Star Soldier (28 page)

“Yes.”

“The only way you’ll get there is by riding on our bloody carcasses.”

“Perhaps you’d like to be point man, to show me the way, as it were.”

“Is that the prize for telling the truth?”

Sigmir’s dark eyes glittered dangerously. “Truth! Here is truth: do as I order, when I order and you may live. But know this, preman, that the day I die and am not resurrected is the day a posthumous letter requests the Colonel to have you shot for insubordination.”

Kang’s ever-slit gaze widened minutely as he studied the map.

Marten stepped back. He ached to draw and shoot Sigmir, to kill him and have done with it. It galled him that if he tried, if he even dared touch his holster, that Sigmir could probably kill him before the pistol was halfway out.

“Why not have me shot now?” asked Marten.

“Because you can fight, because you have zeal and the killer instinct. I’ve told you before how rare that is among your kind. For now, I use you. But the day you are no longer of use….” Sigmir smiled. “That’s the day the rabid dog dies.”

10.

Day and night, the orbital laser platform sought the thickest concentrations of enemy artillery tubes. Then a thick red beam stabbed out of the sky, burning, exploding and destroying the carefully deployed guns. Japanese tanks, headquarter commands, choppers, thick knots of troops humping over the hardscrabble, all tasted the fury of the space-borne laser. At times VTOL fighters screaming over the city simply vanished in the laser’s wash. Newly opened tunnels to the deep city melted, air vents exploded and armored personnel carriers became coffins on wheels. Relentlessly, the Highborn eliminated the war-machines and war-fighting capacity of Tokyo’s beleaguered armies. More and more it was simply the soldiers themselves who were left and the weapons they could carry. Food trucks were destroyed, radio beacons turned into slag. Rather than a coordinated army throwing itself upon the enemy, the vast horde of Japanese felt isolated, demoralized and bewildered. Still they fought. Grimly, new squadrons of Kamikazes launched themselves at targets of opportunity. The last bio-tanks were dug in and camouflaged.

Two weeks after their grand assault, the Tokyo soldiers lacked almost any artillery, tanks or coordination. Mortar tubes became highly prized weapons, along with captured flamers. The infantry dug-in as they prepared to hold what they’d taken. In the mass of rubble and ruin, they had the perfect defensive terrain. Hungry, thirsty, bitter and terrified, they’d put up as stubborn a defense as anyone had on Earth.

“Time,” Field Marshal Kitamura told them. “You’re fighting to give Earth time. So you must hang on and fight!”

Only one high-tech weapon was left them: the massive merculite missile battery. Space-borne lasers couldn’t harm it, or the orbital fighters dropping from the stratosphere and launching APEX missiles against it. The four-thousand-ton clamshell of ferroconcrete shrugged off every attack. Then, at just the right moment, the clamshell whirled open like a man lifting his visor. Out flew heavy missiles at the retreating orbital fighters as they roared back into the heavens. The missiles had shot down enough of them so that now the orbital fighters flew less over the dying city. Sometimes the heavy missiles were targeted at the submarines off shore. After that, the orbital laser station and hastily deployed anti-missiles were given the mission of stopping the merculite missiles.

Two and half weeks after the initial Japanese counterassault, High Command ordered the 4th and 7th FEC Armies and the 5th Panzer Corps to go back onto the attack and retake Tokyo. They had perhaps three-quarters of their original troops. The Japanese had maybe a little under half of theirs, and that included the two hundred thousand of the second wave assault. The worst casualties for the FEC formations had been in 4th Army, the 10th FEC Division particularly. Units there had been merged and reformed.

Despite their losses, the 93rd
Slumlord
Battalion led the way into the city; Captain Sigmir eternally enthused at the prospect of smashing into the merculite missile station. When his numbers dwindled, as they did with sickening regularity, re-patched soldiers from the infirmaries found themselves sent there instead of returned to their original units. The few reinforcements to get through from Australia also went there. Sigmir refined the tactics. Marten, Omi and Kang best understood and executed them.

The unit of decision had grown very small indeed: the storm group. Each storm group was composed of several assault groups of six to eight men. Marten commanded the most decorated storm group, with Stick and Turbo as his assault group leaders.

Together, leapfrogging each other, slithering through rubble, blindsiding an enemy strongpoint, they broke repeatedly into the selected building. Dirt-covered and terrified, their throats raw from roaring battle-oaths and screaming for help they fired flash/bang grenades through doors and then rushed through right behind, or they slipped in quietly through windows, or they opened holes-in-the-wall with mortars fired directly. Once they were inside, their machine pistols rattled or a gyroc handgun whooshed as it shot a rocket-propelled slug. The heavy rounds were either chemical or high explosive. Grenades, too, by the cluster, took out stubborn defenders.

Then it was close-in work with vibroblades and spades, which in the furious hand-to-hand combat were often wielded like axes. A rigid biphase carbide/ceramic corselet protected their torsos. The rest of their body and limbs was covered by a full bodysuit of articulated metal and ceramic-plate armor. Their helmets had HUD. They were in constant contact with each other, using their built in com-units. Despite so many advantages, they took inevitable losses.

The assault groups didn’t go in without support. As soon as the assault group was inside, a reinforcement group followed. Upon taking and clearing a building, the next objective was preventing the enemy from returning. The reinforcement groups were more heavily armed with tripod flamers, heavy gyroc rifles, mortars, anti-tank missiles, crowbars, picks and explosives. In addition, a reserve group helped the assault groups block off enemy flank attacks. And if it proved necessary, they helped cover the withdrawal of the assault and reinforcement groups.

Refined through daily practice, Marten and the others became experts at this bitter street warfare. Their biggest threat loomed in Captain Sigmir, in his driving lust to be the one who stormed the merculite missile battery. He fed his obsession to the Colonel, who for reasons unknown thrived upon it. Thus in rather short order Sigmir became the tainted soul of the Slumlords.

Three weeks after the initial Japanese frontal assault, Marten slumped exhausted in an underground enemy bunker. Around him on the floor lay the bloody ruins of twelve Japanese soldiers. The last one, the only body-armored enemy, wore the red epaulettes of PHC. Likely, his fanaticism had kept the other eleven at their post. The rest of the room had shot-up furniture and radios and reeked of cordite. The assault had cost Marten’s storm group two men. Omi’s reinforcement group charged into the bunker and began searching room through room for secret tunnel entrances.

Marten’s joints ached and he’d had his fill of battle. Night and day, he killed men, terrified draftees who fought to protect their homes. He had no love for Social Unity, but were the Highborn any better?

Turbo slid down beside him. His thin face had grown skeletal, his eyes sunken and strange looking. For the past several weeks, his supply of drugs had been cut off.

“When’s it gonna be our turn to die?” Turbo whispered.

Marten didn’t want to think about that. Besides, he’d vowed his father and mother that he’d die free. This wasn’t free. It was just free from the clutches of Social Unity.

“Sigmir’s mad,” Turbo said quietly.

Marten unlatched his canteen, unscrewed the cap and guzzled water. His throat hurt because he always seemed to be screaming orders in the midst of gun-roaring battle. Where a bullet had grazed his armor, his ribs throbbed. He was dirty, scared and half in a daze.

The bunker reeked of sweat, blood and fear. His men moved sluggishly, some eating their rations, some cleaning their weapons, a few staring at the single dim bulb that provided illumination for this main room. Omi’s shouts from the corridors proved he’d found a tunnel entrance. He ordered his reinforcement group to bobby-trap it. Less exhausted than the storm troopers, Omi’s men bustled to his command, a few moving through the main bunker room.

“Did you hear me?” whispered Turbo.

“Sure Sigmir’s mad,” said Marten, screwing the cap onto his canteen. “So what?”

“So what! We gotta do something.”

Marten rubbed his eyes. His head hurt most of the time and it was so difficult to think.

“
You
gotta do something!” Turbo said.

“Me?”

“You saved Sydney.”

“Turbo….” Marten looked away.

“Is this our life then? Slave soldiers for the masters?”

Marten sat a little straighter. He had to survive... and then what? Maybe one of these days he could escape to the Outer Planets. He snorted at the idea. It seemed impossible that he’d survive this abattoir they called the Siege of Tokyo. Surely, within the week he’d be dead while his friends trudged to the next strongpoint.

“It’s either kill or be killed,” whispered Turbo.

Marten nodded wearily.

Turbo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, as if judging the effect of his words. “You know, personally speaking, I think Sigmir hates you. He uses you, Marten.”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s afraid of you.”

Marten snorted.

“You’re… different,” Turbo said.

“I’m just a man.”

“Exactly.”

Marten faced the thin junkie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a man, and that scares Sigmir.”

“I’m a preman.”

“No, we’re premen. You’re something else, something from an earlier time, I think.”

Just then, Sigmir ducked into the bunker. He rattled in his combat armor. It wasn’t a battle suit as the nine-foot Highborn wore, but armor much like the storm troopers used. Sigmir held onto a massive pistol, a gyroc gun that fired .75 caliber rocket shells.

“On your feet!” the Lot Six captain shouted.

The tired storm troopers grumbled, stirring as they glanced at Marten.

“What is it, Captain?” Marten asked from his spot on the floor.

In two strides, Sigmir loomed over him. “On your feet, soldier.”

Marten slowly climbed up.

“The 9th had penetrated a street ahead of us.” Sigmir said in his overloud voice.

“The 9th FEC Division?”

“Gather your men,” said Sigmir.

“Look at them,” Marten said in a let’s-be-reasonable tone. “We just took this bunker. You can’t order them into another assault now.”

“Get them on their feet!” Sigmir roared, “And outside.”

“Captain,” said Marten, “sir, you can’t just hurl us at another strongpoint without letting us rest first.”

Sigmir’s eyes widened. “Would you deprive me of glory?”

Marten stared into those wild eyes. Around him Omi and the others watched—they’d come to see what the commotion was about. It would be so easy to step back, lift his gun and kill this insane beast. Perhaps Sigmir sensed that, for he aimed that huge pistol at Marten’s face.

“Come with me,” whispered the Captain.

Omi stepped forward to protest. Sigmir touched the barrel to Marten’s forehead.

“Stay back,” Marten told Omi. Then he nodded to Sigmir.

The huge Captain pushed him ahead onto the stairs and up out of the captured bunker. It was a steel-shelled dome only a few feet above ground. Behind them and over a slight rise of rubble waited other FEC assault groups in newly dug trenches. In the other direction lay another field of rubble and then a row of skeleton-like buildings. Far in the distance loomed the mighty merculite missile battery.

“Do you see that building?” Sigmir whispered into his ear.

Marten saw a pockmarked building, a vault-like enemy fortress.

“You will storm it immediately,” Sigmir said.

“Now?”

“That is what immediately means.”

“May I speak, sir?”

“Ah, at last I’ve found the key to you, eh, preman. You’re pleasant enough when a man has a gun to your head. Now listen to me. I’ve ordered an artillery strike on the building, then—”

Hideous but pitiful screaming interrupted the speech.

Marten and Sigmir jerked to their left. Two Kamikazes popped out of the earth and sprinted toward them, screaming their death cries, their eyes drugged and glistening. Marten threw himself onto the rubble. Sigmir coolly sighted and fired once, twice, the rocket shells barely igniting before slamming into the two doomed men. One of them, however, pressed his detonation button. He exploded and hot shrapnel flew through the air. One small piece sliced through Sigmir’s throat. The huge Highborn had taken off his helmet like everyone else, and his gorget guard had been unbuckled. A look of amazement filled his snow-white face. Then blood jetted and the seven-foot Highborn pitched backward.

Horrified, Marten back-pedaled. For a moment, no one did anything. Then Petor ran forward as he shouted into a hand unit. When he reached the corpse, Petor roared, “Help me!”

“Help you do what?” shouted Marten.

Petor pressed a hypo against Sigmir, no doubt shooting Suspend into the Highborn.

“Help me carry him!” Petor shouted.

Marten hesitated. He should have shot Petor before the bodyguard brought out the hypo. Then Sigmir would stay dead. Maybe—

“Fool!” Petor shouted. “Help me or he’ll kill you when he returns.”

The second bodyguard ran up. Marten doubted he could kill both of them without notice. And Sigmir already had Suspend in him.

So Marten helped the Muscovite bodyguard haul Sigmir to the rear of their area. It was a cleared plaza with a cluster of torn, two-story buildings. As they lay the body down a rescue team of battle-suited Highborn arrived, four of them. Marten watched them bound in one hundred-meter leaps. They landed in the plaza, their servos whining as the half-ton armor crushed bricks.