Star Soldier (26 page)

“Sir, I—”

“Silence!” roared Captain Sigmir.

Marten’s fingers twitched, the only indication that he almost drew his pistol to try to gun down this monster. He was certain that it would be futile, but he didn’t want to die without a fight.

Captain Sigmir’s eyes gleamed as his weird smile stretched into place. “Step outside with me, Lieutenant.” The captain strode ahead and out of the office.

A moment later Marten stepped through, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

Captain Sigmir stood several feet away, his hands on his hips as he peered down at Marten. “So, the preman has balls, does he?”

Marten gulped the lump out of his throat, closing the door behind him.

“You could draw, Lieutenant, and then you’d be dead.”

Marten wondered if that was true.

Captain Sigmir showed his teeth in a feral grin. “How little you premen understand us, even me, a damaged beta. Yet I am a Highborn. Do you doubt that?”

Marten slowly shook his head.

“I herd premen into battle, trying to make warriors out of you. It isn’t an enviable task, but it is a purpose, and it is one that I will succeed at. Lieutenant, you can’t pit your skills against mine. To even think so is sad and hopeless. And so few of you actually have any potential. Yet… I will admit that there is something different about you.”

“Sir?”

“Your men look up to you, Lieutenant, and do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Come now, don’t be humble. I dislike such pretense.”

Marten licked his lips. Sigmir seemed capable of anything, of any absurdity. He dared say, “I’m not fond of pretense either, sir.”

That wolfish grin grew. “Well said, Lieutenant. They look up to you because you’ve dared to stand up to me. They rightly recognize that as an act of bravery. And now you’ve taken your platoon out of the tunnels. Yes, it was the correct military move. I knew you were the best of my tacticians.”

Marten was bewildered. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“You’ve shown initiative, Lieutenant, and you’ve gained the thanks and respect of your men because of it.”

“But…. I’ve only fifty-eight men left.”

“Premen.
Untermensch
.”

“Sir?”

“
Untermensch
, Lieutenant, sub-humans, sheep, fodder, take your pick. So few of them are soldiers, none warriors. The enemy has now shed the useless ones for you.”

“Sir?”

“Fifty-eight men out of eighty, Lieutenant, the ones who fought their way out of the horror of hand-to-hand combat in the dark. The fifty-eight: those who might yet make passable soldiers. By posting you where I did, I’ve done the hard work for you.”

Marten stared at Captain Sigmir, at the nakedness of the man’s arrogance and madness.

Sigmir clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you know, Lieutenant, that I will gain rank because of the Siege of Tokyo? I will gain a high place in the New Order.”

“On our bodies, sir?”

“Exactly! Yes, you do understand. I suspected you might. I have given you the respect of your sheep, Lieutenant. It is my gift to you because of what I will demand. Consider my revelation, and perhaps someday I will allow you to be my aide as I rise in rank.” The smile became a trifle sad. “For premen, I’m afraid, true rank is impossible to achieve, no matter what the Colonel told you.” The smile became crooked and Sigmir’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know, Lieutenant, that in reality Lot Six wasn’t a failure?”

Marten spoke carefully. “No, sir, I didn’t know that.”

“Lot Six was the first of the new men, the
Herrenvolk
, the Master Race.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you truly understand?”

“I think so, sir.”

Sigmir nodded. “Yes, perhaps you do. You may go, Lieutenant.”

Marten saluted crisply, turned and marched back to his platoon. He realized that as long as Sigmir ran the company that all their lives were in danger. The captain viewed the world through the prism of Highborn concepts of glory.

Marten soon climbed over hunks of concrete and coughed dust out of his throat. Through a hole in the wall, he saw blazing, burning Tokyo. Even though it was day, the black smoke overhead produced a pall of gloom over the doomed city. Tracers flashed and a glob of plasma flew somewhere that thankfully wasn’t here. He strode a little farther and shouted the password to a hidden sentry.

Marten soon flopped down within the strongpoint. His men trained their guns at the open stairwell a short distance away. It led into the basement none of them ever wanted to reenter.

“Drink this,” said Turbo.

It was hot and jolted Marten’s tired brain. At the other strongpoint, Omi commanded the other half of Second Platoon with help from Stick. At least his friends hadn’t died in what already was blurring in Marten’s mind as a mad, senseless killing frenzy.

He studied his men. Tired, determined soldiers watched that stairwell with grim intensity. Grime streaked their faces, and cuts and bruises. They no longer looked like slum dwellers to Marten.

Turbo had a gash under his eye to add to his puffy lips. He sipped the hot liquid. “This don’t make sense,” Turbo suddenly whispered, as he leaned near Marten.

“Huh?”

“We can’t afford to take losses like this.”

Marten thought about Captain Sigmir’s words, but he said, “Why do you think the Highborn keep feeding more and more of us into battle?”

“That’s just it,” Turbo whispered. “That nuke took most of our convoy. How many other convoys have they decimated?”

Marten envisioned the enemy using nukes here. The thought made him sick. “This is Earth’s holdout,” he said.

“That’s what I’m saying. Why don’t the Highborn clean it out?”

Marten nodded toward the dark stairwell. “Because these people can
fight
—and don’t forget those sea-launched nukes. Maybe the Highborn can’t get enough people here to take it.”

“I wonder if that’s the reason,” said Turbo. “Maybe there’s a—I don’t know, one of their slick, Highborn plans behind all this.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Marten, standing. “Grab some shut-eye. Take a pill if you gotta. I want you fresh in a couple hours when I try to sleep.” Then Marten made the rounds to see how his troops where holding up.

8.

Peace reined for nine hours. Then they learned that two more convoys had been nuked and destroyed. There had been no survivors. Each convoy had been earmarked for Tokyo, for the big push to the merculite battery. Soon thereafter, the Colonel of the
Slumlord
Battalion called his captains and lieutenants together in his HQ in the granary’s old monitoring station. Most of the surveillance screens in the room had been broken the day they stormed the granary. Bloodstains still marred the walls. They sat in high-backed chairs around a large table. The Lot Six Highborn towered over everyone else.

“There’s been a change in emphasis, gentlemen,” the Colonel said, standing at the end of the table. He rapped it with a large knuckle. “Advance at any cost is no longer the prime directive. You are now to husband your men, bleed the enemy and wait for reinforcements to get through.”

“Sir?” asked Sigmir.

“We’ve reentered a maneuver stage,” the Colonel said. “Verdun tactics—at least until the transports start getting through in numbers—will no longer dictate our actions. Ninety percent of the reinforcements are marked for the panzer drive north and the heavy infantry push to our south. Our goal, gentlemen, is to pin down as many enemy formations as possible.”

Marten had learned that the greatest asset of the Highborn was their ability to shift plans. If the situation changed, their goals changed to suit what was possible. It was a daunting power, and he felt uncomfortable in their presence, even if they were only Lot Six, seven-foot tall Highborn. The weird vitality, the intense stares, the
life force
emanating from them made him feel small, weak and inferior. And that made him angry. So he cleared his throat and asked, “What are Verdun tactics?”

The four Highborn glowered: the Colonel and his three captains. The lieutenants, Australian-born all, perked up.

“Mind your place, preman,” growled Sigmir.

“Now, now,” said the Colonel. “Perhaps an explanation is justified. Verdun was a battle-site in World War One, Lieutenant.” The Colonel must have noticed Marten’s perplexity. “One side set out to grind down the other through a vast battle of attrition. I think the term ‘meat-grinder’ has been used among your men. Such a term is rather accurate, as such things go, and Verdun had been planned as a meat-grinder.”

“I don’t understand,” Marten said.

The Colonel glanced sharply at Sigmir.

“I believe he grasps the concept, Colonel,” Sigmir said. “What he’s trying to—”

“—He’d better grasp it,” interrupted the Colonel. “Otherwise he should be instantly demoted to private.”

Marten hated their arrogance. Sure, they could outfight and out-think him, but he was putting his life on the chopping block for them. The least they could do was treat him like a man. He asked, “What was the reason for using Verdun tactics?”

“I just explained that,” snapped the Colonel.

“I don’t mean back then, sir,” Marten said, “but for using such tactics here.”

“That’s quite outside your theater of concern,” the Colonel said loftily.

Marten couldn’t agree, nor would he let it go. “Sir, do you mean to say that the Slumlords were supposed to grind the enemy by letting ourselves be ground in return?”

“Weren’t you listening?” asked the Colonel. “Verdun tactics are suspended until further notice.”

“I realize that, sir. My question is why did High Command ever plan to use them in the first place? It seems beneath Highborn military skills.”

The Colonel stiffened as the room grew still. The four Highborn gave off a caged tiger feeling, like a mad beast lashing its tail, eager to pounce and kill. The force of it, in a knot of radiating will, hit Marten almost like a physical blow.

The regular men, the FEC lieutenants, grew uneasy and then visibly scared. Kang was a huge man by normal standards but dwarfed by the Highborn. He slid his chair away from Marten until Marten sat alone.

The Colonel worked to control himself. He finally said, “To be frank, Lieutenant, High Command believed that Verdun tactics was all that you hastily-trained premen were capable of.”

“But now, sir?” Marten asked.

The Colonel flushed, his snow-white skin turning crimson. “Can’t you discipline your men?” he snapped at Sigmir.

Sigmir reached out and cuffed Marten across the back of the head.

Marten jerked around as his hand automatically dropped to his holstered pistol.

“I’d make him point man,” the Colonel icily told Sigmir.

Marten released the pistol butt and stared at the table. He’d discovered that the Highborn thrived on premen acts of contrition. It fed their bloated egos and made them feel even more smugly superior.

With the slightest dip of his head, Sigmir acknowledged the Colonel’s suggestion. “Yes, perhaps I shall put him on point.”

“Fighting spirit is one thing,” the Colonel said, “this lack of disciple quite another.”

“He will be taught his place,” Sigmir assured the Colonel. “Lieutenant, you will remain silent until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” Marten said. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”

The Colonel sniffed loudly, and then ignored Marten as beneath his notice. “As I was saying—”

An alarm cut him off. Com-lines buzzed and the entire granary trembled—caused by enemy artillery shells hammering against it. Concrete pebbles from the ceiling were dislodged and rattled upon the table.  Dust drifted.

“To your posts!” roared the Colonel.

9.

Having slipped onto Japan so that he could lead the fighting from the home islands, Field Marshal Kitamura had given the word for the grand frontal assault. If they could clear Tokyo, then reinforcements could be rushed north and south, and then maybe Japan could be held until Operation Togo. But first tasks first. So quick-trained levies boiled up from the depths.  Samurai Divisions gathered their strength and Kamikaze squads strapped on their bombs. What was left of the airforce hurled itself at the largest Highborn concentrations. A massive artillery park endlessly shelled enemy territory.

The FEC 4th Army took the brunt of the first day’s attack. It was composed of the broken 9th, the newly arrived 10th and the yet intact 12th, 20th and 22nd FEC Divisions. The remnants of two other divisions, shattered beyond repair, had been taken to the docks and reformed into a garrison brigade. The 23rd and 204th
Jump-Jet Battalions provided mobile elites to plug any gaps. Lastly, prowling the back lines, shooting stragglers, regrouping others, in effect stiffening the FEC volunteers by their presence, was the Highborn 91st Drop Assault Battalion. The giants in their heavy combat armor were the terror of both sides. The better-off FEC 7th Army held the city to the south, while the 5th Panzer Corps was to the 4th Army’s north. An offshore battery of artillery-bearing submarines provided the armies with gun tubes, while an orbital laser station was dedicated for Highborn Tokyo use.

Roughly, one hundred thousand FEC soldiers with a smattering of Highborn waged street war against three hundred thousand Japanese. A few of the Japanese formations were the dreaded Samurai Divisions, well-trained soldiers that man for man were more than a match versus the best-trained FEC formations. However, the bulk of the three hundred thousand Japanese were hastily trained civilians, stiffened by police units. They’d had even less training-time than the FEC volunteers. Nor had they the benefit of Highborn instructors. To make matters worse, they were more poorly armed and armored than their FEC counterparts.

The Japanese frontal attack lacked grace. Field Marshal Kitamura knew his soldiers: they were brave but barely trained. Boldly led in attacks their morale might last a week, maybe a few days beyond that. Then newer levies still training in the depths could be brought up and thrown into the cauldron. Of course, complex tactics were beyond them. So he hurled them straight at the enemy, or as he told his commanders, “We’ll shove a spear into their guts.” To add to the spear’s effectiveness, he tied on a bomb as it were onto the tip, in this instance, the Kamikaze squads.