, or sometimes just blinking and looking around as their lifeblood flowed away.

George worked at his side, pale, lips tight, tears on his cheeks. Bucky pulled a severed foot into a bag, then turned aside, knelt, and vomited.

Jon looked at a few soldiers scraping a corpse from the ground.

Well, there's an appealing fellow, Jon thought. In fact, they're a-peeling him off the ground!

The thought came to him unbidden, some gruesome joke he had heard long ago. And amazingly, shocking him, Jon guffawed.

A few soldiers looked at him, faces pale, eyes sunken.

Jon looked back, and they seemed so miserable, so glum, that he couldn't help it.

He guffawed again.

His laughter seized him, snorted through his nostrils, brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't breathe. He fell to his knees in blood, laughing madly.

"Jon!" George grabbed him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Jon looked up at his friend. "He's appealing. An appealing fellow. A… I can't breathe." He was laughing so hard now, and tears flowed down his cheeks. "I can't breathe."

He began gasping for air—huge, shuddering sobs—and then he was weeping. His vision narrowed into a black tunnel. Panic and grief claimed him.

George knelt beside him, pulled him into his giant arms. The two friends embraced, crying together, as the dead and wounded spread around them in a red sea.

Chapter Twelve

The Diamond Collar

"Get up, get up, you lazy useless cows!" Buddy stormed through the room, pounding the walls with his cane and stamping his feet. "Up, up!"

Maria opened her eyes and groaned. It was five in the morning. She had barely slept.

Her cheeks flushed when she remembered last night. Entering the General's home. Seeing him undress. Pleasuring him. She couldn't help but shudder. She had seduced him, hoping to spy on him, the commander of Earth's forces. But now, with the dangerous magic of the night retreating from the dawn, shame filled her.

I cheated on you, Jon.

"Up, dammit!" Buddy smacked her with his cane. "All of you—up! I don't pay you to sleep late like the pigs that you are."

Maria groaned and shoved his cane away. "You know, I'm a farm girl. My family owned a pig. Pigs wake up early and never complain."

He smacked her again. "Then you're even worse than a pig!" He turned toward another girl. "You, Sunny! You too, Joyce! Up, up! All of you."

Maria sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes, and looked around her. When she had stumbled into the room late last night, she had barely noticed the other staff members. They had been deep in slumber. Now, in the dawn's rising light, Maria saw several Bahayan women waking up in the bunk beds.

They began to dress in their maid uniforms. They ranged from young girls, probably just teenagers like Maria, to elderly women. Buddy treated them all with equal contempt.

"Good morning, ladies," Maria said. "I didn't have time to introduce myself last night. I'm Mari—" She flinched when Buddy raised his cane. "I mean—I'm Candy. Candy Cane." She made up the last name on the spot. "Nice to meet you!"

Nobody shook her hand. One woman, a heavyset grandmother, huffed and muttered something under her breath. A young maid whispered something to her friend, and both girls giggled.

"Stop gossiping and get to work, dammit!" Buddy said. "Joyce—there's grout in all the bathroom tiles that needs scrubbing. Jean—you better iron the tablecloths properly today. You, Candy—go, go! To the dining hall! Set the tables, it's almost breakfast time!" He swung his cane around, smacking a few girls. "Move, dammit! You are so lazy."

Maria mumbled under her breath, mimicking him in baritone, "You know, I had to work hard to be a maitre 'd."

One girl, who was pulling on a cocktail dress, looked at Maria and laughed. Her name tag read Girlie. She had a perfectly round face with plump cheeks. Maria liked her smile.

Buddy was still droning on. "… and if you ever want to accomplish anything in this life, you must be willing to put in a fair day's work. Look at me. Do you think I was born this way? No! I used elbow grease! When I was a bus boy, I woke up at four, and…"

Maria hurried out the room, and Girlie quickly followed. They rushed downstairs, giggling.

"Perfect impression, Candy!" Girlie whispered.

"I worked hard on it, ever since I was a little boy," Maria said in baritone, "I woke up at four to practice every morning."

Girlie tittered.

They spent the day working. Setting tables. Serving breakfast to colonels and brigadiers. They served some meals in the dining hall, but they delivered others directly to the bedrooms of officers. Several times, Maria had to avert her eyes from naked Earthlings and the Bahayan girls in their beds.

"Cream in your coffee, sir?" she asked an elderly, mustached brigadier. She poured the cream as he rustled his newspaper. A naked Bahayan girl—probably even younger than Maria—slept against his chest.

"Shall I butter your toast, sir?" she asked an obese colonel. She forced herself to smile as he made a rude joke, as he squeezed her bottom. She giggled, blushed, and playfully slapped him when he invited her to join the whore in his bed.

As she moved from house to house, from dining hall to poolside, serving these powerful men, she understood why they had come to Bahay. It wasn't to liberate this planet from the Red Cardinal. It wasn't even for conquest or glory.

It was for the spoils of war. For a tropical getaway. For palm trees and sunny weather. For exotic women in their beds, petite and docile and many light-years away from jealous Earthling wives. It was for Maria giggling and buttering their toast as they squeezed her flesh.

Grunts like Jon, George, and Etty are dying on the battlefields, Maria thought. Villages like mine are being wiped off the map. And these generals dine, drink, and whore in the shade of palm trees. The death of innocents is their payment for an exotic vacation.

Later in the day, she was sent to serve coffee and tea in a boardroom. Majors, colonels, and brigadiers sat at a long wooden table, reviewing maps. Maria doubted they were talking about anything too classified. After all, she had no security clearance, and she was allowed inside. But as she poured coffee and tea, mixed cream and milk and sugar, she listened. She observed.

"The damn Red Cardinal's getting saucy, isn't he?" said a colonel with a red mustache and barrel chest. "Well, bully for him. If the bastard thinks of crossing the equator, we'll show him what's what."

Another colonel—a thin, dapper man with a pencil mustache—sipped his tea. He winced and held it out to Maria. "More honey, darling." He looked at his burly companion. "Don't worry, Bernard, the Apollo Brigade's taking good care of that cardinal fellow. Bloody Catholics. Even here on this barbaric planet, they're causing trouble." He sipped the tea again. "Ah, perfect! Thank you, sweetheart. No, not you, Bernard! I mean the girl."

As Maria fluttered around the conference room in her maid's outfit, she sought out General Ward. But he wasn't here. Nor had he ordered breakfast. She thought again about last night, and her cheeks heated.

A lieutenant colonel with a fleshy red nose stared at a map on the wall. He looked back at the others. "My word, are you sure Apollo Brigade is up to the task? They're taking a beating up there, the poor sods."

"Ah!" A brigadier waved his hand dismissively. "They're good lads. They can handle the slit bastards. If they get in too much trouble, we'll send more men their way. We've got a new shipment coming in from Earth tomorrow morning. They're a bit green, but they'll learn fast."

Maria glanced at the map. Blue pins were stuck in a few locations, perhaps symbolizing Earth forces, surrounded by red pins, perhaps symbolizing the Red Cardinal's units.

Jon is there, she thought. Fighting with the Apollo Brigade.

She couldn't help herself. Tray of drinks in hand, she looked at the officers.

"Sirs, do you know if Cronus Company is okay? It's part of the Apollo Brigade. Do you know if Cronus survived?"

Cronus Company. Jon's company.

The officers all stared at her. Silence filled the room.

"What the devil are you talking about, girl!" boomed Bernard, the portly ginger colonel.

The thin, dapper colonel with the pencil mustache put down his cup of tea. "My word, the waitresses are getting rather saucy lately, wouldn't you say?"

Bernard rose to his feet, his gut hanging over the table. He clenched a pudgy fist. "I'll have you flogged for this, girl."

The dapper colonel sipped his tea, pinky thrust out. "Might not be the best idea, Bernard, old chap. She's the girl what spent last night in the general's bed." He looked at Maria appraisingly. "Pretty little crumpet, she is."

Bernard gulped. He sat down, fumbled with his teacup, and spilled tea on himself. "The general's girl? I, um…" He cleared his throat and dabbed his soiled lap with a napkin. "Never mind. Never mind that now! I… I say, Percival, um… Quite good tea, yes?" He wiped sweat off his brow.

Maria smiled thinly. "Shall I fetch you another cup, sir? And perhaps more napkins?"

"Yes, yes, splendid." The portly colonel nodded.

Maria spent the rest of the day worrying as she worked. She served lunch, and she thought of Jon in the north. She washed dishes, and she thought of dead bodies strewn across the jungle. She peeled dirty tablecloths off tables, carried them to be washed, and remembered Jon's embraces and kisses.

I miss you, Jon. I love you. Come back to me. Our child needs a father.

And suddenly, right there in the laundry room, her tears began flowing.

I can't stand this life. I can't be a slave and whore any longer. I want to be your wife, Jon. To live with you in a little house among the trees. But not like the girls here. Not like a bargirl. Not this mockery of peace on a planet of war. I want to be a true wife and mother, and to live far from this nightmare. And mostly, Jon, I just want to hold and kiss you again. I miss you.

"Sweetheart, are you all right?"

It was Girlie who spoke, the little maid with the plump cheeks. She dried Maria's tears with a handkerchief.

"I'm all right." Maria sniffed. "It's just…" She looked around at the laundry room. "Everything."

Girlie nodded. "There's a lot of dirty laundry in this world. Some is covered in blood. Other is covered in shit. Every day, the Earthlings stain the linens. And every day, it's we who must clean it."

Maria smiled softly. "You're not just talking about laundry, are you?"

But Girlie did not smile. She placed a hand on Maria's cheek, and she stared steadily into her eyes. "Maria, be careful."

Maria blinked. "My name is Candy."

"No." Girlie shook her head. "You are Maria. I know. We all know. We have ways of knowing. Do not forget your true name. Maria de la Cruz. And he is General Ward, and he is a dangerous man."

"I know—" Maria began.

"You do not!" Girlie leaned closer, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "There were girls before you, Maria. Waitresses. They vanished. Some say the general moved them into luxury apartments in downtown Mindao. But others whisper that they're buried under his front porch."

Maria shuddered. "I can look after myself."

"He's a killer, Maria," Girlie said. "He's killed millions. The blood of Bahay is on his hands. More than anyone else, Ward carries the guilt for our destruction."

Maria's upper lip twitched. "Then he's just the man I want."

Girlie's eyes widened. She gasped. "You're not…" She glanced around, then whispered into Maria's ear, "Kalayaan?"

"No!" Maria shuddered. "Not anymore, at least." She gave a crooked smile. "Girlie, have you ever heard of the Bargirl Bureau?"

"Every waitress, maid, and whore in Bahay has heard of the Bargirl Bureau." Girlie gasped. "It's you, isn't? The leader. The one they call Holy Maria, saint of the slums. Of course."

Maria gripped Girlie's arms. She leaned forward, staring down at the shorter girl. "Keep it secret. Do not pass this through your waitress network like you passed around my name. You may join me. But if you ever betray me, I will plunge a knife into your heart."

Girlie smiled and licked her lips. "You're ruthless. I like it. I'm in."

Maria sighed inwardly. I can't even wash a damn tablecloth without fomenting rebellion.

* * * * *

As evening approached, Maria wondered what to do. General Ward had requested her at his table tonight. Should she show up as a waitress, a menu in her hands? Or had he wanted her as his date?

The answer came soon enough. Maria was in her room, changing into her cocktail dress. The other waitresses were changing too—pulling on pantyhose, high heels, and tiny skirts, adorning themselves with makeup and little bows in their hair. Soon they—who had spent the past few hours scrubbing laundry and floors—appeared like coy little dolls, ready for a night of flirting.

Maria had finally squeezed into her dress—it felt even tighter today—when Buddy barged inside.

"Hey, we told you not to peek inside when we're changing!" Girlie said, pulling her dress higher. "You almost saw my dibdibs this time."

Buddy swung his cane at her. "I come and go as I please! This is my club, girl."

Girlie snorted. "You're not the owner. The putes are. You're just the maitre d'."

Buddy bristled. "First of all, don't call them putes. That's a slur. The Earthlings are a fine race! They gave me a chance when I was just a young, hardworking bus boy. And I worked my way up, you know, I—"

All the girls groaned.

Buddy sighed, shook his head in disgust, and tossed a package at Maria. "Here, Candy. These are your clothes for tonight. Pull off that cocktail dress, dammit. It doesn't fit you anyway. Your stomach is so fat like a pig. Put this on instead. General Ward sent it especially for you."

All the girls oohed and aahed.

"He must like you!" said one, grinning.

Another waitress clasped her hands over her heart. She sighed wistfully. "It's so romantic!"

Girlie wrinkled her nose and nudged her friend. "Don't be disgusting, Joyce! He's like sixty years old."

Joyce shrugged. "So what? So is my man. He's a major you know. He looks after me."

Girlie groaned. "He's a sergeant-major, not a major! That's totally different and not even an officer, so stop bragging."

"It's still a high rank!" Joyce pouted and crossed her arms. "Besides, you don't even have a boyfriend, so you're just jealous. And if you did he'd probably just be some squatter from the slums."

"You were a squatter from the slums just last year!" Girlie countered.

Joyce spoke in deep baritone and swung around an imaginary cane. "Yes, but I worked hard, and I worked my way up, and the lovely Earthlings gave me a chance, because they are a wonderful race you know."

Everyone laughed at the perfect impersonation.

Everyone but Maria. She was unwrapping the package, and a shudder ran through her.

I guess I'm his date, not his waitress, she thought.

Inside the package was a gown. It was a simple gown. Plain black fabric without any frills. But the fabric flowed like liquid between her fingers, and when the light caught it, it gleamed like a million stars.

A piece of jewelry came in the package too—a black choker with a large diamond in its center. Maria's eyes widened. She had never seen a diamond this large. It was the size and shape of an almond. Surely it was fake.

All the girls hushed and stared.

"I recognize that diamond!" Joyce whispered. "It's famous. It was found on Bahay centuries ago. It's called Mother Mary's Tear. It used to shine in the Basalt Cathedral, embedded into a statue of Mother Mary, a beacon for our world. It shone on her cheek like a teardrop." Joyce reached out, touched the black dress, then pulled her hand back as if bitten. "And that's Orionite silk! Only the giant silkworms of Orion can weave it. They say it's woven of the night itself. Maria, this fabric, this diamond… they're priceless."

"They must be imitations," Maria said. "You know, like the fake Rolex watches and cashmere sweaters they sell at Merkado Bayan."

But she knew they were not. The general would not send her knockoffs from some rundown kiosk. This was actual Orion silk, the costliest fabric in the galaxy.

This gown could feed a village for a year, she thought. And the diamond could feed them for another century.

She removed her waitress uniform and pulled on the gown. She admired herself in the mirror. The fabric flowed across her body, smoother than silk, lighter than gossamer. The skirt went down to her knees, and the neckline revealed nothing more than collarbones. The outfit was less scandalous than the cocktail dress, but with the fabric so airy, Maria felt naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

She clasped the choker, and Mother Mary's Tear shone on her throat. When she stared into the mirror, she did not recognize herself.

She wore a gown and jewel worth more than a village. She wore makeup and heels. Her hair flowed as smoothly as her dress, scented with sweet perfumes. She looked nothing like the rice farmer with the big head full of questions. She looked nothing like the Kalayaan fighter in the jungles, a rifle in her hand. She looked nothing like the virgin in white, standing upon the stage in a sleazy bar. She looked nothing like Holy Maria, her feet bare and her body covered in dust, moving through the shantytown.

What do I see? Maria thought. Who am I and who can I become?

She was no longer any of those women she had been. She belonged to the general now. He had proclaimed his ownership, fastening it around her neck like a collar.

But my heart belongs to you, Jon, she thought. And my soul still sings for Bahay. Perhaps I am the last rose of summer. And I'm not wilted yet.

That is when she noticed the card in the package. It contained only five words.

Meet me outside my home.

There was no signature.

That night, as sunset draped across the gardens, Maria met the general outside his little house. He wore a resplendent dress uniform, his cuff links and buttons golden. But he did not wear medals like his officers, though he had earned many. He did not even display them in his home, Maria remembered. His authority did not come from ribbons or trophies. Perhaps not even from the phoenix insignia that shone on his broad shoulders.

It came from his proud stance. From the strength of his jaw. From the calculating ruthlessness in his eyes. He could be wearing dusty battle fatigues, insignia hidden under the grime of war, and everybody in Little Earth would know: Here walked the commander of this army.

He held out his arm. "Walk with me, Maria?"

She slung her arm around his. "Proudly, sir."

They strolled through the moonlit gardens. Wherever they walked, patrolling guards halted and stood at attention. Even the orderly rows of palm trees seemed to be saluting the general, and the twin moons lit their path.

He commands not just his soldiers, Maria thought, but even the trees and the moons and the stars in the sky.

Maria looked up at him, his face pale blue in the moonlight, a face like a marble statue of some fallen emperor. But Maria remembered seeing him in the firelight last night. Seeing his lust. He was an angel of wrath and a demon of flame.

He's the man who ordered my parents killed, Maria thought. I wear his choker like a collar. But I hold the leash!

They entered the dining hall. Every officer in the room, even the lofty brigadiers who commanded entire divisions, rose from their seats and stood at attention. The chandeliers shone above. Flowers bloomed in ornate vases. Everyone was dressed in their finery, and everyone was looking at Maria. Admiring her dress, her beauty, a princess on a prince's arm.

But this is no fairy tale, Maria thought. This prince is a mass murderer, and I will destroy him before any happily ever after.

They sat at his table by the window, and several brigadiers joined them, all with Bahayan girls of their own. But only Maria wore Orion silk, and only she wore Mother Mary's Tear on her neck, and only she sat by the general, a princess overlooking her ladies in waiting. The general held court, making clever quips, and everybody laughed.

Girlie arrived, wearing her waitress outfit, to pour wine.

"Wine, my lady?" she said to Maria, eyes downcast. But the hint of a smile curled her lips.

Maria shook her head. "No thanks."

The general raised an eyebrow. "Will you not drink tonight, Maria?"

"Just water for me, please."

A couple brigadiers chuckled.

"She's lovely, Chuck," laughed a tall brigadier who was already on his third glass of wine. "Such sweet innocence!"

General Charles "Chuck" Ward nodded. "She's the most beautiful woman on Bahay and indeed in the Human Commonwealth."

The brigadiers all nodded, voicing agreement. Maria enjoyed seeing their companions—all fellow Bahayan girls—fume and shoot daggers from their eyes.

They dined on braised lamb on a bed of shallots, served with spiced potatoes and asparagus. Maria had never tasted such food. The general had to explain what each item was.

"One cannot find lamb nor potatoes on Bahay," he said. "We ship these fresh from Earth at great expense. The lambs are actually kept alive on the starships and slaughtered here. I hope you enjoy the delicacy."

Maria took a bite of lamb. It melted in her mouth, rich with flavors of red wine, oregano, and peppercorn. "Sir, why ship this from Earth? Why not eat Bahayan food instead—like rice or noodles?"

A brigadier across the table laughed, head tossed back. "We're not savages, my dear!"

The general stood up and pounded his fist on the table.

Everyone froze.

The laughter died. Even the band across the hall stop playing.

The general glared down at the gaunt brigadier. "You would do best to educate yourself, Brigadier Conway. The Bahayans are not savages. Their fighters are clever and cunning, as the losses in your division illustrate. With limited resources, with vast technological inferiority, they've been holding out against the greatest military in the Orion Arm of the galaxy. Do not be so quick to scoff."

Conway was perhaps a mighty brigadier who commanded thousands of troops, but now he went ghostly pale. He managed a nervous laugh. "Chuck, come on. I only meant that when it comes to food, I—"

"Do you mock their culture, then, if not their martial abilities?" General Ward said. "Did you not hear the song that Maria sang last night, a song in beautiful Tagalog about the mythos of Bahay? Could savages write such music? Have you ever tasted true Bahayan cuisine? Or do you merely dismiss it like you underestimate Bahay's warriors?"

Brigadier Conway lowered his head. "Forgive me, sir. I misspoke."

Still standing, the general looked across the room. "Tomorrow evening, the chefs will prepare us Bahayan cuisine. Once a week at least, I want us all to eat local dishes. I want us to appreciate our enemy. If we see the enemy as mere savages, we will lose this war!" He looked at Maria, reached out, and passed his fingers through her hair. "Yet if we appreciate our enemy, if we understand all the gifts that this world has to offer…" He looked back at his officers and clenched his fist, clutching a bundle of Maria's hair. "We will claim it."

That night, he took Maria back to his house and into his bed.

Again he undressed. And he asked her to undress too. And again she became afraid, and she shed a tear and trembled, and it was not an act.

"I can't," she whispered. "You're too big and I'm just a Bahayan girl."

She did not speak of Jon. She did not speak of the child in her belly. So she pleasured him in other ways. Ways she knew he liked. And this time, he did not cast her out afterward, but he held her all night. And Maria felt trapped in his arms. Felt like a victim pinned under a fallen column. For long hours, she remained awake, verging on panic, and when she finally did sleep she dreamed that she was paralyzed. That a demon was devouring her. That she could not flee or even scream. And when she awoke at dawn, she was still trapped in his arms.

"You will no longer work in Little Earth," General Ward said. "Nor will you sleep with the waitresses in their room. You are no longer maid nor waitress nor singer."

"Am I to live in your house?" Maria asked, and a chill ran down her spine.

"I'll find you a suitable apartment in the city," he said. "A penthouse far from the shantytown. You may spend the days as you like. I will pay you generously."

"What will be my job, sir, if not to sing, nor wait tables, nor clean?"

"You have only one job now," the general said. "Whenever I summon you, day or night, you will come. Your job is to be available when I demand it. You will accompany me to dinners, galas, and ceremonies. You will dine at my table. You will wear the clothes and jewels that I buy you. When I request it, you will sleep in my bed. And when I have no need for you, you will remain in your apartment, always at the ready like a soldier awaiting orders."

"Am I to be your soldier or pet?" she asked. "Or am I your whore?"

She instantly regretted those words. She was being too forward. She should lower her eyelids, smile meekly, mumble, "Yes sir, thank you sir." Like Girlie did. But the words had slipped out.

He raised his hand. For a moment Maria feared that he would strike her. But he caressed her cheek.

"As I said. Bigger balls than half my brigadiers."

Maria shrugged. "Well, it makes up for my tiny little dibdibs."

He actually smiled. That was a triumph.

I will play your slave, she thought. I will wear your collar. But you, General Ward, are on my leash.

Chapter Thirteen

Falling Leaves

On a cold autumn day, Lizzy stood in Lindenville cemetery, burying the man she loved.

The maple and oak trees rustled around her, their leaves red and gold. Bluebells bloomed around stone angels. Birds sang, a fox raced across the grass, and mottled sunlight danced on carpets of dry leaves. Lizzy normally wore her hair in a braid, but now it blew loosely in the breeze like a golden banner, and her tears fell like little jewels.

This was a beautiful place. A place of peace. Of marble and flowers and a long rest for lost souls.

But it seemed to Lizzy cruel that she should bury her man in such beauty, for her heart was broken, and her soul was a burning battlefield.

There is nothing beautiful about today, she thought. There is no peace in my soul. He died in fire and blood. And I'm broken forever.

Lizzy felt faint. She was standing up, had walked toward the grave. Only a week ago, she had still needed a wheelchair. Ernesto's bullet had collapsed her lung, and the wounds from her long captivity had never fully healed. She, Sergeant Lizzy Pascal, the great warrior, the heroine of many battles—now she could barely stand. Now she wore no medals; she had tossed them aside. Now she stood over the grave of Captain Michael Carter. And she felt like shattered stones.

A warm hand clasped hers. It gave her strength.

Lizzy turned and saw her friend.

Kaelyn Williams smiled at her sadly. Her hair flowed in the breeze, as red as the maple leaves. Light fell between the branches, dabbling her freckled face with motes of light. She wore a black dress of mourning, two purple stars pinned on the breast. One for Paul, her boyfriend, slain a year ago. Another purple heart for Captain Carter.

"I never knew him," Kaelyn said. "But Paul thought the world of him. And you loved him. Carter must have been an incredible man. I'm so sorry for your loss, Lizzy." She squeezed Lizzy's hand. "I'm here for you."

She was shorter and younger than Lizzy. Her limbs were thin, her hands still soft. At seventeen, she had never been a soldier. But Kaelyn Williams was among the strongest woman Lizzy knew. As strong as any woman Lizzy had ever commanded in the war.

"He was an incredible man," Lizzy said. "And I loved him. But he was so stubborn. So hellbent on revenge." She wiped away a tear. "He went back to war to find the man who hurt me. And he came back in a coffin. And now I'm in more pain than ever."

She let out a sob, and Kaelyn embraced her.

They stood holding each other as the priest prayed, as Carter's parents and friends wept, as twenty-one guns saluted a fallen hero.

Yes, he was a hero, Lizzy thought. He was obsessed and broken and haunted, and he was the greatest hero in a futile war.

She wanted to say something. To face the mourners. To shout. This war must end! We fight and die for nothing! Stop this war before more die!

But she could not bring those words to her lips. Not here. Not now. Not as his family wept. Lizzy had become famous in the world. An anti-war activist, they called her. The war heroine who had tossed her medals onto the lawn of President Hale.

They all know where I stand, Lizzy thought. I just need to be here. And that is enough.

So when it was her turn to speak over the grave, Lizzy did not speak politics. She saved that for the rallies. She did not speak of the war. That war already haunted them all.

She spoke instead of a man she loved.

"He was kind and intelligent," she said. "He was loving and gentle while being so strong. He was the salt of the Earth. He was a hero of humanity." She placed her hand on the coffin, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I love you, Carter. You died for me. And I promise that you did not die for nothing. Goodbye."

As she left the cemetery, Lizzy wiped her eyes and raised her chin. She walked slowly down Main Street, the heart of Lindenville, still feeling weak. She saw flags of Earth. She saw a hearse driving by, carrying another fallen hero. She saw yellow hearts in the shop windows, symbolizing a soldier deployed to Bahay, and purple hearts, symbolizing a soldier who had come home in a coffin.

Kaelyn walked beside her, and Lizzy leaned against her friend. They passed by a mound of flowers and memorial cards. This was where the police had opened fire, slaying protesters. They passed by an outdoor cafe where the TV was on, displaying news of the war. Sixty-three Earthlings died this morning. Earth jets were bombing North Bahay again. A colonel on TV was bragging about thousands of Bahayans killed this week alone.

Everywhere Lizzy looked she saw the grief. The terrible devastation of the war. Even here in fair Lindenville, so far from the battlefields, it cut deep.

But she saw beauty too. She saw birds in the trees. Flowers blooming. A mother holding a laughing baby. Children carving faces into pumpkins. The world was still so beautiful, and there was so much still worth saving.

"How about some pancakes?" Lizzy suddenly said. "Carter loved pancakes."

Kaelyn blinked at her. "Pancakes?"

"With blueberries and maple syrup," Lizzy said. "I'm buying."

Kaelyn smiled. "I'd love that."

They entered Molly's Kitchen, one of Lindenville's favorite diners. The place was packed. People were laughing, chatting, a few shedding tears, but mostly smiling. And that soothed Lizzy. She needed to see joy. She needed to see what she was fighting for.

They took the last free table, and they ordered three giant stacks of pancakes. One for Lizzy. One for Kaelyn. One for the memory of Carter.

"Can we eat all this?" Kaelyn said.

Lizzy grinned. "I could eat all three stacks by myself." She began pouring on the syrup. "They give you real maple syrup here. Not the fake sugary stuff. It's expensive but man is it worth it. Carter always insisted on eating only real syrup on his pancakes."

The pancakes were warm and buttery, and Lizzy savored each bite.

"These are good." Kaelyn licked her lips. "Delicious, in fact." She reached across the table and touched Lizzy's hand. "And I know Carter is here with us."

Lizzy reached toward the third plate and began tucking in. "I just hope he isn't pissed I'm eating his pancakes."

"You can eat some of mine too," Kaelyn said. "I can't even finish my own plate."

Lizzy snorted. "You're a lightweight. Literally!"

Kaelyn grinned. "I'm the opposite of my brother. George got all the brawn."

"And my God is that boy brawny!" Lizzy said. "He broke two mess hall chairs, you know. We made him sit in the middle of tanks. If he sat to one side, the tank would tilt over."

Kaelyn laughed. "If he were here, he'd eat three stacks of pancakes all by himself and then ask for the main course."

Lizzy poured on more syrup. "You know, Carter thought the world of your brother. He used to call George the bravest soldier in his platoon."

Kaelyn raised her eyebrows. "Really? Are we talking about the same George Williams? I love him to death, don't get me wrong. But my brother is scared of spiders. He'd scream whenever he saw one. Jump right into the air. George—a giant who stands nearly seven feet tall! I'd have to catch the little spiders for him. Yes, despite his fear, he insisted that I catch the spiders and release them outside. He couldn't handle the thought of me killing them."

"George is brave when it counts," Lizzy said. "He saved our lives more than once. Whenever a soldier was in danger, George was always the first to run to the rescue. I've seen him run into enemy fire to save his friends. Carter saw the courage in him right from the start. Even at boot camp. Carter was like that. He always saw the best in people."

And suddenly Lizzy was crying, and her tears fell all over the pancakes, and conversation hushed across the diner.

Kaelyn left her seat, sat beside Lizzy in the booth, and embraced her. They cried softly together.

"I'm sorry, Lizzy," Kaelyn whispered. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Lizzy wiped her tears and looked into her friend's eyes. Mismatched eyes—one blue, one brown. Kind eyes. Lizzy never stopped seeing the fire, the bloodshed, the dying. Those visions forever hovered before her. But when she looked into Kaelyn's eyes, the pain faded if only for a moment. There was purity and goodness to Kaelyn, and that seemed stronger than ten thousand tanks.

"Too many have died," Lizzy said. "Paul. Carter. A hundred thousand other Earthlings. Three million Bahayans." She clenched her prosthetic fist. The metal fingers creaked. "We will end this. You and me, Kaelyn. I promise. They did not die in vain. Their deaths only motivate us to keep fighting. Not on Bahay. Not against an enemy in the jungle. We fight instead against the war itself. Jon and George are still out there, and a million other boys and girls from Earth. We will bring them home."

Kaelyn nodded, and now those kind, gentle eyes hardened with iron determination. "We will bring them home!"

Chapter Fourteen

New Manila Rose

When Maria woke up that morning, the general was already gone. She lay in his bed, the smell of his sweat and sex lingering on the sheets. A note lay on his pillow, along with a red rose.

Good morning, Maria, the last rose of summer.

She took a long shower, eyes closed, head lowered. She scrubbed herself again and again but could not remove the shame.

"I'm sorry, Jon," she whispered, the hot water flowing over her.

The memories of last night haunted her. How she obeyed the general, pleasured him, slept at his side. She did everything for him—his slave, his whore.

She placed a hand on her belly, and her tears flowed.

"I'm doing this for you, little one."

The general did not know. Maria had become good at sucking in her belly, at never revealing her profile. Wearing black helped. But she could not hide this pregnancy for long. Her bulge would keep growing, and sooner or later he would notice. Or he would become furious that she still refused intercourse, that she pleasured him in every way but the one he most deeply desired.

I must get information from him, she thought. A confession of his crimes. Only that can end this war. Yet he barely speaks to me. And I'm running out of time.

She looked again at the note. The last rose of summer. Beauty trapped forever in the dark.

She found a summer dress on the credenza, woven of rich white linen and brocaded with red roses. When she wore it, it pressed against her stomach, and the white color didn't help. It revealed her bulge more than the black gown of Orion silk. But she had promised to obey the general—to eat what he fed her, to wear what he bought her. So she wore the dress, sucking in her gut as best she could.

"Get under that ribcage, little baby!" she whispered to her reflection. "Curl up tight!"

The general had left her alone in his house. Should Maria snoop around? Find anything compromising? Something that could shame him? She bit her lip.

Does he have cameras here, secretly watching me? She glanced around and saw none. Does he trust me this much?

A horn honked. Maria started. She peaked through the window and saw a limousine waiting.

So much for snooping.

She stepped outside. For a moment, she just inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air. Trees rustled. Birds sang. Here in Little Earth, even so close to the slums, the air smelled so fresh.

She turned toward the limousine. It was an Earth car, its hood ornament shaped like a leaping phoenix, symbol of the Human Defense Force. A Bahayan chauffeur in a tuxedo smiled, bowed, and opened the passenger door.

"Good morning, Ma'am."

He spoke in English, though she was clearly Bahayan too.

"Salamat," she said in Tagalog, entering the car.

The chauffeur bowed again, smiled, and closed the door. He might as well have been an android. Yet she caught a glimpse of skin between his white glove and black sleeve. She saw burn scars. A victim of war, perhaps a captive. There was fear in that forced smile.

The limo left Little Earth and entered Mindao. It felt like crossing a portal between planets. After days in Little Earth, an oasis of gardens and luxury and piece, Maria felt the culture shock like a bomb.

Once more, she saw sprawling shantytowns, decaying brothels, landfills crawling with urchins, and train tracks lined with squatters. Shirtless children ran alongside the limousine, hands outstretched, begging for food. They were all skinny, some scarred from fire or shrapnel, others covered in weeping sores. As the luxury car drove forward, rickshaws scuttled out of the way. A jeepney swerved aside, rammed into a kiosk, and overturned carts. Sheet of plywood and corrugated steel clattered across the road, shedding sawdust and rust. Guavas spilled from a wheelbarrow. At once a hundred urchins leaped toward the fallen fruit. Stray cats hissed. A few old women peeked from the gutters, shook their fists and cursed, then returned to sifting through trash for anything edible.

More than the poverty, the decay, the despair—what shocked Maria was the sheer density. So many people! Hundreds and hundreds of people crammed into each alleyway! They stood alongside the roads, they peered from shanties, they filled the jeepneys to bursting, they slept in concrete pipes, they covered roofs—millions of people all jammed into Mindao, squabbling for a spot to stand or lie.

Maria had lived in Mindao for a year. But after only a few days in Little Earth, she had forgotten. She had become used to big houses, sprawling yards, clean roads, and wide open spaces between people. She could view Mindao from a different perspective now. Almost like an Earthling.

They see us as barbarians, she realized.

But this was not their fault. This poverty, despair, overpopulation? The war had done this! The war had burned their villages, driving millions of refugees here. The war had wilted their crops, spreading famine across the world.

They never saw our beautiful villages and rice paddies, Maria thought. Unless they bothered to look down before releasing the bombs. They took our pride. They destroyed our humanity. They reduced us to an animal state. And now they call us primitive!

But not the general, she remembered. He had spoken of Bahay's nobility and strength.

And yet he was the ruler of the killers. The lord of death.

She touched the choker around her neck, fingered the diamond. Mother Mary's Tear. A rare diamond shaped like a teardrop. A diamond that had once shone in the Basalt Cathedral, the seat of the Red Cardinal, adorning the cheek of Mary's marble statue. She wondered how many families it could feed.

She began to remove her choker, prepared to toss it out the window, then paused.

I will need this diamond. I cannot give it up yet.

The plan began to formulate in her mind. She kept the diamond.

The limousine drove on, leaving the hungry behind, and Maria lowered her head.

After an hour in traffic, they reached New Manila, a neighborhood along the coast. They drove on wider streets now. Concrete buildings rose around them, some ten or even twenty stories high, covered with billboards and murals. This was the city's finest neighborhood. Teashops, restaurants, and boutiques lined the streets. Bahayans bustled between office buildings. Perhaps once New Manila had fostered the finest of Bahayan culture, but Earth culture had invaded this place. The restaurants boasted of authentic Earth cuisine—you could eat all the paninis and sushi you liked. Imported fresh from Earth, if you believed the signs. The shops played songs by Tristan, Earth's latest heartthrob pop star. The Bahayans who lived and worked here wore Earth clothes—business suits for the men, summer dresses for the women. Success meant looking Earthling. As if native Bahayan culture denoted barbarism.

Maria even saw a billboard advertising skin-whitening cream. LOOK AS BEAUTIFUL AS AN EARTHLING! A Bahayan model smiled from the billboard, holding a tub of cream. She still had Bahayan eyes, but her skin was pale, not brown like Maria's.

This too is the cost of war, Maria thought. Not just the loss of our lives but our culture.

The limo stopped by a tall white building on the coast, the tallest in Mindao. A few shanties spread across the beach and side streets like mushrooms growing around a tree. The chauffeur opened the door for Maria.

"My lady?"

He accompanied her into the building, where a concierge greeted them with a smile and bow. The chauffeur led Maria across a sparkling lobby and into the elevator. They rose to the penthouse on the twentieth floor.

There the chauffeur left her—in her gilded cage atop an ivory tower.

Maria spent a few moments exploring the penthouse. Spanning the building's entire top floor, it featured luxurious furniture. An oak bed with a soft mattress. Leather armchairs and couches. Bookcases containing works of Earthling literature. There was even a grand piano.

A memory pounded through Maria. Jon and her, sitting in a cafe a few weeks ago. There was a piano there too. Jon had played for her. At first his own music, songs from Falling Like the Rain, his uncompleted rock opera. And then he had played "Hey Jude" and other Beatles song, and everyone in the cafe had sung. But Maria knew he had played for her alone.

I wish you were here to play for me again, Jon, she thought.

The penthouse's coffee table caught her eye, pulling her back to the present. There were three items there. Gifts from the general? A red rose, perhaps a reference to Maria's song. An antique globe—pointedly, a globe of Earth, not Bahay, underscoring Earth's dominance over her life. And finally—a chess board. All the pieces were arranged in their opening positions aside from two pawns. One white and one black. Both had taken a single move forward.

This is the game he and I play, Maria thought. She turned away.

Floor to ceiling windows afforded a view of the city. To the east spread the ocean, glimmering blue, speckled with a handful of verdant islands, a thousand fishing boats, and a few Earth warships. To north and south rolled the city. From up here, Maria could barely even see roads and alleyways, just a million sheets of corrugated steel forming a patchwork of roofs like a field of rust. Only a few landmarks broke the shantytown sprawl. The Blue Boulevard, its neon lights sleeping in the day. The Cathedral of the Sky, rising proud from the slums, painted azure. Bustling Merkado Bayan, the city marketplace, its awnings fluttering with countless colors. And there in the distance, outside the city proper—Little Earth.

Maria faced the northern windows, squinted, and tried to see beyond the city. The war raged there. Jon fought there. But a haze cloaked the horizon, hiding the man she loved.

She turned away from the windows and entered the bedroom. The mattress was softer than the one back in her old maid's quarters. And definitely softer than her stone coffin in the city cemetery. Like she had back at Little Earth, Maria hid her knife under the mattress. In a world of uncertainly, her father's knife had become an anchor to home.

She lifted the rose the general had left on her pillow. It pricked her thumb, and she sucked the blood.

"So this will be my new home," Maria said to herself. "The general has a house of his own. No wife. No kids. And yet still he keeps me here like a mistress."

She wondered why, and then she understood. He saw her as an exotic rose, himself as a conquering emperor. But one could never live with a rose nor emperor. When you lived with someone, all their masks crumbled, and you saw who they truly were. You saw the crumbs around the kitchen table. You saw the mess in the bathroom. You heard them pass gas, snore, and chew too loudly. You saw them in the morning without makeup and before coffee, and you heard them belch and curse at the television. No, you could not live with a rose nor emperor. Such people just wore masks. And you could not wear a mask all day long.

The general wants us to keep wearing our masks, Maria thought. That's why we won't live together. Here I will be Maria, and in his home he will be Chuck, both our masks off. And when we meet, we will be the general and the last rose of summer.

She waited for a few moments. Just to make sure the chauffeur was gone, that she was alone.

Then she ripped the diamond off her neck.

She didn't have to meet the general until tonight. Until then she had work to do.

* * * * *

She was Maria de la Cruz, and she wore nice dresses, and she had a purse full of money, and she lived in a luxury penthouse in New Manila. And the first thing she did with her new wealth was visit the slums.

It took all morning. She passed from bar to bar, alley to alley, and walked along the train tracks and over the landfills.

Everyone here knew her. They told her where to look. And by noon, Maria found them.

The children of the imprisoned bargirls.

The guilt from that day still weighed upon Maria. The military police had raided the Goodbye Kisses booth, had destroyed the Bargirl Bureau. Only Maria had escaped. Her fellow spies now languished behind bars, leaving their children alone and hungry.

None had fathers around. Some of the fathers had joined the Kalayaan, were fighting or lying dead in the jungle. A few of the children were mestizos. Half-Earthlings. Their fathers were fighting alongside Jon up north, or they had returned to Earth, abandoning their Bahayan families. For a while, the children had survived the slums. Their mothers, working the bars, would bring home money. Now the urchins were eating trash.

Some were already selling their bodies in the sleazier brothels, the ones along Lollipop Lane. Even the bargirls of Blue Boulevard, their pride crushed long ago, spoke of Lollipop Lane in disgust, and they lived in terror of their children ending up there. Now the bargirls were behind bars, and their children stood in the shadowy alley, holding lollipops, waiting for titos with pesos. They were that desperate for food. Thirty thousand of prostitutes worked in Mindao, and here were the most miserable, some as young as six.

Maria gathered them all. She gathered these poor little souls. These filthy urchins. These children in rags, covered in filth, huge eyes peering between strands of ragged hair. Some were starving. Some were dying from STDs. They were all beautiful and kind and worth more than any diamond Maria could ever wear.

She took them to her penthouse, ignoring the concierge's consternated look. She bathed them. She clothed them. She fed them a hot meal. She gave them medicine. She comforted those who wept. And finally at night, Maria hugged them, tucked them into bed, kissed their foreheads, and told them stories until they slept. She had gathered twenty-six children into this penthouse, saved from the landfills and alleyways. The general had meant for only her to live here. But Maria would never dream of leaving the children in the slums.

When they were all sleeping, Maria stood in profile before the mirror, and she examined her growing bump.

In a few months, my own child will be born, she thought.

She was afraid. So afraid. Afraid that her baby would grow up in the shantytown too. That the child would end up on Lollipop Lane. A prostitute. A hungry little urchin on the street, eating from trash bins.

Maria remembered her journey in the rainforest, her night of fever dreams. The dreamtoad had spoken to her.

"It will be the only way to save her," the toad had said. "You must use his knife."

Maria understood now. The dreamtoad had foreseen her child. A girl. Maria still had her father's knife. But she did not know who to stab. She needed Jon with her. She needed Jon to save their daughter.

I can't let our child become a bargirl, she thought. She must not end up on the Blue Boulevard or Lollipop Lane. You must come back to me, Jon. We must be a real family. We must live together on Earth. In a little house among trees. Promise me, Jon. Promise you'll return.

She slept among the children that night, for the general did not summon her.

She woke up at dawn. She had a busy day. She had to save the world.

* * * * *

"I need a fake. A cubic zirconia that looks exactly the same. It must look perfect."

The gemcutter raised an eyebrow. He was an old Bahayan with wrinkly brown skin and a long white beard. "But my dear, this diamond! Such a precious jewel! This is Mother Mary's Tear. The most famous diamond on Bahay. It's priceless."

"I'll pay you well," she said. "After I sell the original. A thousand pesos."

The old man nodded. "Ah, I understand. I've seen this before. Your husband bought it for you. You need the money, but selling his precious gift would break his heart."

"Exactly," Maria said. "Can you make a fake? Can you make it so perfect that my husband won't notice?"

The gemcutter studied the diamond again. He whistled. "Such a beautiful jewel. See how it captures the light! No zirconia will ever glitter so beautifully." He gazed at Mother Mary's Tear wistfully, then looked at Maria. His tufted white eyebrows shadowed eyes like two glittering pieces of obsidian. "But yes, I can cut a convincing imitation. An experienced jeweler like me would spot the difference. You could tell from the brightness of the light. But nobody else would know."

"Perfect," Maria said. "And one more thing. I need the zirconia to be hollow. Like a locket. With its inner chamber hidden from the outside."

He blinked at her. "A hollow zirconia?"

"I will pay you two thousand pesos."

The gemcutter glanced around his little shop. A thousand gems glittered in the lamplight. He leaned toward Maria.

"I don't want trouble, my dear. Whoever bought you Mother Mary's Tear is a powerful man. May I be correct in guessing… an Earthling?"

"I will pay you three thousand pesos. A perfect imitation. Hollow. And no questions."

The old man exhaled slowly. "I do love a mystery. Very well. Come back in a week, and it will be done."

"I will come back tomorrow with four thousand pesos, and it will be done."

"Very well! Leave the diamond with me, and—"

"No. I cannot part with it. Take photographs. Take a mold. But it does not leave my choker until I have a replacement. I will pay you five thousand pesos, and you will do this."

It was a small fortune. She would have to sell a few items from the penthouse. It was worth it.

She left the gemcutter's shop. She headed back to her building, where the limo was waiting. The chauffeur smiled and opened the door.

"The general requests your presence tonight, my lady."

She nodded and entered the limo.

She had moved another pawn in a long chess game. She would not rest until the king fell.

Chapter Fifteen

The Trial

As Lizzy walked toward the courthouse, the crowd howled.

"Traitor!"

"Slit-lover!"

"You should have died in Bahay!"

It was an Indian summer day, and the sun beat down, drying the autumn leaves to crispy brown. The courthouse rose ahead, its columns like the teeth of some primordial stone giant. Lizzy wanted to be anywhere else. But she had come here. To testify. To do her duty. To put that bastard behind bars.

You stand trial today, Clay Hagen, she thought. A year ago, I broke your arm. Now I'm going to doom you to life in prison.

At least, if she could actually reach the courthouse.

Thousands of people crowded the streets, blocking her way. Camera crews were filming. Drones and helicopters buzzed above, cameras rolling. Reporters shoved their way toward Lizzy, thrusting microphones.

"Is it true you trained Lieutenant Hagen?"

"Did you actually use an electric whip?"

"Did you participate in the massacre, Sergeant Pascal?"

"How do you feel about your soldier murdering babies, Sergeant?"

"How many civilians did you personally murder, Sergeant?"

Lizzy ignored the questions. Her lawyer, who walked at her side, tried to hush the reporters, to wave them aside.

A crowd had gathered from miles around. Some were reporters, but most had just come to shout. To curse. To spit on her.

"Traitor!"

"Alien-lover!"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Free Clay Hagen! Free Clay Hagen!"

"Death to traitors!"

Somebody threw a coffee cup at Lizzy. The hot liquid sizzled over her legs. Somebody else tossed rotten fruit. A man ran alongside, raising photos of dead women and children. The slaughtered civilians of Santa Rosa. Somebody else carried a placard full of jangling medals.

Some love our troops, and others think them monsters, Lizzy thought. And both sides hate me.

"Our boys are war heroes!" a protester shouted. "How dare you testify against them? Traitor!"

"It's Clay Hagen who betrayed us!" Lizzy said. "He betrayed our honor! It's my duty to preserve the purity of the Human Defense Force."

"You're an alien-loving traitor!"

"I'm a soldier!" Lizzy shouted, tears in her eyes. "And I watched other soldiers disgrace the uniform. I will not be quiet! I will not—"

Her lawyer put a hand on her shoulder. "It's all right, Lizzy. The truth will come out in court."

Kaelyn, who had come to support Lizzy, clasped her hand. "I'm here for you."

Yet as the people kept shouting, Lizzy's eyes burned with tears. Their faces danced around her. Snarling. Eyes blazing with hatred.

Traitor!

Traitor!

Alien-lover!

One even raised a placard featuring Lizzy wearing the Red Cardinal's vestments, complete with an inverse cross.

The world was spinning. And in the screaming, twisted faces, Lizzy saw the enemy. She saw the Kalayaan in the jungles. Shooting at her. Picking off her men one by one. She saw the face of Ernesto, her torturer.

She closed her eyes. She covered her ears. She clutched Kaelyn's hand, letting her friend guide her onward, because Lizzy was back in the jungle, and she could not face such hatred again.

And then the voices faded.

Doors slammed shut.

Lizzy opened her eyes. She was inside the courthouse. The protesters, the chanting, the hatred—it was all just a muffled murmur behind thick doors. It could no more hurt her than the echoes of war.

As she walked through the courtroom, still weak from her injuries, she saw familiar faces. Soldiers she had trained. Soldiers from Lizzy's Lions, her platoon. The platoon she had been so proud of. The platoon she had built and led with Carter.

They were staring at her. Soldiers in dress uniforms. Boys she had molded into men. Into killers. Here were the faces of murderers. The butchers of Santa Rosa.

They all stared in silence from the benches. Lizzy sought the ringleader. Where was Clay Hagen, promoted to lieutenant after Carter's death? The monster who had commandeered her platoon? She did not see him.

Lizzy shuddered to remember Clay. From the first day at boot camp, she had known Clay Hagen was trouble. The brute, already a convicted murderer when joining the army, had challenged her. Mocked her. Fought her. She had broken his arm, and she had hoped to break whatever monster lurked inside him. To save him. To turn him from juvenile delinquent into a proper soldier.

But instead, I unleashed a rabid beast onto Bahay, Lizzy thought. And he raped, murdered, and mutilated.

She took the stand. She stood there, still wobbly, her body still weak. But she managed to stay upright, to put her hand on a bible. Everyone was watching. Cameras were rolling. Lizzy faced the crowd, standing tall in her military uniform. But she did not wear her medals. And to her this uniform signified disgrace. She had worn it today because she would not hide from her past. From what she had done. From the evil she had served.

Her life had been a lie. This courthouse was about truth.

"Sergeant Lizzy Pascal, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"I do."

She stood facing the courtroom. Facing the cameras. When she spoke, she spoke not only to the people here. But to all Earth—and indeed to the entire Human Commonwealth of colonies across the Orion Arm of the galaxy.

"I want to speak to you about Clay Hagen, a soldier I commanded.

"When he raped, murdered, or mutilated five hundred women and children, I was no longer his commander. I was no longer on Bahay. I was in a hospital bed, recovering from the wounds of war.

"But I knew him for a long time before that. And the man I knew was a monster.

"I knew that when he first came into my platoon. They told me Clay Hagen had been in prison for killing a man. That he was cruel. Criminal. That they almost didn't draft him. That it would be a privilege, and my greatest challenge, to mold him into an honorable man. Naive as I was, I accepted. I decided to save him from himself.

"But every day, I saw more depths to his evil. I saw that evil in basic training, when he shot another soldier with rubber bullets at point blank range, almost killing him. I saw that evil on Bahay, when he carved the ears off dead enemies and wore them around his neck. I saw the madness in his eyes.

"I should have said something. I should have spoken out. I was naive and still thought he could be controlled.

"I was hurt on Bahay. I lost my hand. My soul. I was captured and tortured, and I went back to fight again, because I was still naive. I still thought we were liberating Bahay from the Red Cardinal, freeing a people desperate for our help.

"But we are far worse than the Red Cardinal could ever be. And Clay Hagen proved that. In Santa Rosa, where he butchered so many innocents, he cast a stain upon all Earth.

"When you judge him today, know who are you judging. Know that he cannot be saved, cannot be redeemed. Clay Hagen must be locked up forever. Or he will kill again."

She finished her speech. The cameras flashed. In the crowd, Kaelyn looked at her and gave a reassuring nod and sad smile.

Somebody stood up in the crowd. A middle aged man, beefy and balding, perhaps the father of one of the soldiers on trial. The man pointed at Lizzy.

"You're a goddamn traitor. How dare you testify against our boys? They're war heroes!"

The judge pounded his gavel. "Sit down, Mister Hagen!"

Clay's father, Lizzy realized.

"You're a traitor, Sergeant!" the senior Hagen continued, pointing at her, death in his eyes. "You'll burn in hell."

A few other fathers and mothers in the crowd nodded. They patted the senior Hagen on the back.

Lizzy knew that many on Earth shared the sentiment. She had seen the protests. She had been pelted with filth. Threatened. Maligned. They picketed outside her apartment day and night.

She had turned against her fellow soldiers. She was defending Bahay. To her, this meant preserving her honor and fighting for Earth's honor. But in Earth's eye, she was a traitor.

Well, a traitor or a war criminal, depending on who you ask, she thought wryly. To some anti-war activists, just wearing this uniform made her a monster.

She looked at Kaelyn. The young woman looked back and gave another reassuring nod.

But some on Earth support me.

Kaelyn's mismatched eyes comforted the storm in Lizzy's soul.

A man stood up and cleared his throat. He was a tall, dapper lawyer in a tailored suit. His black hair was slicked back, and he sported a thin mustache.

"That was a lovely story, Sergeant Pascal." He sauntered toward her, one eyebrow raised. "You don't mind if I ask you a few questions, do you? To get to the truth of the matter."

Lizzy stared at him. "I told the truth. As I vowed."

The lawyer nodded. "You told part of the truth. But did you not vow—on the holy bible—to tell the whole truth?"

"I did."

"So tell us, Sergeant Pascal. Is it not true that, when training young Clay, you would beat him with an electric whip?"

Lizzy stiffened. Across the courthouse, people muttered.

"Yes, I used a standard military-issue training crop, like many drill sergeants. It inflicts mild bolts of electricity to correct errant behavior. The pain is not severe, and it causes no long term physical harm."

"Is that so?" said the lawyer. "It just so happens I have such a standard military-issue training crop, as you call it. I think it's more aptly described as a torture instrument!"

The lawyer opened his briefcase. A whip curled up inside like a sleeping serpent. With all the drama of a snake charmer, the lawyer lifted the whip. He tapped a button on the handle. The lash crackled with electricity, shooting sparks. The lawyer cracked the whip, and sparks flew toward the ceiling. People gasped and leaned back. The smell of ozone filled the air.

"She tortured those boys!" somebody cried out.

"I trained them, and I disciplined them," Lizzy said, leaning across the witness stand. "I did not torture them! You don't know what torture is. I do."

Her head spun. She had to sit down.

Yes, she knew all about torture. Ernesto had tortured her thoroughly. With a clothing iron. With his ax. All those memories were rushing back now.

The lawyer put down the whip and strutted before the witness stand. "And is it not true, Sergeant Pascal, that during basic training, you broke Clay Hagen's arm?"

Lizzy leaped back to her feet. "He challenged me to a fight!"

"And you accepted? You—an experienced sergeant, a military professional? You agreed to fight a green recruit whose only sin was a little eagerness, a little fighting spirit? And when you did fight him—did you have to brutalize him?"

Lizzy looked at the lawyer, then at the crowd.

"I was wrong. I'm not the same person. I believed that I had to break recruits, then remold them into soldiers. I wanted to toughen them up. I wanted us to win this war. To be like the heroes who came before us—like the famous Einav Ben-Ari, Marco Emery, Addy Linden, and the other heroes of the Alien Wars. But I was wrong. Because their wars were just, and this war is cruel. And I was cruel to fight it."

The lawyer nodded. "And your actions led to the death of five hundred civilians."

"I hold no responsibility for that!" Lizzy said. "And I'm not the one on trial today."

"But my client, Clay Hagen, is on trial," the lawyer said. "Accused of being a killer. A rapist. A monster." He pointed at Lizzy. "I propose that you turned him into a monster! That you brainwashed him! Drove him to kill! He was an innocent pawn, and you controlled him!"

"That's a lie!" Lizzy shouted.

"The evidence shows otherwise," the lawyer said. "But don't ask me. Let us speak to the man himself. To a young, innocent boy who was manipulated, brutalized, and brainwashed by an older woman. A young war hero who now bears horrifying scars upon his body and soul. Let us speak to Clay."

The courthouse doors opened.

Everyone turned to stare. A few people gasped. Others wept. A few crossed themselves, and one man even fainted.

Lizzy looked, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Clay Hagen entered the courtroom, wearing a dress uniform, medals pinned to his chest.

Lizzy didn't recognize him. He was burnt beyond recognition.

Scars covered him. His hair was gone. His ears were gone. One of his eyes drooped, possibly blind. His features had melted into the ruin of his face. His entire head looked like melted wax. Lizzy had seen many wounds in the war. She herself was an amputee. But those injured by fire, she thought, suffered the most.

And as she looked at him, Lizzy did not feel hatred. All the rage faded.

She felt pity.

Clay walked slowly toward the witness stand. Lizzy vacated it for him. As they passed each other, they made eye contact. Lizzy stared into those eyes—one drooping, almost vanishing into the scars, the other still blue and filled with strange fire. And it finally clicked. Yes, there he was. That was Clay. She saw his soul inside the ravaged shell.

He gave her the thinnest of smiles. As much as he could with his ruined mouth.

Then he took the witness stand, and Lizzy sat beside Kaelyn at the back of the courtroom.

A shudder passed through Lizzy. She felt like ants were crawling over her.

He's still in there. He's still evil. He's still the man who raped, murdered, and mutilated hundreds. He's pitiful now, and yes, I pity him. But that doesn't change who he is.

As the cameras rolled, Clay pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. His hands too were badly scarred. Several fingers had burned down to stubs. He struggled for a moment to unfold the paper. The he began to read out loud.

"My name is Lieutenant Clay Hagen. And I am not a good man.

"I've done horrible things. When I was fifteen, I was robbing gas stations and convenience stores. When I was sixteen, I hit a man with my car, killing him. And when I fought on Bahay, I killed many people.

"I could make excuses. I could talk about how my father beat me when I was a child. How my mother abused me for years. I could talk about how Lizzy Pascal tortured me. But none of that can excuse my actions. Yes, I killed people. I killed women and children. I confess it.

"But I was a pawn. I was a shattered soul. I came out of prison straight into boot camp, where my drill sergeant broke me. Where she turned me into a machine that knew only one thing.

"To kill.

"And that is what I did. I killed hundreds of people. Maybe thousands. I became an angel of death.

"But I always did it for my beloved homeworld. For Earth. To defend my planet. To do the horrible things that needed to be done. That others dared not do. I stained my soul to protect my world.

"And I paid the price.

"I was burned. The fire of war gripped me. Consumed me. Left me the scarred, deformed wretch you see today.

"But I gladly accept the pain. The endless surgeries. The hideous scars. I wear them proudly, like a crown of thorns, because I wear them for my world. Because I earned them through battle and sacrifice.

"I emerged from the fire reborn. The flames seared away all the hatred that burned inside me. Both fires have been put out.

"In the hospital, in agony, I discovered my lord. I found salvation. Like Christ, I seek purity, an end to hatred. I seek forgiveness.

"I hope you can forgive me, people of Earth. I beg forgiveness from Earth, from Bahay, and from God.

"Whatever sins I've committed—I committed them for you. I tarnished my soul, and I suffered the ruin of my body, so that I could take these sins upon me. So that I could do the unspeakable. I gladly suffer so that you may be free and pure.

"You don't have to love me, Earth. You don't have to call me a good man. But I ask you one thing. To please love all the other soldiers. Those who still fight and those who have fallen. They are the true heroes of this war. They sacrificed themselves for our beautiful blue world. For this beautiful planet, and for the beautiful Earthlings who live here, I would gladly burn a thousand more times."

He folded the paper. He looked over the crowd at Lizzy.

She thought she saw the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes.

A smug smile. One only for her.

* * * * *

Other soldiers spoke.

Soldiers who had raped women. Who had shot them in the back. Who had carved off their ears, scalped them, cut out their tongues. Soldiers Lizzy had trained, fought with. Soldiers she knew. They spoke of the horrors they had committed. They spoke of the nightmares, of their wounded bodies and souls. And they begged forgiveness.

Finally the judge announced his verdict.

The enlisted men were exonerated of all charges.

Lieutenant Clay Hagen was sentenced to ten weeks of house arrest. He would keep his medals, commission, and pension.

Lizzy left the courtroom with tight lips, with dry eyes, and with new rage in her heart.

The crowds chanted around her.

"Traitor!"

"Alien-lover!"

"You betrayed our world!"

They spat on her. They tossed garbage at her. But Lizzy walked tall, holding Kaelyn's hand for support.

The two women returned to the apartment they shared. They sat in silence at the kitchen table, holding cups of tea, not drinking. Outside the crowds chanted their hatred.

"Traitors! Traitors! Traitors!"

The crowds rarely left these days. Lizzy turned on the television to drown out the noise. A telenovela was playing in Spanish. Good white noise.

Lizzy looked at her friend. Kaelyn looked back with her sad mismatched eyes.

Kaelyn—disowned by her father, left to fend for herself in the world.

Lizzy—cast out of her platoon, wounded, abandoned.

They reached across the tabletop and held hands.

"We lost today," Lizzy said. "But we're not done fighting."

"Lizzy." Kaelyn spoke softly, face pale. "A letter came for me today. My draft notice. In six months, I'm going to be drafted into the army. And very likely sent to Bahay."

Lizzy stared at her friend, and her insides shattered.

"We will end the war before then! I promise you, Kaelyn. I promise."

The television beeped. The telenovela was over. A severe-looking broadcaster appeared on screen, wearing a blue suit. He read the afternoon news in a somber tone.

"Good evening, Earth. President Hale today vowed to intensify his bombing campaign against North Bahay, determined to wipe out the Red Cardinal's forces. Despite some troubling leaks about supposed war crimes from Earth forces, the president's approval ratings have been soaring. Earth's victory in the Battle of Basilica has no doubt boosted those ratings, as has news of devastating Bahayan losses. Polls predict President Hale winning the upcoming election by a landslide. A further boon came to the president today in the Santa Rosa trial, where the Lions platoon was exonerated of all charges. Questions have arisen during the trial, however, about the conduct of the platoon sergeant, Lizzy Pascal, who—"

Kaelyn shut off the television.

"Bullshit!" she said.

Lizzy looked out the window at the crowds below, at the streets of New York, at this planet she loved. In the distance, she could see Central Park and the palace that rose in its center. President Hale's palace.

"I survived the war on Bahay," Lizzy said. "Here is a new war. A war for Earth. I love this world with all my heart. I know that most Earthlings are good. I know that people like me, like you, like Jon and George and Etty—that we outnumber the Clays a hundred to one. I have to believe that. There is so much evil in human hearts. But I have to believe there is goodness too, that it's more powerful than evil, and that it's worth fighting for. We will keep fighting. Maybe we will lose. But we will never surrender."

Kaelyn clasped her hand. "We will never surrender."

Chapter Sixteen

Stranglehold

The helicopter rose from Little Earth, and Maria gazed out with wide eyes. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her head spun. Yet she could not stop looking down. She had never flown before.

The general placed a hand on her knee. "Be careful, little one. Don't fall out."

She had been acting a lot around the general, feigning adoration, coyness, innocence. But now, flying above the city, her wonder was real.

"It's beautiful," she whispered.

He laughed. Of course he did. He was a mighty general, and his empire commanded thousands of starships. He had flown across the galaxy, traveled through wormholes, walked on a thousand planets. Not only had Maria never left Bahay, she had never even left the ground.

As the helicopter rose higher, she could see the entire city. The buildings sprawled below like toys. She felt like she could reach out, pluck a few jeepneys, and play with them. This made even the view from her penthouse seem dull.

I can see millions of people like ants, she thought. To the generals of Earth, that's how we must seem. Just a big hive of ants, while they are swooping eagles.

Of course, some Bahayans had flown in spaceships too. Centuries ago, the Santelmo aliens had taken Filipino refugees into their starships, had ferried them here to this beautiful world, a planet of pristine islands orbiting a warm star. Here they had become Bahayans, a new nation of humanity many light-years from Earth. The Santelmos had never shared their technology. On their own, the Bahayans had discovered electricity, combustion engines, radio. Over three hundred years here, separated from the rest of humanity, they had advanced rapidly.

But not as rapidly as Earth.

The two groups—Earth and Bahay—had separated in 1898. And since then, Earth had moved much faster.

It was to be expected, of course. After all, Bahay had begun with just a few colonists from the war-torn Philippines, farmers and fishermen. For the first few generations, they had concerned themselves with farming, hunting, surviving in the jungles. Meanwhile, Earth's empires had roared forth.

By now, three hundred years later? Yes, Bahay had made progress. They had radios. Electricity. Cars. They had even begun to fly simple planes.

And then Earth had arrived here with a fleet of starships and tossed Bahay into the dark ages.

Now Maria gazed down upon her world from this flying Earth machine, and she wept for the lost beauty. As they rose higher and flew farther, she could see the wilderness beyond the city. The fields had withered, and the rainforests had burned. Her tears fell upon the ashy fields.

Yet past the haze, Maria saw one mountain that was still verdant, cloaked with lush rainforest. It rose above the coast like a green monk overlooking the water. As the helicopter flew closer, Maria saw a colossal statue of Christ upon the mountaintop, arms outstretched as if to embrace the ocean.

A grand villa clung to the mountainside, facing the ocean. The morning light bathed the mansion and its gardens. But Maria imagined that in the evening, Christ's shadow fell upon it.

She stared curiously. Flags of South Bahay fluttered in the villa's gardens—not flags of Earth. She saw no sign of Earth here at all. No Earth soldiers. No Earth tanks or armacars. And the villa itself was built in upper class Bahayan style—stucco walls, red-tiled roofs, rounded arches, terracotta ornaments, all hinting at the Spanish Colonial style of the Philippines.

A Bahayan lives here, Maria knew.

Indeed, when the helicopter landed on the lawn, a Bahayan man greeted them. He was about sixty years old, stocky, with a bright grin. He wore a white suit, a golden chain, and an unconvincing black toupee.

"General!" he said, arms opened wide. "Welcome, welcome!"

Maria recognized him. She had seen his face on television many times. Here stood Juan Santiago, president of South Bahay.

The general's puppet, Maria thought. That golden chain around his neck is a collar, same as the choker around mine.

The rotund president hugged the towering general. Ward was not a man of much emotion, and he seemed to barely tolerate the embrace.

"Good morning, Juan," the general said, awkwardly extricating himself from the embrace. "Are the weekly briefings ready?"

The president laughed. "Always business with you, Chuck! War briefings are so dull. Let us dine first! I've laid out a feast for you and your men. I hope you're all hungry!"

They had flown here in a large helicopter. Along with Maria, the general had brought several other people in his entourage: security guards, officers, and clerks. The others were all Earthlings, all male. Maria stood out, and the president noticed.

He approached her, took her hand in his, and kissed it. He switched to speaking Tagalog.

"Good morning, daughter of Bahay. You must be the fabled rose of the general. All in Bahay sing of your beauty, but the songs do you no justice."

"Thank you, sir, you flatter me. Though surely I'm less beautiful than your daughter, and I pray she finds a good husband soon."

The story had been all over the news. The president's daughter, her homely countenance widely mocked in the media, had been arranged to marry an Earth colonel, only for the officer to leave her at the altar.

The president stared into her eyes, still holding her hand, perhaps seeking some mockery. His grip tightened just the slightest. "We're not all so lucky in love. But you're most fortunate, rose of Bahay. The general is a powerful man."

She nodded. "And a kind master, as you know."

His eyes hardened for just a moment. And from the corner of her eye, Maria could swear she noticed the general stifling a smile.

Yes, I'm slinging some barbs his way, Maria thought. And I hope they sting.

She saw wealth here. A palace. Meticulous gardens. All paid for with Earth gold. She wondered how many refugees could live here.

They entered the villa, where they sat on a balcony overlooking the ocean. They dined on fried shrimp and ginger, succulent lechon pork, tangy pancit noodles, crunchy lumpia rolls, and fried plantains drizzled with honey. Actual Bahayan cuisine—the best Maria had ever tasted. Far superior to Earth food, if you asked her. Yet every bite, delicious as it was, tasted of guilt.

Finally, on the third course, she could not help it.

"Mister Santiago," she blurted out, "when I lived in Mindao, I had to eat from trash to survive. So do millions of refugees in the city. You are a kind and just president. Would you allow me to fill our helicopter with food, to deliver it to the people?"

President Santiago dropped his pork roll. He stared at her, eyes wide.

"You want to what—?" he blustered.

"And we could raise tents on your villa's lawns," Maria said. "There's plenty of space here. A thousand refugees could easily live here."

Santiago almost choked. He coughed for long moments, holding a handkerchief to his mouth.

"To hell with the refugees!" he finally spat out. "It's the damn Red Cardinal who sent them flooding the south. He should be the one to feed them! That rat. Why am I to blame? I didn't cause this war. He did!" Santiago pounded the tabletop. "I'm the one fighting him. If anyone saves Bahay, it will be me! With Earth's help of course." He glanced nervously at the general.

"But don't you care about the hungry refugees?" Maria said.

"Care? Of course I care!" Santiago's face turned red. "Why do you think I'm leading South Bahay in war against the cardinal and those damn aliens? I'm fighting for humanity! Somebody has to. The Red Cardinal is half alien, did you know that? It's true! Someday I'll meet him in battle myself, and then people will stop complaining about my palace, and talking about how I depend on Earth, and I'll show the damn media how…"

Maria let him rant on. As Santiago kept blustering, she touched the diamond necklace around her neck. The fake diamond. She glanced at the general, then quickly looked away.

She thought he might have noticed. She did not touch the fake diamond again.

We play a game of chess, she thought. I just touched a piece, but raised my hand without moving it. I'm not yet ready to move. Did he see?

"I'm sorry, Mister Santiago," Maria said, interrupting the rant. "I didn't realize how mighty a warrior you were. Your tales of battle are truly astounding! I realize now that the true heroes are not the soldiers on the field, but the unflappable leaders who inspire them. Thank you for educating a silly girl."

His face softened. He clearly missed her sarcasm. "Don't worry, my darling. I'm not only a warrior but also a teacher. You have a keen mind for learning. An open mind. That is admirable." He looked at the general. "She is as intelligent as she is beautiful."

General Ward looked at Maria. His eyes flicked down to her choker, then into her eyes again.

Her heart pounded.

He knows! she thought. He knows the diamond is fake! That I swapped his gift with a zirconia!

But he merely smiled, looked away, and under the table he placed a hand on her thigh.

"You know, Juan," the general said to the president, "Maria had a good idea. Maybe we should feed some refugees. It's good PR for you. Tomorrow, I'll have helicopters ship some refugees to your home. Along with tents for the yard. They won't sleep in your bed, don't worry, Juan! But I'm sure you would love to host some in your splendid gardens."

The president spat out his drink. He gulped, patted at his face clumsily with a napkin, and began to protest. Something about how the lawns weren't even mowed yet, and the wind was nasty this time of year, and—

"Oh don't be modest, Juan!" Ward interrupted. "Your palace might have weeds in the yard, but it's certainly an upgrade from a rusty shanty by the train tracks. So it's settled! Tomorrow morning for the first shipment of refugees, yes? How about 6 o'clock?" The general's eyes glittered with amusement and just the hint of a threat. "Or do you have any objections to my lovely Maria's plan?"

The president seemed ready to explode. But he managed to hiss, "No objections, sir. It's a splendid plan." He looked at Maria, eyes dripping malice. "She has a heart of gold. Especially when it comes to my home."

* * * * *

They spent the rest of the day talking business. Analyzing the war. Moving pins across the map. With every pin moved, Maria saw fear grow in President Santiago's eyes.

The Red Cardinal is gaining ground, she thought. He's coming for Santiago.

All this time, Maria had prayed and fought for this war to end. For the Earthlings to leave and never come back. Yet what about the day after tomorrow? Should Earth leave, who would rule Bahay? Fat, corrupt Santiago, feasting on the planet's wealth as his people starved? Or the mysterious Red Cardinal, a religious fanatic, the creature some believed an alien hybrid and others called a vampire?

Neither option seemed pretty.

Should Earth ever leave this planet, we will descend into chaos and civil war, she thought. But that will be our chaos. That will be our war. It will still be better than suffering Earth.

That night, the helicopter returned the general and Maria to Little Earth. And like he did every night, the general took Maria into his bedroom, lay on his bed, and ordered her to pleasure him.

"Wait," he said as Maria was undressing. "Leave the choker on."

Maria had already removed her dress, and she stood naked before him—aside from the choker. She nervously touched the fake jewel, the hollow zirconia masquerading as Mother Mary's Tear.

"Are you sure, sir?" she whispered, unable to hide the tremble from her voice. "The diamond can cut you."

"I bought you that diamond at great expense, Maria," said the general, lying on his back. "And you look so beautiful wearing it. Leave it on. I insist. In fact, come closer. I want to admire the jewel."

Maria struggled not to wince.

He knows! He knows it's a fake!

Reluctantly, she lay on the bed beside him, choker around her neck, and she serviced him. She had studied his body every night. She knew how to make his blood boil. She did her duty, and she satisfied him, but again she did not let him penetrate her. She was pregnant, and her heart belonged to Jon, and she would not allow it. But oh, she had become quite good at pleasuring him in other ways.

Know your enemy, she thought. And I know every part of him.

When her work was done, she curled up beside him. They lay in the sweaty darkness, and he held her in his arms, and she felt trapped.

The general touched the fake diamond.

"Look how it shines," he said. "Like a star."

The gemcutter had told Maria that nobody could tell the difference. She forced a deep breath.

"Have you traveled to many stars, sir? Can you tell me about them?"

He brushed back a strand of her hair. "How quick you are to change the topic. You are a crafty little thing, aren't you? I quite enjoyed hearing you sling those barbs at Santiago. How he squirmed!"

"I merely wanted to help the hungry," Maria said.

"You have a kind heart," said the general. "I admire that. We come here, Maria, like the conquistadors. We don't try to understand, only to conquer. To enslave." He shook his head sadly. "It's a terrible thing. To see the poverty, the suffering, the dead… it's a heavy weight upon the heart."

Maria curled against him, naked, her body pressing against his. She could hear his heartbeat, and she wondered if there was some goodness in that heart after all.

"Sir, is it worth it? All this suffering. All this pain. Must we truly fight this war?"

The general stared up at the dark ceiling. "Maria, my father fought in the Alien Wars. He was a tough old sonuvabitch. I loved him. And he taught me something. He taught me that Earth is never safe. That we must never grow complacent. That we must never trust aliens. That only through sheer strength can we protect our species. Last century, aliens slaughtered billions of us. We were like lambs to the wolves. President Einav Ben-Ari built a grand empire for humanity. It's us, the warriors who follow, who must protect what she built."

"Sir, would Ben-Ari approve of this war? She only fought aliens, not humans." She knew she was daring too much. Asking dangerous questions. During the day, she would have never dared utter those words. But in the shadows of night, in the softness of his bed, she dared.

General Ward thought for a long moment.

"We cannot know," he finally said. "Einav Ben-Ari disappeared. Some say she flew to explore another galaxy, to retire beyond the frontier. I don't know how she would see this war. But I know this. The Red Cardinal forged an alliance with aliens. And if aliens take one world from humanity, they will crave more. Our empire among the stars is fragile. If one world defies us, a hundred will rebel, and humanity will shatter into isolated worlds, lost in the darkness, prey for alien marauders. We must remain together. We must remain strong. We must welcome Bahay into the Human Commonwealth. That is where this world belongs. Where most of its people want to belong. I know it's hard. I know that many have died. I know that it makes Earthlings and Bahayans seem like enemies. But we are all humans. And in generations to come, this world will look back and be grateful that Earthlings and Bahayans worked together to free this world from alien claws."

Maria placed a hand on Ward's chest, raised her head from the pillow, and looked into his eyes.

He's earnest, she thought. He truly cares. About humanity. About his legacy.

And she dared again. She said words she had not thought herself brave enough to utter.

"But sir, Earth killed millions of Bahayans. So many villages destroyed. My own village was bombed. How can you justify so much death when—"

He flipped over in bed, gripped her throat, and glared down at her.

Maria gasped.

His hand tightened, wrapped around the choker, crushing her neck.

"Do you feel this, Maria?"

She tried to suck in air, found none. She tried to kick, to squirm. But his body pinned her down. He was twice her size, so much stronger. She gave a raspy groan.

"Do you feel it tighten?"

He squeezed her neck even tighter. Her eyes were rolling back. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She began to panic. She clawed at him, drew blood from his shoulder. He barely noticed.

"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" He nodded, still gripping her neck. "The stranglehold. The terror. The looming death. That is how Earth felt for generations, Maria. The aliens caught us in such a stranglehold. They squeezed and squeezed until we nearly perished."

She floundered. She could barely see. Darkness was spreading, and stars floated.

My baby, she thought. He's killing my baby.

"My job is to break the stranglehold," Ward said. "To give Earth air."

He finally released her.

Maria sucked in air. She trembled, wept, breathing deeply again and again.

"Now leave," Ward said. "A car is waiting for you at the compound gates. Return to your apartment, and think about what you've learned."

She rose to leave. Hands shaky, she dressed and approached the door.

Before she could step outside, the general grabbed her arm. He stared into her eyes.

"Maria, you may think of running. Of disappearing into the slums or the wilderness. Wherever you go, I will hunt you. I would find you. And then I would make you suffer. That does not need to be your life." He brushed away her tears and stroked her hair. "You are clever and courageous. I've known many clever and courageous soldiers. They die young. Wisdom is prudence. And prudence is only earned with scars. I taught you that today. You took out your queen too early, Maria. Tomorrow you will play more wisely."

She left his home.

She returned to her apartment in the ivory tower.

She approached the chessboard on her table, and she knocked over the black queen.

Chapter Seventeen

The Long Arm of Earth

Henry "Hank" Hale, the fifth President of United Earth and the Human Commonwealth, sprinkled salt on the baby octopus on his plate. The tentacles flailed, and Hale licked his lips.

"Look how they squirm! Delectable."

The critter wriggled on the plate, knocking over a sliced carrot. Hale sprinkled a pinch more of salt, and the tentacles fluttered with more vigor. The animal mewled.

"That is absolutely disgusting." Sitting across from him, the young actor wrinkled his nose. "Give me a good old American cheeseburger anytime. Not something that crawled out of the Black Lagoon."

Hale began sharpening his knife. He always sharpened his knife at the table. He liked his blades, like his meat, as fresh as possible.

"Eating dead meat is so barbaric," Hale said, stroking his blade. "You see, when I devour living meat, it is perfectly fresh. And nothing is fresher than life."

The actor pushed away his plate, leaving his own meal—fried halibut—untouched. "Do you have to torture the poor thing?"

Hale squeezed lemon onto the octopus. It squirmed across the plate. "I have so much to teach you, my dear friend. Pain and fear enhance the flavor. They give the feast its zest. We humans are apex predators, young Tommy. Many of us have grown soft. Domesticated. But through war and feasting, we kindle the lost senses."

He sliced off a tentacle, wrapped the flailing limb around his fork, and devoured it. Delicious.

Tommy Turner grimaced. "I've completely lost my appetite. That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. And I had to fight a giant swamp slug in Ensign Earth IV."

President Hale sighed. His nephew was weak. The man was twenty-seven, but he still had the soul of a little boy.

"At your age, Tommy, I was already an army captain, commanding infantry companies on Ganymede. And you can barely handle fighting a man in a rubber suit on a movie set." He severed another tentacle. "I would devour you alongside my octopus if you weren't so useful."

Tommy stiffened. "Please, Uncle. I fight too! In my own way. When I put on my costume, people look. People listen to my slogans. I inspire them!" He rose to his feet and raised his fist. "Ensign Earth needs you to fight!"

Hale snorted. He pointed his fork at his nephew. The tentacle on the prongs quivered, spraying butter.

"That character you play in your infantile movies is perhaps a soldier. You never served a day in your life. I pulled strings to get you out of the army because of your cowardice."

"Because of my flat feet," Tommy insisted, crossing his arms. "And my movies aren't infantile. They tell a modern mythology."

"Yes, yes," Hale said. "When you put on your blue cape, you strike a heroic pose. Your wide jaw. Your perfect golden hair. Your gleaming blue eyes. Your muscles bulging against your skin tight jumpsuit."

"And my shield," Tommy said. "Don't forget my shield. It has Planet Earth painted on it, and it's magnificent."

"Indeed, the image impresses the masses," Hale said. "I know you as my pathetic, quivering nephew. But to the mob, you are a hero. You inspire them to fight. And what heroic figure does the other side have? Those anti-war traitors?" He barked a laugh. "They only have Lizzy Pascal. A one-armed cripple."

Tommy laughed. "She's pathetic, isn't she? What a miserable loser that Lizzy—"

"She is raising crowds against me!" Hale shouted, rising to his feet so suddenly his chair fell back. "She is going to cost me the upcoming election!"

He hurled his cup of wine. It hit Tommy and spilled all over him. The octopus seized the opportunity to crawl off the plate, sans a few tentacles.

"Uncle, really!" Tommy winced, sopping wet. "This is an Orion silk shirt, and—"

"That's all you care about, you vain imbecile! You care about your precious silk shirts, while Lizzy Pascal is raising the masses against us!" Hale stomped around the table, grabbed his nephew by the ear, and dragged him like a little boy. "Look at them! See them rally!"

"Ow, ow, Uncle, please!"

Hale ignored the pathetic pleading. He pulled Tommy to the balcony, yanked open the doors, and dragged the young man outside.

There below it spread.

The mob.

A hundred thousand of them covered Central Park, all of them chanting.

"War no more! War no more!"

The balcony was cloaked with an Invisi-Shield. The president and actor could look down upon the crowd. But the crowd would see only an empty balcony. Hale had been spending hours here, watching them, brooding, nursing his hatred.

"Traitors," he hissed. "Traitors—all of them. If this weren't an election year, I'd mow them down with battle-copters."

"Oh God, there she is." Tommy pointed and wrinkled his nose. "Lizzy. She's not even wearing a superhero outfit."

Yes, Hale could see her too. Sergeant Lizzy Pascal was still recovering from her wounds. She wasn't using a wheelchair anymore, though she still had that ghastly prosthetic hand. She raised the fist of metal gears and rods, and she spoke into a megaphone.

"President Hale, we call upon you to end the bombing on Bahay! How many more innocents will die? How many more soldiers will return in coffins? How many more villages will burn? Bring our boys and girls home!"

"Bring them home!" chanted the crowd.

A girl stepped forward, her red hair flowing in the breeze. She stepped onto a stage and lifted a microphone.

Hale's temper flared.

"If it isn't little Kaelyn Williams," he muttered. "That ginger bitch."

"I kind of like her voice—" Tommy began, then wilted under Hale's glower. "I mean—that bitch!"

The girl began to sing. Her voice was operatic yet gentle, soaring yet soothing. She sang a song called "Bring Them Home," which she herself had written. It had become something of an anthem for the traitors. Soon the entire crowd was singing with her.

"I wish I could sing like that," Tommy said. "The Ensign Earth movies really do need songs. Maybe just one per film. Like James Bond."

Hale dragged the actor back into the penthouse. He slammed the balcony door shut.

"Get into your costume," he said. "Cape, shield, the works. I want you to record another reel. We'll release it tonight."

Tommy bristled. "It's Sunday. It's my day off."

"Dammit, you imbecile, there are no days off in war. Put on your uniform and serve your country."

The octopus was making its way to the door. Hale stomped it under his shoe.

* * * * *

An hour later, Tommy was dressed up as Ensign Earth. A skintight blue uniform. A billowing cape. A shield painted with planet Earth. The blond, blue-eyed actor stood in President Hale's home studio. Hale had spared no expense building the place. The buffoons in Hollywood had turned against him. A bunch of drugged-out traitors! With their shaggy hair, film degrees, and greed, they were useless. Hale had pulled his nephew out of that hive of serpents. Here from his tower, the grandest building in New York, Hale produced his own films. From here he could control the mob.

Hale stood in the studio by the cameraman, arms crossed, overseeing the production.

Fans blew, billowing Ensign Earth's cape. The hero smiled at the camera, teeth brilliantly white.

"Hello there, fellow heroes. This is Ensign Earth, reporting to duty!" He saluted. "I'm proud to fight for Earth."

Children sat in the studio, beaming at the chance to meet their hero. They returned the salute. "For Earth!"

Ensign Earth winked. "As you know, my favorite thing in the world is defending Earth. And the best way to defend Earth is to kill Kalayaan Kenny!"

Another actor stepped on stage. He wore a skirt of banana leaves and a straw hat. Fake buck teeth protruded from his mouth, yellow makeup caked his skin, and tape tugged the corners of his eyes, narrowing them.

"Herro! I am Karayaan Kenny! I am here to conquer Earth!"

Ensign Earth kicked the actor. The fake Bahayan fell, moaning and begging. His straw hat rolled. The children laughed. The Kenny fled the stage, not without Ensign Earth delivering a last kick, this one to his rump. The children cheered.

Ensign Earth turned back toward the cameras. "Together, we're going to defeat those dastardly Bahayans. That's what heroes do! And I know that you all—" Suddenly he gasped theatrically. He turned toward the side of the stage. "Oh my! But if it isn't my archnemesis, Lizzy the Louse!"

Another actor wobbled onto the stage in high heels. He wore a blond wig and enormous fake breasts. One of his hands was covered in tinfoil, mimicking a prosthetic. It was a grotesque caricature; just what the masses loved.

"I'm going to get you, Ensign Earth!" This new villain spoke in falsetto. He cracked an electric whip. "Nobody can defeat Lizzy the Louse! I'm going to help Kenny destroy Earth!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it!" Ensign Earth boomed.

Lizzy the Louse lashed her whip at him. Ensign Earth blocked it with his shield, then gave Lizzy the Louse a few theatrical punches and kicks. An engineer behind the stage added the appropriate sound effects.

Lizzy's wig fell off, revealing a bald head. The actor gasped and fled the stage—not without Ensign Earth delivering a final kick, this one to Lizzy's backside. The children laughed.

President Hale turned away in disgust. What drivel! And yet the commoners ate it up. His nephew was a simpering coward, but ironically, he did better work than half of Hale's generals.

Speaking of generals…

President Hale had a call to make.

He climbed onto the roof of his tower. From up here, he could see the skyline of New York all around him. The wind beat at his suit. The damn wind-dampeners were failing again. The mechanic had promised to finally fix them, yet here the wind gusted. Hale would make sure to destroy the man and his family. But for now he had a more immediate concern.

Three satellite dishes rose from the roof, pointing skyward, each sprouting an antenna. As the wind whipped his jacket, Hale approached a control panel, cursing the wind-dampener technician with every step. By the time he reached the controls, he had decided to skin the man alive.

He tapped a few buttons. The satellite dishes moved into position. He flicked a switch, and purple beams burst from each antenna. They met in the center, forming a ball of light. Then, with the flick of another switch, the triangle cast a central beam into the sky.

A wormhole.

There were larger wormholes in space. Wormholes so large you could fly starships through them. Ancient aliens had built them millions of years ago. In fact, Earth's fleet used the Wormhole Road to reach Bahay.

Wormholes that large required massive energy, more than Earth scientists knew how to produce. When it came to flying starships through wormholes, Earth relied on alien infrastructure. But a century ago, Professor Noah Isaac had discovered how to build narrow wormholes, only a few atoms wide. Earth had already discovered faster-than-light travel by then, allowing its starships to warp spacetime. But with Isaac Wormholes, humans also mastered FTL communication.

A century ago, presidents had to send starships to the colonies to deliver orders, Hale thought. It could take weeks if not months. Thank God for wormholes.

He spoke into a microphone, and his voice traveled three hundred light-years through space within instants.

"Chuck. Chuck, dammit, you there? Answer me."

For a moment, silence.

Then a video feed appeared on a monitor, coming all the way from Bahay, orbiting the star Sargas light-centuries away.

"Hello, Mister President."

General Charles "Chuck" Ward was pulling on a robe, tightening it around his sweaty chest. A girl lay in the bed behind him. A lovely little Bahayan thing, no older than Hale's granddaughter.

"Chuck, you're shirtless, sweaty, and still hard from banging that little slit," Hale said. "Don't you Mister President me."

The general smiled, which he did rarely. "Of course, Hank. Hang on." He turned toward the bed. "Maria, give us some privacy please."

The girl pulled a blanket around her nakedness and left the room. Hale felt his blood stir.

Sweet little thing, he thought. Maria. What a lovely name.

The general watched her leave, then turned back toward the monitor.

"Sorry about that, Hank," he said.

"My God, Chuck, she's lovely." Hale licked his lips. "I envy you, my friend. You get to visit a tropical paradise, kill a bunch of slit men in the morning, then bang their women at night. Sometimes I wish I never went into politics. I could be with you now."

The two men had gone to Julius Military Academy together. They had fought alien pirates together. They had stormed Ganymede Stronghold together, two young officers hungry for action and glory. By God, those had been good days. Back when Hale wore a uniform instead of a suit. Back when he could shoot his enemies instead of producing these ridiculous superhero reels. Back when he could kill, conquer, and fuck day and night, and not a single broadcaster would shove a camera in his face.

Maybe Chuck was the smart one, he thought. He remained a soldier.

"Don't envy me!" the general said. "There are mosquitoes here the size of pigeons, and the heat could melt your balls. But you didn't call to talk about the weather. What's going on, Hank?"

Hale heaved a sigh. "The torrents of shit creek are flowing hard around me, Chuck. Every day there are demonstrations against the war. And the goddamn leaks don't stop. The photos of that fucking backwater slit village hit us hard. I've got an election to win, Chuck. And that goddamn Lizzy Pascal and the rest of the traitors are a pain in my ass."

"We found the source of the leak." The general's face hardened. "A group of slit whores. They're rotting in prison now."

"I need more than that, dammit." Hale clenched his fists. "I need some victories. The goddamn traitor media is saying we can't win the war. That we're losing. That we lost Basilica."

"Basilica was destroyed," General Ward said. "I call that a victory."

"Not without the Red Cardinal's head!" Hale shouted, rage suddenly overwhelming him. "I want his head on a platter, Chuck. And I want his celibate dick served beside it. You hear me? I want that red bastard butchered!"

The general's eyes darkened. "He's not a regular cardinal. He has… powers. Some say they're alien powers."

"And we have a goddamn army!" Hale shouted. "So use it! Intensify the bombings. I want our bombers flying over North Bahay around the clock. I want more enemy villages burning. I want to pound those slanty-eyes shits so hard their ancestors will die. You hear me, you son of a bitch? Whatever you're doing, do it harder. We need to win this war before the election—or at least butcher so many of the yellow little fuckers they'll beg for mercy."

The general was quiet for a moment. He took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "Hank, can I be honest? Let me be honest. As an old friend. We've bombed them a lot. We've probably killed two or three million of the little bastards by now. That's not going to win us the war."

Hale sneered. "It doesn't need to win the war. It just needs to look like we're winning before the election. Next time I turn on the news, I don't want to read about any traitors like Lizzy Pascal, or see any leaked photos of gang rapes and dead babies. I want to see reports of Earth forces conquering territory and destroying the enemy. I don't care if you kill enemy soldiers or civilians, I just want our flag planted on every godforsaken hill in North Bahay. Understood?"

The general nodded. "Understood, Hank. I'll—"

Hale hung up on him.

He returned indoors. He walked past the studio, ignoring his feeble-minded nephew, who was still performing for the cameras like a trained seal. The buffoon was now battling an actor dressed as the Red Cardinal. Hale walked past the balcony, ignoring the protests outside. Finally the president entered his bedroom.

He picked up the phone. He called his chief of staff.

"Doug? This is Hank. Yes, goddammit—Henry 'Hank' Hale, your president. Send up an escort. No, not another sexbot. A real girl this time. I want her young. Very young. Asian. I want her to look Bahayan. None of your business why! Get it done. I want her in my room within the hour."

He hung up.

He looked at himself in the mirror. A sixty-year-old man. Steel-gray hair. Hard blue eyes.

Old.

An old man in an expensive suit.

This goddamn job was killing him.

"God, I miss the wars," he said to his reflection.

Finally, with a minute to spare, a knock sounded on the door. A meek girl entered. She was too pale to be Bahayan—was probably Chinese or Japanese or whatever goddamn countries they had over there. But she was young and pretty enough.

"Sir?" she whispered, bowing her head.

"Welcome, Maria," he said.

"But sir, my name is Seohyun, I—"

"Your name is Maria tonight." He held her hand and guided her toward the bed. "Don't talk anymore."

He conquered her. Like he used to. He was still a conqueror.

An hour later, after he had kicked her out, the president lay on the sweaty sheets and stared at the ceiling. Yes, he missed being a soldier. He envied the generals on the field. It was lonely in the ivory tower.

But he was fighting a war too. A different sort of war.

He clenched his fist.

"And I will win!"

Chapter Eighteen

Merkado Bayan

"How do you sell the galaxy's most expensive diamond in the galaxy's poorest city?" she asked Crisanto.

The ball of light stared at her silently. He bobbed in the air, perhaps his version of a shrug.

Maria answered her own question. "For much less than it's worth."

The general was spending a few days in North Bahay, meeting his colonels on the front line. Maria had expected to feel relieved. Yet as she left her penthouse, Mother Mary's Tear in her pocket, her hands trembled.

Ernesto could be lurking anywhere in the city.

She took a deep breath. The general wasn't here right now. But she had Crisanto. And she had her father's knife strapped to her thigh, hidden under her dress.

"If Ernesto shows up, we'll stick him right in the gut, Crisanto," she said.

The little ball of light bobbed his approval.

She slid Crisanto into her pocket, then approached Quezon Road. The boulevard stretched along the coast, separating the concrete towers of New Manila from the shanties that covered the beach. The general gave her a small allowance, and she hailed a rickshaw. No more walking barefooted for her, the general's girl!

The rickshaw's runner wore cheap purple sunglasses and a wide grin. It was not a motorized tuk tuk like the thousands that clogged the city, belching out fumes. This rickshaw had no motor. The driver had to peddle it like a bicycle. As he peddled through Mindao's permanent traffic jams, he kept looking over his shoulder, chatting.

"Yeah, you know, I own three rickshaws now. My brother peddles the other one, and I hire somebody for the third. It's a good business, you know. I have big plans. Going to expand to four or five rickshaws, then have a whole fleet all over the city. You know anyone who wants to invest? Hey, why don't we talk about it over a drink? I plan on owning a bar someday too. I have a good brain for business, you know. I'm going to even tie the bar and rickshaw businesses together. Free drink for every tenth rickshaw ride! I'm going places, you see? So what about that drink? The name's Jay Jay, by the way."

Maria gave him a few pesos. "Here's half your tip in advance. The rest if you keep quiet."

He winced. "Ouch! You rip my heart out!" But he took the money.

She climbed off at Merkado Bayan, a bustling marketplace, the largest in Mindao.

She paid the driver the rest of his money. "Thank you, Jay Jay. I hope your business dreams come true."

"When I'm the richest man in Mindao, you'll regret turning down that drink!" But he said it with a smile. He winked, clucked his tongue, and peddled off.

She watched him leave. You're a better man than General Ward, Jay Jay. I would choose you over him ten thousand times. But my heart is given to Jon Taylor.

She stood for a moment, soaking in the marketplace. A boulevard stretched ahead. Buildings lined the roadsides, their concrete walls stained and moldy, forming a canyon. Tangles of electric cables stretched between the buildings, creating a crackling, buzzing canopy like spiderwebs between branches. But Maria barely noticed the crumbling infrastructure. Countless billboards, kiosks, stalls, and banners filled the boulevard, an explosion of color, nearly drowning the underlying decay.

Vendors stood at their stalls, crying out their wares.

"Fresh seafood! Fresh seafood! Shrimps and clams, get 'em here!"

"Fresh fruit, lowest prices in town!"

"Yes, you ma'am, you want to buy a lucky crucifix? Made in Jerusalem, guaranteed!"

"Spices, spices from the homeworld! Get your authentic Pinoy spices here!"

Maria walked among the crowd. So many people! Thousands and thousands of them crammed into the market. Children ran and played underfoot, shooting plastic guns and swinging wooden swords. Young women strolled with straw baskets, spending more time chatting and gossiping with friends than shopping. A woman was haggling over crabs, insisting the ones here were scrawny, that at the docks crabs had far meatier legs. An old man was tapping melon after melon, sniffing them, holding them up to the light, while the fruit monger crossed his arms and insisted they were the finest melons in town.

The market attracted other sorts too. An old busker stood on a barrel, playing a flute. Orphans sat in the corners, on the curbs, in puddles, shivering, some wearing rags. Some were only toddlers. A skeletal woman wandered the market, eyes sunken into a skull-like face, begging passersby for a sniff of shabu, just a quick sniff. Her children wandered after her, bellies swollen, hair crawling with lice.

"Spare a few pesos, ma'am?"

A young boy approached Maria, barefoot, wearing only a tattered sack. He was holding a baby.

"My little sister is hungry, ma'am, and our parents burned in the wars. Please, ma'am, a few pesos for milk?"

Maria handed him a few pesos, and he bowed, blessed her, and wandered off.

A legless woman sat in a wheelbarrow, her face melted, the nose and eyelids gone, a mask of scars. A wooden sign hung from the barrel. KISSED BY MISTER WEIRD. SPARE A PESO. Maria gave her a few pesos too.

"Bless you, daughter of Bahay," Maria said.

The deformed woman could not smile, but she bowed her head. "Bless you."

Most of the shoppers were ignoring the beggars. But as Maria walked among the stalls and kiosks, she kept looking at them. Giving what pesos she could spare.

The general had showered Maria with gifts. Her summer dress was woven of fine cotton, embroidered with red roses. She wore sandals and a straw hat, and she carried money in her purse. But not so long ago, she had been among these beggars. Just another orphan. Another refugee of the wars. Another lost soul.

In her pocket, she carried something worth far more than a dress, sandals, or a few pesos. The diamond—the real diamond—was probably worth more than everything in this market combined. Maybe more than everything in this city.

Where could she sell it? Who in this market would appreciate such a jewel? Who would even believe it was real?

As she passed by stalls, Maria saw so many counterfeit goods. One kiosk was selling Rolex watches—real gold, guaranteed, for only twice the price of a plastic wristwatch! One man had a cart full of university diplomas—whatever major you needed, he sold it. Lawyer or doctor or engineer, no questions asked, twenty pesos and the degree is yours! Another shop was selling authentic slivers from Christ's cross—certificate of authenticity available next door! Another shop was selling the nails that had crucified Christ on that cross. They were absolutely authentic, and they came in boxes of two, ten, or twenty.

Maria sighed. Yes, it would be hard to convince anyone here that Mother Mary's Tear was real.

She had tried selling it to the gemcutter. The one who had carved her the fake diamond, a zirconia mimicry of the general's gift. But the old man had refused.

"My dear," he had said, stroking his white beard, "I'm a gemcutter, not a gem owner. I can't afford to buy a simple topaz, let alone a diamond of such magnificence."

And so Maria had come here to the market. And after traveling up and down the road, and asking around, she found the local jewelry shop. It was a little hole in the wall, nestled between a spice shop and a fortune teller's shack.

A burly security guard scrutinized her. He was an alien, one of the few in Mindao, big and beige and lumpy. He looked like a potato with eyes.

One rarely met aliens on Bahay. Not many species wanted to visit such a backwater. The few who ended up here were refugees, outlaws, or simply insane. You had to be a little crazy to come to Bahay.

Maria smiled at the beefy alien. "Good morning, sir! How are you enjoying Bahay?"

The alien grunted. "I was born here, human." He had a voice like rumbling stones.

"What planet are your parents f—"

"I don't have parents," he rumbled. "Not all species sexually reproduce like animals, human." He opened the door. "Get in!"

"Sorry!" She shrugged and stepped past him. He even smelled a little like potatoes.

Maria found herself among a thousand gemstones, jewels, golden coins, and luxury wristwatches. Security cameras moved on stalks. Bulletproof glass protected the glittering goods. The giant potato watched from the door. Everything here, it seemed, was the real deal.

The jeweler rose from behind a display case. She gave Maria a hard look. She was a severe woman with steel-gray hair and penetrating eyes.

"Come back with your pute sugar daddy," she said to Maria. "Don't waste my time browsing."

Maria frowned. "I'm not here to—"

"I know your type," the jeweler interrupted. "You worked the bars at the Blue Boulevard. You snagged a rich Earthling boyfriend or husband. Probably an officer. Maybe even a senior one. He wants to marry you, to take you home to Earth, but of course he's going to break your heart. Now you want him to prove his love, and to buy you a diamond ring." She rolled her eyes. "Rubbish! I've seen it all before. He'll probably have another girlfriend tomorrow. Come back with him, and show me hard cash, or find another sucker."

"Actually, I'm not here to buy a diamond. I'm here to sell one."

Maria pulled Mother Mary's Tear from her pocket. The real diamond, not the fake one she wore on her choker. It shone like a star.

The jeweler snorted. "Fake."

"It's real!" Maria insisted. She fished a piece of paper from her pocket. "I even brought a note from a gemcutter who examined it. A certificate of authenticity."

The jeweler snorted. "You can buy those certificates of authenticity from Old Abrasaldo down the street—along with a degree from Mindao University. Girl, here's a little tip. Next time you want to pass a diamond as real, get one smaller than a goddamn avocado pit."

"But it is real," Maria said. "Examine it yourself. This is Mother Mary's Tear, the most famous diamond in Bahay. It used to shine in Basilica Cathedral on the cheek of Mother Mary's statue. It's a gift from… somebody very powerful."

The jeweler frowned. She snatched the diamond, attached a magnifying loupe to her eye, and examined it.

For a long time, the gray-haired woman was silent. Just staring.

She stepped behind the counter, put the diamond under a lamp, and examined it again.

Finally she looked at Maria. She spoke very slowly. "Do you know what you have here, girl?"

Maria nodded. "A real diamond."

The jeweler laughed, but there was fear to that laughter. "It's the largest, most magnificent gemstone I've ever—" She caught herself, coughed, and hid her trembling hands. "I mean, it's pretty good. I've seen better. I can maybe make you an offer."

Maria stepped closer and leaned across the counter. "Don't play games with me. I know what Mother Mary's Tear is worth. This is the largest diamond on Bahay. Make me a serious offer, or I'll find another buyer."

They haggled. But only for a bit. Maria knew it was pointless. She would never get this diamond's worth anywhere in Mindao. It was probably worth more than most starships. Only the wealthiest Earthlings could afford its true price.

But Maria didn't need to be wealthy. She just needed enough money for her friends.

An hour later, she left the marketplace. On her choker, she wore the fake diamond, the one the gemcutter had prepared for her. In her pocket, instead of the real diamond, she carried a purse of chinking golden coins. It was only a fraction of Mother Mary's Tear's true worth. But it was the wealthiest Maria had ever been.

She just hoped it was enough.

Chapter Nineteen

The Lioness of Earth

Lizzy was walking through the dark parking lot, seeking her dented old Toyota, and her heart would not slow down.

She was safe here. She was on Earth, far from the battlefields of Bahay. There were no Kennys hiding in these shadows, only the odd stray cat, its eyes luminous like twin moons. The war was light-years away.

Yet as Lizzy walked here underground, her heart pounded against her ribs, cold sweat trickled down her spine, and her fingers tingled. She wasn't using her wheelchair anymore. But she felt so weak.

An enemy hissed in the shadows.

Lizzy jumped and reached for her rifle. But she had no gun. Of course not. Not anymore. And it was only a cat, not a Kenny sniper.

She took a shaky breath, trying to relax. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

It was always like this in the shadows. At night, she would dream of Ernesto tying her down, burning her, shooting her. She would wake up screaming, clawing at her blankets. Kaelyn would have to rush in from her bedroom, hold Lizzy, and calm her down. And it wasn't only at night. Alleyways. Crowded stores. Train stations. Or dark parking lots like this. It seemed like almost anything could trigger the terror.

I've been on edge for years in the war, Lizzy thought. Always in fight or flight mode. Even at night. And now I don't know how to turn that off.

She wished Kaelyn were here with her. It was always easier with Kaelyn here. But her friend was leading a protest in Europe this week. Lizzy had stayed behind in America. It was safer for her here.

Ostensibly, one leader governed all Earth. The Alien Wars a century ago had destroyed much of Earth, and the surviving nations had united to fight a common enemy. But today, some of Earth's old nations were calling for independence. They were setting up local governments, demanding more and more autonomy. And some, mostly in Europe, had begun to arrest HDF soldiers suspected of war crimes.

Lizzy had served in the Lions platoon, had trained Clay and the other killers. If she set foot in Europe, she could end up in prison. Kaelyn would have to face that continent alone.

I barely avoided prison in America, Lizzy thought. Here they call me a traitor. In Europe they call me a war criminal. In Bahay they call me a colonialist. I'm hated everywhere.

Sudden pain stabbed her chest. She winced. The wound from Ernesto's bullet. It was aching more and more these days. Maybe there was something wrong with the artificial lung they had given her. Lizzy knew she should see a doctor, but she feared doctors. Every time she saw one, they told her she needed another surgery. And Lizzy had suffered through enough surgeries for a lifetime.

Yes, she feared doctors. She feared Europe. She feared shadows. She feared cats. She feared everything these days, it seemed.

"Look at me," she whispered. "A sweating, quivering mess. Me, the proud warrior—a coward." She lowered her head. "I wish you were here, Carter. We'd face this together. I miss you."

She kept walking through the dark parking lot. Where was her damn Toyota?

An engine rumbled.

A car emerged from the shadows ahead. A black limousine. It came to a halt before her.

Lizzy frowned. Her heart burst into a gallop.

It's all right. Just a car. It can't hurt you.

Another engine sounded, this time behind her. She spun around to see a second limo block her retreat.

Both cars killed their engines, trapping her.

Again, like she had a million times since coming home, Lizzy reached for her gun and found it gone.

She formed fists and bared her teeth.

The limo doors opened. Tall, muscular men in suits and sunglasses emerged, holding briefcases. She could see the holsters under their jackets. Lizzy spun from side to side, but they surrounded her.

"Hello, boys," she said. "What brings the Praetorian Guard to this lovely little parking lot tonight?"

She knew who these men worked for. Officially, they were known as the UESS: The United Earth Security Service. But most people called them the Praetorian Guard after the famed guardians of the Roman empire. The modern Praetorians protected politicians, diplomats, ambassadors, and other civilians in positions of power. In the army, everyone hated guard duty; it was often given as punishment. But these boys in black took guarding very seriously. During their training, Praetorians vowed to take a bullet for whoever they guarded. Over the years, many had done just that. It was said that any good Praetorian carried at least a few bullet scars.

"Ma'am, I'll need to frisk you," said a Praetorian.

"Sure," Lizzy said, "but can you buy me a drink first?"

He didn't smile. She let him frisk her. Why not? She didn't carry a weapon. She knew veterans who slept with guns under their pillows, who couldn't even take a piss without a gun. Lizzy didn't want to be that sort of veteran. She didn't even carry a knife.

The Praetorian stepped back. He turned and nodded. "She's clean."

Another man emerged from the limousine.

He was a tall, muscular man in a gray suit. His hair was the color of steel, his eyes blue and hard, his face like a shard of stone.

Lizzy inhaled sharply.

It was President Hale.

Her heart started pounding again. Lizzy had stared enemies in the eyes before. She had stared in the eyes of Kalayaan warriors. Of Luminous Army killers. Of Ernesto "Iron" Santos. She had stared in the eyes of men hellbent on destruction and pain.

She saw the same fire in Hale's eyes.

"Good evening, Miss Pascal." His tone was pleasant, but his face remained hard, and his eyes remained cruel. "I was hoping we could have a word. Not through a megaphone, that is."

Lizzy resisted the urge to take a step back. She would not show him fear.

"I've said everything I have to say at the rallies."

"Ah, but I've not had a chance to retort!" Hale said. "Surely you wouldn't be opposed to a civil conversation?"

She snorted. "You could have invited me to dinner. You didn't have to surround me with goons in a dark parking lot."

His stony expression finally cracked. He raised an eyebrow. "Would you have come to dinner?"

She took a strained breath. "Probably not."

"Ah, so here we are. I'm not here to hurt you, Lizzy. I won't arrest you or charge you with any crime. I'm here to talk, that's all. A civil conversation in a dark parking lot."

"What do you want to say?"

The president nodded at one of his guards. The man stepped forward and opened a briefcase.

It was full of cash.

"There are a million United Earth Dollars in there," Hale said. "I have several more million in the trunk of my car. I want to hire you, Lizzy Pascal. And I plan to make you a very wealthy woman."

She frowned. "Hire me? What the hell are you talking about, Hale?"

The president smiled thinly. "As you might be aware, I own a little movie studio."

Lizzy rolled her eyes. "Yes, I've seen the marvelous adventures of Ensign Earth as he battled Lizzy the Louse. I must say, the actor you found to play me boasts some wonderfully fake tits. I wish mine were as big."

Hale maintained his smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "How would you like to replace that actor? Play yourself in my films."

She scoffed. "And let your nephew beat me up on camera? For no amount of money in the world. I won't play your grotesque villain."

"Not a villain, my dear! I'll write a new starring role for you. You'll no longer be Ensign Earth's enemy. You'll fight at his side! Together, Ensign Earth and Lizzy the Lioness will fight the evil Kenny!"

Lizzy couldn't help it. She laughed. "Have you missed the past few months of rallies? I oppose the war, Hale! I've spoken out against it from every stage I could find. Now you want me to play a superheroine soldier, fighting in your little minstrel shows?"

Hale took a step closer. His eyes narrowed and his smile widened. "Exactly. You will stand before the camera, Lizzy Pascal. And you will renounce your pacifism. You will endorse the war. You will encourage Earth to fight. On camera every week, you will boost the morale of our troops. Imagine it! You, the famous anti-war activist, fighting alongside Ensign Earth himself!"

Lizzy sneered, "You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

The president inhaled sharply, seeming almost in rapture. He licked his lips. "I would adore it. And in return, I will make you a multi-millionaire. You'll be among the wealthiest women on Earth."

"All I need to do is sell my soul," Lizzy said. "And the souls of Earth's soldiers and the innocents on Bahay." She shook her head. "There isn't enough gold in the universe, President Hale. I refuse. And I'll make sure the world knows that you tried to buy me out."

She turned to leave.

But the Praetorian Guard blocked her way.

President Hale spoke behind her. "I was afraid you would say that, Lizzy."

She tried shoving her way through the guards. "Move!"

"They are enhanced with cybernetic strength and speed, my dear," Hale said. "You won't be able to move them. If you try to run, they will catch you."

She spun back toward the president. "What are you going to do? Arrest me for refusing to act in your movies?"

The president pulled a gun from his jacket. He aimed at Lizzy.

"You should have said yes," he said. "Such a pity."

Lizzy ran toward him, screaming, prepared to pummel him with her bare fists.

Hale pulled the trigger.

Pain exploded in Lizzy's chest.

She kept running.

Hale fired again. Again. Again.

Blood spurted across her chest, and Lizzy fell.

She hit the ground at his feet, and her blood pooled.

I'm shot. I'm shot four times. I'm dying.

Oddly, she felt no pain. A bullet must have severed her spinal cord.

Hale nudged her with his foot. He flipped her onto her back and stared down at her.

I'm sorry, Carter, Lizzy thought. I'm sorry, Bahay. I'm sorry.

"And so the great war heroine falls," Hale said softly.

Lizzy stared up at him. She could barely speak. The world was fading.

"You… will… lose…"

He pulled the trigger again, and—

Chapter Twenty

Reunions

With a purse full of gold, Maria approached Bahay One Confinement Facility, known among the people as the Big Box.

She had never seen an uglier building.

It lived up to its name. It was essentially a big box of raw concrete, rising from a forest of barbed wire. The Earthlings had built this prison when first arriving on Bahay. For twenty years now, the Big Box had housed Earth's enemies: captured guerrillas, dissidents, spies, and any Bahayan suspected of "enemy activity." Which meant doing anything the Earthlings didn't like.

"All my friends are in there, Crisanto," she said. "Charlie. Pippi. All the other bargirls. We must free them."

She lowered her head. She remembered that horrible rainy day. The day the military police had captured her friends. The floodwaters had flowed across the city, washing shanties away. Lightning had flashed and thunder boomed. The Bargirl Bureau, Maria's network of spies, had fallen that day.

"Only I escaped. But now I will free the others. The Bargirl Bureau must rise again."

The Kalayaan, the peasant uprising against Earth, would not win this war. Even the Red Cardinal, the mighty leader of the Luminous Army, could not defeat the HDF. But maybe the bargirls, these forgotten prostitutes, these dregs of the slums—maybe they could do what even mighty warriors could not.

She approached the prison guards—two Earthlings in gray uniforms. The letters MP were emblazoned on their armbands and helmets. There were few people more hated in Mindao than the military police. Most Earthlings in this city were here to drink, whore, and forget the horrors of war before another tour of the jungles. But the military police was different. These Earthlings were here to lay down the law, policing both their fellow Earthlings and the natives. They barely looked human at all, what with their steel-gray armor and yellow visors. One could easily mistake them for robots.

But they were still just men inside their shells.

All men can be seduced, Maria thought. Some men are seduced by soft skin, the flutter of a short skirt, the hint of rounded breasts. Some are seduced by gold. Some are seduced by promises of glory or power. No man can resist seduction. We all have a chink in our armor, leading to the innermost dreams of our souls. That is where seducers shoot their arrow.

As she approached, Maria let the wind play with her dress, pinning it to her curves, and when the wind rustled her skirt, she did not press it down against her thighs. She approached the men and smiled.

"Hello, sirs. My friends are imprisoned here. They're just innocent girls like me. Girls who love strong Earthling men. Can you release them? They've suffered long enough. They would be so grateful."

But the men did not flirt nor soften. They stood impassively, clutching their guns.

One spoke, his helmet giving his voice a metallic tinge. "Are you aware that it's illegal to interfere with military police duties?"

"Leave now," said the other guard. "Or you'll join your friends in the Big Box."

Maria's dress was fluttering up her thighs, but that was having no effect. She smoothed it down.

Not a woman's skin with these ones, then, she thought. But all men can be seduced. Where a woman's charms fails, gold will succeed.

She opened her purse and pulled out two coins.

"I'm not going to be coy," she said. "I'm not going to put on a show, calling these a gift, or pretending to drop these coins in the dust. I'm going to bribe you now. These are real golden coins. You know what gold is worth. Take them and let me in."

They stared at her in silence for a long moment. Maria was sure they would arrest her.

But then one said, "Three golden coins each."

"Two," she said.

"Three or you can join your friends behind bars."

Maria sighed, but she paid up. It was most of her gold. And about what an average Bahayan earned in a decade.

And she was in.

She walked through the cell block. Barred cells rose three levels high, crammed with prisoners. This wasn't a large prison, but thousands of prisoners languished here like chickens in coops. A few prisoners were Earthlings, imprisoned for crimes within their military. But most were Bahayans.

As Maria walked between the cells, many prisoners hooted and catcalled, shouted, threatened, spat. They were not innocent people. Maria had no doubts of that. She saw men covered in gang tattoos. She saw hard, scarred men with sharpened teeth, gazing at her lustfully, licking their lips. An Earthling stared between the bars, standing tall and straight, his pale skin covered with swastika tattoos. Even Maria, a native Bahayan, knew what that meant.

The prisoners reached between the bars, trying to grab her. She winced and hurried between them, slapping away whatever fingers came closest. The cells were no larger than her room above the Go Go Cowgirl, but many prisoners filled each cell, bodies pressed together.

Everyone was shouting, jumping up and down, reaching toward her.

"Hey baby! Take off your top, girl."

"The Hydrians are coming! The squids are coming to kill us all! You have to listen to me! You have to let me out! The squids are coming!"

"You slit-slut! I'll skin you and your whole family, you whore!"

"Hey, hey you, girl! Just bring this package to my buddy outside, okay? He'll pay you, honestly!"

Maria ignored them all. She walked through this sea of misery until she reached a cell at the back.

She saw them there.

The Bargirl Bureau.

They were huddled together. Charlie, graceful as a lioness, her bob cut and makeup still perfect, even here behind bars. The eldest bargirl, she acted as mother to the others, protecting them even in the Big Box. Pippi was here, clever little Pippi with her cowboy boots, striped stockings, and pigtails dyed bright orange. Pippi who always knew the most about cameras, computers, and all things electronic. All the others were here too. Grace, and Joyce, and Kim, and all the rest of them.

Prostitutes. Bargirls. The bravest women on Bahay.

When they saw Maria, they leaped up, stared with huge eyes.

"Holy Maria has come back!" Charlie raised her hands to the heavens. "A miracle." Her voice dripped sarcasm.

Pippi glared through the bars. "You abandoned us."

The others stared at Maria with dark eyes. Yes, only she had escaped the MP. But she had never forgotten her friends.

A few guards stomped down the cell block, clubbing the reaching hands of prisoners, breaking bones. The burly Earthlings approached Maria.

"Girl! We aren't allowed visitation here."

All Maria had to do was let her gold shine.

And the barred door opened.

And her friends were free.

* * * * *

The entire Bargirl Bureau spilled onto the sunlit streets of Mindao.

At once they mobbed Maria.

"You abandoned us to the police!" Grace said.

"She saved us!" insisted Joyce.

"Shut up, all of you!" Charlie said, then gripped Maria. "My children. Where are they?"

A few more voices rose from the crowd.

"And mine!"

"And mine! My children!"

Maria raised her hands, trying to calm the gaggle. They were all grabbing her, shaking her, demanding answers.

"All your children are safe! Come with me. I'll take you to them."

They stumbled along the sidewalk. The girls were still wearing their street clothes: miniskirts, high heels, tube tops, clothes to titillate. But when a few men approached, catcalls on their lips, the women shot them death glares, and Pippi even tossed a stone. The men scattered.

Maria flagged down two jeepneys. One was painted with parrots, tigers, elephants, and other animals from Earth legends. The other was painted with cacti and flowers under a swirling sky of rainbows. The bargirls squeezed inside. As the jeepneys rattled down the roads, coughing fumes, the bargirls waved at pedestrians, and Charlie even stood up and leaned out the window.

"We're free, bitches!" she cried and laughed, the wind in her hair.

"Watch out, Bahay!" cried Pippi, standing through the sun roof. "The Bargirl Bitches are back in business!"

Along the streets, people turned and waved and cheered. The girls blew them kisses.

"I missed you guys." Maria wiped away a tear. "I missed you so much."

The jeepneys took them through New Manila, the wealthiest neighborhood in Mindao—at least the wealthiest accessible to Bahayans. Palm trees lined wide streets, and the ocean gleamed ahead, thick with cargo chips, fishing boats, and squatters who lived on rafts. Billboards rose everywhere, each more colorful than the other, competing like flowers for the attention of bees. One billboard advertised skin-whitening cream, guaranteed to make you as pale as an Earthling model. Another billboard advertised eyelid surgery to give you round Earthling eyes, loans available at low, low rates. A third billboard promised to match Bahayan princesses with Earthling gentlemen, visas to Earth guaranteed or your money back.

"I want to get skin-whitening cream!" Pippi said, staring with wide eyes.

"I want an Earthling husband!" said Charlie, gasping at the billboards. "How much does one cost?"

But Maria glared at them. "Have some national pride, damn it. We don't have to become Earthlings to be successful."

"But Maria, the Earthlings are so powerful, so rich, so successful," Pippi said. "Why can't we be like them?"

"We can become powerful, rich, and successful too," Maria said. "But as Bahayans. Not as Earthlings. We need to expel their culture from our world and carve our own path."

Charlie snorted. "You sound like my Tito Diego, who joined the Kalayaan. He always talked like that. At least until the putes put a bullet in his head." She lowered her head. "He died fighting for Bahay."

"Tito Diego got a bullet in his head because he cheated a man on a bad shabu deal!" Pippi said.

Charlie crossed her arms. "Yes, and why do you think he got addicted to shabu? Because he was so stressed from the putes."

"That doesn't count!" Pippi said.

Charlie tossed her hair. "It totally counts, and you would know it, but your brain is so hollow a bullet wouldn't even hurt it."

"Girls, girls!" Maria couldn't help but laugh. "Was it like this the whole time in prison?"

Charlie pointed at Pippi. "Oh, Nini, this girl here—she never shut up the whole time."

"Yes I did!" Pippi insisted. "I always shut up. I never talk a lot at all. You just say I talk a lot, but really I'm the quiet one, but you are always arguing with me, and telling stupid stories, and saying I talk too much, and—"

Everyone groaned.

They spilled out of the jeepneys, gawking at Maria's lofty building, this ivory tower that rose above the coast. The girls all began chattering.

"Holy crap, Maria, you live in a palace!"

"I bet she has a new Earthling boyfriend. Richer than Mister Jon for sure."

"Hey, does it have a swimming pool?"

"It better have an elevator, I'm not climbing in my heels!"

"Ugh, why are there shanties on the coast? This is a high-class neighborhood, you know."

"Shut up, you stupid girl, you lived in a shanty before you lived in prison."

"Hey, do my puwit look good in this dress? I'm going to meet a rich Earthling husband here, I know it!"

As the bargirls teetered into the building, the concierge gaped. But Maria gave him a generous tip, and he bowed his head and summoned the elevator.

They were finally quiet during the ride up. Charlie wrung her hands. Another bargirl clutched her crucifix and whispered prayers. The tension was another passenger. And Maria knew why they had chattered and bickered the entire way. To keep that tension at bay.

The elevator stopped at the penthouse, and they stepped inside, and there they were.

Their children.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

The children all ran toward their mothers, weeping, laughing, jumping.

Charlie wrapped up her children in her arms, weeping, holding them so close. Grace wept as she cuddled her toddler. Nobody noticed the splendor of the penthouse, the towering windows, the majestic view of the sea. They cried and laughed and hugged.

Maria watched them, and she placed a hand on her belly. Her child was growing. She could feel the baby kick sometimes. She wasn't quite showing yet, but almost.

Come back soon, Jon. I need you. Our baby needs you. We love you.

She gazed out the northern window. Past the city sprawled the smoldering wastelands of war. Jon was there. Fighting. In danger. Maria whispered a prayer.

* * * * *

"What?" Pippi gasped. "You had a real diamond that looked just like this? And you sold it?" She fainted theatrically, hand held to her forehead. "My heart, my heart! It's broken!"

Maria rolled her eyes. "Pippi! I used the money to bribe you out of prison, you know."

The two sat at the kitchen table, looking at the cubic zirconia. The other bargirls, along with their children, were scampering across the penthouse. They bounced on the bed, raided the cabinets, played the grand piano, suntanned on the balcony, lounged in the hot tub, and tried on every outfit in the closets. Some of the kids were even drawing on the walls.

But here in the kitchen, Maria and Pippi sat alone. They had important business to attend to.

Pippi looked a little ridiculous, Maria had to admit. She wore striped stockings, suspenders, and cowgirl boots. Her pigtails were dyed bright red, freckles were painted on her face, and she was licking an oversized lollipop. But despite her looks, she was the smartest person Maria knew. Nobody understood machines like Pippi.

"Pippi, you're a genius."

The bargirl nodded, pigtails swaying. "And gorgeous. And super hot. And a genius. Oh wait, did you say genius already?" She put on a pair of glasses. "Because I'm a goddamn Alfred Einstein."

"Albert Einstein," Maria said.

Pippi snorted and waved dismissively. "Ah, pute scientists, all the same. I'm the smartest at beating the girls at cards, and that's what counts."

"Pippi, you cheat at cards, that's how you win."

The bargirl placed her hands on her hips. "Yes, well, cheating takes brain power! I might not have a big head like you, but I do have a big brain. And bigger dibdibs."

Maria rubbed her head. "Don't mock my giant head or my tiny dibdibs. Help me. I need you to do some engineering." She tapped the cubic zirconia, and the gem opened like a locket. "I need you to build a recording device and hide it inside my gemstone."

Pippi gasped, lifted the zirconia, and examined the hidden compartment. "Ingenious! Think how much shabu you could hide in here! I mean—not that I would. Because, um, I never do drugs. Ever." She nodded. "You don't have any shabu in this apartment, do you? So I could properly dispose of it."

Maria glared. "Pippi, focus on your task! Don't make me slap you. My zirconia needs to record everything I hear, and to transmit the recordings to a computer here in this apartment. Can you do it?"

The bargirl raised an eyebrow. "Of course I can! Just give me some pesos, okay? Because I need to go shopping for the right equipment."

"I swear, if you buy any shabu—"

"I won't, I won't! You know I'm off the stuff. Maybe I'll buy a healthy apple or something, is that okay, Mom?" Pippi rolled her eyes. "Oh wait, apples are Earth fruit, and you'll say I'm trying to be a pute. Okay, I'll buy your equipment and a nice rambutan."

Maria smiled. "Buy me one too." She kissed her friend's cheek. "Thank you, Pippi."

* * * * *

A few hours later, the work was done.

Maria put on her choker. The cubic zirconia shone in the center. Hidden inside—a little recording device, installed by Pippi's clever hands. On the kitchen table sat a computer with an antenna, ready to record any incoming transmission.

"Will it work?" Maria chewed her lip.

Pippi bristled. "Of course it'll work. I made it!"

Maria scrunched up her lips. "We must test it."

"You wound me! Fine, fine, we'll test the damn thing." Pippi rolled her eyes.

The girls stepped outside, took a jeepney across town, and tested the device.

"Ahoyhoy!" Pippi said, speaking to the gemstone. "Testing, testing! Maria is a horrible card player and she has a big head! Can you read me?"

Charlie's voice emerged from the fake diamond. She was back in the penthouse, speaking from across the city. "And she has tiny dibdibs!"

Maria groaned. "Can you two idiots stop it?" But she couldn't help but smile. She loved her friends. And her device was working.

They returned to the penthouse, and after the children were all asleep, the bargirls met in the kitchen. Charlie found a few bottles of wine in the cabinet, and she poured them all drinks. Meanwhile, young Grace and Joyce served pancit noodles and lumpia rolls, which they had been preparing all day.

"So tell us," Charlie said. "Before we drink and get too dumb to understand. What is this all about? How did you get a diamond? And this penthouse? And money to bribe us out of prison?"

"And how did you get such a big head?" Pippi added. "Ouch, Charlie! Stop hitting me. It's a legitimate question."

Maria told them.

She told them everything. About singing her songs at Little Earth. About seducing the general, becoming his paramour. And about her plan.

"He's opening up to me," Maria said. "And he's going to tell me something important. Something that hurts Earth and help us. Battle plans. Or a confession of war crimes." She touched her fake diamond. "Whatever it is, we'll record it—and bring him down."

The girls stared at her, silent, eyes wide.

"You mean… the General Ward?" Pippi's jaw nearly hit the table. "Commander of the entire Earth army? And he bought you all this? Maria, if you don't want him as a boyfriend, can I have him? Ouch, ouch, Charlie! Okay, okay. Stop hitting me!"

Maria raised her wine cup. Her friends were drinking wine, but Maria had juice in hers.

"We're going to win this war, girls. The Bargirl Bureau is back. For Bahay!"

They all raised their drinks. "For Bahay!"

And for Earth, Maria thought. Earth is our homeland too. And Earth is where I'll one day live with Jon. I pray that someday we are no longer enemies, and we are all Earthlings.

Chapter Twenty-One

Retribution

Colonel Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal was reviewing logistic reports when the girl burst into his office, carrying an urgent message from Earth.

"Sir! Colonel Pascal, sir! An urgent message arrived via our portable wormhole generator, sir!"

Private Rebekah "Bucky" Allenby stood at the trailer door, panting. In the Apollo Brigade, the infamous home of misfit soldiers, Bucky was an outcast among outcasts. With her buckteeth, mop of untamed curls, and bottle glasses, she wasn't much to look at.

Good! Pascal thought. I hire too many pretty blondes with big bottoms and tiny brains. Bucky is as homely as a mule. But she's damn loyal.

The gangly private constantly sought approval. She called even mere corporals "sir." The other soldiers mocked her relentlessly. But Pascal knew: Bucky will serve me till her death.

So he had given her an important job. Bucky was in charge of guarding the brigade's wormhole generator. Most soldiers hated guard duty. But Bucky was eager to serve.

Sometimes too eager.

"Private, you shouldn't just burst into your colonel's trailer without knocking," he said.

Bucky blinked. "Sorry, sir. It's just that this message came by wormhole, and—" She raised a codechip, dropped it, then blushed and picked it up. "It says urgent, and—oh damn, I forgot to salute, didn't I?" She gave a clumsy salute, dropping the codechip again. "Sorry, sir! Should I come in again?"

Pascal heaved a sigh. "Just put the codechip on my desk, Private."

Messages from the wormhole generator were never good news.

The message had come directly from Earth, via wormhole and at great expense. It wasn't easy sending messages back and forth between Bahay and Earth, a distance of three light-centuries. Using radio was cheap, but radio waves could only travel at the speed of light, and nobody wanted to wait six hundred years for a reply. So the Human Defense Force had brought a handful of wormhole generators with them.

A long time ago, some brainiac had figured: Hey, we fly starships through wormholes, why not talk through them? Hence the wormhole generators—big, bulky, and damn expensive machines. Each one could generate a tiny wormhole, as narrow as a thread, all the way to Earth. Pascal imagined them as telephone wires hundreds of light-years long, stretching between planets. The physicists said they were more like portals through spacetime, but Pascal could never quite visualize that, so he kept thinking of them as telephone wires.

Pascal commanded the Apollo Brigade, also known as Pascal's Punks, Cannon Fodder Force, or sometimes Kenny Food. They were infamous for rowing far up shit's creek. And now they were deep behind enemy lines, stranded in North Bahay. If anyone here came home in one piece, it would be a miracle. So they gave Pascal one of those precious, ultra-expensive wormhole generators. The top brass insisted that every brigade traveling northward lug one around. Pascal carried his inside the brigade's biggest, thickest armored truck.

He hated the damn thing.

First of all, wormhole generators were serious energy hogs. A single message from Earth could suck up ten entire power cubes—energy he needed for pounding the enemy. Even worse were the goddamn grunts always calling home. Every once in a while, some snot-nosed private got too homesick, sneaked into the truck, and called dear old Earth, needing a good whine to his girlfriend or mother. Another ten energy cubes down the train, just so sniveling little Timmy could tell Mommy that he loved her, and that he just couldn't wait to come home and eat her apple pie. Pascal kept three guards around the wormhole generator, 'round the clock, but even they sometimes got homesick and called home. Bye bye more power cubes.

Useless little whiners.

There was a second reason Joe Pascal hated his wormhole generator.

The news from Earth was never good.

Ever.

News from Earth meant pain.

It was usually orders to drive deeper into enemy territory, risking the lives of every soldier under Pascal's command. To Earth, the soldiers of Apollo Brigade were cannon fodder. Just misfits and losers to send into the meat grinder. But to Joe Pascal, every soldier under his command was like a child. Sniveling, homesick, yes. But dear to him. And every life lost broke his heart.

For a long time, his actual child—his sweet Lizzy—had served in his brigade. He was the colonel. She was just a sergeant. He led the entire brigade. She had flunked out of officer school, too wild and headstrong to obey orders. For generations, the Pascal family had graduated from Julius Military Academy, the finest officer school on Earth. When Lizzy had failed, it had broken Joe Pascal's heart.

But over time, he had moved beyond that. His love for Lizzy only grew stronger every day. And whenever Pascal had to lead his brigade into battle, he worried about her so much his chest ached. That Lizzy would die in battle.

Lizzy was safe on Earth now. She would never fight again. But that did not make things easier. Now, with every battle, Pascal worried that he would die without ever saying goodbye. Without telling her how much he truly loved her.

That was usually the wormhole news from Earth. Go farther north. Fight another battle. And maybe never see your daughter again.

But today the news was different.

Today, when the wormhole shone, it was not an order.

It was a condolence note.

Colonel Pascal plugged the codechip into his minicom and stared at the message on his monitor, feeling numb.

Sweet Lizzy, who had survived so many battles on Bahay, had died on Earth.

She had not died in battle. Not even died a soldier. She had died an anti-war activist. A traitor to the military Joe Pascal loved.

He stared at the words. And all context vanished. All anger faded. Only the numb truth remained.

My daughter is dead.

He looked up at Bucky.

"Thank you, Private. Dismissed."

But the bucktoothed private just stood there. Her eyes dampened.

"Sir." She glanced at the monitor on the wall.

Pascal had forgotten that monitor. It was linked to the minicom in his hands.

It displayed the message there in large letters.

"Sir, I'm sorry," Bucky whispered. "Sergeant Lizzy trained me at boot camp. Oh, sir, I'm so sorry."

Pascal looked at the message again. He reread it. It was not sinking in.

Lizzy had been found dead in a river. She had jumped off a bridge. Committed suicide, they said.

But no. That was impossible. His Lizzy would never do that. She was a Pascal, dammit. And Pascals were fighters. He, Colonel Crazy Horse, fought in this war. And she fought against it. They had become something akin to enemies at the end. But dammit, they were both still fighters.

The words slipped out of his mouth.

"She was a prisoner of war once." He looked at Bucky, but he was staring ten thousand miles away. "The bastard slits tortured her. Took her hand. And a year later, she just came back to fight again. I thought she was so strong. So brave."

"She was!" Bucky said, taking a step closer. "She was the bravest, strongest woman I know. Maybe she didn't die on Bahay, sir. But she died in battle. I know that in my heart. She died a soldier, fighting for what she believed in."

Fighting against me, Pascal thought. Oh, my sweet Lizzy, why did you choose this new war, a war you could not win?

Pascal looked at his private again. This young woman with the buckteeth, thick glasses, and frizzy hair. And suddenly anger filled him. Rage. Why should Bucky live and Lizzy be dead? Why should so many lesser soldiers survive while his daughter, his precious angel, was gone?

He remembered the day Lizzy had been born. Remembered countless hours spent playing with the baby. Loving her every day. Watching that girl grow up into a woman, and… and then it hit him.

That she was gone.

That Lizzy was dead.

His only child.

Joe "Crazy Horse" Pascal had led armies into battle. He had killed countless enemy soldiers. Had stormed into the fire with a grin. And now tears flowed, and a sob racked his body.

Bucky embraced him. "Sir, I'm so sorry for your loss."

He held her tightly. "My daughter trained you."

Bucky nodded and sniffed. "She did."

"Then you are my child too," Pascal said. "You and Jon and George. And all the other soldiers my daughter trained. Everyone in this brigade. You are all my children."

After the private left, and Pascal was alone in his trailer, he pulled a photograph from his wallet. It was twenty years old, showing him as a younger, thinner man, his hair still dark blond instead of white. He was holding his daughter in his arms. She was laughing, eyes glinting, reaching for a butterfly.

Damn this war, Pascal thought. Damn this whole war to hell.

Maybe Lizzy had died on Earth. But this war had killed her nonetheless.

"This is my punishment," Pascal whispered to himself. "I promoted Clay Hagen to lieutenant. I sent my brigade to the villages. I caused the massacre of hundreds of innocent children. So my child was taken."

He lowered his head and wept.

Chapter Twenty-Two

On Linden Bridge

Thousands of people came to Sergeant Lizzy Pascal's funeral.

They could not all fit into the cemetery. They filled the streets of Lindenville, weeping, watching her hearse drive by.

Billions watched across Earth and her colonies.

Kaelyn stood at the graveside, dressed in black. The breeze billowed her hair and dried her tears, but more tears kept flowing. She had buried Paul here, the man she loved. Now she was burying her best friend.

Paul died on Bahay, she thought. Lizzy died on Earth, but she died in battle. She died in this war. She died fighting for Earth.

Drones hovered above, filming the funeral, broadcasting it across the Human Commonwealth. Other drones hovered outside the cemetery, filming the crowds. People had come from across the world. Some chanted to end the war. Others shouted that Lizzy Pascal had been a traitor.

Walking toward the cemetery that morning, Kaelyn had seen their signs across Lindenville. She had heard their voices.

"Ding dong, the witch is dead!"

"Burn in hell, Lizzy the Louse!"

"Lizzy Loved Slits—good riddance!"

"Support our troops! Bury all traitors!"

Alongside them, other voices.

"War no more!"

"Bring our soldiers home!"

"Lock Hale up! Lock Hale up!"

Kaelyn had ignored them all. She had walked down the streets of Lindenville, her beloved hometown, as protesters shouted, jeered, tossed refuse at her. The police had walked around her, riots shields raised. The same police that had gunned down protesters on these very streets, the police that had tossed her into jail—they were now protecting her.

Finally Kaelyn had come to the grave of her friend. And since then the tears would not stop flowing.

As the drones hovered around her, broadcasting her to billions, Kaelyn began to sing.

She sang a song Jon had written a year ago. She sang "Broken Things," a song off Falling Like the Rain, the rock opera Jon had been writing for Symphonica. A rock opera never completed. The entire album was bittersweet, but "Broken Things" was his saddest song.

It was a song of lights going dark. Of leaves falling off autumn trees. Of raindrops on a cold morning of despair. Of boys and girls falling in war.

Jon had written this song before Paul had died. Before he had become a soldier. But Jon had known, even then. He had understood the pain of loss.

For years, we dreamed of fame for Symphonica, Kaelyn thought as she sang. But not like this. Now the world hears our song.

Bedtime stories told

Songs sung in the cold

Of knights and heroes bold

And quests through forests

To steal a dragon's gold

They shatter like waves on the shore

And music boxes that play no more

Like marionettes with cut strings

Like childhood dreams

And many other broken things

When boys and girls come home

Hearses row by row

Along the last road

A tale they were never told

Falling like the rain

We're falling like the rain

* * * * *

Kaelyn walked across Central Park, leading a hundred thousand souls.

The drones broadcast her face across the world. Billions saw it. Her red hair billowing in the wind. Her mismatched eyes, one blue and one brown, glaring in defiance. Her freckled face, once so innocent, as delicate as porcelain and as hard as marble. Kaelyn Williams, only seventeen years old. The face of the anti-war movement sweeping across Earth. She had not begun this movement. But she gave it a voice.

Behind her, the crowd raised placards and posters. Some showed photographs from Santa Rosa—heartbreaking scenes of the massacre. Other signs displayed slogans—hopeful, angry, wistful. Other placards featured a painting of Lizzy Pascal, chin raised, her blond braid flowing in the wind.

Kaelyn was perhaps the movement's new figurehead. But Lizzy had become its martyr.

"Justice for Lizzy Pascal!" somebody cried out.

A chant swept across the crowd. "Justice for Lizzy! Justice for Lizzy!"

Kaelyn kept walking, leading the procession among the trees and flowerbeds.

They found you dead in a river, Kaelyn thought. They said you committed suicide, jumped off a bridge. I don't believe that for a second.

Nor did anyone else in the crowd.

We will get justice for you, Lizzy, Kaelyn vowed. But right now, you are underground, a victim of our fight. And another brave woman is alive and needs my help.

She came to stand before the Ivory Tower, the grand skyscraper of President Hale.

A thousand policemen surrounded it, carrying riot shields and rifles. Helicopters flew above. A few tanks rumbled toward the protesters.

Kaelyn knew they might open fire. She had seen them gun down the people of Lindenville. But she came to face them nonetheless.

A young girl, slender and pale, Kaelyn stood before this mighty monolith, the center of this great galactic power.

She raised her megaphone, and she spoke to the president—and to the world.

"We demand Etty's release!"

The crowd cheered.

"Free Etty! Free Etty!"

Kaelyn spoke louder, chin raised. "We demand justice! Clay Hagen and his soldiers raped, murdered, and mutilated five hundred souls—and they did not spend a day in prison. Corporal Ettinger told the world—and was sentenced to life in prison!"

"Injustice!" a man cried.

"Free Etty!"

"Free Etty!"

"Free Etty!" Kaelyn repeated. "She committed a crime, yes. She leaked information, yes. But only to expose a far greater crime. What kind of world celebrates murderers and locks up those who speak of murder? We demand justice! We demand freedom for Etty!"

The next day, Kaelyn led another march.

This time to the penitentiary where Etty was imprisoned. For hours, the crowds surrounded the prison. Chanting. Raising signs with Etty's face. Demanding her release.

The drones kept filming. Around the world, they saw Etty. Her gentle face, her skin light brown, her eyes startlingly large and green. An Israeli war orphan, only sixteen, who lied about her age to join the military, to fight for Earth. A girl who fought to stop the massacre at Santa Rosa village. Who told the world of Earth's crimes. Who had been brought back to Earth in chains, tossed into a prison, and left to rot.

I've never met you, Etty, Kaelyn thought as she chanted. But you're a friend to George and Jon. And so you are a friend to me. And you're a greater heroine than I could ever be.

Every day they chanted.

Every day they marched.

And President Hale was defiant. And the war continued.

Every night, Kaelyn sat alone in her apartment. The apartment she had once shared with Lizzy. And she watched the news.

The bombing of Bahay was only intensifying.

"We will never surrender!" Hale boomed in his speeches. "We will smite the enemy and liberate Bahay. We will win!"

Kaelyn sat before her television, tears streaming down her face, watching Earth's starships bomb Bahay from orbit. Watched the fire blooming over the rainforests. Watched the poison rain. Watched the countless innocents die.

Three million dead and counting, she thought. Half of Bahay's population—gone.

"This is more than a war," she whispered in the shadows, only the monitor's light washing over her. "This is genocide."

She remembered her history books. She thought about the Alien Wars a century ago. Back then, humanity had fought united. Einav Ben-Ari, the Golden Lioness, had led Earth and her colonies against alien empires. She had taken a beaten, bleeding, brutalized world and built a galactic power. Today, years later, Ben-Ari's legacy remained. Earth, once such a fragile world, ruled with impunity across multiple star systems, and no alien power could threaten her fleets.

There were no more aliens to fight.

So humans fought humans.

Is that the kind of species we are? Kaelyn wondered. Must we always fight? If we cannot fight an external foe, will we always fight one another?

Humans had evolved in the wilderness. Kaelyn's ancestors had huddled in huts and caves, afraid, for great beasts roamed the world. Powerful bears with mighty claws. Saber-tooth tigers with a hunger for flesh. Ravenous crocodiles in rivers, and bloodthirsty sharks in the sea. Everywhere—an enemy.

Humans had no powerful fangs, no sharp claws, no thick fur to shield them. They were weaker, smaller, slower.

So they became cruel.

They became experts at cruelty.

With spears and arrows, they fought back against nature. And they won. They smote the larger, stronger predators, drove them to near extinction, and swarmed across the world. Weak, naked humans, the prey animals, the betas… with their cruelty, they became Earth's deadliest apex predators.

Fear, humans learned, fueled the greatest cruelty. And humans had plenty of fear to draw on.

Nature was conquered. And for thousands of years, humans fought humans. All their cruelty, their ingenuity, their fear and hunger and rage, this quiver of arrows collected over generations of bitter survival—they turned it upon one another.

For thousands of years, humans drenched their world with blood. Genocides and wars, conquest and colonization, murder and despair. With every new tool, every new technology, human deadliness increased. With a crescendo of violence, the twentieth century erupted with bloodshed like never before. Murder became industrialized, and factories of death pumped their fumes over dark forests.

We needed the aliens, Kaelyn thought. Without them, we'd have driven ourselves extinct.

The aliens came. Just when humanity needed them most.

The Scolopendra titaniae, giant alien centipedes from deep space. They brutalized the world. The marauders followed, gargantuan spiders from another world. Then the grays, bloodthirsty humanoids. Than the nightmarish cyborgs and machines of perverted intelligence. For a horrible century, horrors from the darkness flowed across Earth.

Billions died. But the survivors united.

Humans had conquered other life forms on Earth. Then they conquered life in space.

So now again, their enemies exhausted, they were turning upon one another.

Now Kaelyn sat before the monitor, watching the bombs fall. Watching fear turn into cruelty. Watching humans kill humans.

"And there are no aliens to save us," Kaelyn whispered.

She remembered President Ben-Ari's last warning. Kaelyn had been only a toddler when the fabled Golden Lioness, by then an elderly woman, had vanished. But Kaelyn still remembered.

Ben-Ari had spoken to humanity.

"A new enemy is coming," the legendary president of Earth had warned. "A horror from another galaxy. I won't be here to face it. You must prepare. I pass you the torch of humanity. Keep it burning bright."

But that had been fifteen years ago. And no aliens had ever arrived. No invasion from another galaxy was washing over the Milky Way. Sometimes Kaelyn thought only such an invasion could unite humanity again.

The aliens aren't here, she thought. And neither is our Golden Lioness. But I am. And I can keep fighting Lizzy's war. If I save even one life, it's worthwhile.

* * * * *

The next morning, she led her people to Linden Bridge.

Named after Addison Linden, a heroine of the Alien Wars, the double-decked bridge spanned the Hudson. Addy had once fought in the ruins of New York. Today the city rose again, and its finest bridge bore her name. It was among the busiest bridges on Earth.

And today Kaelyn stood here, blocking it.

She stood before a swarm of honking, shouting drivers.

Across all lanes, her followers stood too.

People of all types had come.

Some protesters added a bit of theater. They wore fake blood, or even fake army uniforms. They carried dolls of babies, pretending to kill them, to drink their blood. Kaelyn could have done without those displays.

But those were only a few people. Other people wore the uniforms of nurses, construction workers, businessmen. Some were elderly. Some were schoolchildren. Many were veterans. They limped on crutches, sat in wheelchairs, or walked with straight backs but haunted eyes.

The cars all honked. Drivers got out and shouted and cursed.

Kaelyn raised her megaphone.

"We demand the release of conscientious objectors! We demand the release of all Filipinos imprisoned on Earth for nothing more than their heritage! And we demand the release of Corporal Ettinger!"

The crowd cried out: "Free Etty! Free Etty!"

Suddenly—an ambulance siren began to wail.

Kaelyn saw it across the bridge, lights flashing. It could not get through.

Why weren't they using a helicopter?

Kaelyn cursed. These days, helicopters and shuttles normally served as ambulances. Wheeled ambulances were of a bygone era. Was this just a decoy? A way to shame her? To break up her demonstration?

Kaelyn couldn't risk it.

She cried to her fellow protesters: "Stand back! Let the ambulance through. Sta—"

Rumbling engines and shrieking wind drowned her words. Kaelyn stumbled back, the air blasting her face, whipping her clothes.

Helicopters were descending.

Police helicopters. Armored men leaned out the sides, holding rifles. One policeman spoke into a megaphone.

"Protesters, disperse now!"

"Friends, fall back!" Kaelyn cried.

But barely anyone could hear her. The bridge had two decks. Sixteen lanes. Thousands of protesters.

"Disperse now or we will open fire!"

The ambulance sirens sang.

Kaelyn stared up in dread.

And the helicopters opened fire.

Protesters screamed and fell, riddled with bullets. Blood spilled across the bridge. Everyone began screaming, fleeing. One car drove forward and plowed into three protesters, tossing them into the air. One man fell off the bridge, and the helicopters opened fire again, and the ambulance wailed.

Kaelyn stood there. Silent. Still. The world seemed a haze.

She blinked.

She was back in Lindenville. Watching her friends die.

She blinked again. And a man was crawling toward her, bleeding, a hole in his face.

Bullets streaked overhead. Police raced across the bridge toward her. And Kaelyn snapped out of her paralysis and ran.

She hid behind a car as bullets peppered it. But this was no armored military vehicle. The bullets were tearing through the car and hitting the pavement around her. She ran at a crouch, moving to the next car. People ran everywhere. Falling. Dying. A few jumped off the bridge, but they would not survive the fall into the river, not from this height.

Kaelyn reached a truck full of horses. The animals were neighing, kicking, desperate to break free. Protesters were fleeing by, racing around the truck, between the cars. A helicopter thundered above and strafed the bridge.

People fell.

Bullets tore through windshields. Drivers slumped down dead.

The guns ripped through horses, and the animals fell, and one broke free and galloped across the bridge.

Kaelyn crawled around a dead horse and hid under the truck. She covered her head, trembling, as horse blood flowed around her, as a huge black eye stared at her, ringed with lashes.

* * * * *

Over three hundred people died at the Linden Bridge Massacre.

The drones, which had flown there to record the protest, had filmed everything.

That evening, Kaelyn huddled in her apartment, trembling, pale. And on the television, she watched the president's approval rating drop two percent.

The next day, Etty was freed. And his approval rating went back up to normal.

So that's what it took to free one woman, Kaelyn thought. Three hundred lives. And two percent.

She waited for Etty outside the prison. The girl was an orphan. But she was not alone.

The world is here for you, Etty, Kaelyn thought.

The girl stepped outside the prison, blinking in the sunlight. With her petite frame and messy black hair, she looked ordinary. She was not a tall, blond warrior like Lizzy, all fierce beauty like a Valkyrie of legend. Perhaps not striking like Kaelyn, with her porcelain skin, flowing red hair, and crystal voice. Not what you'd expect from a heroine of the resistance, she who had sacrificed her freedom to speak the truth.

But then Etty looked across the dusty yard, and she made eye contact with Kaelyn.

A bolt shot through Kaelyn. She saw strength, iron will, and compassion in those large green eyes. Mesmerizing eyes, their vivid color in sharp contrast to her dusky skin. Eyes so bright they were almost luminous.

Kaelyn stepped toward her.

"Etty, hello! I'm Kaelyn Williams. George's sister. And Jon's friend. You're a heroine of mine—and of many. It's an honor to meet you."

"Oh, I know who you are." Etty smiled, eyes sparkling. "George and Jon would never shut up about you. Neither does the television." She winked.

The two women embraced for a long time.

Hundreds had died on the bridge. Millions were dying on Bahay. But here—here was a little victory.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A View from Above

The general took her to banquets. He took her on helicopter rides to view the crystal islands in the eastern sea. He bought her jewels and perfumes and gowns, and he danced with her at the military galas. At every event, he told her that she shined. That she was the most beautiful woman in the room. She was his trophy. His rose. His pet.

And every day, Maria's belly swelled a little more. And she inched a little closer to death.

She kept her fake diamond on her choker, and the little device inside kept recording. But she dared not ask General Ward again about the bombed villages. About the massacres. About his role. Not after last time. After he had choked her, nearly extinguished her life.

I stepped too far, and I got burned, she thought. But I cannot wait much longer. I'm running out of time. And so is Jon.

The military's high command still lived in splendor. The senior officers still wined, dined, and whored. But Maria saw the nervousness in their eyes. After meetings in the war rooms, she could smell the fear.

The war is going badly. They kill and kill but cannot win. I must strike at the right time and place—and they will shatter.

"Why do you keep me around?" she asked the general one night.

They were sitting in his home by the fireplace, sharing an armchair. He was reading a leather-bound book by Vegetius and savoring a cup of wine. Maria was curled up against him. Her only job at these times, she knew, was to be there beside him. To offer her femininity and warmth. To be a soothing presence like the crackling fire, little more than a kitten for him to absentmindedly stroke.

Perhaps this is what men crave most, Maria thought. A warm fire. A cup of wine. A good book. A nurturing woman at their side. They conquer worlds and build empires, but at the end of the day, this is all they truly want.

"Pardon?" Ward looked at her.

"Why me? You could have any woman on Bahay. Or multiple women if you wanted them. You call me the most beautiful among them, but that's not true. Why me? My mother always said my head was too big, that I asked too many questions. Last time I asked questions you got angry. You could find another girl, a demure and silly girl who would never make you angry. Why did you choose me?"

He placed down his cup of wine, and he closed his book. For a long time he was silent, gazing into the fireplace.

Then he spoke softly to the flames. "'Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.' Seneca wrote that long ago. You are alive, Maria. In a world of death, your life blazes hotter than this fire. And your courage casts more light than Sargas, Bahay's fiery sun."

She lowered her head. "I'm often afraid."

He turned toward her. "Were you afraid when you fought with the Kalayaan? When you killed Earthlings? Were you afraid when you served in the Bargirl Bureau, smuggling leaked information to Earth?"

She leaped off the couch. Her eyes darted, seeking a weapon. She knew the game was over. That he would kill her now. That her mission had ended. This was the checkmate.

But Ward made no move. He did not draw a gun. Did not clutch her throat. He merely sat there on the armchair, gazing at the fire. The light painted his craggy face.

"Yes, Maria, I know. Know your enemy. Those are words I live by. Why did I choose you, Maria? Because you are my enemy. And you are courageous. And you live."

She stared at him, her back to the wall. "Are you going to kill me?"

He finally rose from his armchair. He approached her, cornered her. He was twice her size. She pushed herself flat against the wall, trapped. He loomed above her, reached down, and caressed her cheek.

"I would sooner burn the galaxy than see your light extinguished."

She couldn't help it. She gave a crooked smile. "Is that something Seneca wrote too?"

He smiled thinly. "If only I were as eloquent as him! That line is one of my own." He held her hand. "Come with me, Maria. I'll show you the heavens like you've never seen them. Go put on your Orion silk. You will shine among the stars."

She wore the silk, and she placed the choker around her neck. She touched the fake diamond, a nervous habit, then took the general's arm.

This time, he didn't order them a limo or helicopter.

He took her to a grove of trees behind his home. They were oak trees, imported all the way from Earth, merely to create a little illusion of home. It must have cost a fortune to import oak trees, when the local pagluna or mamula trees, common across the city, would have looked just as fair. But Little Earth took its name seriously.

Past the oaks they found a bamboo pavilion. It was so large its thatched roof could shade a thousand people. Here, tucked away from the world, awaited the general's fleet.

In many ways, the general was a humble man. His brigadiers and colonels, though lower in rank, peacocked with larger tails. They lived in large homes. They constantly boasted of victories, both in battle and bed. They wore so many medals they looked like walking trophy cases. General Ward was different. His home was smaller. He dined on simpler fare, often preferring a local fish to filet mignon imported from Earth. He wore no flashy pins or medals, keeping them in his drawers rather than upon his breast.

But now Maria saw his vice.

Vehicles. A dozen or more luxury vehicles, their hulls trimmed with gold. Figureheads of unicorns and goddesses leaped on their prows.

"Are they limousines?" Maria frowned. "Wait, they have folding wings. Fancy planes?"

"Space shuttles," the general said. "Not military ones. Civilian shuttles—from the best manufacturers in the galaxy. My own personal collection. Walk between them! Choose the one you like best."

Maria looked at him, then back at the vehicles. She couldn't help it. Even here, even with him, she smiled.

The shuttles were beautiful, each one crafted like a sculpture. And each was different. One shuttle was graceful and curvy like a woman, her white hull filigreed with gold. Her figurehead was shaped like a mermaid, one arm raised, pointing to the stars. Maria ran her hand along the hull, caressing those curves. Another shuttle was covered with gears, pipes, and crystals. It was a strange machine of brass and tin, perhaps an antique. A third shuttle was black and commanding, a vessel like a panther prowling the forest, and indeed a silver panther leaped from her prow. Maria was almost scared to touch it.

The general walked beside her as she explored the shuttles. "I have no children of my own, Maria. These are my children."

"They're beautiful," she said. "They sure beat rickshaws."

He smiled thinly. "Which is your favorite?"

She reached one shuttle in the shade of an oak. Its hull was shaped like a spiral, glimmering white and silver. She stroked it. It felt like stroking a seashell. The cockpit flowed out from the shell like a peeking hermit crab.

"This one is my favorite," Maria said.

"Ah!" the general said. "An interesting choice. This is the only shuttle here that is not human-made. This is a Menorian shuttle."

Maria ran her hand along the spiral hull. "Are those aliens?"

"Indeed they are. The Menorians are allies of Earth. They dwell in an ocean world many light-years away. They're an aquatic species, living in vast underwater cities. I've been to one of their cities, years ago. I saw crystal towers that rise in the ocean, glimmering among schools of fish. I saw palaces that rival any of Earth's wonders."

"And I've never even left Bahay," Maria said. "Hell, I've never even left this one island on Bahay. I've seen a few aliens in Mindao. Outcasts and outlaws. They're pretty rare. I saw one recently that looked like a potato." She smiled at the memory of the jewelry shop guard. "I'm not sure I've ever seen a Menorian, though. What do Menorians look like? Do they have spiral shells like this shuttle?"

"Actually, no," the general said. "The Menorians had shells long ago, in a different geological era, back when they were a humbler species. In those days, many predators preyed upon them. Today the Menorians are a proud, intergalactic species, mollusks who no longer need a protective shell. But some of the old ways remain. They still climb onto islands to lay eggs—a relic from their ancient past when ocean predators preyed upon their young. And they still shape their homes, their furniture, and even their shuttles like spiraling shells. The same shells their ancestors grew." The general passed his hand over the shuttle. "Each shell is a perfect Fibonacci spiral, down to the last millimeter. Astounding precision. And they build these shuttles using only ancient tools, no modern computers."

"What do they look like without shells?" Maria said, thinking back to a sea slug she had once seen on the beach.

"They look a little like Earth's octopuses," the general said. "Interestingly, they have no mouths. They ingest food through filters in their tentacles."

"No mouths!" Maria's own mouth hung open. "So how do they speak?"

"They have no spoken language. Instead they communicate by changing colors. Their skin can take on thousands of different hues and patterns. They've developed colors into an entire language. They even have a written language. Instead of writing letters, they paint colors on stones and shells. Every sentence they write is a painting."

The starship's coiling hull, Maria noticed, glimmered in different colors depending on how the light caught it. "How wonderful! And can this shuttle really fly? Or is it just for display?"

"The original controls were built for seven arms," the general said. "But I've ripped out the original dashboard, replacing it with a human-friendly interface. Would you like to go on a flight?"

Maria couldn't help but smile. She was here undercover. Here on a mission. But now she felt as giddy as a girl.

To actually fly into space!

She nodded wordlessly.

They entered the alien shuttle alone. No security guards. No staff. They settled down in the cockpit, which the general had fitted with human seats.

The general fired up the engines. Maria sat beside him, nervous birds fluttering through her belly. She had never been to space. Hell, for all she knew, no Bahayan since the first colonists ever had.

"Ready?" The general looked at her, mischief in his eyes.

She nodded. "Show me the stars."

He shoved down a lever, and the shuttle rose.

This was nothing like a helicopter ride.

It was worse. Far, far worse.

The shuttle soared so fast it shoved Maria into her seat. She gasped for air, could barely breathe. It felt like being suffocated again. The engines roared. They were streaking upward. Fast. So fast. An invisible pressure was crushing her. She tried to look out the porthole, maybe to see the city from above. She couldn't even move her head.

The shuttle was roaring upward in a straight line, riding on a jet of fire. Through the windshield she saw swirling clouds, flashes of lightning, and a few other shuttles rising and falling, leaving trails of light.

And then they tore through the clouds and burst into space.

The weight lifted. The shuttle steadied. And she could breathe again.

And there it was. All around her. Space.

She looked, and tears flowed down her cheeks.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, tasting her salty tears.

She had seen the stars and moons from the surface before. But never this bright, never this close. The twin moons hovered outside—she felt like she could reach out and grasp them. The Milky Way's spiraling arm spread across the heavens, a luminous path. And the stars—more stars than she had ever seen shone all around her.

"It really is splendid," the general said. "I've flown among the stars countless times. And every time it takes my breath away."

"Can you show me Bahay from here?" She leaned toward the porthole. "It must be directly below us."

The general nudged the yoke, and the shuttle spun around.

And there it was. Bahay.

Her planet. They flew just far enough to see the entire globe.

"It's so… empty," Maria said. "It's mostly water."

The general nodded. "Bahay is an ocean world. Ninety-nine percent water. A few islands, that's all."

She leaned against the window and gasped. "That blob of light there! On the biggest island! That's Mindao, isn't it?" She exhaled slowly. "We were just there moments ago. Now we're so far away."

He nodded. "That is Mindao. A little sea of light on a dark empty world. That is like humanity, Maria. Just a little blob of light in the vast darkness."

"Even Earth?" she asked.

"Earth might seem mighty next to Bahay, but Earth is just a small world, a fledgling empire. Would you like to see it?"

She laughed. "Are you going to take me to Earth tonight? I might be just a simple Bahayan girl. But I know that there's a big difference between flying a few hundred kilometers above Bahay and flying three hundred light-years away."

"I don't need to take you all the way." He turned the shuttle around. "See there? That constellation that looks like a wagon wheel?"

She nodded. "We call it the milk bowl constellation on Bahay."

"Look at the leftmost star. Then a little bit up and to the right. See a faint little light? You can't see it from Bahay's surface. But it's visible from here above the atmosphere."

She nodded. "Yes, that little yellow star."

"That's Sol," Ward said. "That's Earth's sun. I lied. You can't see Earth herself from here. But you can see her star, and to me, she is the most beautiful star in the sky."

"She's your Maria," she said. "She is one among a million. She is what you crave, what you can touch, control, tame, but never fully own. She is the last rose of summer."

The general looked at her. "Would you like to fly the shuttle?"

Maria blinked at him. "Would you like to die in a flaming wreck? Because if you let me fly, that's what's gonna happen."

"Space is the safest place to travel. There's nothing to crash into."

Maria pointed. "Aside from a giant planet."

"Try it. It's no harder than riding a bike."

"I've never ridden a bike!"

He took her hand and placed it on the yoke. "Here. Fly."

She nudged the yoke left. And suddenly the shuttle was spinning madly. Bahay rolled around them. Maria sucked in breath, nudged the yoke to the right, and their spin slowed. Slowly, she gained control and steadied the craft.

"Down on the surface, a vehicle has only four directions to go," the general said. "Forward, back, left, and right. Here in space, you have twice as many directions. Forward. Back. Pitch up. Pitch down. Roll left. Roll right. Yaw left. Yaw right. You'll need to grab this shaft too, and learn these buttons."

Maria nodded. The controls seemed overwhelming, but if the general could fly this shuttle, she would learn too. "Teach me."

He showed her, and she experimented. Soon she learned the difference between pitching, rolling, and yawing. She learned how to control the thruster. And soon she was flying. She was actually flying!

"It's wonderful," she whispered.

The general spoke softly, reciting a poem.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.

Where never lark, or even eagle flew —

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

– Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Maria looked at him. "That's lovely."

"I wish those words were my own," said the general. "They are by John Gillespie Magee Jr. A pilot in the Second World War. He died at age nineteen. No older than you."

Maria increased the thrust, just a bit, and glided forward, orbiting her planet. Yes, Bahay seemed small from here. And yet simultaneously, Maria realized how large the planet truly was. All her life, she had lived in a small part of a single island. Now she could see vast oceans, countless other islands, and icy poles.

Even from up here, she could see the war.

Smoke rose from a thousand fires. Gray patches spread where once forests had grown. She could see no troops. No humans. No borders. Just ruin. From up here, the wars of men seemed so petty, so pointless, their destruction so wanton and wasteful.

And then, as the shuttle flew over the horizon, she saw nothing but ocean. An entire hemisphere of blue water and white clouds, as beautiful and pristine as a summer dawn.

"Bahay, our homeworld," she whispered. "Our pale blue marble."

Something caught her eye.

She stared ahead into space.

She gasped and nearly sent the shuttle plunging into fiery death.

Starships flew ahead! A hundred or more!

Some were small, perhaps only shuttles or starfighters, barely larger than jeepneys. Other starships were gargantuan. They were motherships, as large as skyscrapers.

"Thousands of soldiers must live inside those starships," she whispered. "They're the size of my apartment building in Mindao."

She had never seen technology so grand. Machines this size that could fly among the stars! What chance did Bahay have fighting these gods?

And beyond the starships…

"A space station!" Maria's eyes widened. "I didn't even know there was a space station above Bahay. You can't see it from the surface."

She was sounding naive. Innocent. Maybe even stupid. The general laughed and patted her. Perhaps he found it charming. It was no act. Maria stared with true awe.

The space station was shaped like a spinning top. A wide disk formed the bulk of the station, shining with a thousand windows. It reminded Maria of a mushroom's cap. A transparent bulb topped the upper surface, and Maria could see people inside, moving back and forth, so small. Below the disk, a stem stretched downward, pointing at the planet.

This space station was the size of a city. A marvel of technology. The most incredible machine Maria had ever seen.

She lowered her head.

So much money, so much ambition—all to kill us, she thought. Such wonders of technology—shining above mountains of dead.

The general stared at the station, and the lights reflected in his eyes. He spoke softly. "Mother's Womb."

Maria frowned. "Pardon?"

She tensed, placed a hand on her belly. Was she showing already? Did he know? But when he spoke again, she relaxed.

"The space station," he said. "It's official name is Bahay Orbital Observation Station One. But nobody calls it. An artificial intelligence named Dark Mother runs the space station. She monitors all systems, keeps the station alive, and manages the thousands of soldiers who serve there. So we call the station Mother's Womb."

"An artificial intelligence," Maria said. "You mean a robot?"

"Dark Mother is the station itself. Everything that you see is her body." He looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and gave a crooked smile. "Would you like to enter Mother's Womb?"

No. She did not want to enter that machine of death. She wanted to see it burn and fall from the sky. She wanted every soldier on board, every murderer, every demon to die.

They live in the sky, while we die on the ground, Maria thought. But I will live to see this station burn.

She could not express her rage to the general. It was the rage of Maria de la Cruz. So she let Candy speak.

"I would love to! It's wonderful. Can you show me inside, sir?"

He reached out, stroked her hair. "Such a sweet little liar. You feign such marvelous vapidness. Yes, Maria. I see the hatred in your eyes. I see the fear. I see the ghosts. If you could, you would burn this station down—and me with it. But I'll show you that we're more than demons. Dark Mother will welcome you into her womb. And Mother Earth will welcome you into her empire."

"You don't have to sway me," Maria said. "I'm just a girl, not the Red Cardinal."

He held her hand. Tightly. A clamp. "You are the heart of Bahay, little rose. You are all that is precious and defiant and delicate, a shivering rose in a storm, her thorns pricked with blood. You will grow in my garden."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mother's Womb

Maria flew the shuttle toward Mother's Womb, the space station orbiting her world, the grand fortress of Earth's high command.

An airlock opened before her. She engaged her reverse thruster, slowed down, and glided toward the entrance.

General Ward sat beside her. He wrapped his hand around hers, helping her control the yoke. The shuttle slid into the space station, the general flipped on the stabilizers, and they landed in a hangar.

"My little rose, you're a natural pilot," the general said.

He popped the hatch, and they exited the shuttle.

A few noncom soldiers were in the hangar. They were inspecting starfighters, refueling a shuttle, sweeping the floor, and tending to a dozen other daily tasks. When they saw the general, they dropped their tools, slammed their heels together, and saluted. Maria looked at the young Earthlings, and she wanted to ask if they knew Jon. But they stared ahead blankly, carefully avoiding eye contact. A bead of sweat dripped down one mechanic's brow.

They fear him more than I do, Maria thought. And I fear him very much.

He walked with her through the station. He showed her rooms full of marines, rows and rows of elite soldiers who stood at attention, clad in deep blue armor, their yellow visors hiding their faces. He showed her the dining lounge where grand windows stretched from floor to ceiling, displaying a dizzying view. As the space station rotated lazily, the view kept changing. One moment the windows revealed deep space, then the planet's surface, then space again. Lights shone and flashed outside. A glowing nebula. A meteorite falling to the planet. A comet traveling by, flaming red and blue. Racing starfighters, leaving luminous wakes. Starships floating between the blue and silver moons.

The general bought her a drink. They sat and gazed upon these splendorous sights, and Maria thought she could watch this cosmic show forever.

But then they left the lounge. He took her to a menagerie, which Ward called his favorite place in the station. Here he kept his trophies from a hundred conquered worlds. Aliens huddled inside glass enclosures. Those who had heads hung them low. Those who had eyes peered at Maria with heartbreaking sadness.

Aliens of all kinds languished in cages. Mollusks withered on boulders, sometimes reaching out a tentacle to drink from a puddle. Furry critters with many legs coiled around branches, each limb tipped with its own eyeball and mouth. An enormous flower bloomed, reaching vines toward a dangling pig carcass, nibbling the meal without much appetite. One enclosure held only rocks, but then one rock opened a mouth, revealing a red gullet lined with teeth. Its belly ballooned outward like bubble gum, wrapped around a mouse, then pulled the meal back into its stony body. Other aliens were like living musical instruments. They plucked fleshy cords like guitar strings, they beat membranes of skin like drums, and tapped bony growths like piano keys. Their song was so sad that Maria shed tears.

"Are they prisoners?" she said.

The general only laughed. "They're animals, my little rose. This is no different from keeping a chimp or elephant in a cage."

But some of these aliens, like the blue humanoids who languished in a moldy puddle, looked at Maria with wise eyes. Some shed tears. They were more than mindless animals. Maria could tell. They were sentient. Maybe as intelligent as humans. But they had no voice.

"At least you put these aliens in cages," she said softly. "When it comes to Bahayans, you just kill."

She had gone too far again. Farther than ever before. She knew this. He did not strike her, did not choke her. But he gripped her hand tightly, nearly crushing her fingers.

"We Earthlings may cage aliens," he said. "But you Bahayans serve them!"

He pulled her toward a glass display down the hall. And Maria gasped.

She saw Santelmos inside.

They weren't much larger than Crisanto, who still hid in her pocket. Barely larger than dandelion puffs. But while Crisanto shone brightly, at least when awake and out in the air, these Santelmos glowed dimly. They seemed barely able to hover, like balloons running out of helium. The aliens kept dipping toward the bottom of the enclosure. But whenever they hit the floor, electricity sparked, and they floated up again.

"They're sick," Maria said. "They shouldn't be so dim. And they need a dark place to sleep! Even just a hollow log or hole in the wall. And are you feeding them? They can eat soil or leaves or moss, anything with organic nutrients. They'll die like this!"

The general stared through the glass at the trapped Santelmos. "Oh, my dear, I know how to keep them alive. For a very long time."

"They're babies," she whispered. "Look at how small they are."

"They are enemy aliens who've been helping the Red Cardinal," the general said. "For that they must suffer. Watch, my little rose. Watch the justice of Earth."

He flipped a switch on the wall.

Electricity flooded the enclosure.

The young Santelmos fluttered back and forth, shocked again and again. And they began to scream.

Maria had never heard Crisanto make a sound. She had not realized these aliens could make sounds.

She reached toward the switch, wanting to flick it off. But Ward caught her wrist. The electricity kept pumping.

"Look at them, little rose." He gripped her head, turned it toward the pane of glass. "See how they suffer. They fought against me. This is my justice."

"Stop hurting them," she whispered, still trapped in his grip. "Please."

He released her. She bolted forward and hit the switch. The electricity died, and the Santelmos seemed to wilt. They glided toward the floor, seemed to remember it was electric, then hovered up again, dimmer than ever.

"This is what happens to my enemies," the general said. "You do not want to be my enemy."

Maria spun toward him. She could not curb her anger. "You're brave when it comes to hurting babies, aren't you? But when adult Santelmos attacked your forces, they butchered you!"

He pulled her away from the glass pane. "Come with me."

She struggled. But he dragged her down the starship corridors. Every soldier they passed stood at attention. Maria looked at them pleadingly, but nobody would meet her eyes, let alone help.

Ward dragged her into a cabin, and he locked the door behind him. There was a bed, a table with a bowl of fruit, and huge windows facing planet Bahay. A fireplace crackled, a katana rested on the mantle, and leather-bound books covered a shelf. Clearly, these were General Ward's personal quarters aboard the space station.

"Do you see this katana above my fireplace?" he said. "It belonged to a samurai, centuries ago. Generations of owners have maintained the blade. Oiled and polished it so no rust can grow. It is precious to me. When I see a treasure I admire, I take good care of it. I never let it go."

Pointedly, he released her wrist.

Maria rubbed it and stared at him.

"Are you going to trap me in a cage too?" she said. "Or am I no longer your treasure, and you'll toss me into the fire?"

He stepped closer. She took a step back. He advanced toward her, and Maria kept retreating until her back hit the window. The stars shone behind her. The general loomed before her. With one hand, he gripped her waist. With the other, he stroked her hair.

"No, Maria, I won't hurt you. I'm going to make love to you. Get undressed. Now."

She looked away. "I'm not Maria, I'm Candy, and—"

He pulled her face back toward him. "You are Maria de la Cruz, and you are mine. For too long, you refused me. You give me your mouth and your hand, yet you still keep your legs closed. Do you open them only for the man who impregnated you?"

The words hit Maria like a slap. "I…" Her tongue felt so thick. She could not form words.

"Did you think I don't know, Maria?" he said. "That I didn't notice you turning away wine? That you keep putting a hand on your belly? That your belly is slowly swelling?"

Tears filled her eyes. "Please, sir. Forgive me. I didn't know what to say."

"I don't care," the general said. "If I did, I'd have driven my fist into your belly long ago, aborting the brat inside you. I'm not a monster, despite what you think. I would never demand that you kill a child. But I do demand honesty."

Maria finally dared meet his gaze. "All right, sir. Let's be honest. Both of us. I'm pregnant, and the father is an Earthling soldier. His name is Jon, and he's fighting in the north, an infantryman in the Apollo Brigade. And I love him." A tear rolled down her cheek. "That was me being honest. And now, sir, be honest with me too."

Though she quivered, she would not look away. She held his gaze though every second felt like a battle. She felt like the Santelmos inside the glass case, and his eyes ripped through her with electric rage.

"What do you want to know?" Ward said.

She kept her eyes locked on his. "Did you order the bombing of San Luna, my village? Did you order the massacre at Santa Rosa, where an infantry platoon slaughtered five hundred women and children? Did you order the destruction of a thousand villages like them? Three million Bahayans died in this war. Is their blood on your hands?"

He stared at her in silence for a long moment.

Then he began to laugh.

"Yes, so here we've come to it at last. The question you've been dying to ask me all this time. You've whored yourself for weeks, hoping to hear me confess my crimes. Is that so?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Tell me! You promised me honesty."

"And are you being honest, little rose?" He caressed her cheek, then slowly lowered his fingers. He touched the choker around her neck. "Or are you still hiding something?"

She made to flee.

He pinned her to the window, then ripped the choker off her neck. She gasped in pain.

He held the choker, turning it, examining the light reflecting in the gemstone.

"Such a convincing forgery," Ward said. "A cubic zirconia—cut to perfectly mimic Mother Mary's Tear. You know, Maria, you almost fooled me. You probably would have fooled me had you been more careful. But I have sharp eyes. I confess: At first, I did not notice that the light reflected too dimly in your gemstone. But I did notice you touching it nervously. I did notice you removing the choker when I got too close. As if you were trying to hide something. Your little tells gave you away. You are a poor liar, my dear."

"Please—" she began.

He slapped her. Hard. Her teeth rattled in her jaw.

He dropped the choker onto the deck, then stepped down hard. The zirconia shattered. Ward knelt, and from the broken shards, he fished out the small recording device.

"Ah, just as I thought." Ward turned the recorder over and over. "A simple little device. It's been recording our conversations. Maybe even uploading them to a computer in another location. Pity that it will never record anything too juicy."

He crushed the recorder between his fingers. It reminded Maria of a man crushing a beetle.

She tried to escape.

He grabbed her, pulled her back, and shoved her onto the bed.

He began unbuckling his uniform.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he said. "Hard and fast. I'm going to keep you in my menagerie during the days, then bring you back here every night to fuck you again. You will be the crown jewel of my collection." He pulled off his shirt and began working at his pants. "You know what? I like this. Being able to speak freely. Yes, I did order the bombing of your village. And of a thousand other villages like it. I ordered millions of Bahayan women and children killed. Do you know why? Because slits are nothing but vermin and whores, and it's my job to kill them and fuck them."

Lying on the bed, Maria stared up at him. "You can't win this war," she said.

Ward placed his gun on the dresser. He shrugged. "You're right. Earth can't win this war. We can bomb you and kill you until the cows come home. And we won't win. This is an unwinnable war. I know it. The president knows it. We've known it for years."

"So why do you keep fighting?" Maria cried.

He laughed. "I enjoy it."

"Two hundred thousand Earthlings died too!" Maria said. "And more die every day! Don't you care about them? Did they die for nothing? For a war you know you can't win?"

"Not for nothing, little rose! Earth's soldiers died for a noble cause." He grinned, still undressing. "To keep the war machine going. Look around you, Maria! Look at this splendor. This space station. This luxury. The thrill of the hunt. The women. The bloodshed. The trillions of dollars that keep flowing. It's all so marvelous! I created this, Maria. And if a hundred thousand Earthlings had to die—so be it! I would let a billion more burn before I give this up—before I give you up."

He was finally naked. He approached the bed, aroused.

Lying before him, Maria gave a crooked smile.

"Thank you. That's all I needed to hear."

He snickered and lay on the bed. "Pity your little bug is smashed."

She rolled away from him. She rose from the bed, and now she was staring down at him.

"You still don't understand." She shook her head sadly.

He stared up at her. He bared his teeth. "It's time for you to shut your mouth, whore, and do your job."

"But you know I'm more than a whore. You've always known. That's what you found so attractive, so dangerously seductive. Oh, I could put on a show for you. Pretend to be a silly little bargirl, just an innocent peasant girl from the provinces, washed into the city, seeking a strong man to protect her. I could play that game, yes. And you would see right through it. Because you see through people. You understand your enemy. That's what you do."

He growled. "Yes, I saw through you at once. Your point?"

Maria laughed. "From the first day, you saw through me, knew I was more than a bargirl. You expected me, this clever girl, to be a spy. So I behaved like a spy. I led you on. I deliberately confirmed all your suspicions. I worked to gain your trust. I asked you questions when I felt I could. And I carried a recording device—which I kept nervously touching, knowing you would notice the tick. You caught me—as I knew you would. You saw through me—as you see through all your enemies. But what you didn't realize… was that I was letting you win. That I let you take my knights, my rooks, even my queen. And you never saw the last piece on the board. A sneaky little pawn behind all your defenses. You never saw my second recording device."

His eyes widened. He leaped from the bed. His fists tightened. He spoke through a clenched jaw.

"What?"

"While you slept one night," Maria said, "I read a book from your shelf. A book by Vegetius. I've seen you read it, and I became curious. Vegetius wrote: 'Those designs are best which the enemy are entirely ignorant of till the moment of execution.'"

"I'm familiar with Vegetius," he said.

Maria touched her neck. "I knew you would catch the fake zirconia. I was careful to keep touching it, drawing your attention to the forgery. But you never bothered to look at my ears."

She brushed back her hair and pulled off her left earing. She showed him the jewel.

He saw it at once. What looked like a dark gemstone was a tiny camera. And a tiny microphone.

Ward reached for it. Maria dropped the jewel. She watched Ward kneel to grab it, to smash it.

Now you kneel before me, she thought.

"It's quite too late," she said. "It already transmitted your words to the planet. My girls Pippi and Charlie are already broadcasting it across Bahay. Soon enough, your confession will reach Earth too. You're done. And so is your war. Checkmate, General Ward."

He roared and lunged at her.

Maria leaped aside.

He slammed into the tall windows, shaking but not cracking them.

They both looked at the dresser. His gun was there.

Maria raced toward it. He grabbed her legs. She pitched forward and hit the deck.

Ward reached for the gun, and she screamed and slammed into him, knocking him aside. The gun fell from the dresser. It landed on the floor, and the general reached for it. Maria kicked, and the gun clattered across the deck and vanished under the bed.

Ward didn't bother chasing it. He shoved Maria down, gripped her throat, and began to squeeze.

"This is a better way to kill you." He licked his lips. "I'm going to enjoy this."

He was still naked. Maria felt him stiffen, felt his arousal press against her thigh.

She raised her leg, slamming her thigh into his crotch.

He screamed and released her throat. Maria scampered toward the fireplace, rose to her feet, and fetched the katana off the mantle.

As the general rose to his feet, Maria drew the blade. It gleamed in the firelight, and she pointed it at her enemy.

Ward stood before her. Naked and scarred. Grinning. Madness shone in his eyes.

"You pathetic slit," he said. "The blade is dull."

"I see how your eyes dart. I see how you're blinking too much." Maria smiled crookedly. "Your little tells gave you away. You're a poor liar, my dear."

Then she screamed, tightened both hands around the hilt, and swung the katana with all her strength.

It carved through Ward from collarbone to sternum.

She tried to pull the blade back, to swing again, but it was embedded into bone. She released the hilt, stumbled back, and stared with wide eyes.

There was so much blood. It poured down his chest. Pooled on the deck.

Ward still stood, the sword stuck in his torso. He looked into her eyes.

"I love you, Maria," he whispered. "You play the game so beautifully. You are the only woman I've ever loved."

He took a step toward her. Another step. He reached out.

And then he crashed down at her feet and breathed no more.

Maria didn't waste a second. She must leave this space station at once.

She ran from the chamber.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Dark Warning

"Tell me about them. About George and Jon. Tell me everything."

They sat on the hill under the maple trees. It was Kaelyn's favorite place in Lindenville. The leaves rustled, scattering dapples of light over grass and wildflowers. The church rose beside them, bricks mottled with morning. Birds sang, squirrels raced among the branches, and children played nearby, climbing and rolling down the hillside.

It was a beautiful place. The place Kaelyn would often come to write, escaping her father's fists. The church where she had hoped to marry Paul. The bench where she had first kissed Jon. She lived in New York now across the river, but Kaelyn had wanted to come here today. To tug the chain of this anchor that bound her to childhood.

Etty sat beside her, only sixteen and already a veteran, the ghosts of war haunting her eyes. The girl looked at the trees and birds, and a tear streamed down her cheek.

She spoke softly. "My family was murdered when I was younger. A terrorist attack."

Kaelyn held her hand. "I know."

"So they sent me to live in America. In the next town over, in fact. Only a few streets away. I was a lonely foreign girl, so afraid. I could barely speak English. I lived with an old, sick aunt who died shortly after she adopted me. The other kids bullied me. I cried every night. But this place?" Etty gestured around her at the bench, the church, the trees. "I would ride my bike here every day. Just to look at the trees. And sometimes at night to look at the moon. And it soothed me. It saved my life."

Kaelyn smiled. "That's beautiful." She thought for a moment. "But… the church! Can you…" She glanced at the Star of David that Etty wore on a necklace.

Etty laughed. "You can still admire a church even without praying inside."

"This place means a lot to me too," Kaelyn said. "I wish we had been friends back then. So that you wouldn't feel so alone. We lived only five blocks away! How did we never become friends, Etty?"

Etty shrugged. "We never met before all this. I'm a year younger than you, and I went to a different school."

"You're a year younger and were a soldier," Kaelyn said. "You lied about your age. I know the story. To join the army. You're braver than I am."

"Brave?" Etty scoffed. "I was terrified on Bahay. All the time. I'm still terrified. I didn't enlist because I'm brave. I enlisted because I was alone."

And then Etty spoke about her time in the army. She spoke of George rolling out of bed one Sunday morning, knocking into the tent wall, and bringing the whole tent down over the squad. She spoke of Jon fashioning a makeshift hook and fishing rod, using a piece of shrapnel and a shoestring, and catching a fish for dinner. She spoke of poker nights, and songs they would sing, and jokes they told. She spoke of visiting the bars of Mindao, and how George had been so shy, but after a few beers he was singing karaoke.

She told the funny stories. The anecdotes.

She did not speak of battles. She did not speak of the horrors at Santa Rosa, nor the slaughter on Surigao Hill, nor the bloodbath at Basilica. One day, perhaps, Etty would speak of these horrors. And Kaelyn would listen, because she needed to know. But not today. And maybe Etty would never be ready to share those tales.

An engine rumbled, interrupting Etty's stories.

An armored black car pulled to a stop below the hill. Three men emerged, dressed in black suits, and black sunglasses hid their eyes. They came walking uphill.

"Kaelyn Williams?" one man said, tallest among the three.

Kaelyn and Etty leaped to their feet.

"Who are you?" Kaelyn demanded.

"We just want to talk," the tall man said.

Etty and Kaelyn turned to flee. But they encountered more men in suits. They were climbing the hillsides all around, carrying briefcases.

"We won't hurt you," a man said.

"We're just here to talk."

Etty stepped closer to Kaelyn and took her hand.

"I'll look after you, Kaelyn," she whispered.

"Talk!" Kaelyn said. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The tall man approached her. His pale, gaunt face twisted into a smile. His sunglasses still hid his eyes.

"I'm here to deliver a message from my boss," he said to Kaelyn. "You are to end your involvement in the anti-war movement."

Kaelyn snorted. "Why would I do that?"

The man's smile never faded. "This is a dangerous game, Kaelyn. You don't want to end up like your friend Lizzy."

Kaelyn's heart burst into a gallop. "I thought Lizzy Pascal committed suicide."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that information," said the tall man. "Be careful, Kaelyn Williams. This is our first and final warning."

The men left the hill, returned to their cars, and drove away.

The two young women remained alone on the hilltop. Kaelyn collapsed onto the bench, trembling.

She knew two things.

These men murdered Lizzy. And I will not be silenced.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Unleashed

Maria ran down the corridors of Mother's Womb, her heart galloping.

I killed him. I killed General Ward. And I'm trapped in a space station filled with his soldiers.

The station was rotating slowly, but as Maria ran, it seemed to spin madly around her. She swayed, pushed herself off a bulkhead, kept running. A few soldiers paused and stared.

"Hey, you!" somebody said. "What are you doing?"

Maria kept running. She was the only Bahayan in this Earthling station, and she wore a flowery summer dress while everyone else wore uniforms. She stood out here like a frog in a bowl of apples. Any moment now, they would find the dead general. They would know it was her.

She must find the hangar. A shuttle. A way out.

"Hey there, girl!" a soldier said. "You all right?"

His friend laughed. "A bargirl from the planet. One of the general's toys, I think. Better let her be. Hey, they got a bar down there called the Bottoms Up, you won't believe the girls. Beautiful! Next time we get shore leave, I'll…"

Maria kept running, and the soldiers' voices faded. She was lost. This station was huge—the size of a city. Any second now, the alarms would blare.

I'm doomed, she thought. They'll catch me. They'll kill me.

But she had done her job. She had recorded the general. He had confessed it all: that he had killed millions, Bahayans and Earthlings alike, for nothing. For mere sport.

If I die in Mother's Womb, you better pick up the transmission, Pippi and Charlie. You better send it to Earth. This can end the war.

Maria only prayed she would live long enough to see it.

Alarms blared.

Red lights flashed.

Maria's heart nearly stopped.

They found his body, she knew.

Soldiers ran down the corridor. Doors were slamming shut everywhere. The portholes went dark. The station was going into lockdown.

My baby and I are going to die.

She took a shaky breath.

They're going to torture me before death.

She could see again David in the tunnels, chained, burned with irons. Maria trembled and cold sweat washed her.

But I'm not dead yet.

She reached into her pocket, and she pulled out Crisanto. He shone on her palm.

"Crisanto, you have friends here on this station. Fellow Santelmos. I'm lost. Can you sense them?"

If I can find the zoo, I'll remember the rest of the way, she thought.

Crisanto bobbed vigorously, then began flying down the corridor. Maria ran after him.

A barricade was descending ahead like a garage door, ready to seal off the corridor. Crisanto zipped through. Maria ran, rolled, and slipped under the hatch just before it slammed shut.

Crisanto kept streaking forward, and Maria followed, running through dark halls and flashing red lights, and the klaxons kept blaring.

And then they were there. At the menagerie. From here, Maria remembered the way out. She knew where the shuttle hangar was.

But she would never make it. The soldiers were running everywhere. She heard their boots echoing, their voices calling out.

"The general is dead!"

"Ward is dead!"

Any second now, those soldiers would realize Maria was the killer. If they weren't hunting her already.

No, I'll never reach the hangar alive, she thought.

Instead, she raced through the menagerie. She approached the glass enclosure that contained the other Santelmos. They were still hovering inside, barely glowing at all.

Maria pounded the glass. It wouldn't break. She slammed against it again and again, but the pane merely wobbled.

Finally little Crisanto slid into the keyhole. The lock shone, then clicked.

"You could have tried that before I nearly dislocated my shoulder," Maria muttered.

The glass pane slid open, and the trapped Santelmos emerged.

They were the same size as Crisanto, but dimmer, weaker. Maria could easily see their stingy little limbs, growing like hairs from the central bulb. They were like neurons the size of dandelion puffs, their light fading.

"Open the locks across the menagerie," she told them. "Free every being here."

The little balls of light flashed from enclosure to enclosure. Locks glowed one after another, then clicked open.

The aliens emerged.

* * * * *

Maria ran from the menagerie, and a thousand aliens followed

They crawled, ran, slithered, flew. They opened jaws full of teeth. They snapped beaks. They wiggled mandibles. They howled. They squawked. They hissed. They lashed their tentacles. Some were no larger than Crisanto. Others barely squeezed through the corridors.

A few soldiers were marching down the hall.

They saw the wave of aliens, turned on their heels, and fled.

Maria kept running until she reached a sealed hatch. The hallway was locked down.

She stepped aside, and the aliens pounded into the hatch again and again. Horns, hooves, and armored heads shattered the barrier. Shards of plastic and metal flew everywhere. The tidal wave of aliens gushed onward.

They smashed through doors. They sent soldiers fleeing. They were only moments away from the hangar when guards in full battlesuits raced toward them, assault rifles raised.

Maria skidded to a halt.

The corridor seemed to close in around her.

She stared at the muzzles pointing her way.

Her heart pounded. But she had stared death in the eyes before, and she would not retreat.

She stood facing the guards. Behind her, her aliens gathered, an army of horns and fangs and claws and tentacles, of scales and feathers and light. Maria stood at their lead, and she pointed ahead at the guards.

"Tear those Earthlings down."

The bullets rang out. And the aliens swarmed.

Bullets slammed into aliens. They shattered scales, pierced lumpy skin, severed tentacles and eyes stalks. Aliens bled, hissed, wailed. But they kept charging.

Claws tore a soldier apart. Jaws clamped down on another man. Tentacles lifted one soldier and slammed him against the deck again and again, shattering his armor, his bones. Spiky tails lashed, sweeping out legs. Fleshy blobs wrapped around soldiers, digesting uniform and flesh alike. All the curiosities now became terrors. The prisoners became warriors. With horn, claw, and fang, with venom and fury, the aliens tore their captors down.

Maria stood within this storm of blood and scales, of ripping flesh and shattering bones. She stood still, a thin smile on her face. The fury swirled around her, yet none of these lashing claws, whipping tails, or snapping jaws harmed her. The aliens attacked with howling vengeance, but not a single talon nor spike scratched Maria. She stood in the eye of the tornado, cherished and protected.

When it was over, when the storm died down, she found a corridor awash with blood and strewn with human and alien remains.

Many of these aliens, captive for years, had fallen. But they had fallen free. They had taken down every guard who had tried to hold them back.

Maria led the survivors onward. Crisanto hovered over her shoulder, free to shine in the open. And he shone brighter than ever.

They barged into the hangar bay. Tentacled aliens. Scaly aliens. Blobby aliens. Aliens of light, of stone, of shimmering colors. They clattered, scraped, and slithered between shuttles and starfighters.

A few mechanics were still here. They fled and hid behind crates.

Maria could not fit everyone into a shuttle, she realized. She faced a horrible choice. Who to save. Who to leave behind. A soldier's choice.

The klaxons were still blaring. Any moment now, more guards would run into the hangar.

So Maria made her choice.

She opened the hatch on one shuttle—a boxy, military vessel, the largest she could find. And like Noah, she began loading aliens into her ark. A small furry alien. A rolling scaly ball. A squirming mollusk with many tentacles. The floating Santelmos. A feathery alien with a long purple beak.

But others, the larger aliens, she had to leave behind. They would have to drown in the flood.

They seemed to understand. They looked at her. They knew. And they accepted. They were intelligent, but they were no pilots. They could not fly in the other shuttles. They would remain and they would die and they forgave her.

Maria closed the shuttle's hatch and sat in the cockpit. She fired up the engines.

Guards burst into the hangar. Maria saw them in the rearview monitor.

She stared through the windshield at the airlock. Its doors were closed.

The guards opened fire. Bullets pinged against the shuttle's stern.

Maria took a deep breath. She saw a joystick to her right with red buttons. It was labeled ROTARY CANNON.

She opened fire.

A machine gun extended from the shuttle's prow. Bullets pounded the airlock doors.

The guards behind the shuttle kept firing. Their bullets dented the shuttle's hull. But the engines were still purring. And the cannon was still firing. The airlock doors crumpled under the hailstorm of bullets, exposing space.

Maria shoved the throttle. The shuttle roared forward, barreled through the mangled doors, and shot into space.

* * * * *

The stars spread before her, a dizzying panoply. Warships hovered, and shuttles and starfighters zipped back and forth. For a moment Maria didn't know left from right, up from down. Messages were racing across the HUD, but Maria couldn't read that fast in English. She didn't need to. She knew enough to lower her prow, and she saw Bahay below.

Her control panel flared with light.

A voice emerged from the shuttle's speakers.

"Attention rogue shuttle! This is Bahay One Station Control. Return to docking bay G-4, or we will open fire."

Maria had never cursed in her life. But right now she blurted out a loud and vehement "Fuck!"

She glanced into the rearview monitor. Three starfighters emerged from the space station, bolting like horses from stables.

A year ago, I was a rice farmer, Maria thought. Now I'm flying a space shuttle full of aliens, and starfighters are chasing me. How the hell did I end up here? This must be a dream. Just a dream…

The three starfighters streaked across space toward her.

"Retract your cannon and return to docking bay!" boomed the voice from her speakers. "Or we will—"

Maria spun the shuttle toward them. And she opened fire.

She had killed before. She would kill again.

Her bullets pounded one starfighter. The vessel careened and slammed into the starfighter beside it. Flames engulfed them both.

Maria cried out in terror and triumph.

The third starfighter unleashed a storm of bullets.

Maria was already flying upward. The bullets streaked below. She charged toward Mother's Womb, then swerved around it, placing the station between her and the enemy.

But she had only flown once before. She was clumsy. Her shuttle banged against the side of the space station. Sparks flew. Paneling tore off the station and tumbled through space. Maria cursed and steadied her shuttle, flying onward, increasing her thrust.

Come on, I survived Mindao traffic, she thought. This is nothing.

She checked her rearview monitor. She couldn't see the other starfighter anymore. But she knew it was pursuing.

There!

Maria saw it!

As she kept zooming around the station, it appeared behind her—the enemy starfighter, fast on her heel.

Its bullets flew.

Maria shoved down the throttle, yawed right, and nudged herself closer to the space station.

Once more—this time intentionally—she scraped her shuttle against the station's hull.

More paneling tore free. Sheets of metal fluttered like shrapnel. The barrage slammed into the pursuing starfighter, shattered its canopy, and knocked the vessel into a tailspin. The starfighter tumbled into deep space, engine sputtering.

Maria breathed a sigh of relief, but that relief was short lived. Orange lights flashed across her control panel. Her hull was dented. A warning lit up: FUEL LEAK DETECTED.

I won't survive another assault, she thought.

She whipped around the station again, then dived toward the planet.

She wasn't far. It only took a moment to reach the sky. But it was the longest moment of her life.

Her shuttle plunged through the air with a fountain of fire.

Maria screamed. An enormous force was shoving her against her backrest, flattening her face against her skull, tugging her cheeks into a grin. Her stomach did back flips. She couldn't breathe.

Too fast. I'm going too fast. I'm going to die.

Warning flashed across the HUD, but Maria could barely see. Blackness spread around her. It was like staring down a dark tunnel. The darkness kept closing in, claiming her.

She floated in the murk.

Lights. Lights floated around her. They were pounding her.

She woke up with a gasp. Crisanto and his fellow Santelmos were bumping into her, flaring with light.

I passed out, she realized.

The shuttle was still tumbling through the sky, but the fire was gone. Maria gripped the joystick and wrestled it.

The ground was racing up toward her.

And in the rearview monitor, she saw them.

More starfighters. Five of them. Plunging through the clouds toward her.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

Maria shoved down the throttle. Her engines roared. Fire blazed from her exhaust pipes. She plunged toward the surface at dizzying speed. She saw water. A cluster of islands. One of the islands was a battleground; missiles flew back and forth, leaving thin trails.

But Maria had her own battle up here to worry about. The pursuing starfighters fired their machine guns. Bullets pounded her shuttle.

One of her engines burst into flames, and Maria screamed.

Her shuttle spun madly. She was going down fast, leaving a corkscrew of smoke. The aliens who filled the shuttle wailed, rumbled, and squealed.

She tugged on the joystick. It wobbled like a loose tooth. The enemy starfighters swooped after her. She tried to face them, to open fire, but she could barely control her flight.

The battle was raging below, closer now.

She could see them on the surface. Soldiers. Missiles. Bombs. Blood and fire across the island.

Her shuttle was tumbling toward the battlefield. The enemy starfighters flanked her, and—

A missile streaked from below.

One of the pursuing starfighters exploded.

More missiles rose, and Maria winced.

More of the starfighters burst into flame.

Shrapnel slammed into Maria's shuttle, tossing it into a tailspin. Fire spread through the cabin. Aliens screamed. Her engine died, and she was falling fast.

The ground raced up to meet her.

Maria closed her eyes.

I'm still alive.

The aliens howled, wept, burned, died. The shuttle cracked open. A few of the smaller aliens tumbled into the sky. The fire and wind roared.

So I still fight.

"Crisanto, come to me. Santelmos, be with me."

The glowing orbs of light hovered around her.

Maria left her seat, ran through the shuttle, and kicked open the hatch.

She leaped from the burning shuttle into the sky.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Fallen Angel

Maria fell through the sky.

Her shuttle crashed and burned. The battlefield blazed below, missiles streaking back and forth. Smoke and fire cloaked the world.

She fell like an angel cast from heaven. She fell, a secret confession in her ear.

She fell toward the fire.

But she did not fall alone.

Crisanto dived toward her, a tiny puff of light. With spidery limbs, he clutched her shoulder, tugging the strap of her dress.

Another Santelmo followed, no larger, and caught her second shoulder. Then a third Santelmo, a fourth, and soon dozens were holding her. All those she had freed from captivity. They held her in the air.

Individually, each was small and weak. Together they let her fly.

Maria glided above the battlefield, wreathed in glowing light. A missile streaked beside her. A shell exploded nearby. Bullets whistled. Then the men below noticed her. They pointed and cried out. Both Earthlings and Bahayans ceased their fire and gazed.

"An angel!" somebody cried. "An angel flies above us, brothers! We butcher one another, and an angel falls from the sky!"

An angel? Maria thought. I killed two men in the jungle. And I killed a man in his bedroom. I seduced a general and betrayed my husband. If I'm an angel, I'm a fallen one. I've become an angel of war, the destroyer of worlds.

Yes, she was a fighter in this war. Her hands were bloodstained, and her soul was forever tarnished.

Yet for a brief moment, she brought peace.

For a brief moment, the battle paused, and Earthlings and Bahayans stood together as brothers, gazing upon the sight above. Upon an angel wreathed in light and haloed by fire.

"Take me to the river, my friends," Maria said.

The Santelmos carried her over the battlefield, past artillery craters, and toward a river that snaked among the charred trees. There had been a fishing village here once. The bamboo huts had burned. A few villagers had tried to flee in boats; the boats were still docked, and skeletons smoldered inside.

If this war ever ends, and I ever fly to Earth with Jon, I will never forget these horrors, Maria thought. I will never more be pure. I will always be a broken angel of war.

She landed by the bamboo piers and stood among the skeletons. The Santelmos hovered before her, bobbed as if bowing, and then flew off. Maria watched them hover across the water toward the distant shadows.

All but her dear Crisanto. He remained at her side, floating above her shoulder.

"Crisanto, do you want to fly off with your friends?" she asked. "To live with your own kind?"

He nuzzled her, soft and warm against her cheek. Then he flew into her pocket.

There were too many skeletons to bury. Maria approached a fishing dinghy, one that didn't seem too badly damaged. The hull was charred but still watertight. A mother and child huddled inside, burnt down to bones. A year ago, Maria would have recoiled in horror. But she had slept in stone coffins. She had danced with the dead. She was no stranger to skeletons, and she gently pulled the bones from the boat, placed them into the water, and whispered a prayer. There was holiness to a river. The water would carry the fallen souls to a better place than this.

Maria flowed down the river too, sitting in her boat. She needed to get back south. To Mindao. To the Bargirl Bureau.

She touched her earring, feeling the tiny camera that had recorded the general. She had heard his confession. And on her ear, she carried it trapped like a ghost in a bottle.

I must find a way to leak this to Earth, Maria thought. There it will spread like wildfire and burn them all.

* * * * *

Maria walked into Mindao to find a changed city.

On the surface, it was the same Mindao as ever. The market still bustled with merchants hawking spices, religious artifacts, snake oil in glass bottles, and alien wares from across the galaxy, most made in workshops just down the alleyways. The bargirls still stood outside their clubs, eyes dulled with shabu, slender hips thrust out to mimic Earthling curves, lipstick bright red like flowers calling butterflies. Endless tangles of electric cables still draped across the streets, crackling over canyons of concrete, plywood, and neon lights. The Earthling soldiers still prowled the streets, some fresh off the starship, hot for flesh and booze and killing, others haunted by the battlefields.

Yes, the same Mindao on the surface. But Maria knew this city like the face of a lover. She could read every hint in its rotting, rusty lines and weeping streams. The city had changed.

The shopkeepers were not calling out their wares, each louder than the other, competing for the attention of shoppers like male birds calling for a mate. They simply stood behind their baskets and carts of goods, eyes darting nervously. The Earthlings were not catcalling, drinking, or carousing, but walking stiffly, guns clutched in their hands. The bargirls stood alone, attracting no clients, and fear filled their eyes. With no work today, tomorrow they would not feed their children, nor buy shabu to dull the pain. The radios and televisions still crackled in the kiosks and bars, but instead of broadcasting Lady Boxing or Bahayan pop songs, they were reporting the news.

General Ward was dead.

As Maria walked by a kiosk, she caught a snippet of broadcast.

"… those responsible for this act of terrorism. Undeterred by the shocking news, President Hale has vowed to increase his bombing campaign of North Bahay. Speaking from his palace in South Bahay, President Santiago has committed to join forces with Earth and finally defeat…"

Maria walked on. She had heard enough. Yes, General Ward was dead, but the war was not. In fact, it was escalating.

She touched her ear.

Earth must hear what I heard. That Ward himself, architect of the war, admitted it is unwinnable.

She reached the Blue Boulevard, once her home. Many urchins made their home along the Blue Boulevard, for Earthlings often came here searching for bargirls. Many Earthlings, despite being an enemy force, were kind to the urchins and gave them money and food. The street children knew this, and they filled the alleyways, sat on concrete staircases, and scurried between shadows, sometimes begging, often selling everything from a song to a cigarette. Some sold more.

But it was daytime, and the bars were empty, and the neon lights were off, and only one or two Earthlings were here, passed out drunk from last night's festivities. Emboldened by the sunlight, the urchins ran toward Maria. She knew them by name.

She gave each child an Earthling dollar, her remaining allowance from the general. Tonight perhaps they would fill their bellies with cups of rice and tamarind soup, not scraps from the trash.

"Rally the Bargirl Bureau," she told them. "Wherever they are in the city, find and summon them. We meet among the dead."

* * * * *

The Bargirl Bureau gathered in the city cemetery, their old haunt. There were no trees, grass, or flowers here. In a crowded city it was a crowded cemetery. The gravediggers, out of room, had stopped digging graves. Thousands of coffins now lay aboveground, some stacked several high, forming a city for the dead.

Maria thought of her days living here, sleeping in a sarcophagus, sharing it with bones. A community of lost souls lived here among the dead, sleeping in the coffins. Maria had been one of these gravedwellers. She had danced here in nights of fever dreams, hand in hand with the skeletons. With the general, she had lived in an ivory tower among the clouds, but now once more, she dwelt in half-life.

Pippi sat on a stone coffin, kicking her dangling legs. On each of those legs, she wore stockings with differently colored stripes. The bargirl blew a bubble of gum. It grew as large as her face, then popped, getting gum in her pigtails.

"Ow, my hair!" Pippi began pulling gum off her pigtails. "My hair is my livelihood!"

"Your hair looks stupid," Charlie said. "What kind of a Bahayan girl has orange pigtails anyway?"

Pippi stuck out her tongue at the older bargirl. "The kind that likes to make money. Why do you think I also draw freckles on my beautiful caramel skin? It drives the Earthlings wild. They pay double. I remind them of the girls back home."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "You remind me of a psychotic clown."

Pippi blew her a raspberry, then turned toward Maria. "Hey, Maria! Did you really have to kill the pute general?" Pippi looked around her and shuddered. "I miss your old penthouse. Now we have to meet among the dead again, and you know I'm scared of ghosts."

Charlie shoved the younger bargirl, nearly knocking her off the coffin. "Oh, you stupid girl, Pippi! We're not going to keep the war going just so you can piss in a golden toilet."

"The toilet at my old penthouse was ceramic, I think," Maria said.

Charlie snorted. "Yes, well, it still beats what Pippi does now, which is piss in the alleyways."

"You know I only did that once!" Pippi said. "And only because there was some stinky pute who had stunk up the bathroom in the club. Okay, also that time I drank too much beer and the alley was closer. Twice, no more! Okay, maybe three or four times, but—"

"Girls, girls!" Maria said. "Can we focus less on Pippi's bladder and more on my secret recording?"

She had shown the girls the video she had recorded in Mother's Womb. They had all watched, slack-jawed, as General Ward confessed that Earth could not win the war, that he was butchering Bahayans for sport.

"We must show this to Earth." Maria raised a codechip, a little electronic device which contained the video. "But how?"

Charlie brushed dust out of her hair, then shivered. "Ugh, mummy dust in my hair. And all over my beautiful high-heeled boots and leopard skin skirt!" She began brushing them too. "Dead people crumbs all over me."

"Charlie!" Maria rolled her eyes. "It's just regular dust. Focus. How do we leak this information to Earth? I know we used to leak information at the Goodbye Kisses booth, kissing Earthling soldiers before their flight home, and slipping the codechips into their pockets. But I'm scared to try that again. After what happened last time…"

Pippi popped her bubble gum again and raised an eyebrow. "You mean after how you abandoned us at the military police raid? After we all ended up in prison, while you were cavorting around on your golden toilet?"

Maria placed her hands on her hips. "You know I saved you from that prison, don't you?"

Charlie began brushing dust out of Maria's hair. "Oh, sweetie, the Goodbye Kisses booth is dead for good. The military police already knows our tactics. They scan every pute soldier who leaves Bahay, dead or alive. My cousin Manuel helps the MP, you know. An informant. He told me. If we hide codechips on any pute soldier, even the dead ones, the MP will find them. They check everything so thoroughly."

Pippi gasped. "Do they even check their butts?"

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Stop thinking about butts all day long!"

"You're just jealous because my butt is bigger than yours." Pippi popped her gum again.

Charlie shook her fist. "No it's not, I have a butt like a pute girl! That's why the Earthlings love me. That's why someday soon, an Earthling will marry me, and he will take me back to Earth, and I'll have that golden toilet you dream about so much, and only my butt will touch it."

Maria chewed her lip, considering. The sun was setting, and the first stars emerged. With them, some of the gravedwellers emerged too. During the day, they slept in stone coffins, shying away from the world. In darkness, they shoved off the stone lids and crept outside, much to the chagrin of the bargirls, who squealed and shrieked in fright. All but Maria, who had spent many nights here. She knew all the gravedwellers by name, knew their sad stories, their hopes, their dreams—even their warts and rashes, which they often complained about.

"Ghosts!" Pippy cried. She began beating one of the gravedwellers with her purse. The old man cried out and fled, nearly tripping over his long white beard.

"It's all right, girls!" Maria said. "Calm down, they're not ghosts. They're just people who live in the coffins. Like I did." She thought for a moment. "Like I do again, I guess, with my penthouse gone. So much for golden toilets."

The girls settled down, but they still glanced nervously at the gravedwellers, these decrepit people with their papery skin, long white hair, and yellow fingernails, for they seemed like beings from another world.

The dead—the actual dead—never emerged to dance before midnight. They had some time. Maria definitely didn't want the bargirls around when the skeletons began to dance. Pippi's swinging purse would be scattering bones everywhere.

Maria hefted the codechip in her palm, chewing her lip.

How do I get this to Earth?

There was only one man who could help her now, she realized, and he was half a planet away.

I need to get a message to Jon.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Hunt

His angel had hurt him.

His angel had shattered his body and heart.

And so, Ernesto decided, his angel must suffer.

He prowled the jungle like a panther. His left eye was blind. But his right eye saw far. It pierced the shadows like a beam of black moonlight. His body was scarred from fire and lead, but he was still silent, fast, strong.

Movement caught his eye.

Ernesto pounced.

The creature reared and bleated. A greendeer, one of Bahay's native lifeforms. It stood on its hind legs, raising the other four in the air. The beast was enormous, larger than a horse. Its antlers coiled like branches, and its green fur bristled, mottled with gray and black, blending into the jungle. It was a fierce animal. Ernesto had seen greendeer take down a manananggal, a great predator of the rainforest, a creature even the strongest warriors feared.

But Ernesto had no fear. The fire had burned that out. The bombs had purified his soul.

He leaped onto the greendeer, dodging its kicking hooves, and grabbed it by the antlers. He wrestled the beast. It bucked again and again, trying to shake him off. But Ernesto clung to the animal. It was several times his size. Ernesto refused to let go. He dug his fingernails through thick fur, then bit the throat.

The greendeer screamed, a sound almost like a human cry. Ernesto sank his teeth deeper, biting through fur, skin, and flesh, finding the jugular and tearing it out.

The greendeer wept, tears falling as its lifeblood flowed. Ernesto watched it die, his own blood dripping. The beast's antlers had cut his arms. But he was victorious. He stood above his prey as its life faded.

He carved off a leg, and he devoured the flesh raw, absorbing the nutrients of the forest, of the proud animal's soul and strength. This was no animal from Earth, not like the mules and cats and mice, invasive species the first colonists had brought here centuries ago. This greendeer had evolved on Bahay, its proteins alien, its wisdom great. Ernesto too was a creature of Bahay through and through, connected to this world his ancestors had colonized. He was native. As pure as the rainforest and the life within. He was no longer human but a being of the rainforest, a savage of the moss and blood and old gods.

He lifted the rest of the carcass. It was heavy, but Ernesto carried it across his back. He would not disrespect the beast by leaving it to rot.

As he walked through the forest, he remembered carrying sacks of fish through his village. Those had been good days. Before every dawn, he would leave his home, along with his father and brothers. The rest of San Luna would still be asleep. The farmers would not wake for another hour to tend to their rice paddies.

Ernesto had loved those early mornings, walking between the bamboo huts, the world so silent, only the twin moons lighting his path. Whenever he would pass by Maria's hut, he would smile, think of seeing her after the sun rose, of bringing her a fresh fish to fry. A gift. He loved bringing her gifts from the sea. For him, the son of a fisherman, the sea was full of more secrets and wonders than even the famed rainforest.

He would board a reed boat with his father, while his brothers rowed the family's other two boats. The Santos family was renowned in the village, the only family to own three boats. Parents across the village would bring their daughters for dinner, hoping for a match with a Santos brother, for the men of the family were successful, strong, handsome.

That was before the scars. Before the iron plate in his head.

Yes, many families hoped for a match. But Ernesto refused them all.

"I want just one girl," he told his father. "I want Maria de la Cruz. She's the most beautiful girl in the village."

His father scoffed. "The de la Cruz family is poor. They have only one hut, only one daughter, only one terrace in the rice paddies."

"I don't care," Ernesto said. "She's who I want. I love her. I will never love another."

Maria was only thirteen then, a playful little girl, often laughing and asking questions, but meek whenever Ernesto approached. How she captivated his heart!

So the families met.

And they arranged a betrothal.

But not to Ernesto.

Maria was given to Roberto, his older brother.

How Ernesto raged! How he wept! How his heart shattered!

Every day at sea, Ernesto thought of her. He and the other Santos men sailed deep into the waters, filling their nets with Bahay's treasures. With circlefish, perfectly shaped for the plate, and iridescent eels with scales like tiny jewels, and squids with tentacles the villagers liked to fry. Sometimes Ernesto found strange, beautiful creatures in the sea that nobody recognized. Especially when they sailed far out. Creatures with many spines and deep blue scales. Blobby fish with sad eyes. Strange beings with spiraling shells, fins like ribbons, and many lures that shone like stars on slender barbels. He always brought them to Maria. She feared them, but Ernesto knew the creatures were priceless gifts.

Yes, those had been innocent days.

Before the fire.

Before the Earthlings had come.

Ernesto had been just a boy. But he remembered that day. Remembered seeing the cruel machines of metal fly above. Remembered seeing the Earthlings walk through the forest, trampling, killing, their machines uprooting trees. He remembered the refugees arriving at San Luna, burnt with fire, deformed with poison, speaking of atrocities in the north.

And he remembered the day his brother died.

The day the Earthlings murdered him.

Ernesto wept that day, clutching his brother's body, a body broken and burnt. He howled at the sky, shook his fist at the flying machines, and vowed revenge.

He inherited Maria that day. She became his betrothed. She became the best thing in Ernesto's broken life.

I got what I wanted, Ernesto thought.

But the cost was so high. A dead brother. A broken heart.

He could not give her up now. He could not lose Maria again. He must find her. Or his brother's death was in vain.

"You took her from me, Jon Taylor," Ernesto whispered. "You took everything from me. You shot my skull, and you took my sanity. You stole my betrothed, and you broke my heart. You bombed my people, and you shattered my world. But I will take these things back, Jon Taylor. I will take back Maria. And I will take back Bahay." His eyes stung, and he clenched his fists. "You will not win."

Birds cawed. Ernesto looked over his shoulder. Black and red birds covered his greendeer carcass, picking at the meat. He caught one and snapped its little neck. The others fled. He walked onward through the rainforest.

He crossed streams, climbed hills, and trudged through mud and moss and thick brush. The trees soared around him, a great cathedral, and mist floated beneath the verdant canopy. This was a holy place. This was why he fought. He hated the Earthlings. He hated Jon Taylor. But more than hate, it was love that filled his heart. Love for Bahay. Love for the trees and animals and beauty. Hatred fueled him. But love was the engine deep in his heart, burning hot.

Finally he reached the camp. The place he had been seeking for days and nights.

They stared at him from the trees, coated in leaves and branches. They vanished into the foliage. They made not a sound. They wore mud to hide their scent and heat. But Ernesto had been one of them, and he knew they were there. A dozen or more. Patriots. Warriors of the Kalayaan.

He dropped the greendeer carcass onto the forest floor.

"Comrades, I bring you a feast!"

For a moment—silence.

They stared from the trees. Every rifle, meticulously disguised as a branch, pointed at him.

Then one man leaped down from the trees. He wore a suit of leaves, vines, and moss, but black eyes peered from the verdant cloak. He approached Ernesto, rifle in hand.

"Who are you? How do you know our trails?"

"I am Ernesto Santos, an officer of the Kalayaan. My men were killed. I was wounded. I've come to lead your unit."

He rolled up his sleeve, showing them his tattoo. A sunburst among three stars. The sunburst was fully inked rather than hollow, the sign of an officer, a leader of men.

More guerrillas leaped to the forest floor. They talked amongst themselves, shooting Ernesto glances.

"It's him," one whispered to his friend. "Ernesto Iron Santos. The man with the iron skull."

They all stared at him, a blend of awe and fear in their eyes.

"Actually, the plate in my skull is steel." Ernesto tapped it. "I'm named Iron because I carry a clothing iron." He pulled his iron from his pack and displayed it. "Useful for interrogating prisoners."

They whispered amongst themselves again.

"It's him."

"They say he's crazy."

"They say he's killed a thousand putes."

"The stories are all true!" Ernesto said. "You have no officer here. He was killed in battle. And I'm in need of more men. I have a mission for you."

They looked at him, then at one another, uncertain. One among them, perhaps their leader, stepped closer. He had a dark mustache and darker eyes.

"What mission?"

Ernesto smiled. "We will raid Mindao."

The men mumbled amongst themselves.

The mustached man laughed. "You really are crazy, comrade! There are many thousands of Earthlings in Mindao. We don't go there."

"Oh, but we will." Ernesto's grin widened. "We will be heroes. There is a treasure in Mindao. A precious jewel I crave. You will help me fetch it. And you will be legends!"

The men looked at one another, then saluted him.

"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!" they cried.

Ernesto returned the cry. "Freedom for Bahay! Now feast, comrades. Feast on this gift from the forest. At dawn, our battle begins."

They built a campfire, roasted the deer, and feasted. As Ernesto ripped through the meat, as he drank the juices and hot sizzling blood, he thought of Maria. He imagined the taste of her flesh. And he smiled.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Shadow Market

She waited for him under the bridge.

He came here every Sunday to see her.

Bridges in Mindao, this city overflowing with humanity, developed their own unique ecosystems. Jeepneys, tuk-tuks, and rickshaws rumbled and clattered above. But beneath bridges, life spread like insects, mold, and mushrooms thriving under a fallen log.

A shadow market grew under this bridge, a place more dazzling even than Merkado Bayan, the city's main marketplace along a wide boulevard. Here, under the bridge, was a bazaar of the forbidden, the dark, and the magical.

An old man with a tattooed face, long white beard, and brilliant azure eyes stood by a cart. He was selling scrolls of luminous ink, spells guaranteed to heal your illness, win your love's heart, or strike an enemy dead. A wise old woman stood nearby, wearing many beads and tassels. She beckoned for travelers to enter her den, a hut clinging to the bridge's pylon. The plywood door was ajar, revealing tarot cards, crystal balls, and shrunken heads. Maria hurried past both wizard and soothsayer, for she feared sorcery.

A scrawny, shirtless man stood by a chained android. Maria had never seen an android up close. She had heard that Earthlings sometimes used them for dangerous missions. But not too often; hardware was expensive, and humans were cheap. This android was battered, chipped, and rusty. It wore a straw hat, Kalayaan style, and held prayer beads with its rusty fingers. Some entrepreneurial Bahayan must have grabbed the machine from a smoldering battlefield. A cardboard sign hung around its neck: ASSASSIN FOR HIRE.

"Got a couple million of these?" Maria asked the android salesman. The man smirked.

A feline alien stood at a stall, a creature of shimmering orange fur, bright green eyes, and a grin filled with fangs. He held out his paws, displaying thousands of crystals in baskets. Crystals for good fortune, for love, for foresight, for long life, crystals of every kind from worlds across the galaxy. Maria, who had never traveled farther than Mother's Womb in orbit, gazed upon this alien in fascination, but she shied away when he turned his gleaming, catlike stare upon her.

Past the alien cat, Maria saw beings even stranger. Conjoined twins stood on a crude stage. Their torsos were linked at the bellies, and they had no lower halves. They formed a long body with heads and arms on each end. They reminded Maria of the figures drawn onto a playing card. The conjoined twins walked back and forth across the stage like a crab, using their four hands, and people tossed them coins. Nearby, a man sat on a tasseled rug. Tumors had swelled his face to grotesque proportions. His entire face seemed to melt halfway down his chest, forming a lumpy trunk. A few poor Bahayans knelt before him, worshiping him, while the elephant man blessed them. Farther back, a strange girl hissed inside a cage, clawing at the bars. She had a tail, horns, and scaly red skin. A man stood on crate, his torso twisted like a wet towel, a corkscrew of skin and bones. He looked at Maria and smiled.

Here under the bridge lived the unwanted. The freaks. The mutants and aliens. In this city of misery and poverty, they were the untouchables among the untouchables. Under the bridge, they thrived.

Maria walked through the shadow market. She passed a stall that sold enchanted brass instruments—all curving, coiling, spiraling pipes, a madman's vision of trumpets, guaranteed to summon the ghosts of loved ones with their eerie song. She walked by a shop that sold alien pets in cages. She saw little metallic birds with feathers like precious metals; glowing mollusks who peered from shells shaped like serpent heads, perhaps evolved to deter predators; and tiny humanoids with blank faces and tattered butterfly wings, hissing between silver bars, their teeth like needles. Another shop sold the roots of living mandrakes. The strange plants hung in cages, looking like wooden babies, sending twisting, coiling roots between the bars. Whenever a client paid a coin, the merchant snipped a root off a mandrake, and the strange baby cried.

Normally, Maria might linger among these wonders. She could spend hours exploring the shadow market under the bridge. But today, like every Sunday, she had a meeting.

She stepped toward a shack nestled between two pylons. The walls were plywood. A sheet of tarpaulin formed a roof. Jeepneys rattled above along the bridge, and a stray cat hissed among weeds. It seemed like just another shanty, one of countless in the city. But Maria knew this was a special place.

There was no sign on the door. But everyone in the shadow market knew this shack. Here was Theodora's Teashop.

When Maria stepped inside, she found herself in a new world.

The teashop was far larger on the inside. Maria did not know how that worked. Perhaps Theodora had carved room into the pylons, or perhaps it was a trick of mirrors. Perhaps it was alien technology. Or maybe a touch of magic. From outside, the shack seemed barely larger than an outhouse. On the inside, it seemed as large as an Earthling house.

In this strange house, Theodora had constructed a vintage teashop, hinting at Earth's past. Not the modern Earth, the planet of invaders and killers. But Old Earth, a lost era of innocence. Pastel murals covered the ceiling, featuring cherubs frolicking among fluffy clouds. Tables were set across the room, topped with embroidered linens, plates of scones and crumpets, and porcelain tea sets. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals scattering shards of light. Shelves covered the walls, brimming with boxes of tea, jars of raspberry candies, and bags of aromatic hintan, a luxurious drug favored by merchants and space travelers.

Hintan was milder than shabu, more relaxing than euphoric, and far more sophisticated, though just as addictive. Maria avoided both. She had seen the damage drugs wrought across the city. What they were doing to her friends. It was just tea for her, thank you very much. Herbal.

The shop was full of patrons, not all of them human. Most aliens on Bahay were Santelmos. Sometimes other alien species visited: merchants, military contractors, galactic anthropologists, even the rare tourist. But not often. Bahayans had no starships of their own, and they feared space. They scorned aliens, called them demons or ghosts. An alien walking along the streets of Mindao was likely to cause hysteria.

So Bahay's aliens came here. To this teashop under the bridge. Here they were welcome.

A Menorian—an alien mollusk with purple skin—sat at one table, holding seven teacups with seven tentacles. Menorians had built the spiraling shuttle Maria had flown into space, she remembered. A burly stone giant hunched over a table, struggling to raise a porcelain cup with a hand like a boulder. It shattered between his granite fingers. What looked like a medieval knight, all in shining armor, sat at one table, talking to a beautiful woman with indigo skin and golden eyes. A group of dwarfs sat at another table, bearded and red-nosed, sorting through gemstones between sips of tea. A furry albino slumped in his seat, long legs stretched out, a sword hanging from his side. A reptile sat across the table from him, devouring mice from a jar, one by one.

A woman in pink lace and ribbons emerged from a back room. Her frilly skirts rustled as she navigated between the tables.

"Theodora, my love!" cried a man. He wore a monocle and top hat, and his handlebar mustache curled halfway up his cheeks. Tattoos covered his right arm, and his left arm was a wondrous prosthetic, all brass gears and pistons and vials of bubbling liquid. "Will you finally marry me today?"

The woman in pink blew him a kiss. "As soon as you buy me that starship you promised, darling."

Maria watched the woman approach. Theodora, owner of the teashop, looked like a rococo doll dipped into a vat of kitsch. Enough makeup covered her cheeks to shame Marie Antoinette. Her lips were bright red, shaped like a heart, a beacon in a powdered white face. A lacy hat topped her head, rich with feathers, and crystals hung from her ears and neck. Her breasts nearly burst out from her corset, and her skirt was so wide it threatened to knock over tables. Roses were sewn into her gown, blooming and filling the room with their scent.

It was testament to her outrageous costume that people noticed it before her four arms.

She was a Bahayan woman, Maria thought—at least she had the almond-shaped eyes of a Bahayan. But Theodora spoke with an accent from old Europe, highborn and sophisticated. And four arms were certainly not Bahayan. Maria didn't know if the extra arms had been surgically added, whether Theodora was a mutant, or whether she was part alien. Perhaps Maria was putting too much thought into it. In the shadow market, it was best not to question but simply to accept.

"Ah, Lady Maria!" Theodora's eyes lit up. "My most adorable customer. How are you, darling?"

Theodora minced toward her in her pink slippers. She kissed Maria on each cheek, her jewels chinking.

"Good morning, Theodora." The woman's perfumes spun Maria's head. "Did you finally receive that shipment of dragon tears tea?"

Theodora smiled. "I have indeed!" She reached between her breasts and plucked out a vial of liquid. "Dragon tears! Real dragon tears. One drop in your tea infuses it with magic. Would you like a cup?"

Maria laughed. "Oh, I was just curious! I could never afford such fancy teas myself. I'd like rooibos tea today."

"Excellent choice! I sell the best rooibos tea in the galaxy, you know. Grown in the savannas of Rigel IV." Theodora flicked open a bamboo fan, revealing an illustration of pandas frolicking among cherry blossoms, and fanned herself. "Seasoned with a little hintan, perhaps?"

Maria smiled thinly. "I don't do drugs."

"Darling!" Theodora caressed her cheek. "Hintan is not a drug. Nothing crude like shantytown shabu. Heavenly hintan is a gift of the cosmos! A whiff of its aromatic lavender fumes, and your soul explores the galaxy."

"Just rooibos tea please." Maria peeked over Theodora's shoulder. "Is he here?"

"Yes, my dear. Your gentleman caller is early as always, waiting for you at his usual table."

Maria walked between the tables, dodging tentacles, wagging tails, and long trailing beards. She saw him sitting at the back—an Earthling soldier.

Maria grinned.

"David!"

He rose from his seat, tall and gangly, and banged his head on a chandelier. He winced, tried to sit back down, and knocked over his chair. He struggled for long moments, rubbing his head with one hand, reaching for the chair with the other, only to knock over an empty teacup. Maria caught it before the porcelain could shatter.

"Sorry, sorry!" David said. "God, I'm normally not such a klutz, I promise."

Maria's smile widened. When she had first met David, taking him captive in war, she had thought him a giant—intimidating and fierce. But now she saw the truth. He was all jutting elbows and clumsiness, more like an awkward bird than a beast.

An image flashed through her mind—David chained underground, Ernesto torturing him with a clothing iron. She pushed that memory aside.

I saved your life once, David, she thought. Maybe you can now save us all.

They sat down, and Theodora served them aromatic rooibos tea—with just the slightest sprinkle of hintan, just for flavor, not enough to get anyone high, she promised. Maria sighed and accepted the beverage. She and David sipped the tea. It was delicious and swirled in their cups with all the colors of sunset.

For a few moments, David talked, updating her on news from Earth. Not much news from Earth was reaching Bahay these days, and if it was, it was heavily censored. But David had his sources. He shared the scuttlebutt.

Over the past few weeks, Maria had learned a lot from David.

Lizzy—dead and presumed murdered.

Etty—freed from prison.

Hale—still reigning with an iron fist.

Jon—still alive, fighting with the Apollo Brigade in North Bahay.

News tragic and triumphant. News that shook Maria to her core.

Thankfully, this Sunday, the news was ordinary. David reported about bombings in the north, a Kalayaan raid in the south, and Hale's poll numbers. Nobody Maria knew was dead. Every Sunday without a shocking death was a good one. Well, maybe not good. But at least less tragic on a personal level.

She met David here every Sunday to share tea, a few laughs, and news. This gangly soldier, once Maria's prisoner, had become one of her best friends.

"Well, that's all I've got today." David sipped his tea. "Mmm, still a bit bitter." He added more sugar. "It's not much, and it's not great. That news, that is. The sugar is lovely. What news do you have from your network?"

David knew many Earthling soldiers, including in military intelligence, and they trusted him with information. Maria had other sources. She knew the urchins, the bargirls, and the gravedwellers, and they knew more than many intelligence officers.

Maria pulled the codechip from her pocket. The one with General Ward's confession.

"David, this codechip contains a priceless message. I need you to deliver it to Jon Taylor."

David winced. "Is it… a love letter?"

"What?" Maria blinked. "No, it's…" She took a deep breath. "It's a long story."

David poured more tea. "It's a deep pot. I have time."

So she told him. About the long days with the general. Seducing him. Recording him. As she spoke, David stared, eyes growing wider and wider.

By the time the teapot was empty, she had finished her tale.

"I have Ward's confession in my hand," she said. "And I need you to deliver it to Jon."

David blinked, and pain filled his eyes. "Why Jon? What can he do that I can't?"

Maria smiled softly. The boy sounded almost jealous.

"Can you break into Fort Miguel or Little Earth and hijack their wormhole generators?" she asked.

David grimaced. He was stationed at Fort Miguel just outside the city. It was the largest HDF base in South Bahay, home to countless soldiers.

"No," he said. "Their wormhole generators are guarded around the clock."

"But Jon's fighting in the wilderness up north," Maria said. "Their wormhole generators are portable machines. We'd never reach a wormhole generator down here. Not if the entire Kalayaan fought with us. But in the north? Jon might just have a chance."

"So…" David fiddled with his teaspoon, eyes downcast, then dared glance into her eyes. "It's not because… you love him?"

Maria couldn't help it. She laughed. "Of course I love Jon. This isn't about that, though. It's about the best way to end this war."

David put down his teaspoon, took a deep breath, and seemed to be steeling himself. He suddenly stood up, banged his head against the chandelier again, but pretended it never happened. He knelt before Maria and held her hand.

"Maria, I want to tell you something." His voice shook. "A year ago, you took me captive. You marched me through the jungle at gunpoint. But then you saved me from torture. You saved my life. And you became my best friend. Working with you this summer, struggling to end this war—these have been the best days of my life. Because I was with you."

Maria sighed. "David—" she began.

"Wait, hear me out. I love you, Maria. You're the love of my life. I know that you have feelings for Jon, but I ask you now: Choose me. Be mine. And I promise to love the hell out of you forever."

Maria wiped a tear from her eye. She had to break his heart now. And hers broke a little too.

"David." She placed a hand on his cheek. "I love Jon. I'm married to him."

David flinched. "You… you're married?"

"Not officially. Not with a priest. The girls performed a little ceremony in the Go Go Cowgirl. Charlie officiated, a bed sheet wrapped around her like a robe, a little mustache painted above her lip. It was all quite silly, but also quite real to us. What matters is our vows, not some piece of paper. Jon and I love each other, and are husband and wife. You're amazing, David. You're brave and kind and wonderful. In another life, it might have worked between us."

David nodded. He looked at his feet. "I understand. I've always been the gangly, pimply outcast. The weirdo. The nerd."

"That's not true!" Maria kissed his cheek. "You're very handsome, and very tall, and I bet all the other girls on Bahay are chasing you."

David took the codechip from her. He closed his fist around it. "Jon is a good, honorable man. And this is a good, honorable fight. I'll take this codechip to him. And if I can, I'll help him fight for a wormhole generator. I'll get this done. We'll end this war." His eyes dampened, and his voice softened. "If I don't make it back, Maria, let these be my last words to you: I love you. Forever and unconditionally."

He paid for the tea, then left her at the table.

Maria stayed for a long time, drinking colorful tea, lost in thought.

Chapter Thirty

Sand and Steel

The roof was just a hot steel sheet, rusty and dented, held down by tires. Maria stood on it, thankful for the shoes the general had bought her. Otherwise the steel would burn her feet—and probably give her tetanus. The sun beat down over the city, and Maria gazed north. Waiting for him.

For her Jon.

The city sprawled before her. Happy Mountain rose ahead, the city's landfill, dotted with shanties and crawling with the poorest of the poor. Merkado Bayan bustled with life, home to thousands of shops, its vendors hawking everything from tangy pineapples to murderous androids. The Shadow Market buzzed under the bridges, a place of magic and myth, selling charms, spells, or a glimpse into the future. The Blue Boulevard sparkled with neon, garish even under the punishing sunlight, a haven of forbidden pleasures. The Blue Boulevard too was a marketplace; here was where you bought flesh. The concrete towers of New Manila soared along the coast, the wealthiest neighborhood in the city—unless you included Little Earth, which Maria could just see in the west.

Mindao. Home to millions. Her home. The pulsing heartbeat of her planet and dreams.

Maria raised her eyes and gazed beyond the city. She looked toward the northern haze, and she prayed for her husband.

"Send my message to Earth, Jon," she whispered into the wind. "It will shatter your soul. But you must send it. And you must return to me." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I miss your strong arms around me. I miss feeling safe in your embrace. I miss your smile. I love you, Jon Taylor. Come back to me. Promise you'll come back."

A hand touched her shoulder, and Maria nearly leaped out of her skin.

"Oh, don't worry, Nini. He'll come back for you. You intoxicate all the boys with your pretty smile, you know."

Maria spun around. "Pippi, you gave me a heart attack, sneaking up on me like that. I almost fell off the roof."

Pippi popped her bubble gum and grinned. "Everyone knows I'm sneaky."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Pippi, with your crazy red pigtails, tattooed freckles, and those ridiculous striped stockings, you stand out like a frog on a plate of lumpia. Not to mention that you're always humming and loudly chewing your bubble gum. You're the least sneaky person there is. I'm just… distracted."

Pippi hugged her. "Aw, sweet Holy Maria. Jon will come back to you, I know it. Until then, I'll cheer you up. I'm here for you. Always."

Maria smiled and wiped her eyes. "Thank you, Pippi. You're a good friend."

The bargirl bristled. "What?" She gasped. "I'm not your best friend?"

Maria laughed. "You and Charlie can fight it out."

Pippi snorted. "Charlie is thirty-three years old. She's more like our mom than our friend." She counted on her fingers. "Well, if my mom were only ten years older than me, that is."

Maria's eyes widened. "Charlie told me she was only thirty!"

"She tells that to everyone." Pippi snorted. "She's been saying that for years now. Hell, for all I know, she's a million." She heaved a sigh. "You know, bargirls don't have long careers. In a few years, she'll be too old. And she's scared. She has four kids to feed. And no father around."

Maria placed her hand on her swelling belly. "I hope my child's father returns soon."

Sudden horror struck her. Jon dying in the war. Her child born here in the slums. Growing up in the shantytowns. If her child was a girl, would that girl grow up to become a bargirl? A prostitute?

No, Jon will come back for me, Maria told herself. He'll take me to Earth. We'll live in our cozy house among trees. In the summer, we'll play with our daughter at the park. In the winter, we'll drink hot cocoa by the fireplace. We'll be a real family.

"Maria, come on." Pippi held her hand. "As your official best friend, I want to take you on a day out. A fun day! Just the two of us. No stress, no work, no war, just best friends having fun, okay?"

Maria lowered her head. "I don't know if I can have fun anymore. I used to have fun as a child. But my parents burned to death. My village was destroyed. I've suffered so much. My soul is broken, and maybe I can never enjoy life again."

"Well aren't you a barrel of laughs." Pippi rolled her eyes. "Come on, you whiner. I suffered just as much in the war, you know. My family was also killed, but that doesn't mean I've given up on life. Or that I can't have fun. Come on!" She pulled Maria's hand. "We're having fun today or we die trying."

They hurried down the street, holding hands. At a nearby kiosk, Pippi bought them cups of sweet halo halo topped with ice cream. They hired a jeepney, its dented body painted with a thousand birds and butterflies, and rode toward the sea. Thousands of refugees, squatters, and orphans made their home along the beach, some sleeping in makeshift huts, others in the open.

Along the coast, the jeepney ended its route, and the girls hailed down a rickshaw. Its runner, a handsome young man with messy black hair, flashed them a grin, teeth sparkling white.

"Hey, Maria!"

Maria laughed. "Jay Jay! I thought you just worked New Manila."

The young man still wore his cheap purple sunglasses. "Hey, I'm everywhere, you know. Just got a fifth rickshaw for my business. And I finally opened my bar! Come for a drink sometime!" He turned toward Pippi. "And who are you, gorgeous? Did you know I own five rickshaws and a bar?"

Pippi blew him a kiss. "Call me when you own a spaceship to Earth, sweetheart."

"Ouch!" He pressed his hands against his heart. "You wound me." But he was still grinning.

They paid him handsomely and climbed onto his rickshaw. Jay Jay peddled, chatting all the while about his business ventures and dreams. He pulled them across the sand, between thousands of people, past the last few concrete buildings, and finally out to an open beach.

"Hey, remember to visit Hollywood Dreams, right off Merkado Bayan," he said. "First round of drinks on me!"

Maria kissed his cheek. "I will, Jay Jay. I'm happy for you."

"And I won't forget about you, gorgeous," Jay Jay said to Pippi. "Next time we meet, I'll have that spaceship."

Pippi blew him a kiss. "I look forward to it, darling."

Jay Jay winked, slapped his rickshaw, and left the girls on the beach.

This place, just a few miles outside the city, was a different world. Gone were the fumes of smog and trash, the rumble of engines, the hissing of cats, the endless buzz of humanity crammed into a pen. The beach spread out before the two friends. Finally, after so long in the ghetto—open space.

Pippi began to undress.

Maria gasped. "Pippi, what are you doing? I can see your dibdibs!"

Her friend grinned. "Skinny dipping! I promised you a fun day, remember?" She wriggled out of her shorts. "Come on, join me."

"I will not!" Maria's cheeks heated. "I'm shy."

"Oh, please, you danced for the pute generals. You can skinny dip with me."

"I'll just get my clothes wet," Maria said. She was wearing a summer dress, billowy enough to cover her swelling belly.

Pippi rolled her eyes. "Oh, you really are a saint."

They swam, splashed one another, and gossiped about which pop stars were the most handsome. Pippi championed Joey Rivera, a Bahayan crooner, while Maria chose Tristan, a mononymous pop singer from Earth, famous for his silky voice, blue eyes, and traditional pop covers.

"Oh, you just have white fever," Pippi said and splashed her. "First Jon, now that pretty boy Tristan. You're addicted!"

Maria laughed. "I'm not! I just think Tristan has a nice voice."

"Sure, sure, and his pale skin and blue eyes have nothing to do with it, I'm sure." Pippi sighed. "Well, you have a type. Most people do. Why do you think I look like this?" She gestured at her face.

"You're beautiful," Maria said.

Pippi nodded. "Of course you'd say that. I make myself look like an Earthling. I dye my hair red, and I wear it in pigtails with ribbons. I even tattooed freckles. I call myself Pippi, though my real name is Angelica Lopez." She shrugged. "Everyone wants to look like an Earthling, to marry an Earthling, to become an Earthling. So I play along."

"That's not true!" Maria said. "I'm proud of being Bahayan. And Jon loves me the way I am, even though my skin is brown, and I'm short, and I don't look like an Earthling girl. And the general liked me too, and…"

She let her voice trail off. She didn't feel like talking about that now.

For a moment, they were silent, standing in the water.

Pippi held Maria's hands. "Things will be okay, my friend. I'll look after you. Charlie and all the other girls will too. We have a new family now."

Maria smiled tremulously. "It's a good family. Pippi, I'm sorry. About your village. And your old family there."

Pippi lowered her head. "I miss him. Every day. My son."

Something cold and soft filled Maria. She touched her friend's cheek. "Oh, Pippi, I had no idea."

"He died in the bombings," Pippi said. "He was only two years old. And…" Her tears flowed. "I tell myself that it happened to somebody else. That I'm not Angelica Lopez anymore. That I'm just Pippi, the silly bargirl from Mindao. That none of these tragedies happened to my life. That I can forget. But I can't, Maria." She let out a sob. "I can't forget."

Maria embraced her. "Nor should you, my dear friend. We'll never forget the fallen. Ever. We'll always cherish their memory. And we'll always fight in their honor."

A smile broke through Pippi's grief. She kissed Maria on the cheek. "God, Maria, I wish I liked girls instead of boys, because you're so cute and I could just marry you."

Maria laughed. "I'm not sure Jon would like that."

"Who cares?" Pippi splashed her. "I'm willing to fight for you."

Maria gasped and splashed her back. "So why are you splashing me?"

"It's fun!"

They splashed each other for a while, laughing, then swam in the water, and finally collapsed onto the shore. They lay there, watching the waves, until the stars emerged. Instead of returning to the city, they slept on the beach, nestling together, seeking some comfort from pain, some love in a world of so much hate.

"You're my best friend, Pippi," Maria whispered. "I love you."

Pippi's eyes were closed, but she cuddled closer to Maria and mumbled, "Shut up, idiot, I'm sleeping." She smiled. "I love you too, you stupid best friend."

Maria smiled. "This was my best day since Jon left. Thank you."

They lay on the sand as the waves whispered, and they slept until the dawn.

Chapter Thirty-One

Maria's Message

Jon was guarding the hilltop when the dying soldier ran toward him, gasping for air and calling his name.

An Earthing, Jon realized with a gasp.

And the man was running through the jungle. Through enemy territory.

For weeks now, Jon had been guarding this hill, waiting for the enemy to attack. The last thing he had expected was to see a fellow Earthling burst from the rainforest. Jon was so edgy he almost shot the poor bastard.

Not that much had happened here lately. Actually, since the Battle of Camp Apollo, Jon had mostly been bored. For weeks now, he and his platoon camped on this hill in North Bahay, guarding it for God knew what reason. Probably the army didn't know what else to do with them.

It was peaceful here, as much as North Bahay could be peaceful. Sometimes they saw planes overhead. Sometimes they heard explosions in the distance. Sometimes they saw refugees fleeing south along the jungle trails. But mostly Jon and his platoon just sat around.

They listened to the birds. They ate their dwindling battle rations. And they waited to die.

Yes, Jon had come to accept that. He would most likely die in this war. The Red Cardinal was still alive. The Luminous Army, whispered the rumors, was growing stronger every day. Sooner or later, everyone was saying, the big push would come. The hosts of Earth and Bahay would clash again.

Jon had been lucky so far. He had survived several battles. Surigao Hill. Basilica. Camp Apollo. Not to mention countless skirmishes along the road north. Those battles had claimed most of his friends. A deep chill in his belly warned him that his luck was running out. Surviving a fourth battle seemed like pushing his luck.

Was it any wonder that he now raised his rifle, aimed it at the running figure, nearly shot the poor bugger?

"Jon!" gasped the Earthling, running uphill. "Private Jon Taylor!"

He was tall, gangly sort, all elbows and knees and bony shoulders. His battlesuit hung in tatters, armored plates flaking like old scabs. Blood dripped from wounds across his torso. His helmet's visor had shattered, revealing a stubbly, grimy face, half of it scarred. He was young. Probably not much older than twenty, a young enlisted soldier from Anytown, Earth, lost in the alien jungle.

Jon glanced back toward his camp. The rest of his platoon was a few hundred yards away, lounging among the trees on the shady hillside.

"George, you read me?" Jon spoke into his comlink.

"Ayup, buddy," came George's voice. "Bill here caught some big furry animal in the forest. Looks like an alien bear or something. He wants to skin and cook it, but the thing stinks to high heavens. Say, you know anything about Bahayan animals that look like—"

"George, I'm going to need a medic up here. I've got a wounded soldier. He just popped out the jungle. One of our boys. He's all banged up and bleeding."

"Ten-four," George said. "I'm sending Doc up there."

The wounded Earthling was still climbing through the jungle, calling to Jon.

Jon wanted to run and help. But he hesitated. Could this be a trap? A way to lure him off the hilltop and into ambush?

"Jon Taylor, I have…" The soldier coughed. "For you…" He fell.

"Goddammit," Jon muttered.

He might regret this. Maybe he was stepping into a trap. But dammit, the man below was dying. Jon couldn't just stand there.

He left his post. He ran through the jungle toward the wounded soldier.

"Get here soon, Doc," he mumbled, shoving his way through the brush.

He reached the man. He read the name on the dog tags.

DAVID MOTT, PRIVATE

"I need… Jon." David coughed. "I'm looking for Private Jon Taylor."

David struggled back to his feet, but he swayed. Jon had to catch him. He gently laid the lanky private on the forest floor. The wounds didn't look deep, but they might have been bleeding for a long while.

"Well, I'm Sergeant Jon Taylor," Jon said. "I've been promoted quickly, though. I was a corporal just a few months ago, a private not long before that. That happens when your commanders keep getting blown up. Am I the guy you're looking for?"

David reached up and grasped Jon. "Yes. Yes, it's you. She described you. Tall but shorter than me. Black hair. Blue eyes. It's you."

Jon frowned. "Who? Who described me?"

But David began coughing again. Damn it, there was no time for chit chat, and no time to wait for Doc. Jon began unstrapping David's armored uniform, or what remained of it, which was mostly just loose chunks of ceramic armor and sticky, bloody fabric.

Jon cringed.

Okay. Yeah, those wounds were bad. Worse than Jon had thought. David had suffered deep gashes and a bullet hole. They oozed pus.

"Jon…" David's skin was ashen, his voice fading. "I've been running for a long time. Through the jungle and wasteland. All the way from Mindao. She sent me to find you. I had to come. The Kalayaan ambushed me. Hurt me. But I kept going."

"Who sent you?" Jon said. He pulled a bandage from his pocket—a thick piece of gauze—and slapped it onto a deep cut. It probably wasn't doing much good. The damn wound was infected. Jon could see the insect eggs inside.

Come on, Doc, where are you?

"Maria," David whispered, and his face became wistful, as if speaking her name soothed the pain. "Holy Maria, saint of lost souls."

Jon gasped. "Maria…"

David smiled. "She saved me once. When I was a prisoner of the Kalayaan. She saved me from Ernesto and his horrible iron. She saved my life. It's fitting that I now give my life for her cause." He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket, handed it to Jon. "Here. This is for you. From her. I traveled through the fire to bring it to you."

Jon accepted the gift. The plastic bag was bloodstained. When Jon wiped it down, he saw a codechip inside. A small electronic device, no larger than a matchbox, which could contain vast amounts of data. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. A lock of Maria's hair? A love letter with the mark of her lips? Certainly not this.

"What's on it?" Jon asked.

David gazed silently at the sky, smiling. A glimmerbird, its feathers like sapphires, was gliding overhead.

"David?" Jon shook him. "David, buddy, you with me?"

But David said no more. He had died smiling, watching the beautiful bird.

Doc finally arrived, and George was with him, rifle in hands. But it was too late. All they could do was close David's eyes and mumble a prayer.

* * * * *

Jon sat in his tent.

He sat alone.

He held the codechip in his hand. Staring at it.

Maria had sent this to Private Jon Taylor. But he was not the same man.

The man you sent this to died, Maria, he thought.

Private Jon Taylor had died along the road north. He died again in the basalt labyrinth of Basilica. He died in Fort Apollo, and he died in the inferno of Santa Rosa. Every battle, very massacre—another piece of his soul gone.

Today I am Sergeant Jon Taylor, he thought, and I am not the man you fell in love with. Sergeant Jon Taylor is a killer.

He was afraid.

Afraid to find a message from her. Afraid to see the same beautiful girl he had fallen in love with. Afraid to realize he was a monster who could no longer love her, only devour her.

But David had died to bring him this message. Jon would overcome his fear.

He pulled out a dusty minicom, a little computer the size of a paperback novel. The soldiers sometimes used the minicom to play games and watch movies. With a deep breath, Jon plugged in the codechip.

Maria appeared on the monitor.

A video of her. Smiling.

Jon's eyes dampened. He let out something halfway between sob and laugh.

He had not seen Maria for half a year. And she was so beautiful. She wore her long black hair in a braid, her smile was so bright, and her eyes sparkled.

The most beautiful girl in the world, he thought.

"Hi, Jon!" She waved and smiled. "I miss you!"

A tear flowed down Jon's cheek. It was just a recording. She could not see or hear him. But he caressed the monitor.

"I miss you too," he whispered.

Warmth flowed over him. His heart blazed with love. And he could not stand it. He wanted to grab her, hug her, kiss her. It felt so cruel that she should be so far! He wanted to burst out from the tent, defect from his unit, and run halfway down the planet to find her.

In the video, Maria blew him a kiss. "I love you, Jon. I need to say that right off the bat, because it's urgent and can't wait. I love you! Forever and ever! I'm sending you a million kisses!"

Jon laughed and wiped his eyes. Maria laughed too. But Jon saw that there was sadness in her eyes. That new ghosts haunted her soul. For a brief moment, recording this message, she found comfort in their love. But he could see the unbearable pain lurking beneath her joy, a murky swamp churning beneath blooming lotuses, full of serpents.

Her smile faded. "Jon. My beloved husband. There's something I must tell you. It's not easy. And maybe you'll never forgive me. Just remember that I did this for my planet, my people, and yes—even for us." A tear fell. "This is what I did."

For long moments, she spoke, and Jon listened.

She spoke of getting a job at Little Earth, and of seducing General Ward.

She spoke of becoming the general's mistress.

She spoke of many nights in his presence, gaining his trust.

With every word she spoke, Jon's heart shattered into smaller pieces.

"I'm sorry, Jon." She wiped her eyes. "I know it hurts you. Please know that I always hated him. Every second with him was hell. And every second with you was heaven. I seduced him, Jon, not to hurt you, because I love you with all my heart, and I can't wait to see you again. I seduced him to get a confession. And I got one. A confession that can end this war."

A grainy video appeared on the monitor, replacing Maria.

It showed General Ward. The commander of the Human Defense Force on Bahay. The mastermind of this war.

He spoke, his voice muffled due to the low quality recording equipment, but clear enough.

"I ordered millions of Bahayan women and children killed. Do you know why? Because slits are nothing but vermin and whores, and it's my job to kill them and fuck them."

Now Maria spoke in the recording; she was probably wearing the hidden camera. "You can't win this war."

"You're right," the general said. "Earth can't win this war. We can bomb you and kill you until the cows come home. And we won't win. This is an unwinnable war. I know it. The president knows it. We've known it for years."

The grainy video faded to black.

Jon blinked in amazement. General Ward himself—confessing to the murders of innocents? And even more shockingly—confessing he could not win the war?

This is a bombshell, Jon realized.

This would do more than stain General Ward's legacy. It could bring down President Hale himself. Jon took a long shaky breath.

"This can end this whole war," he whispered.

Maria reappeared on screen, replacing the grainy video.

"Jon, we need to show Earth this message. But I can't leak it from here. The military police are scanning every soldier, living or dead, who leaves Bahay. I've leaked information before, but those holes are now sealed. Jon, I need a wormhole generator. The military owns several. I need you to find one—and to broadcast General Ward's confession to Earth."

Jon slumped. That was a tall order. Wormhole generators weren't exactly standard issue.

"Jon, I know it will be hard," Maria continued. "I know it will test your soul. But you must do this. We have a chance to end this war. To save millions of lives. And to be together again." She smiled shakily. "When the war ends, we'll be united. We'll get married for real. And we'll live in a cute little house among trees. I can't wait, Jon. To see you again. To kiss you and hold you. I hope that day comes very soon. Goodbye for now. I love you."

The video ended.

Jon sat for a long moment, silent, eyes damp.

He watched the video again.

"Maria, I love you," he whispered. "But you ask me to betray my people. And I don't know what to do."

Chapter Thirty-Two

A Hard Choice

George leaned back and slowly exhaled.

"Wow."

Jon nodded. "Yep. Wow."

They had just watched Maria's video. George began pacing the tent.

"Do you realize what this means, Jon? General Ward—confessing that he can't win the war!"

"I know, George."

George tugged at his red hair. "This can cause a scandal to bring down President Hale! Jon, this can end the war!"

"George, I know, I've already watched this video several times."

The giant stopped pacing. He spun toward Jon and gasped. "Dammit, Jon, we don't have a wormhole generator. How are we going to send this to Earth?"

Jon sighed. "George. I haven't even decided what to do yet. Maybe we should…" He winced. "Maybe we should bury this codechip."

George's jaw dropped. "What? Are you insane?" He grabbed the codechip and held it overhead like some archaeological treasure. "We have here the biggest scoop in the history of scoops! And you want to bury it?"

"George. This is highly classified information. However explosive it is, however cruel General Ward was, it's still classified. If we leak it, we'd be breaking the law. And worse—betraying our fellow soldiers."

George's cheeks flushed. His lip twitched. "What about David, who died to bring us this news? What about him? What about Maria who suffered that scumbag Ward touching her to record this?" George clenched his enormous fists, each the size of a melon. "People suffered and died for this! And you're just gonna toss it out?"

Jon had seen George angry several times before—but always at other people, at monsters like Clay. He had never been on the receiving end. The giant's wrath was terrifying.

"George, I know," Jon said. "Trust me, I know! They made incredible sacrifices to bring us this recording. And I don't want to betray them either. David seemed like a good man. And I love Maria, and I'd do anything for her. But how can I do this?"

"Easy," George said. "We find a wormhole. We send it to Earth. It doesn't need to be more complex. Okay, it's not easy. But at least it's simple."

Now it was Jon's turn to pace the tent.

"I wish Etty were here," he said. "She'd know what to do. She was always the smartest, most ethical member of our fireteam." He felt lost without her guidance.

"But you know what she'd do," George said softly, his anger fading. "Etty would leak the information. Like she leaked the photos of the Santa Rosa massacre. How is this different?"

"Because at Santa Rosa, we leaked information about specific monsters, about a specific crime. But this, George, this codechip… this is about the entire war. The entire army. This affects us all. Me, you, and all the soldiers we fight alongside. General Ward himself saying we can't win…" He took a shaky breath. "It would provide a massive boost of morale to the Luminous Army. Our enemies would feel emboldened, strike us hard. Thousands of Earthlings could die. Because of us."

George's jaw unhinged. He pushed it shut. "I… I haven't thought of that."

Jon nodded. "We took a vow, George. When we joined the army. We took a vow to honor the uniform we wear. At Santa Rosa, we saw men desecrate that uniform—so we spoke out."

"And what of General Ward?" George said. "Didn't he desecrate the uniform?"

Jon winced. He thought of the general undressing Maria. Touching her. Probably sleeping with her. The pain stabbed Jon like a bayonet. Yes, Maria had done this to end the war. So they could be together again. But it still felt like a betrayal.

Betrayal upon betrayal, Jon thought. Maybe there is no morality in war. I fight with my gun, and Maria fights the way she can, and we've both done horrible things.

"I wish this were simpler," Jon said. "I wish I could be like the heroes we read about growing up. Like the War Poet and the Golden Lioness and the rest of them. I wish we could just face evil aliens, shoot 'em up, and never have to worry about moral dilemmas. About betraying our fellow soldiers. But this war isn't simple. We're fighting fellow humans, George. Not slits, not gooks—humans. And I can end this war. I hold a codechip that can save countless lives. All I must do is betray my brothers and sisters. All I must do is shatter my soul."

Maria had known this. She had warned him. She had understood.

And she trusted him to make the right choice.

"Jon." George placed a hand on his shoulder. "What if you bury it? What then?"

Jon took a deep breath. He pulled open the tent flap and stared outside at the wilderness of Bahay. The jungles spread toward the distant battlefields. Toward villages bombed and poisoned. Toward a planet broken and doused in blood.

"If I bury this codechip, and if I keep fighting this war, I'm an accomplice. I'm to blame for the millions who died here. The millions we killed. The millions who might still die." He turned back toward his friend. "I must be either a traitor or a murderer. All I ever wanted was to be a musician."

George placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "No good men want to fight wars. And no good men fight wars with clean conscience. Yet they fight nonetheless. And in the hell of battle, they make the difficult decisions, even the ones that break their hearts. Because they know the truth. To avoid a hard choice is itself a choice. Often it's the worst choice."

Jon smiled sadly. "You're a wise man, George."

George snorted. "Me? I'm just a big dumb meathead. But Etty taught me a thing or two."

"So I must make the hard choice," Jon said. "I know that you've decided already."

George nodded. "I have. But I won't proceed without you."

Jon took a deep breath. "I know that many people will hate me for this choice. I know that I'll be vilified. And maybe I am a villain. If I must choose between treason and murder, I choose treason. I hope that some will understand why I made this choice, and that they will forgive me. I know many will not. And I'll have to live with my own shame forever." He closed his hand around the codechip. "George, we're going to need a wormhole generator."

Chapter Thirty-Three

An Ill Attempt

Jon winced. "God, I look like a character from an Ensign Earth propaganda reel."

George raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean? You look like a Kalayaan Kenny. It's perfect."

They huddled among the dark trees. Jon's flashlight shone on its lowest setting, casting eerie light. The rest of the Apollo Brigade camped nearby.

Crude barbed wire and wooden stakes surrounded the camp. Jon and George hid just outside the fence, huddling among twisting trees. Behind Jon rose the sounds of the jungle: chirping insects, rustling leaves, a hooting bird. Ahead, he could hear the sounds of the camp. Somebody was humming old songs. Somebody was praying. Another soldier was weeping. Only two thousand troops remained of this once-proud brigade, the last survivors of brutal warfare. Everyone was shell-shocked. Everyone was wounded. Everyone missed home.

Twigs creaked by the fence. A cigarette glowed like a tiny red Santelmo. Jon shut off his flashlight. He and George waited, frozen in place, not even daring to breathe. A guard walked by them, puffing on his cigarette. The smell of tobacco wafted, mixed with hintan, a local drug with a cinnamon scent. Jon recognized the guard: a private named Mario, a good lad, if a bit hotheaded. Hopefully the hintan would calm his notorious temper.

After Mario walked by, Jon lit his flashlight again. He held up a small handheld mirror, one he used for shaving, and examined himself.

Ridiculous, he thought. I look utterly ridiculous.

He wore a simple tunic, the fabric woven of banana leaves, and a straw hat topped his head. His pistol hung from a rope belt. Using battle camouflage, he had applied a little paint to his eyes, trying to make them appear more Asian. It was not a convincing outfit. And to be honest, it was a bit offensive.

"I look like a goddamn minstrel show," Jon said.

George snorted. "Hey, better you than me. At my size, I'd never pass for a Bahayan."

Jon sighed. "I don't look anything like a Bahayan. In the darkness and chaos, hopefully nobody notices. Do you have the sleeping gas?"

George pulled two cannisters from his pack. "Here you go. Two premium sleeping gas cannisters, manufactured by the good people at Elemental Solutions Chemicals Corporation. You better make good use of them! Snagging these from the armory was scary stuff. I almost fainted I was so scared of getting caught. And I was the one guarding the armory that night!"

Jon patted his friend on the shoulder. "See? And you were bitching about guard duty. Without your misfortune, this whole plan would be impossible."

George grumbled. "Yeah, well, I still hate guarding the armory. If there's a battle, and it's hit, the whole place will blow sky high. And me with it." He shuddered. "Wanna review the plan again?"

"I steal the brigade's wormhole generator, blame the Kalayaan, and you swear I was on guard duty with you the whole time. Simple."

"It's a bit more complex than that," George said. "Let's review the escape routes, and I'll practice my alibi again, and—"

"George." Jon patted his friend's shoulder and looked into his eyes. "We've reviewed this over and over. It's time."

The giant took a shaky breath. "I'm scared."

"Me too," Jon confessed. "I wish we didn't have to do this. But hey, our part is easy compared to what Maria endured." He pulled out the codechip, containing Ward's confession. "In an hour, George, this video will be playing across Earth."

George nodded, his eyes dampened, and then he pulled Jon into a crushing embrace. "You be careful, Jon. All right? Don't do anything stupid."

"You mean dressing up like a racist Ensign Earth villain? Bit too late for that."

They shared a quick laugh, then stifled it, worried that a guard would hear.

"Godspeed, Jon Taylor," George said, suddenly somber. "Go save the world."

"Two worlds, if I can," Jon said.

* * * * *

The two friends parted. George walked west in the darkness, heading toward his guard post. Later, he would swear Jon guarded the same post with him all night. Dressed as the enemy, Jon walked the other way. If anyone saw him like this, Jon knew, they'd shoot him on sight.

He placed a hand on his pistol, seeking comfort, but he found none. He didn't want to shoot fellow soldiers. No more than he wanted them shooting him.

There's gotta be a better way, Jon thought. But he could think of none, and it was too late to turn back now. He might never find his courage again.

He stayed between the fangwoods, known as bibigpuno among the locals—a native species of thick, coiling trees with carnivorous leaves. A few of the leaves snapped their jaws at him, and one even bit Jon's arm. He flinched but didn't make a sound. Ignoring the leafy little blighters, he kept tiptoeing through the shadows. He didn't dare use his flashlight. He moved by whatever moonlight shone through the toothy canopy.

Apollo Brigade kept its wormhole generator in the center of the camp. Isaac Wormholes, invented by Professor Noah Isaac last century, allowed faster-than-light communication. Here on Bahay, they gave the Human Defense Force a direct line to Earth. Isaac Wormhole Generators—known as IWGs, pronounced eyewigs—could create these tiny tunnels to Earth.

Massive wormholes, like those starships flew through, were beyond human technology. To fly between star systems, Earth relied on infrastructure left over by great alien civilizations. But humans could open small wormholes, a few atoms wide, and talk through them. They consumed massive amounts of energy, so conversations were expensive and short. One call home used more energy than most battles.

Jon figured this call was worth it.

I just need the wormhole open for a minute or two, Jon thought, and I can send Ward's confession to Earth.

There were only a handful of IWGs on this planet. There was one at Fort Miguel, the massive base in South Bahay, where Jon had once been stationed. There were two at Little Earth, the luxurious base where the generals lived, another two on Mother's Womb. Those IWGs were big, permanent installations, allowing officers to instantly communicate with Earth.

But the HDF had brought a handful of portable IWGs too. They were still big, bulky machines, but they could fit into a military truck. Brigades in the south didn't need them. But brigades here in North Bahay brought portable IWGs with them—or PIWGs, pronounced pie-wigs. In case their contact with South Bahay died, they could use PIWGs to receive orders directly from Earth.

Down south, there would be no way Jon could reach an IWG. But here in the chaos of North Bahay, in a ravaged, bloodied, beaten battalion, most of its soldiers dead…

Yes, I can do this, he thought. I have to do this.

He crept around a few more trees, and there he saw it.

Armored trucks stood in a clearing. The brigade had bulldozed the forest here, creating a temporary parking lot over charred wood, dirt, and dead animals. Pilak Mata, Bahay's large silver moon, hid behind the horizon. Asul Mata, the smaller moon, painted the trucks pale blue.

Most of the trucks were full of food, water, and ammunitions. Colonel Pascal was paranoid about supply lines being cut, and he carried enough munitions to survive a zombie apocalypse. But one of these trucks was different.

Jon recognized it. The central truck, large and heavily armored, topped with three satellite dishes. The wormhole generator.

He waited among the last few trees.

Suddenly boots thumped. A scent of cinnamon wafted. Mario came patrolling by, humming a Grateful Dead tune.

"Truckin' up to Buffalo. Been thinkin', you got to mellow slow...."

With every puff of his cigarette, the private sang louder. They could probably hear him on Earth. Judging by how much he was swaying, Mario was probably on his third or fourth hintan cigarette.

"Lately, it occurs to me, what a long, strange trip it's been..."

Jon waited for him to walk by. Eventually Mario vanished behind the mess hall.

All right, here goes.

Jon took a deep breath, then emerged from the cover of trees. In the blue moonlight, he scurried toward the nearest truck—a supply truck full of drinking water. He crouched behind it, heart pounding. He waited a moment longer, made certain no guards were nearby, then scuttled toward the next truck. And the next. Moving closer to his destination.

Soon he was only one truck away. The PIWG was just a few meters away.

Three soldiers were guarding it.

Jon sighed. This would have been easier a few months ago. Back then, nobody would guard the PWIG truck. But since then, a few homesick soldiers had sneaked in, called Mom back on Earth, and gobbled up too much energy. Today three soldiers guarded the wormhole generator around the clock.

Just more of my bad luck, Jon thought.

He crouched in the shadows. He knew those soldiers. He had fought with them. There were the two Bills—Bill Conway and Bill Edwards. With them stood Rebecca "Bucky" Allenby. Her frizzy hair now hid under a helmet, but there was no mistaking her gangly limbs.

Jon knew them. Had fought with them. Had shared meals with them, comforted them when friends had died, encouraged them when times were hard. Hell, he had known Bucky since boot camp. They were like family. He did not want to hurt them.

And he did not want to implicate them.

Jon was about to steal military equipment and leak a classified video. If he was caught, he would spend his life in prison. He needed to get past the Bills and Bucky—without revealing his identity, hurting them, or recruiting them.

Suddenly he wanted to turn back. This was ridiculous! What was he doing? Dressed as a Kenny? Ready to break the law, to betray his fellow soldiers, to throw his life away?

Turn back! screamed a voice inside him. Take off this costume and return to bed!

But then he thought of Maria. Maria smiling in the video. Blowing him a kiss. Telling him she loved him. He thought of the sacrifices she had made to obtain this recording. Of David, who had died bringing it here. Of the millions who might still die, both Earthlings and Bahayans, if this war continued.

Jon swallowed a lump in his throat.

I must betray my planet or the woman I love.

His soul ripped in two.

He knew that he could never betray Maria. He was helping her shame Earth—his own planet. And he hated himself.

But maybe… maybe it's General Ward who shamed Earth. He took a shaky breath. Maybe I'm a whistleblower, not a traitor.

That comforted him a little. Not a lot. But enough to keep going.

He raised the two cannisters George had pilfered from the armory. They contained what the troops called sleeping smoke, a chemical that knocked you out cold. It was normally used in South Bahay to disperse riots. The brigade brought a few cannisters north. They were useful in war zones too. With some sleeping smoke, you could capture enemy troops alive for interrogations.

Here goes.

Jon burst out from behind the truck, wearing his straw hat.

He pulled the pins off the cannisters and rolled them forward. Smoke pumped out in foul clouds.

The guards spun toward Jon, eyes widening. They raised their guns.

But the smoke got them first.

Their eyes rolled back. The smoke wafted around them. One of the Bills crashed down. Another took a clumsy step toward Jon, aimed his rifle, and Jon winced… but then this Bill too hit the ground.

That left Bucky. The young woman stood a little farther back, where the smoke was thinner.

"Who…" She coughed, her eyes red. "Stop…"

Her rifle swayed, and her lanky legs wobbled. But she stayed standing.

She was about to cry out or shoot Jon. Neither option was very good.

Jon cursed and leaped toward her, trying to avoid the smoke, or at least most of it.

Fumes hit him like fire. His eyes stung. His head spun. Darkness spread. He could see only smudges.

But he plowed through the miasma and barreled into Bucky.

He body-slammed her onto the ground. They rolled out from the smoky cloud.

Bucky blinked at him, her glasses askew. The shock of falling seemed to resuscitate her. She opened her mouth wide, prepared to scream.

Jon slapped his palm over her mouth.

"Don't make a sound!" he warned.

She drove her knee into his groin.

Jon nearly howled with pain. He bit down on the agony. He kept his palm on Bucky's mouth, stifling her screams. He struggled to pin her down. She was thrashing beneath him, smoke and all. The wind blew. Fumes flowed over them. Jon felt woozy, and he coughed, struggling not to pass out.

"Just be quiet and I won't hurt you," he whispered.

Bucky bit his palm. And with those big buck teeth, it did some serious damage. Jon screamed silently.

Goddammit! She was not going down without a fight. Somehow, even as her teeth gnawed through his hand, Jon kept his palm on her mouth. It was his wounded hand too. The one savaged during the Red Cardinal's assault. But pain be damned—he would not let her scream! One scream, and the entire camp would wake up, Jon would be killed, and hope would be lost.

The sleeping smoke was fizzling out. But some smoke still wafted above the empty cans. Jon began dragging Bucky closer to the miasma. She was fierce, but he was stronger, and he pulled her through the dirt toward the noxious gas. The fumes stung Jon's eyes. They were still potent. Bucky just needed one good whiff and…

Jon's eyes rolled back.

He crashed onto her.

He floated in a dark forest, trapped in a labyrinth, chasing beads of light, but he fell, fell, and he was lying on Maria's corpse, and—

Bucky shoved him off. Jon rolled onto his back, gasped, and gulped down fresh air. A breeze thinned the smoke, and Jon managed to push himself to his knees.

Bucky did the same. Her eyes were red and puffy, and foam filled her mouth, but she was still very conscious.

She aimed her rifle at him, snarled, and—

Suddenly she frowned. She tilted her head, took off her glasses, cleaned them, put them back on.

"Jon?" she whispered, then coughed and spat out foamy mucus. "Jon Taylor? Is that you?"

Jon's straw hat had fallen off during the fight. His makeup was probably smudged too.

"Um… yes?" He winced. "Please don't scream, Bucky. And don't shoot me."

Her jaw hung open. "What the hell are you doing, Jon?"

He grimaced. "Shh, quiet! Whisper."

She shoved her muzzle toward him. "Talk, dammit, or I'll put a bullet through your gut!"

"I'm trying to steal the wormhole generator, okay? Well, not even steal it. Just borrow it. I didn't want to hurt you. Or implicate you. Now be careful with your gun!"

He glanced around him. The two Bills were still sleeping, but they would wake up soon. The breeze had dispersed the last noxious fumes toward the forest. A few animals thumped down from the branches. The rest of Camp Apollo was still silent. Everyone was sleeping—aside perhaps from Mario. But he was patrolling the outer fence, still smoking his hintan, probably so dazed he wouldn't notice the Red Cardinal sauntering in.

"Why are you dressed up like a Kenny?" Bucky said. "And it's a horrible disguise. You look like a minstrel show."

"I knew it!" Jon said. "I told that to George, but—"

"Wait, George is in on this too?" Bucky said.

Jon cursed himself. "Oh fuck. No! He's not. I mean—" He groaned. "Look, Bucky, can you just please keep this between us?"

She narrowed her eyes. "That depends. You better tell me what's going on, Buster. Talk while I decide whether I should scream or shoot."

Jon glanced around again. They didn't have much time. The Bills might wake up soon, or Mario might arrive, possibly with some of his senses still intact.

He looked back at Bucky. "I have a video of General Ward confessing that this war is unwinnable. He also confesses that Earth has killed millions of Bahayans for no good reason. He recorded it moments before he died. I need to show Earth. They need to know. If I hand the video over to Colonel Pascal, he'll bury it. So I dressed up as a Kenny to steal the truck, and frame the enemy, and send the message to Earth, so that—"

"Jon?" Bucky said. "Shut up and get into the PIWG truck."

He blinked. "Wait, what?"

"I'm coming with you. You'll never figure out wormhole tech yourself, but I know how it works. Hurry!"

His mouth hung open. "You're not going to shoot me, or—"

"Jon, shut up and into the truck!"

He nodded and leaped into the armored truck.

* * * * *

Jon stared at the insides of the wormhole truck.

Wow, he thought. Bucky was right. I would never figure this out.

The truck was full of control panels, pipes, switches, gauges, and monitors. The machinery filled nearly the entire space. Hundreds of buttons and levers bristled everywhere.

"I'll drive," Bucky said. "We can't broadcast from here. Once the wormhole generator gets going, the antenna is going to light up the sky, alerting everyone within miles. So we need to be somewhere far and safe."

Jon nodded. "I know, George and I planned this already."

"Your plan is shit!" she said. "Hide in the back, Kenny, and make yourself useful. Start reading a manual or something."

Jon frowned at her. "You are not the same girl from boot camp." He still remembered Bucky following Clay Hagen like a lost pup, desperate to impress him.

"War makes a girl grow up fast," she said.

She fired up the engine, and the armored truck rumbled forward.

She drove past the other trucks, tires crushing charred branches and dead birds, and along a dirt road. A barbed wire fence surrounded the camp. A guard stood at the gateway, rifle in hand. The truck's headlights washed over him. The guard squinted, cursed, and waved for them to stop.

"Yo, dude, what's up?" The guard approached the truck, palm over his eyes, and peered into the driver's seat. "It's fucking three am. Gate's closed till dawn. You nearly blinded me."

Sitting at the wheel, Bucky looked at the guard and spoke calmly. "I got a Kenny in the backseat, pointing a rifle at me. He says that if you don't open the gates, he'll blow my brains out."

The guard squinted at her, then guffawed. "Yeah right. For fuck's sake, you fucking privates with your fucking jokes. I'm a goddamn corporal, and I'm stuck guarding this gate, while you fucking privates get to drive the fucking trucks, with your fancy air conditioning and radios and shit. I swear, one day I'm going to blow my own brains out, and then everyone will be sorry." He kept grumbling as he opened the gate. "Go, go! I hope you run into a Kenny ambush, you fucking private joker."

As the truck rumbled into the forest, Bucky looked over her shoulder at Jon, who still hid in the back.

"And how exactly did you plan to get through the gate dressed as a Kenny?" she said.

"I was going to just charge through it. Make it look realistic, you know. Like an actual Kalayaan raid."

Bucky rolled her eyes. "And wake up the entire base? See? Your plan is shit. You and George are idiots. You're lucky I'm crazy enough to help."

"Bucky, you just implicated yourself. The guard saw you!"

"He saw me say that a Kenny kidnapped me. He thought I was joking. I wasn't." She shrugged. "If I get in trouble, I have an alibi."

"Bucky, I… I don't know what to say. Thank you."

Her eyes were solemn, her voice hard. "Jon, I used to be one of Clay's lackeys. He went on to murder five hundred innocent people. That blood is on my hands too. And I'm going to make amends. If I can help end this war, maybe God will forgive me."

They drove along a dark road, navigating between the trees. The land had been ravaged by war. Millions of trees lay fallen, charred, or poisoned. The armored truck crushed the fallen logs under its wheels. A few trees still grew, but they were withered, tilting over, and strange animals scuttled among their branches. White, furless creatures stared with huge yellow eyes. As the truck approached, the animals flared spiky hoods like cobras. A man hung on one branch, hissing. He had no face, just a hole with a few teeth. A bird cawed and flew at the truck, eyeballs dangling on stalks, and grotesque fingers grew from its wingtips, disturbingly human.

Jon shuddered and looked away. He didn't know if these were aliens or mutants. Perhaps Mister Weird's poison had twisted animals and men into these bizarre beasts. Jon held his breath for as long as he could. If any poison lingered here, it was far worse than some sleeping smoke.

"Take us downhill," Jon said. "See that huge black area? I know, it's hard to see in the night. That's the ocean. We'll be hidden between water and mountain."

Bucky nodded. "All right." She drove in silence for a moment. Then she looked at him. "Is this about the girl? About Maria?"

Jon winced. "You know about her? I only told a few people."

"Dude, you might as well have hung up bulletins. The whole brigade knows. News spreads fast. Especially now that we're so small. Most of us were chopped down in the wars. Makes rumors fly faster."

Jon nodded. "Yes. Maria is part of this."

Bucky smiled, eyes damp. "This whole war is so fucked up, isn't it? Earthlings fighting Bahayans. We're all just human, you know? We're all Earthlings originally. I hope you get back to her, Jon Taylor. I know she's worth it." She paused for a moment, face pale. "I'm the youngest daughter in a family of four kids. My oldest sister died on Bahay. My two brothers came home crippled. So fuck the colonel, and fuck the generals, and fuck President Hale, and fuck this whole damn war. Let's end this shit and go home."

"We can make it home by Christmas," Jon said.

He remembered Christmases with his family. Opening presents by the fireplace. Playing piano as his mother sang. Paul wouldn't be there this year.

But you'll be there with me, Maria, Jon thought, a lump in his throat. We'll sit by that fire and open presents, and I'll play the piano and you can sing. It's almost over, Maria.

"We're almost at the beach," Bucky said. "Jon, start calibrating the wormhole generator. It'll take ten minutes, maybe more, to prime up. And it'll blast a lot of light. I'll find us a good hiding place." She pointed toward the back of the truck. "See that keyboard over there? Hit the—"

"Bucky!" Jon shouted.

A twisted white face appeared outside the truck.

A creature slammed into the windshield. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass.

A monster howled, and Jon and Bucky screamed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Faces in the Dark

The creature shrieked.

A bloated white face, full of horns and thrusting teeth, pressed against the cracked windshield. Wings spread wide, engulfing the truck.

Bucky screamed, floored the gas pedal, and the truck plowed forward. But the creature clung to the windshield.

"What is that?" Bucky cried.

"I don't know!" Jon said. "Dammit, look—another one!"

A white being swooped from the trees, gleaming in the moonlight. It slammed into the passenger side.

The truck jolted. Jon fell against the dashboard, banging his chin.

More creatures screeched and howled. Eyes filled the forest.

"Goddammit, they'll alert the brigade!" Bucky shouted.

Jon groaned, ignored the pain, and drew his pistol. "Keep driving, I'll take care of them."

"I can't see!"

"Just drive!"

Jon loaded his gun. The creature still covered the windshield. Its lips peeled back to reveal rows of fangs. The tongue slid out like a serpent. Red eyes peered from wrinkly white flesh. The claws pounded the glass, spreading more cracks.

And then Jon saw something.

A tattoo on the creature's arm.

A sunburst between three stars. Symbol of the Kalayaan.

He's human, Jon realized. Mister Weird mutated him.

The creature pulled back, then slammed against the windshield. The glass shattered.

Bucky was wearing her battlesuit, but her visor was up. A shard scraped across her cheek, drawing blood. Jon was only wearing a coarse tunic, and shards of glass hit his chest.

The creature crawled into the cabin. Its jaw unhinged, large enough to swallow a human head. The eyes blazed, and its foul breath washed over Jon.

Before the mouth could devour him, Jon fired his pistol into the gaping gullet.

Blood burst through the creature's mouth. It screamed and pulled back, gurgling. But its arms still reached into the cabin. Lumpy fingers closed around Bucky's throat and began to squeeze.

Jon wanted to help her. But another bloated face slammed into the passenger window.

The glass shattered. Shards landed across Jon like stinging snowflakes. A beast leaned through the window, and powerful jaws closed around Jon's arm.

He screamed. He fired blindly. He couldn't aim. The jaws twisted, bending his arm. Jon yowled. His pistol dropped, clattered against the floor, and disappeared under the seat

The creature climbed into the rumbling truck. It finally released Jon's arm, leaving ugly wounds. The mutant licked its fangs, savoring the taste of Jon's blood.

"Hello… human…"

Its voice was like smoke rising from a smoldering village. Its eyes were like artillery craters, still crackling with fire.

"What the hell are you?" Jon whispered.

The mutant pounced. It slammed into Jon, knocking his seat back. The hellmouth opened again, still hungry for Jon's flesh.

Jon grabbed a shard of glass and lashed it.

The glass tore through the creature's face, slicing the nose and one eye. It also cut Jon's hand. Right now, Jon barely noticed.

The beast squealed and fell back. Bucky was still struggling against another mutant. It was choking her. She was turning blue. And yet she was still somehow driving the truck.

"Bucky, count to three, then hit the brakes hard!" Jon shouted.

He lashed his shard of glass, slicing the claws that were choking Bucky.

The mutated hand tore free.

Bucky took a deep, ragged breath.

Jon snapped on his seatbelt. Safety first.

Bucky hit the brakes hard.

The two mutants in the cabin flew through the windshield. Jon and Bucky jerked forward, but the seat belts kept them inside the cabin. The mutants lay on the road ahead, shrieking.

"Forward!" Jon shouted.

Bucky pressed the gas, and the truck slammed into the mutants just as they were rising. The truck thumped over them, snapping their bones, and kept rumbling down the dark road.

Take that, bastards, Jon thought, nursing his wounded hand. Before this ends, I'll need a cyborg hand like Lizzy.

More shrieks rose.

Metal cracked.

The roof dented.

Bucky's eyes widened. "More mutants on the roof! They'll fuck up the antenna!"

She hit the brakes again. The creatures above screeched but held on.

"Keep driving!" Jon shouted. "There are more in the trees!"

They were everywhere. The mutants covered the branches, skulked between the trunks, and rose from craters and trenches. They advanced toward the truck, eyes like fire, faces like ghosts.

Jon opened the passenger door. As Bucky kept driving, Jon rose from his seat. He leaned out the open doorway, only his feet inside the truck.

The trees blurred at his side, twisted and decaying. Eyes peered and creatures skulked among the branches. A mutant leaped from the shadows, spread out its arms, and glided on flaps of skin. Jon fired. The creature fell.

Howls tore through the air. Jon looked up and saw more mutants on the truck's roof. One was gnawing on an antenna. The other was clawing a satellite dish.

As the truck rumbled down the road, Jon began climbing onto the roof.

A mutant swooped. The truck plowed through it, then thumped over the body. Jon nearly fell. He clung onto the truck with one hand. With his second hand, he still held his gun. He tried to climb again. The truck jumped over another body, and Jon slipped. His head tilted back, nearly slamming into the trees.

"Careful, Bucky!" he shouted.

"Tell the mutants that!" she shouted from the driver's seat.

Jon tightened his lips, pressed his boots against the window frame, and finally managed to scramble onto the roof. He swayed as the truck raced beneath him.

Three mutants crouched on the roof. They spun toward Jon, hissing. White tongues dangled from their jaws.

The bastards had seriously damaged the equipment. One antenna had snapped. A satellite dish was dented and covered with toothmarks.

The mutants slunk toward Jon, arms spread wide. Veined skin stretched between their hands and hips, forming translucent wings. Their fangs shone in the moonlight.

One leaped at Jon.

He fired. His bullet tore the creature down.

Two more lunged. Jon sidestepped, dodging one mutant. The second mutant fell off the truck, spread its wings, circled through the air, and flew back at him.

The truck thumped over a fallen log. Jon crashed onto his back. Both mutants dived down, eyes ablaze.

One mutant sank its teeth into Jon's shoulder.

Jon screamed and pistol-whipped the beast. It opened its mouth to howl, releasing him. Jon clubbed it again, breaking its jaw. Teeth clattered across the truck's roof.

The second mutant reared and licked its chops. Jon fired his gun, blowing a hole through its head.

For a moment, he breathed in relief. The roof was his.

Then three more mutants dived from the trees and landed on the truck.

"For God's sake!" Jon blurted.

He pulled his trigger, but his pistol clicked. Out of bullets.

The three mutants advanced toward him, grinning, claws scraping the roof.

And Jon realized—no, they were not three mutants. They were one creature with three bodies, with three heads, fused together. A bundle of twisting spines, sprouting limbs, and blinking eyes. The monstrosity moved across the truck's roof, hands and feet scratching the metal.

The central head opened its mouth and spoke, its voice like ashes blowing over a mass grave. "Hello, human. We will feed on your flesh."

Jon grabbed an antenna.

"Bucky, the brakes!" he shouted.

The truck screeched as Bucky hit the brakes. Sparks rose from the undercarriage. Jon clung on for dear life. The conjoined mutants flew off the truck, and Bucky plowed over them.

Jon looked behind the truck.

The creature was still alive!

The wheels had crushed two heads, had ripped off an arm. But the bundle of flesh rose and began running in pursuit. It beat its wings, rose into the air, and howled. Its remaining mouth spewed yellow liquid, sizzling, malodorous. It sprayed like a jet of dragonfire.

Mister Weird's poison, Jon thought.

He leaped aside, nearly falling off the truck. The poison hit the roof beside him. Maggots squirmed through the sizzling brew. Each maggot had a tiny human face.

The conjoined creature landed on the road, then leaped again, beat its wings, and came flying toward Jon.

But he had just enough time.

He reloaded his pistol and fired.

A bullet shoved the creature back in the sky. But it kept flying. Jon fired again. Again. Bullets slammed into the beast. It would not stop. Wings churning the air, it landed on the truck. The mutant dragged its mutilated body across the truck's roof, leaving a trail of blood and skin, advancing toward Jon.

"Join us…" it hissed, two of its head crushed. The third head laughed. "Become one of us…"

Jon howled, ran toward the conjoined mutant, and barreled into it.

The miserable creature fell from the truck.

Jon grabbed an antenna, clinging on.

"Bucky, reverse!" he shouted.

The mutant tried to rise.

The truck slammed into the wretched beast, knocking it back down.

As the mutant lifted its remaining head, Jon fired his last bullet. The creature's eyeball burst. It thumped onto the ground, finally dead.

Jon climbed back into the truck, bleeding, and slumped into his seat. His shoulder was a mess. His hand was worse. Shaking, he did what he could to staunch the bleeding.

"Jon, I'll pull over," Bucky said, struggling to keep her voice calm. "I have a med kit, and—"

"Keep driving," he said. "Those damn mutants probably woke up everyone back at Camp Apollo. They'll notice the missing truck. We don't have much time."

Bucky nodded. "We're almost behind the mountain. We'll be hidden there in the shadows. I'll treat your wounds there."

Jon was less worried about himself—and more about the damage on the roof. The antenna. The satellite dish.

If we can't repair those soon, it's all over.

The truck rumbled on through the darkness, and with every bump in the road, Jon imagined another body falling.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Blood on the Beach

They drove the truck toward the beach. The ocean spread into the darkness. Asul Mata hung low in the sky, painting a blue streak across the black waters, while Pilak Mata hid behind the clouds. The truck rolled into the shadow of a mountain, and Bucky killed the engine. The truck stood on the sand between stone and water, hidden in the night.

It was time to light up the darkness.

Jon stumbled out from the truck. He spent a moment with Bucky's medical kit. He splashed his wounds with antiseptic, then applied Insta-Stitch strips for rapid healing. Finally he jabbed his thigh with a needle full of energy boosters. The hangover would hurt like a bitch, but right now Jon needed to be alert.

Bucky stood beside him on the beach. She stared up at the truck's roof.

"Goddammit, those mutants fucked up the hardware." She spat. "Bastards."

"Back at the camp, you said you knew how wormhole generators work," Jon said. "Can you fix it?"

"Of course I can fix it." She snorted. "Hell, I grew up among wormholes."

Jon tilted his head. "Really."

"Yeah, my dad's a master sergeant in Space Territorial Command. He was always bringing gadgets home to fix."

Jon blinked. "He brought home wormhole generators to fix?"

"Well, okay, usually not wormhole generators. Mostly robots and androids. They'd get banged up real bad. But one time, he took me to work, and he showed me a whole bunch of tech!" Her eyes lit up. "There was a real starship engine! They're huge! The size of this truck! But the real heart of a starship engine is small. Those massive engines have a tiny azoth crystal inside. Like wormhole generators do! The crystals can bend space and time."

Jon cleared his throat. "Bucky, does your experience with wormhole generators boil down to seeing a starship engine that contains some of the same components?"

Bucky gasped, frowned, shook her head mightily, then sighed. "Yes."

Jon groaned. "We're fucked."

"But I'm good at fixing things! Honest." Bucky climbed onto the truck's roof. "Jon! Get into the back of the truck. I'll need you to read me stats off the monitors inside. I'll fix what I can."

Standing on the roof, she examined the equipment. She began cursing, clucking her tongue, and tinkering with the mangled machinery. Jon entered the truck, where he faced a dizzying array of control panels, switches, and levers. They centered around a vertical pipe that dominated the truck's interior.

The pipe was transparent, revealing the priceless treasure inside. An azoth crystal. The purple jewel hung inside the pipe, suspended in midair. It was barely larger than the codechip in Jon's pocket.

An actual azoth crystal, mined on Corpus! For a moment awe filled Jon. He gazed at the precious gemstone with wide eyes.

Azoth was rare in the galaxy. Within the Human Commonwealth, Earth's galactic empire, azoth was found only on Corpus, a distant moon orbiting a gas giant. The way a diamond could refract light, an azoth crystal could bend spacetime itself, the fabric of the universe. Humans had discovered azoth two centuries ago, kick-starting the great Age of Exploration. With azoth crystals, starships could bend spacetime, create warp bubbles, and travel faster than light. Not as far as wormholes. But still pretty damn fast.

Steam powered the industrial evolution. Fossil fuels ushered in the Age of Engines. Silicon lit up the digital age. Azoth enabled the current era of space colonization.

"Without azoth crystals, we'd still be stuck on Earth, battling one another for little islands or lines on a map," Jon mumbled to himself. "Now we get to fly into space and battle for planets. Whoopee."

"Jon!" Bucky's head appeared at the truck's open hatch, upside down. She was dangling from the roof. "I think I got the antenna aligned, more or less, but it needs some tweaking. Switch on the left monitor—no, not that one. My left! That one! There. Read out the numbers as I work."

Jon nodded and switched on the control panel. Bucky returned to the roof.

"It says, um…" Jon began.

"Louder!" Bucky called from the roof.

Jon raised his voice. "X vector delineation 12.367… Y vector is…"

"Read me the Z vector!" came Bucky's voice. Jon could hear her banging around above his head, aligning equipment.

Jon nodded. "16.712."

"And now?"

"16.054."

"Getting closer!" Bucky said. "Just gotta keep tinkering with this. What are the satellite's deep-view calibration units reading?"

"Um, what?"

She tilted over the roof again, her upside down head appearing at the hatch. Her glasses began sliding off. She caught them just in time.

"Central monitor!" she said.

He kept calling out figures as she worked. It was like tuning the world's most complicated guitar. Finally everything seemed to align. The crystal inside the pipe lit up like a small star. Lavender light flowed across the truck. A message appeared on a monitor: WORMHOLE READY TO ACTIVATE.

Jon stepped outside the truck.

"Bucky, you did it!" he called. "You're a genius, you…"

He frowned. Bucky was standing on the roof, very still, staring at the dark mountainside.

The world suddenly seemed eerily silent. The buzz of insects in the rainforest died. The only sound was the whispering sea.

"In the trees," Bucky said softly. "I thought I saw something. A shadow. But—"

A bullet tore through her head.

Blood sprayed.

Bucky fell off the roof. She landed at Jon's feet, her skull blown open.

"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!" rose a cry from the rainforest.

Many voices echoed it. Guns boomed. And the world tore apart.

* * * * *

Jon leaped into the armored truck, heart pounding. Bullets pinged against its hull.

Bucky. Oh God. Bucky is dead.

Trembling seized him. His head spun. He forced himself to think, to stay as calm as possible. Those were no mutants who had shot Becky. They were something far more dangerous. Kalayaan warriors.

And Jon knew he had a choice.

He could drive the truck, try to escape. He might die in the attempt. But he might live to fight another day.

Or he could stand his ground. He could send the damn message to Earth. He could broadcast Ward's confession to humanity. He might just have enough time before the Kennys blew his brains out.

Jon pulled the codechip from his pocket and inserted it into the machinery.

I'm staying.

More bullets pounded the armored truck. The cries grew louder, closer.

"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!" Freedom for Bahay!

Jon began working in a fury. He flipped switches, tapped buttons, skimmed instructions. Without Bucky, he felt lost. He wasn't sure what he was doing. But it was working. Somehow, against all odds, he was figuring this out.

The crystal grew brighter.

A caption appeared on the monitor. WORMHOLE GENERATION IN PROGRESS.

"Booyah!" Jon shouted. Even as terror pounded through him, he laughed.

A little counter appeared. It read 1%.

2%.

3%.

"Goddammit!" Jon said.

Too slow. Too damn slow! He wasn't going to make it.

He was out of bullets. He raced outside, knelt, and grabbed Bucky's rifle.

A bullet hit the ground beside him.

Another grazed his leg.

Jon leaped back into the truck, loaded Bucky's rifle, and waited.

He glanced at the monitor. It was only at 7%.

The gunfire died for a moment.

Jon stood by the truck's hatch, rifle clutched in his hands. His fingers were shaking. His heart was pounding. He barely dared to breathe.

A shadow moved.

A man burst into the truck.

Jon fired. His bullet tore through a Kenny's head.

He knew more were coming. He tried pulling the back hatch shut. Bullets had ravaged the hinges. It wouldn't close. And more bullets kept flying.

Jon glanced at the monitor. 12%.

He cursed. There was only one thing he could do now.

He ran to the front of the truck, grabbed the communicator, and shouted, "Camp Apollo, lock onto my coordinates! I'm under attack!"

They'll toss me in jail, he knew.

He had no choice.

A bullet drove into his shoulder.

Jon gasped. He fell, rolled, and rose again, firing. He shot another Kenny. The guerrilla crashed down dead.

Jon moaned in agony. More bullets whistled. They slammed into the truck. A bullet flew through the shattered windshield. Jon fired outside into the darkness. He couldn't see a thing. At best, he could lay down some suppressive fire, try to buy more time.

He hurried to the back of the truck. He was bleeding. Close to losing consciousness. He shot another man dead.

He looked at the monitor.

WORMHOLE GENERATION IN PROGRESS. 53%.

Progress. Good. But he needed more time. More time!

He fired his gun. Bullets streaked toward him. They pounded the truck like a hailstorm.

Jon cursed, spun around, and hopped into the driver's seat. He gripped the wheel, floored the gas pedal, and the truck roared across the beach. Jon didn't know if that would mess up the wormhole's calibration. He had no choice.

Bullets hammered the truck, denting its armored body. The enemy was everywhere, covering the mountainsides, firing from the trees. More came running across the beach toward the truck.

Jon glanced into his rear-view mirror. When he adjusted it, he could see the control panel in the back of the truck.

60%.

He just needed a little longer.

The truck rumbled across the beach, raising clouds of sand. The enemy was falling behind. Jon allowed himself a sigh of relief.

I can do this.

An alarm beeped. A robotic voice blared through the truck.

"Warning: Antenna misaligned. Please recalibrate antenna. Please keep vehicle stationary during calibration."

"God fucking dammit!" Jon blurted out.

He pressed the pedal to the metal, hoping to put enough distance between him and the Kennys before his second attempt.

Warning lights flashed across the dashboard. The truck was out of fuel. The engine coughed, then died. The bullets must have ruptured the fuel tank.

The truck rolled to a stop.

Jon had only managed to flee a mile. Probably less. He knew the Kennys were still chasing him. He had bought himself a few moments, not much longer. It would have to be enough.

Jon returned to the controls. He hit switches and turned dials, adjusting the antenna until the readings lined up. The calibration restarted from scratch.

0%.

1%.

2%.

Jon stood in the back of the truck. Still bleeding. So weak. The damn hatch was still stuck open, its hinges destroyed. Jon raised his rifle, gritted his teeth against the pain, and waited for the enemy to arrive.

Light washed over the truck. Not the lavender light of the azoth crystal—but searing yellow headlights.

Rumbling filled his ears. Sand blew through the shattered windshield, filling the truck.

Jon squinted and saw it.

An attack helicopter.

He ran outside the truck, his rifle shouldered.

The helicopter was black, painted with a sunburst among three stars. A Kalayaan helicopter.

Jon knew he should hide in the truck. It was the safest place now. Or he could dive into the sea, try to survive in the water.

But he had to send that message to Earth.

He would not betray Maria.

He stood his ground.

I'm not leaving until I send that message!

The helicopter extended its guns, ready to strafe him. Jon scurried around the truck, seeking any shelter he could find. Bullets slammed the truck and sand. They knocked off an armored plate, deafened Jon, and shattered a hundred seashells.

The helicopter roared, swerving around the truck, bringing Jon again into its field of view. Its machine guns blazed. Jon ran again, fleeing the bullets, racing to the other side of the truck.

He could have rolled under the truck. No good! The helicopter would pound the truck's roof, shattering the antennae and satellite dishes.

Jon just needed to draw the enemy's fire a little longer. To prevent the helicopter from shooting the antenna. He just needed to live for another few minutes. He just needed to send that message into space—and then he could die. Not before!

He waited for a respite from the enemy fire. Then he swung his rifle around the back of the truck, faced the helicopter, and opened fire.

His bullets pounded the helicopter, shattered the windshield, but did little more damage. Jon leaped back for cover. The helicopter still flew. Its machine gun roared. Bullets drove into the sand around Jon. He was bleeding. Maybe dying. He thought of Maria's smile, and he rose and fired again.

The helicopter exploded.

Rotor blades flew. One slammed into the ocean. The other drove into the sand beside Jon. The body of the helicopter pattered down in chunks of mangled metal.

What the hell? Jon thought, looking at his rifle in wonder.

Then a vehicle flew toward him.

A vehicle painted army green. It was a jungler! An Earthling jungler! A vehicle of the Human Defense Force, built to glide over the jungles of Bahay, blending in with the trees.

The Earthling army was here.

Jon swayed and leaned against the truck. He coughed. His head spun. His wounds kept bleeding. Would he live long enough to send the message? He didn't know.

"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!"

"Kalayaan para sa Bahay!"

The cries rolled across the beach. Kalayan guerrillas came storming toward Jon.

Leaning against the truck, bleeding, hands shaking, Jon somehow managed to return fire. One Kenny fell down dead. The rest kept charging. Another attack helicopter flew above, machine guns aiming at the truck.

The jungler streamed overhead, guns booming.

Two more junglers landed, and Earthling troops emerged, shouting and firing their assault rifles. Across the beach, Earthlings and Bahayans clashed and killed.

Jon stumbled back into the armored truck.

He limped toward the control panel, leaving a trail of blood.

It was at 87%.

The codechip began to glow. The system was preparing to broadcast the data to Earth. Just a few more moments, Jon knew.

90%.

Jon waited as the battle raged outside.

95%.

He reached toward the send button, waiting.

96%, and—

"Hold it right there, son."

The voice came from behind him.

Jon spun around.

Colonel Pascal entered the truck, pointing a pistol at Jon.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A Good Man

The heavyset colonel faced Jon, gun drawn.

"Sergeant Taylor, lower your weapon at once and surrender to me." Pascal's eyes were as hard as bullets. "I'm apprehending you for stealing military equipment and attempting to leak classified information. Surrender now or I will shoot you."

Jon stood between the colonel and the wormhole controls. The crystal was shining brighter than ever, filling the truck with purple light. From outside still came the sounds of battle: bullets flying, people screaming, people dying.

"Sir, listen to me." Jon stood his ground, rifle clutched in his hands. The gun was pointing at the ground. Jon dared not raise the muzzle. But nor did he drop his weapon. "I have to—"

"You have to drop your gun now, Sergeant." The colonel sneered. "Whatever you have to say, you will say at your court martial."

"I will say it now!" Jon said. "Because this is urgent, Colonel. Trust me. Trust me like your daughter trusted me! I—"

"Don't you mention my daughter!" the colonel said. "Don't you dare mention my dead daughter!"

The crystal flared with light. The truck thrummed. A computer pinged, and a voice rose from the machinery.

"Wormhole to Earth established. Please hit send to begin transmission."

Jon did not move. Neither did the colonel. They faced each other, never even breaking eye contact.

"Lizzy died to stop this war," Jon said. "Your daughter gave her life for this cause. I'm sending this message. If I must, I will die for this cause. Like Lizzy did."

The colonel snarled. "Then you'll die a traitor!"

"Yes," Jon said. "A traitor! That's who I am. I betrayed my people when I stole this truck. And I'll betray my planet when I send this message. I know it. And it eats me up inside. I think about all my fellow soldiers. Those who fought with me. Who died beside me. And I know I must betray them—but I am not the true traitor!"

The colonel snickered. "So who is?"

"The leaders who sent me here," Jon said. "General Ward was a traitor. And I have his confession ready to broadcast. President Hale is a traitor. He lies to us all. The leaders of Earth, the generals of this army—they sent me and my friends here to die. They sent my brother here to die." His eyes stung. "And I won't let any more people die, sir. I won't. When I joined the army, I made a vow. I vowed to always fight for Earth, even if I must give my life. I will broadcast this message. Not only to save Bahay. But to save Earth!"

Jon turned toward the controls.

The colonel grabbed him, pulled him back.

"You'll have to kill me first," the older man said. He tightened his grip, his hand like a clamp. Pascal was sixty years old, but he was damn strong, his muscles bulging beneath layers of fat. "It's easy to kill an enemy hiding in the trees. I won't be that easy to kill."

"I don't want to hurt you," Jon said. "You are not my enemy. You're a good man, Colonel Pascal. When you heard about the slaughter at Santa Rosa, you halted the attack. You pulled our troops back. You know what we're doing here is wrong. Lizzy knew too, and—"

"Lizzy died!" the colonel shouted. His eyes filled with tears. "She died a traitor! She died in disgrace! I loved her. I loved her with all my heart. And she went and broke that heart. When she flunked out of military academy, I was still proud of her. When she became a sergeant, not an officer like me, I was still proud. But when she began to smear the army, to vilify us, to spit on her fellow soldiers… she broke my heart."

Jon pulled himself free from the older man's grip. He took another step toward the controls.

"She never spat on her fellow soldiers," Jon said softly. "She showed us true courage—on the battlefield and off."

The colonel pointed his pistol at Jon's face.

"Son, don't die a hero. There's only one way you're leaving this truck alive. By dropping your rifle and surrendering to me now. You have ten seconds before I shoot you."

The voice from the computer chose the moment to intone: "Please press send to transmit message to Earth. If no send request is received, wormhole will shut off in ten seconds."

Jon stood there, halfway between button and bullet.

He looked at his commanding officer. "Sir, you're a good man. And you were a good father to Lizzy. I'm sorry. I know that Lizzy loved you very much."

The colonel's eyes dampened. His finger twitched on his trigger. He blinked tears away.

Jon seized his chance. He raised his rifle and fired.

A bullet tore through Pascal's chest.

The colonel returned fire. But Jon was already swerving aside. Pascal's bullet went wide, striking the wall behind Jon.

Jon fired a second time, and Pascal collapsed.

And Jon knew that his soul was forever shattered. That this war had made him a monster. Or perhaps awoken a monster that had always slept inside him. He was not only a traitor. For Maria, for humanity, he had become a murderer.

Not wasting another second, Jon spun toward the controls. Transmission targets appeared, corresponding to different wormhole receivers on Earth. Most were military or government bases.

Jon quickly chose his transmission target: a wide press release, broadcasting his message to every media outlet on Earth.

With one second to spare, he hit send.

The codechip glowed. The video of General Ward's confession appeared on the monitor.

"Earth can't win this war," the general said in the grainy video. "We can bomb you and kill you until the cows come home. And we won't win. This is an unwinnable war. I know it. The president knows it. We've known it for years."

A progress bar appeared below the video. It was transmitting to Earth. It was transmitting fast.

Jon fell to his knees, still bleeding, overwhelmed.

"We did it, Maria," he whispered. "David. Lizzy. Bucky. Etty. George. We all did it together."

A raspy voice sounded behind him. "Jon…"

Jon turned to see the colonel on the floor. He was still alive. He was still holding his gun. But he did not shoot.

"Jon…" he whispered.

Jon knelt by the older man. There were two bullets in his chest. Blood filled his mouth.

"Sir."

The colonel grabbed his arm. "Lizzy… would be proud of you."

He slumped to the floor and died.

Jon lowered his head, tears falling. He had killed many people in this war. All Bahayans who had attacked him. For the first time, he had killed a fellow Earthling. And a good man.

This will always haunt me, he thought. My hands will always be bloodstained, my soul forever condemned. That is the sacrifice I had to make. I would have gladly sacrificed my life. But I had to sacrifice my soul.

The computer pinged. The robotic voice announced: "Transmission sent."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Backfire

Maria was walking through the marketplace when every radio and television in Mindao began broadcasting the news.

It was a busy Sunday afternoon. The city folk were returning from church, pouring across the streets, filling kiosks, eateries, bars, and shops. The city bustled with life, color, and music. One could almost forget that only a few miles away, a war was raging.

Merkado Bayan overflowed with thousands of shoppers. Most were Bahayan, city natives and refugees alike, but Earthling soldiers shopped here too, enjoying their Sunday off. Maria felt safe here. Ernesto was still after her, and she had lost the general's protection. Crowds protected her now. And Mindao, thankfully, was the most crowded human city in the galaxy. A hundred thousand people lived in every square mile here. Five times the density of New York City.

Maria normally hated crowds. But today crowds kept her safe. She shuddered, feeling a little queasy. Around her spread the galaxy's largest human shield.

She approached a kiosk. She ordered some halo halo. A kindly old man prepared the popular desert for her. First he filled a cup with crushed ice, then topped it with sweet beans, coconut julienes, purple ube yams, and finally a scoop of ice cream. Maria was no longer receiving the general's allowance, and she was down to her last few pesos. But sometimes a girl just needed to indulge.

Part of it, she supposed, was her pregnancy. She was showing quite clearly now. And getting a lot of cravings. Halo halo, a blend of motley ingredients, truly hit the spot.

She had taken her first bite when the kiosk's television began broadcasting the news.

Then, one by one, the broadcast began playing across the marketplace. From little televisions hanging over grocers' carts. From the radio on the curbside, where children sat playing with apricot seeds. From a thousand kiosks and curiosity shops. Everywhere—the same broadcast.

Of General Ward.

His voice echoed from a thousand speakers.

"I ordered millions of Bahayan women and children killed. Do you know why? Because slits are nothing but vermin and whores, and it's my job to kill them and fuck them."

Now Maria spoke in the recording. She remembered herself facing him that day aboard Mother's Womb. "You can't win this war."

"You're right," the general said. "Earth can't win this war. We can bomb you and kill you until the cows come home. And we won't win. This is an unwinnable war. I know it. The president knows it. We've known it for years."

The transmission ended.

A broadcaster appeared on the television, face severe.

"This recording from General Ward, taken in secret aboard a space station orbiting Bahay, has been spreading across Earth media. Protests are filling the streets of Earth. President Hale has addressed the video, which he has called fabricated…"

Maria tuned it out. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

"You did it, Jon," she whispered.

A rumble passed through the marketplace. People were muttering under their breath. Looking at one another with dark eyes. Balling their fists.

This was South Bahay, under the control of President Santiago. The South Bahayans, aside from a few guerrillas in the jungle, were allies of Earth. Yet now, across the marketplace, South Bahayans were grumbling. Their eyes narrowed with hatred. A few cried out in rage, and one man shook his fist.

The words echoed across the marketplace.

"I ordered millions of Bahayan women and children killed…"

"Slits are nothing but vermin and whores…"

A few dozen Earthling soldiers were moving through the marketplace, carrying cases of beer and bags of fruit. Now they froze, eyes darting, cheeks flushing. One sergeant gripped his rifle.

People in the crowd began booing and jeering. One man tossed a candy wrapper at a group of Earthlings. Another person spat at them. Soon the crowd was roaring with rage, pelting the Earthlings with apple cores, paper cups, fish bones, and whatever other trash they could find.

"Earthlings go home!" one man cried.

The chant spread. "Earthlings go home! Earthlings go home!"

Maria gasped. This shouldn't be happening.

"Stop this!" she said. "We're from South Bahay, we're allies of Earth!"

But people only cursed her.

She was being hypocritical, perhaps. She had spent the past year fighting against Earth. But most of that time was spent trying to end the war. Now fresh violence was brewing.

One Bahayan tossed a stone at an Earthling. It hit the corporal's shoulder. Another Bahayan began shoving an Earthling private, shouting at him. "Go home, go home!"

More voices rose.

"Go home, killers!"

"Rapists!"

"Remember Santa Rosa!"

"Freedom for Bahay!"

The Earthlings huddled closer together. One private was shaking and cursing.

They're afraid, Maria thought. And fearful Earthlings are dangerous Earthlings.

More stones flew. One hit an Earthling in the head, bloodying him. More stones pelted other Earthlings, hitting their torsos. They were not wearing their armor or helmets—not on their day off. An Earthling took a hit to the face, blood sprayed, and he cried out.

Maria stared in horror.

"Everyone, sto—"

And then one Earthling opened fire.

Perhaps they were not wearing armor, and they were on their day off, but they still had guns.

And now an Earthling's bullets drove into the crowd.

Bahayans screamed. A woman fell, clutching her baby, her head blown open. An old man collapsed, bullets riddling his chest. A little girl screamed, her arm torn off.

The crowd erupted in fury and panic.

Most people began to flee. But others charged at the Earthlings, swinging fists, hurling stones, lashing knives.

An Earthling fell. Another Earthling opened fire. More people screamed and died.

What have I done? Maria thought, staring in frozen horror.

More and more people were running, fleeing the marketplace. The crowd swept over Maria. They began pulling her along like a river, and Maria remembered the storm a few months ago, how the floodwaters had carried her through the city. The flood of humanity was just as potent a force, as raging as a river, as unstoppable as the flow of history. She tried to fight it, but she was too weak.

"Stop, let me go!" She tried to reach the embattled Earthlings, to bring peace. "Earthlings and Bahayans, lay down your arms! The war must end."

But an Earthling was still firing. And Bahayans were still dying, fleeing, surging, attacking. Maria reached up, tried to wave, to call for help, but the crowd kept carrying her along. It had become a rout.

She made another attempt to reach the battle, elbowing her way against the flow. A man knocked into her. Then another. They were bleeding, shouting in fear. Maria fell and banged her knees on the asphalt.

More people slammed into her. She fell onto her side, cried out, and wrapped her arms around her belly, trying to protect her baby. Everyone was stampeding. A knee banged into her back. Somebody stepped on her hair, ripping out strands, and she screamed. She tried to push herself up, and somebody stepped on her hand.

A foot stepped on her back.

She lay flat on the ground. Somebody trampled her leg.

My child is going to die.

A boot hit her head.

She gritted her teeth.

I will not let my child die!

She shoved herself up. Everything hurt. She howled in pain. But she managed to stand. And the crowd caught her again, pulling her like a raging river.

A few blocks away, she finally managed to free herself. She spilled out from the stampede into an alleyway. For long moments, she leaned against a concrete wall, breathing raggedly. She placed a hand on her belly, feeling her baby kick. The child had survived. But danger still flowed across the city.

I need to reach the Bargirl Bureau, she thought.

This entire city was about to burn. If Maria was going to fight, it would be with her fellow bargirls.

She ran down the alleyway, arms wrapped around her belly. Her child was growing quickly. Running was hard, but she forced herself onward. Her eyes burned with tears. She reached into her pocket and felt a warm, round friend.

"I just wanted to end the war, Crisanto," she whispered. "I wanted to save lives. But now people are dying across the city. Maybe across the world. Because of me."

She made her way through the alleyways of Mindao. She had only been living here for a year, but she knew every twist and turn in the labyrinth. And she knew every urchin and stray who lived here, from feral cats to refugee orphans.

"Summon the bargirls," she told them. "But stay off the main roads! Travel the Shanty Road."

The orphans nodded, climbed plywood walls, and began hopped across roofs of rusty, corrugated steel. This was the Shanty Road—a road in the sky, leaping roof to roof, scattering rust like footsteps scattering sand on a beach. Maria used to take that road often, but with her belly growing, she now traveled the shadowy alleyways.

Crowds were spilling over from the wider roads. People were shouting, weeping. A woman bled from a gash to her head. A man carried his bleeding son. Rats raced underfoot, fleeing the stampede. In the distance, gunfire rattled. When Maria ran by a wide street, she glimpsed crowds overturning a jeepney, setting fire to a shop, and hurling bricks. An Earthling opened fire. People fell.

Maria ran onward. She had to reach the cemetery. She had to be with her girls. She had to save this city.

By the time she reached the cemetery, the sun was setting, painting the sarcophagi red. Maria ran between the stone coffins, heading to the cemetery center. A few gravedwellers emerged from their coffins, blinking groggily.

"It's still early, Maria!" said an old man, covered in ashes, his beard white. "The moons do not yet shine."

"Blood spills across the city," Maria said.

"Then we're safe," responded another gravedweller, a wispy old woman with sunken eyes. "We're only half alive. No angels of death can harm us."

Finally Maria reached her coffin, the stone sanctuary where she slept every night.

She was the first bargirl here. But she did not have to wait long. Only moments later, Charlie teetered into the cemetery, high heels clacking. Her leopard print miniskirt was riding up her thighs, resisting her repeated efforts to push it down. She finally gave up on the skirt and focused on brushing dust out of her hair.

"Maria, did you know that the entire city is falling apart?" Charlie lit a cigarette and waved it at Maria. "Let me guess—you're responsible."

Maria nodded. "Yes, and I need your help to end the bloodshed."

"How can we—" Charlie began.

Singing interrupted her. Pippi came skipping between the coffins, belting out "Pinoy Princess," a love song by Joey Rivera, Bahay's pop sensation. The radio had been playing for weeks now. Stockings with red and white stripes covered Pippi's legs, tattered in places. Her pigtails swayed as she skipped, and she paused from singing to blow a bubblegum.

"Hello, friends!" Pippi waved. "Did you know that Maria set the city on fire?"

"We know!" Charlie said.

A few more bargirls entered the cemetery, heels clacking. Grace was here, her arms withered from the poison, no larger than a baby's arms. Kim came with her, holding her mestizo son, the child of rape. Joyce was here too, only fifteen, youngest among them, her parents and sisters slain in the war. And soon others joined them. As the Bargirl Bureau gathered among the sarcophagi, the sun kept setting. The red light became darker and darker, the color of old blood.

"Girls, we must calm this city," Maria began. "How?"

Pippi raised an eyebrow. "You summoned us here, and you don't even know? Aren't you our leader, here to give orders?"

"I need help thinking!" Maria said. "Some extra brainpower would be appreciated."

"Well, that rules Pippi out," Charlie said.

The pigtailed bargirl flipped her off. "Oh, be quiet. Who helped you fix your minicom when you broke it taking a selfie?"

Charlie bristled. "If you had given me a working minicom—"

"It worked fine, I stole it myself!" Pippi said. "You only worry about your appearance all day. How big is my puwit? How big are my dibdibs? If you ever spent time learning from me, you—"

"Girls!" Maria said. "Listen to me! We need to calm down the Earthlings. Maybe if we open the bars early, announce a free round of drinks, and free lap dances, we can end the violence. Most soldiers will put down a gun for a free beer."

They all nodded.

"Works for me," Charlie said. "But what about all the Bahayans going crazy, stoning the putes and getting them all angry?"

Maria thought for a moment. "A strip show. In the middle of every marketplace. We'll distract them."

"Finally a use for your giant dibdibs!" Pippi said, pointing at Charlie.

The older bargirl pushed her breasts up in her bra. "I knew they'd come in handy."

The sunlight was nearly gone. Shadows spread across the cemetery. Distant gunfire rattled, and screams rose.

"We must move fast before more people die," Maria said. "Pips, bring your girls with me, and we'll hit the bars. Charlie, you take your girls to the street, spread out, and do your magic. We can end this before—"

"Maria!"

The voice rang across the cemetery.

Several tall shadows fell.

Figures in black stepped into the cemetery, their straw hats hiding their faces.

One man approached Maria, tall and rawboned. He raised his head, revealing one dark eye, the other as pale as Pilak Mata, the silver moon.

"Ernesto," Maria whispered.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Piano's Last Note

Kaelyn was sleeping when Etty shook her awake.

"Kaelyn. Kaelyn! You have to see this!"

She moaned, sleep clinging to her like cobwebs. "Huh? Wuh?"

She blinked and checked her clock. It was three in the morning. But light streamed through the window. Kaelyn rose from bed, groggy, and looked outside. She had to blink a few more times and rub the sleep from her eyes. The apartment blocks were normally dark at this hour. Right now, windows shone with light across the towering concrete buildings. More lights were turning on every moment. Everyone was watching their holofeeds.

Etty pulled her hand. "Hurry!"

Kaelyn stumbled after her, and they entered the living room. It was a small apartment, barely four hundred square feet. A little bedroom with a bunk bed. A little living room with a kitchenette along one wall. The bathroom was down the hallway, shared with five other apartments. A humble home.

The apartment had belonged to the Pascal family, a little piece of precious real estate in New York City. After the army, Lizzy had lived here for a while. The veteran had taken Kaelyn in.

And in her will, Lizzy had left everything to Kaelyn.

A small amount of money. A record collection. A comfortable leather jacket. And this humble little apartment on the tenth floor.

Without Lizzy's final gift, I'd be homeless, Kaelyn thought. And so would Etty, my new roommate.

Going back to Lindenville was not an option. Kaelyn never wanted to see her father again. He had called her a traitor. Shouted. Disowned her. So ashamed that she campaigned to end the war. His treacherous little daughter—a blight on his family name.

No. Her childhood home in Lindenville, that sad little house among the trees—that part of her life was over.

So here she was, a little girl in the big city. The owner of a tiny apartment worth more than her father's house in the suburbs. Every day that Kaelyn had a roof over her head, she thanked her fallen friend.

You're still looking after me, Lizzy.

But now all those thoughts faded.

Now lights shone across the night.

Something was going on.

Etty turned on the apartment's holofeed, which was mounted on the wall. A flickering hologram emerged. Kaelyn stared in silent shock.

The news had just come in. Every channel was talking about it.

General Ward's confession.

This is an unwinnable war.

"With three days to the elections," said the broadcaster, "President Hale's poll numbers have dropped from sixty-seven percent to only fifty percent. For the first time since Hale announced he is running for reelection, his victory no longer seems certain."

Kaelyn and Etty watched, eyes moist.

"It was Maria," Etty whispered. "Maria de la Cruz. The girl in the confession video. I know her. She's my friend. And she's the bravest woman I know."

People began pouring into the streets. Even this late at night, thousands emerged from their buildings. Across the streets of New York City, they were shouting, chanting, honking horns.

Kaelyn and Etty pulled on their coats, raced downstairs, and burst onto the street.

The crowd was unorganized at first. People were just talking to their neighbors. A few chants began and died down. Somebody was remote-controlling a drone, projecting the news feed onto a building's wall. The general's confession repeated again and again, fifty feet tall.

A few people turned toward Kaelyn. They pointed.

"It's her!"

"The face of the resistance."

"The siren."

"The singer!"

Kaelyn walked among them as they whispered, reached out to touch her. Millions around the world had heard Kaelyn sing at Lizzy's funeral, at prisons, and outside Hale's palace in Central Park. Maybe billions. As a younger singer, Kaelyn had hoped to find fame with Symphonica. She had never imagined she would use her voice to fight a war. That with the songs Jon had written, she would become the voice of the resistance. That she would take the movement Lizzy had built, would grow it into something bigger, stronger, a tide she could barely control. That she would sing for the world.

A few drones came to hover around her, filming her. The people stepped back, giving her room. And Kaelyn sang "Broken Things," the song Jon had written for her to sing. The song of their youth and dreams and fears, now the dreams and fears of a world.

Bedtime stories told

Songs sung in the cold

Of knights and heroes bold

And quests through forests

To steal a dragon's gold

They shatter like waves on the shore

And music boxes that play no more

Like marionettes with cut strings

Like childhood dreams

And many other broken things

When boys and girls come home

Hearses row by row

Along the last road

A tale they were never told

Falling like the rain

We're falling like the rain

The drones kept hovering. The videos kept broadcasting on the sides of buildings. General Ward's confession was being played around the world. President Hale's ratings kept sinking.

Then Jon's face appeared on the news streams.

Kaelyn gasped, her song dying on her lips.

Jon!

Etty gasped too and clasped her hand.

"He's a suspect," Etty whispered. "For the leak."

Kaelyn smiled through her tears. Jon. Jon was part of this. And she had never loved him more.

She looked into a hovering drone's camera. "You can shoot us, President Hale. You can keep killing us. But you cannot silence us. Your end is here."

* * * * *

At dawn, Kaelyn walked back toward her building. After so many years of horror, hope filled her. Hope that this war could someday end.

It was not a joyous hope. Not an optimism that made one celebrate or laugh. Even should the war end today, Paul would still be dead. Lizzy would still be dead. The millions would still be dead. And even those who survived would forever be haunted, forever carry the scars, those on the body and those on the soul.

Yet hope shone nonetheless.

Kaelyn spoke softly in the dawn. "There is no darkness so great that light cannot shine. There is no despair so deep that hope cannot soar."

Etty smiled. "You and Jon. Two poets."

Kaelyn unlocked the door to their apartment. She stepped inside and found a man waiting for her.

A man in a black suit, wearing black sunglasses, holding a black gun.

The gun fired.

Light blazed. Pain exploded through Kaelyn's torso.

In the distance, so far away, Etty screamed. But Kaelyn could barely hear her. She was falling. Falling to the floor. Falling into a bottomless pit. Falling away from all light. Falling like the rain. A last piano note played, and then all was silent.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Dry Bones

The men entered the cemetery.

Seven of them. All with wide straw hats and sunburst tattoos.

A full Kalayaan squadron. And Ernesto walked at their lead.

Maria took a step back, bumping into a sarcophagus.

"Leave this place!" she said. "The Kalayaan is forbidden from entering the city."

But the men kept advancing, and their long shadows fell upon Maria like black daggers. They raised blades and guns.

"For so long, you hid from me, my beloved," Ernesto said. "You hid behind the walls with the pute general. But he's gone now. And you will be mine!"

Charlie stepped forward, chest thrust out, chin raised. "Like hell! If you want her, you'll have to get through us."

"Damn straight!" Pippi hopped forward, pigtails flying, and raised her fists like a boxer. "I'll pound ya to pieces!"

The Kalayaan raised their weapons. Butterfly knives. A machete. A scythe. A few rusty pistols. They were only a peasant uprising, skinny, hungry, poorly armed. But their fierceness terrified even the mighty Earthlings. Across the Human Commonwealth, people feared the ruthless Kalayaan, perhaps the toughest warriors in the galaxy.

But the Bargirl Bureau stood their ground. Only Kim fled, for she was holding her baby. The other girls stayed by Maria. This was not their fight. But from young Joyce, who was only fifteen, to Charlie, the matriarch of the group—they stood their ground. They stood by their friend. Some drew knives from their purses. Others just raised their fists. But they all stood around Maria, always at her side.

She had never loved them more.

Stacks of sarcophagi rose behind them. They had their backs to the wall. They would fight hard. They would never surrender.

"Stand back, Ernesto!" Maria said. "I'm no longer that little, frightened girl you can intimidate. I've killed men. Men tougher than you. Leave this place!"

Ernesto grinned. A savage grin that revealed his golden tooth and rippled his scars. "Oh, but you are mine, Maria. You've always been mine. We became betrothed as youths, and that is a sacred bond. You hurt me. You tempt me. You fill my dreams and nightmares. You can no longer hide."

She raised her chin. "I'm not yours, and I never will be! I love another man. I love Jon."

Rage twisted Ernesto's face. "The pute! The banyaga! The man who deformed me!" He pulled off his hat, revealing the iron plate bolted into his skull. "He will die, Maria. I'll kill him myself. I'll bring you his severed head. You can kiss it." He tossed back his head and laughed.

Maria took a step closer to him. She balled her fists. "If you touch Jon, I will kill you!"

Ernesto kept laughing. "You'll learn manners when you're my wife, when you're mother to my children, when…"

And then his gaze fell upon her belly.

His laughter died.

He took a step back, eyes widening.

"Yes, Ernesto." Maria nodded. "I'm pregnant. With Jon's child." Her voice softened. "You have to let me go, Ernesto. You have to move on."

He tossed back his head and howled in fury.

"You let that pute put a half-breed monster in your belly!" His hoarse cry tore across the night. "You shamed yourself, you shamed me! You shamed your people!" He suddenly cackled, madness in his eyes. He drew a knife. "I will carve it out. I will carve out this child of sin!"

He lunged, thrusting his blade toward her belly.

Time seemed to freeze.

A second lasted an eternity.

And Maria was back in her room above the Go Go Cowgirl, playing cards with Jon, laughing with him, making love to him.

And she felt her child in her belly, the soft life, the trembling love.

She saw that child grow up, a beautiful girl, a girl living on Earth. A true Earthling, safe from war.

And she saw a vision of the blade inside her, her baby carved out, all light extinguished from the world.

She could not retreat. Not with the sarcophagi behind her, forming walls of stone. The knife flashed closer.

I must save my child, Maria thought. Whatever the cost, I must save her.

Time flowed again.

Maria cried out in horror, grabbed Pippi, and shoved her friend forward.

Ernesto's blade slammed into Pippi's chest.

Pippi gasped, not even able to scream. Blood filled her mouth. Her eyes bulged.

Maria screamed.

"What have I done?" she cried, weeping. "Pippi, no, Pippi, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Ernesto growled, twisted the blade, and yanked it back. Pippi collapsed, a hole in her chest. The bargirl looked up at Maria, and her eyes were so betrayed.

"Maria, I…" Pippi whispered, and then her head fell back, and she breathed no more.

Maria had no time for grief. No time for guilt. Ernesto climbed over Pippi's corpse, thrusting his blade.

Maria leaped aside, and the blade scraped across her arm.

Ernesto's men surged, swinging their own weapons. The bargirls leaped onto them, screaming, clawing and biting, and blood flowed across the cemetery.

Blades entered flesh.

Guns boomed.

Joyce fell down dead.

Grace followed.

Charlie was fighting a man, stabbing with a knife, but a blade scraped across her hip, and she fell.

Dance with us.

Maria ducked and sidestepped, dodging Ernesto's attacks. She retreated between the stacks of stone coffins, and he kept pursuing.

Dance with the dead.

Maria heard their call. And she answered it.

She leaped back from Ernesto, shoved herself against one coffin, and knocked over the stone lid. It cracked against the ground.

The dead emerged.

Two skeletons rose. A mother and child. Maria fled behind them, and she pointed at Ernesto.

"Kill him!" she said.

The skeletons pounced. They clattered against Ernesto, bones cracking, ribs falling. But their jaws closed around him. And their bony fingers gripped his throat.

Maria opened another sarcophagus. Then another. A third. As Ernesto wrestled the skeletons, she summoned some more.

"Rise, my friends!" Maria said, raising her arms toward the night sky. "Rise and dance and fight!"

More skeletons rose.

These were not the gravedwellers, not living souls of flesh who sought refuge among the dead. These were the dead themselves, the skeletons of generations past, a nation of bones filling the stacks of sarcophagi. At nights, during her fever dreams, they would rise to dance with Maria, holding hands, cavorting and clattering in rings within rings.

Tonight they swarmed.

The skeletons formed a river of death, as powerful as the river of the living flowing through the city. They slammed into the Kalayaan, clattering, biting, clawing.

The guerrillas fired their guns, but their bullets flew between the bones. They lashed their daggers, only for the blades to slide harmlessly between ribs. One guerrilla fell, overcome with skeletons. Another fell. A third. The skeletons formed a tidal wave, washing over the living.

Ernesto gave Maria a last stare. A hard stare. His mouth a thin line.

And then the skeletons washed over him, and he fell, drowning in a sea of bones.

The surviving bargirls fled, worming between more rising skeletons. The dead were everywhere. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, gushing forth. Yet they flowed around the bargirls like gentle water, for they could distinguish between friends and foes. Finally the bargirls reached the edge of the cemetery, where they collapsed by a weeping angel statue.

Maria panted, holding her belly, fearful for the child inside. The younger girls knelt, sobbing. A few were nursing wounds.

Charlie stood there, frozen, a tear on her cheek. Blood stained her hair, her fishnet stockings hung in tatters, and she had lost one of her heels. She turned cold, haunted eyes onto Maria.

"You murdered her," Charlie whispered.

Maria wept. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I had to protect my baby. I had to. I had to…"

She closed her eyes. And she saw Pippi's face. Accusing. Dying.

I'm sorry…

She looked up at Charlie. "Please, I'm sorry, I had to. You have to understand. Charlie…"

But Charlie only gave her a cold look. A look full of loathing… and of fear.

"Who are you?" Charlie whispered. A single tear ran down her cheek. "I curse the day you ever stepped into my club."

Charlie turned and walked away. The other bargirls looked at Maria, eyes sunken, faces pale. One of them spat on her. They followed Charlie, leaving Maria by the weeping angel.

Maria lowered her head and wept with the statue.

I murdered my best friend.

Gunfire rattled in the distance. A distant boom rolled like thunder, and the weeping angel shook. Smoke billowed over the stars. Maria rose to her feet, stumbled between two palm trees, and gazed into the distance.

Mindao was burning.

Chapter Forty

Sacrifice

Jon sat in the jungler, flying back to Camp Apollo.

He hunched in the back seat, still and silent. A corporal was flying the vessel. A couple privates sat beside Jon. The smoldering jungle canopy sprawled below. Two other junglers flanked them, skimming the trees, their engines bending branches and scattering blackened leaves.

They had defeated the Kalayaan in battle. They had reclaimed the portable wormhole generator. But nobody was boasting of victory. They were all silent.

Their colonel was dead.

Jon looked at his hands.

There was blood beneath his fingernails. It was blood that he could never wash off his hands. The blood of Bahay, and the blood of a good man.

For a long time, I was a killer, he thought. Today I am a murderer.

Back at camp, guards were waiting for him. Jon did not run. He held out his hands and let them handcuff him.

They led him into a tent.

A burly major sat at a desk, scowling at a minicom. He raised his eyes, staring from under eyebrows as thick and black as his mustache. Jon stood at attention and saluted.

"Sergeant Jon Taylor?" the major said.

"Yes, sir."

The major's eyebrows pushed low over his eyes. "I'm dealing with a dead colonel, a hijacked PIWG, a whole bunch of dead soldiers, and worst of all—the largest leak in the history of the Bahay War. And you, Sergeant Jon Taylor, were found at the scene of the crime."

A wave of dizziness flowed over Jon. He nearly collapsed. His wounds were still bleeding. There was a bullet in his shoulder. "Sir, I need a medic."

"All our goddamn medics are dead!" the major shouted, rising to his feet. "And if you're responsible for this shitstorm, you'll be dead too before sundown."

Jon swayed on his feet. "Sir, is this a court martial?"

"You're goddamn right it is." The major sneered. "And you better have some damn good answers for me, soldier. Or I'm going to send you to the goddamn firing squad."

Then fire, Jon thought. Shoot me dead. Because I betrayed my fellow soldiers. And I killed a good man. But I did it to save two worlds. If there is any mercy in heaven… God, I did it to save two worlds.

The major was talking some more. Jon couldn't hear. His ears rang. His wounds kept bleeding. His head spun.

He fell to his knees, and then his cheek hit the ground, and before everything went dark, he thought of Maria's smile.

The story continues in . . .

I, EARTHLING

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE IV

Click here to read I, Earthling.

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NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

MINTARI

A World of Dinosaurs

STARSHIP FREEDOM

Starship Freedom

Starship Freedom II: The Cost of Freedom

Starship Freedom III: We Fight for Freedom

Starship Freedom IV: For Death or Freedom

Starship Freedom V: Let Freedom Ring

Starship Freedom VI: In Pursuit of Freedom

Starship Freedom VII: The Guns of Freedom

Starship Freedom VIII: A Time for Freedom

EARTHRISE

Earth Alone

Earth Lost

Earth Rising

Earth Fire

Earth Shadows

Earth Valor

Earth Reborn

Earth Honor

Earth Eternal

Earth Machines

Earth Aflame

Earth Unleashed

Earth Remembers

Earth in Darkness

Earth, Our Home

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE

The Earthling

Earthlings

Earthling's War

I, Earthling

The Earthling's Daughter

We Are Earthlings

CHILDREN OF EARTHRISE

The Heirs of Earth

A Memory of Earth

An Echo of Earth

The War for Earth

The Song of Earth

The Legacy of Earth

KINGDOMS OF SAND

Kings of Ruin

Crowns of Rust

Thrones of Ash

Temples of Dust

Halls of Shadows

Echoes of Light

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame of Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Utopia 58

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove