Battle Earth VII

Chapter 3

It was close to evening when Taylor finally got to his home on base. As he approached the door with his key card in hand, it slid open. Parker stood at the entrance to greet him. She no longer wore the uniform of a marine. She was dressed as a private contractor in military style but non-unit specific gear fatigues. She looked curious for a moment at the bruising on his face.

“Should I ask?”

“Probably not,” he took her in a firm embrace and lifted her off her feet as he carried on through the doorway.

“So how’s life treating you in the private sector?”

“Can’t complain about the pay. Few more years of this, and we can live wherever we please.”

He seemed surprised.

“You think I should follow after you? I thought you loved the Corps?”

“But I love you more, and if I can’t have both, then you know what I’ll choose.”

He sat down wearily on the sofa, and she sympathetically grabbed a beer for him.

“Come on, let’s not make it about this again. You know I’d have stayed if there was any way.”

Taylor knew it to be true. Since the war was over, there was little chance of them getting away with their relationship any longer with the way things stood. But half the time it felt like he’d lost another comrade-in-arms.

“Looks like you gave more than a talk out there.”

He smiled in response.

“Just some idiots at a bar.”

“You keep doing that and you’re gonna be in some real trouble.”

“Really? What are they gonna do? They need me.”

“For now, but you're not going to be young forever."

"Yeah, thanks."

Weaver had threatened his existence in a similar manner, but coming from someone he loved gave him pause for concern. Fatigue was setting in and the realisation that he really hadn't had much sleep. He knew his body would appreciate the rest, for it was bruised and battered. It wasn't long before he was out for the count.

As the sun rose, he woke to find Parker beside him. It brought a smile to his face. That smile was lost as he noticed a flashing light on the comms screen on the wall, an incoming message.

Can't be from anyone I want to hear from, he thought.

He started to move which got protests from Parker as she groaned and tried to keep him put.

"I gotta take this."

"Right now? You're on leave."

"Yeah, but I already caused enough trouble lately. Let's not invite more."

"Mmm," she finally agreed.

He stepped up to the console and tapped it for the message to begin. He'd expected video, but there was only text. It was from General White's personal aide with orders from his superior. It simply read 'Report to General White as soon as you read this'. It was an ominous message of the sort he'd not expect from the General.

"What is it?" asked Eli.

"Looks like leave is cancelled."

"What? You only just got here," she protested.

"Tell me about it."

She crawled out of bed and stood behind him with her arms over his shoulders.

"You must plead your case to the General. You've done enough."

He turned around in surprise.

"Out of the Corps, and already you’re no longer thinking like a marine. We don't bargain with our superiors. If we are called upon, we are there one hundred percent. How would we have won this war if marines chose whether to report for duty?"

She shook her head. "But we're not at war, are we? You can't keep doing this. All we did during the war was look forward to a life together and away from it all, but where are we now? Worse off than ever."

He had no answer for her because he felt the same.

Maybe it’s time to give it all up.

He'd never admit it though. He didn't rush to respond to the message. An hour later, he presented himself for the General. White was close to retirement now, and Taylor didn't look forward to the day he was replaced.

As he walked into the room, he could smell a mix of furniture polish and whiskey. He entered with a smile, but it was removed when he could see the expression on White's face. He had the look of a man who to give someone bad news and hated having to do it.

"Morning, Sir," said Taylor.

He smiled in response but did not speak, gesturing for Taylor to come in casually and sit before him.

"Now I know you were due some R&R, Mitch, and I can't think of a man more deserving, but these orders come from above my head.

"Spit it out, Sir."

"Your fight with that Mech the other day has caused quite a stir. I can't say I liked the idea, and I can assure you I had no part to play in it. However, we cannot shy away from the fact it is now a global phenomenon. The video has gone viral, and they love it."

"And why should we care?"

"Your work now is to publicise the Corps and provide a positive recruiting role model for the next generation. So we may not like it, but you just single-handedly won over millions of people in a couple of minutes, doing nothing more than you were trained to do and have been doing for years."

"You don't really want to keep that circus going?"

"If the method works, then I can live with a lot. You remember what it was like after the last war ended. Nobody wanted to know about the Corps or signing up for future conflicts. This has struck home and is getting people thinking about it on a daily basis. This is exactly what we need to get some damn enthusiasm. Hell, almost nobody wants to sign up anymore. We lost massive numbers in the wars, and as many again who retired or found some other path out. Do you know how many thousands of marines we have lost to PTSD and who will never return to duty?"

"I think I know better than most," Taylor replied sharply.

The General sighed in response. He didn't like locking horns with Taylor. Neither of them wanted to be discussing the subject, and yet they knew it was their duty to do so.

"So whoever is running this, what do they want from me?"

"Another fight."

He knew it would be the answer, but he still gasped.

"Haven't I fought enough for this country...this planet?"

"And that is why they want you, in France. A guaranteed safe bet. They want someone who can do this, without risk to themselves and the people who they associate with."

"You talk about fighting the Krys as if they are helpless animals to be put down. Have you ever come to blows with one, General?"

He shook his head. "I am glad to say never."

"Precisely. Even without any weapons, they are highly dangerous opponents who should not be toyed with."

"Then don't toy. Go in there like you always do, and get the job done."

They were both quiet for a moment. Taylor could see there would be no getting out of it.

"And what if I left the Corps?" he asked.

The General's face sank in surprise and horror.

"Why on Earth would you think of doing that?"

"I am entitled to. I have done my service, and then some. I can put in my papers and be out of here before the month is through."

"But why? Not because of this fight? What is it you want? A rise?"

He shook his head.

"Then what?"

"To not have to put up with this bullshit. To not have weasel little bastards like Weaver breathing down my throat, and being pulled around like some puppet to give crappy displays for an unappreciating public who want nothing more than to see blood. This is not what I signed up for, and not what we fought for!"

The General's concern turned to anger at his comments.

"So what, you'll walk out of the only career you've ever known, and do what? Piss about drinking too much and trying to relive the glory days. You're a fighter, a marine; it's all you know how to be. Now you don't have to like these orders, but by God you will follow them. You can be nothing out there in the World, a bum with nothing to offer, or you can be a Marine officer and a hero. You may have done great things in the war, but it is the machine behind you that made that possible and has made you the celebrity you are today."

Celebrity? Christ that's the last thing I want. All I ever wanted in my years in the Corps was to have some kind of life with Parker, and now that’s the one thing being held from me.

"All right, I'll do it. But this is gonna end badly. The Krys aren't some wild animals to be cut up in an arena. Mark my words, this is the worst thing to have happened since we won the war, and you will regret it."

"It's out of my hands, and not for either of us to decide. I must follow my orders, just like you must follow yours."

* * *

Taylor walked back into his home and headed straight for the closet and grabbed his kitbag. He turned around to see Parker standing opposite him in the hallway.

"Thought you'd be at work by now?" he asked.

"I booked these few days off to share with you, remember?"

He had already forgotten.

"What can I say? I have my orders."

She knew it was useless to argue with that, but she wanted to nonetheless.

"You have to take this up the chain of command. You aren't a machine. You can't keep working day after day."

"We did in the war."

"Yeah, but the war's over. We worked without rest because the survival of our race was at stake. Why do you need to do it now, except to just appease a few idiots?"

He nodded in agreement.

"When I get back, I'll take this up the chain of command and see what I can do. They can't run me like this forever. They want me to fight over in France. I think it's a bad idea, and I think they'll realise it pretty quick."

"Why France?"

"Ah, some publicity stunt, I suppose; recreate a fight of the war or some shit."

"So they are making a gladiator of you?"

"I guess."

"A little bit beneath you, don't you think?"

"Marines, are we not the gladiators of our day?"

"No, because we don't play to a crowd."

"Mmm," he grunted back.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, I don't want to fight about it. These are my orders. I don't like them either, but they are what they are. I promise once this is over, I'll push for a few weeks’ leave, and we'll go somewhere nice."

"I don't want to go somewhere nice. I just want you."

It brought a smile to his face.

"And you'll have me. Just give me a few days."

* * *

Thirty minutes later Taylor was aboard the bridge of the Deveron and soaring across the World for France. The ship had almost become his personal transport for publicity purposes. The crew loved it, for it meant light duties and a heap of attention from crowds wherever they went. Jafar travelled with him as ever.

The crew discussed Taylor's fight with such enthusiasm and expectation of what was to come next. They seemed to have enjoyed the concept as much as the public had. He hadn't thought those who had served in the war would be so keen for it. Then he looked around and realised that whereas they had all done their part in the war, not one of them had to ever come face to face with a Mech.

"Ready to whoop some ass?" asked Captain Ryan.

Taylor continued to stare out over the Pacific in a world of his own for a while until his brain finally processed what was going on around him. He turned to the Captain with a puzzled expression and asked.

"Ever fought a Kry in hand-to-hand?"

Ryan shook his head.

"If you had, you'd know the answer. It's no joking matter."

Ryan seemed confused.

"I thought you liked nailing those bastards?"

"Yeah, when I had to. When they were destroying our world and killing my friends. Because back then I knew every one I killed would save lives. But now they have lost, they are nothing more than our prisoners. Fighting one is nothing more than an execution, and a dangerous one at that. It brings me no joy."

Several of the other crew had overheard his comments and went silent. Many looked sheepish for having been so enthusiastic for the fight now they had heard is thoughts. Several felt sympathy for him, but he knew deep down they would still watch the fight with delight.

"So what are we doing here? Why are you fighting?"

"That's a good question, and not one I have an answer for."

Ryan could see it was time to drop the subject and quickly shifted focus.

"So I see you're still carting Tsengal around. Is it really necessary?"

"Mechs being lined up for gladiatorial combat and executions, and you have to ask? Tsengal is the lone survivor from Colonel Chandra's mission. If he ever wakes, I want to be sure it's someone I trust who hears what he has to say."

"Why? We're all on the same side here."

As he said it, Weaver walked onto the bridge. Taylor gestured over to the civilian and whispered to Ryan.

"You sure about that?"

"How long until we arrive, Captain?" Weaver asked.

"Ninety minutes."

"You've really stepped on it," added Taylor.

"Yes, Sir."

He could see the military courtesy he was given bothered Weaver.

"We're on a tight schedule, Sir."

"Yes, the crowds around the World are eagerly awaiting your fight, Colonel," Weaver added.

The rest of the flight went by slowly, and he had to put up with Weaver's endless bullshit that the crew seemed to lap up. Taylor had to admit Weaver may be an asshole, but he was a great salesman. As they finally came into land, Taylor instantly recognised their location. It shouldn't have been a surprise to him, but it was an odd feeling to be returning to Paris once more.

Lines of flags tracked a path up to their landing zone with thousands of people awaiting their arrival. Much of the city was in a state of rebuilding, and only a few newly finished skyscrapers made up the skyline. They were putting down in the gardens before the Eiffel Tower. It was a one kilometre square area of land that had been given priority in the restoration of the city. Despite many streets around the perimeter still lying in rubble, the grass was impeccable and the paths and benches like new. Construction cranes mostly covered the damaged tower itself as the rebuild was being undertaken.

"Hard to believe, hey, Colonel, that the city could ever return to its former glory?" asked Weaver.

You were never there during the war, so how would you know?

However, he was overcome by a sense of nostalgia seeing it once again. Their landing was smooth, and as the engines powered down, they could hear the roar of the crowd.

"It's time to meet the fans," Weaver said.

Taylor sighed as he put on his beret and headed for the exit ramp. His image in peacetime had always been carefully managed. He wore his Reitech armour because it was how people expected to see him. He was hardly ever out of it. Weaver always wanted him to be seen as a conquering hero, and not a politician. Rarely did he see his dress uniform anymore.

As the ramp lowered, the warm fresh air swept inside, freshly mowed grass and moisture from the sprinklers. It was refreshing. He faked a smile for the crowd. It was not only his job, but also his responsibility to be the hero the people expected him to be. As he stepped out, he went onto autopilot. He shook hands and responded to greetings, but an hour later when he was free of it, he barely remembered a single moment.

Finally spirited away into an army staff car, he noticed the sun going down. They had lost many hours with the time zone change coming over the Atlantic. The afternoon had gone, and he wondered if they could even do anything with the rest of the day.

"Guess I'm not fighting tonight, Weaver?"

The man responded with a sleazy smile before responding. "Far from it. This evening's fight is prime time television. You'll be fighting at midnight local time. That's 1800 hours back on the east coast, just in time for workers to get home from the commute and have something to watch before dinner.

"Sounds like a great family night in," he replied, not attempting to hide the sarcasm.

"Not like you need the rest anyway. As far as your body clock goes, you've not even done anything all day."

"Two days ago that video went viral, so how can this be going ahead so soon? No consideration given, no discussion, planning."

"No planning or consideration? This isn't the twentieth century, Colonel. Things change on an hourly basis. This is a now culture. They got a taste of the action two days ago. Forty-eight hours of waiting and anticipation."

"Jesus, are people really that bored? Did we fight to save a civilisation whose greatest desire is to watch the next piece of broadcast shit?"

"I can see you’re finally starting to get it now. Maybe having me around isn't so bad for you, after all, Colonel."

He looked out of the window to see a welcome sign to ‘Parc des Princes’.

"A stadium fight? What is this?"

"This is entertainment. The new Parc des Princes was under construction and almost complete before the first war broke out. With a few repairs and changes, it's ideal for our purposes. One hundred and twenty five thousand capacity, and with all eyes on you."

"Just what I wanted."

"To be the World's hero? Any marine would give anything to be in your shoes."

"Not one who fought in the wars," he snapped.

"Cheer up, Colonel. This is your big moment."

They rolled up to the entrance where a red carpet had been laid out for his arrival, and camera crews and reporters lined up behind barriers for any chance of an opportunity get at him.

"Play to the crowd, Colonel. It's what you've been ordered to do, and therefore, what you're paid to do."

He'd never been a fan of actors, and in joining the Marine Corps, it was the last thing he had ever envisaged he might have to do.

"All right, if this is what the people want, I'll give them their pound of flesh," he said spitefully. He opened the door, and his face instantly turned to a fake smile as he threw both his arms up triumphantly, sparking a series of camera flashes and a roar of applause.

Some people might be in their element, but this sucks.

One of the American reporters pushed to the front and yelled their question the loudest, bringing many others to silence. “Bookies are giving you ten to one odds, what do you say about that?”

Taylor was taken aback by the comment.

“I didn’t come here to lose,” he replied with a smile.

Laughter erupted as he turned to Weaver.

“Ten to one? What have you got me fighting?”

“You’ll see.”

Weaver stepped in front of the Colonel to speak.

“That’s it. You all came here to see our hero fight monsters, not hear him talk. Give him his rest, for he has a great challenge ahead!”

They walked through the crowds as the reporters continued to hurl questions at Taylor, and others reached out to touch him as they passed. Beyond the crowd, he could see sparks from welders and construction crews still working away to finish the structure. Chemicals filled the air from flooring which had barely set. He knew this had been a rushed affair. He just hoped it wasn't at the expense of his safety. As much as Weaver's job was to make him a publicity whore, he seemed to want him dead just as much.

The stadium staff led them through the vast unfinished complex and finally through a lavish doorway that opened up into what could only be described as a luxury apartment.

"Welcome to our Presidential Suite," one of them stated.

It was lavishly decorated and ten times to the size of his own home. Screens around the walls were showing video commercials from around the World promoting the upcoming fight.

"Make yourself comfortable. I've got interviews to do, lots of them," said Weaver. "You'll be notified at 11:30 and called for at 11:45."

Taylor nodded and lay down on one of the sofas.

"You will be ready, won't you?"

"Sure," he replied confidently, as if bored by the whole affair.

Taylor awoke to find he was being rustled by one of the local staff members. He reached up and grabbed the man by the throat instinctively as he was torn out of a deep sleep. He could see the look of terror on the man's eyes as he was starved of oxygen. He quickly released his grip.

"Don't you know not to startle a marine like that?" he asked.

"Sorry, Monsieur, but we could not rouse you."

He looked at his watch. 23:47.

"Okay, let's do this."

He was stiff from having slept in his armour, but the rest had done him a lot of good. He was led out and down to the ground floor. Weaver was waiting for him, next to a trolley with the rest of his gear.

"Christ, don't you know how important this is?"

"No, I don't," he replied dryly.

"Millions of people around the World are waiting for you, and you simply can't be bothered?"

"If you're so concerned, you could always armour up and go in there yourself. I know I'd enjoy watching that."

It immediately silenced Weaver, but he was fuming with anger. Taylor paced up to the gear on the trolley, a helmet, an Assegai, and a shield.

"That's it, Weaver?"

"They want a fight, not an execution."

Taylor couldn't help but think when all his gear was on it wouldn't matter who was wearing it.

Do the crowds really want 'Colonel Taylor', or do they just want to see human versus alien? I wonder if many would ever recognise me were I not in uniform as I’m portrayed on posters and videos around the World.

He clamped the Assegai in its sheath to the leg of his exoskeleton suit and lifted his helmet onto his head before lifting the hefty shield onto his arm.

"Ready?" Weaver asked.

"I'll do this fight, but that's it. After this, you find another idiot to be your puppet."

"You just get out there and do your job."

Taylor turned and strode out down the corridor that led to the main stadium grounds. He could hear the roar of the crowds as they yelled and clapped. It was almost deafening. He'd never been in front of so many people before.

"And here he is, the man himself. Welcome the slayer of Demiran, the saviour of the World, Colonel Taylor!"

The commentator was an instantly recognisable voice. An American who seemed to commentate on every big fight he'd seen over the years. He had no clue of the man's name, but his voice was unmistakeable. He rambled on another five minutes about Taylor's exploits and the dangers he was about to face, but it passed through Mitch's one ear and out the other. He was focused on psyching himself up ready for the action.

In the war he had always been ready to fight, as survival had been on their minds every second of every day, but his last fight just days before had shown him his head wasn't in it. He blocked out the crowds from his mind, focusing on the weapons in hand and the thought of what he was going to face.

Gonna kill the alien bastard, gonna kill you, gonna kill you, gonna win, he was telling himself.

His hands began to shake a little as the adrenaline flowed through his body. His mouth went dry, and his breathing slowed beyond what was ideal. He had to tell himself to get the air in.

Breathe, breathe, focus.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his face and hit his already dry lips. It tasted horrible and only made him thirstier. He felt a hand clench his and try to lift it, but to no avail. He looked to his side to see the commentator in a white suit and matching bow tie trying to raise his hand for the crowd, but it was only going where he wanted it to.

"Come on," the man whispered to him, "They love you. Play to it."

He gave in and did as asked. He snapped out of his mind-focusing daze to look at his surroundings as he was paraded around for all to admire. He was standing on a metal stage thirty metres wide. Thick armoured clear plastic walls surrounded him and must have been ten metres tall. They were braced by steel supports around the outside of the structure. Floodlights created almost perfect balanced light with only a little shadowing. The floor had smatterings of alien blood. He was clearly not the only exhibit that night, but he was the headliner they had all been waiting for.

As he continued to study his surroundings, the commentator left the arena, and the wall sealed shut behind him. There seemed to be no way in or out now except going upwards. Knowing his Reitech boosters would allow him that was a relief. A section of the floor in the arena slid open, and a single Mech arose from beneath the ground. It was still shackled and made no attempt to break free. He wondered if that was because it didn't want to fight, or if it had simply accepted it had to wait for its opportunity to try and kill him. Its armour had been polished so much that the floodlights glinted off of it.

Weaver began spouting his orders over the comms, but Taylor shut it off. That was the last thing he wanted to hear.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the battle begin!"

The shackles opened, and the Mech rushed immediately at him. Like in the previous display, it was armoured but without any weapons. With no finesse, it rushed at him as if in the hope of trampling him where he stood. Taylor quickly twisted his body to void to one side and drove the Assegai up into its torso armour, driving up to the hilt so that the tip would reach its throat.

The creature froze where it stood as he ripped the blade out. Blood poured down its armour and spread across the floor. It went limp and collapsed lifelessly to the ground. It landed hard. The metal on metal clang echoed around the stadium from all of the speakers that relayed every audible decibel for everyone to hear. The crowd was silent and stunned.

Taylor looked over to the side of the arena where Weaver and a few of Ryan's crew were sitting. Ryan was clapping and found it hilarious, but he was one of the few. Weaver frantically beckoned for him to come over to the perimeter. He finally obliged, as there seemed no response from the audience in what was becoming an uncomfortable silence.

As he reached the perimeter, he could see small holes perforated in the wall, just enough so that sound could travel through.

"What the hell was that?" yelled Weaver frantically.

"What you asked for," he snapped back.

"No, you're here to put on a show. That was shit."

"Well, I did say you're welcome to take over."

Weaver's face reddened, and he was boiling over with anger. Taylor knew it was a dangerous move when he was locked in an arena with god knows how many more potential combatants.

"All right, Colonel, let's see how good you really are."

Taylor ignored him and walked off into the centre of the arena where he awaited the next challenge. He ignored the crowd but watched Weaver whispering to the commentator who finally broke the silence.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, well, well, well. Did you ever imagine our hero here could vanquish a mighty armoured alien without breaking a sweat? He truly is an epic champion. But alas, this challenge is simply not enough for such a man. Who wants to see him put to the test?"

The crowd screamed with excitement, appearing to have forgotten the first fight already. It certainly hadn't provided what they wanted or expected.

Knew it couldn't be that easy, he thought.

Everything he had been told suggested it was a one off, one-on-one fight, but he'd always suspected Weaver would screw him over.

The floor hatch slid open once again, and three Mechs arose from the ground. He was only thankful they were still unarmed, for although he made it look easy, he knew they were not to be underestimated. The crowd was still silent, eagerly waiting what they had all come there to see, a fight.

"Right, if this is what you want," Mitch whispered to himself.

The shackles slid off the Mechs, and they approached slowly together in a crescent shape. They were being cautious and working together, precisely what he didn't need. He circled a little to try and get one in front of the other two, but they wheeled around and maintained their formation.

"Okay, if that's how you want to play it."

He leapt to his right onto one at the flank. It swung for him, but he pushed the Assegai into its huge iron claw, stopping it dead. One of the others closed on him quickly. He kicked up his leg into its chest and fired the boosters on his suit. It launched it back and thrust him and his first opponent into the air and rocketing towards the barrier wall. They hit it hard, but the Mech took the worst of the impact. As they dropped to the metal floor, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause; this is what they wanted to see. This is what they came for, a gladiatorial match.

Mitch pulled the Assegai from the creature’s hand and thrust it into its chest. He quickly pulled it out and thrust again to make sure. Having vanquished one, he turned to meet the others, but it was already too late. The one that had been left standing was on him. He lifted his shield as a huge punch came for him. It impacted square on and launched him back against the wall. The wind was taken out of him from the impact, but he was still standing.

He thrust when the creature came at him, but it knocked his weapon arm down and swung again for his head. He ducked under, and the impact hit the transparent screen with such immense force, it opened cracks in the surface layer that spread almost a metre in every direction.

A hammer blow followed it, intending to flatten Taylor. He thrust his shield up and braced it with both hands and took it head on. As soon as the energy was dissipated, he smashed the lower edge of the shield into the creature’s knee joints and then forwards, knocking it off its feet. The crowd cheered as he spun out from under it and quickly covered some ground to get away from the wall.

In that instance, Taylor knew he had won the crowd over, but he wondered what that was really worth. His heart was now thumping and adrenaline was making him pin sharp. He was starting to enjoy himself. Gone was the anger at having to be an actor. The challenge and the danger was the most excitement he could remember having in a long time. He wasn't sure if he should be enjoying it, but he couldn't help it.

One down, easy work now!

The two rushed towards him simultaneously. He took a few paces to one side to get them in line and blocking one another. As the first tried to strike him, he pushed his shield up and slung his body low and thrust down into its leg. As blood poured from the wound, he ripped the Assegai out and thrust it up into its abdomen.

Seeing its companion was finished, the last one grabbed the body that was still impaled in Taylor's weapon and threw it aside as it bore down upon him. He ducked down and slammed his shield up and over so that the creature was launched over him and tumbled hard to the floor the other side. The crowd revelled in the spectacle of it, and began to yell for him to finish it.

He answered their calls and rushed forward with lightning speed. His shield smashed the creature’s attack aside. He leapt up into the air, and his Assegai pierced its faceplate. The Mech collapsed dead beneath his weight. The crowd were in such ecstasy as if they'd just seen a national team win a global competition.

Mitch got to his feet and threw his arms up triumphantly. He had enjoyed the contest, but he still wondered what the event could mean for his future, and the future of society, as he knew it.