“Sir!” barked Turbo, snapping off a crisp salute.
“Is your sergeant being insubordinate, Lieutenant?”
“Sir,” said Marten, “I don’t believe so, sir.”
Captain Sigmir clucked his tongue a few times, as he eyed Turbo. “Sergeant,” he finally said, “take off that silly looking cap.”
Turbo wiped it off his head.
“You seem pale, Sergeant. Sickly.”
“I feel fine, sir.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In top physical shape?”
“Sir?”
“I asked you a question, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. In top physical shape.”
“Excellent. I want you to roll up your sleeves and square off against Petor.”
The thickest bodyguard, a roly-poly Muscovite with a single hairy eyebrow over his bluest of blue eyes, handed his carbine to the other guard.
Marten tried to explain. “Captain—”
“Please keep quiet, Lieutenant, and watch your sergeant’s fighting technique. I’m sure you’ll see areas that need improvement. Begin.”
Turbo was still rolling up his sleeves as Petor snapped a kick at his left knee. Turbo cried out, flopping onto the deck. Petor attempted another kick. Turbo rolled and clutched the foot, but Petor jumped back, yanking his foot free. Turbo scrambled up. It didn’t really matter, though. Despite his comical appearance, Petor truly was an expert at dirty fighting, and twenty seconds later Turbo slumped to the deck, nearly unconscious.
Stick and Marten had grown tense and angry, easing onto the balls of their feet. The second bodyguard, however, had lowered his carbine in an apparently nonchalant manner. Now he aimed it at them. Captain Sigmir appeared not to notice the interplay. He kept licking his lips, chuckling as Turbo grunted or cried out. As the lanky sergeant hit the deck, the captain held up his hand. Petor stepped back, a slight sheen of sweat on his ever so round face.
Squatting beside the fallen Turbo, Captain Sigmir grabbed him by the hair and jerked up his head so they could peer eye-to-eye. “Joy is a wonderful feeling, Sergeant. But where we’re going, it’s a dangerous emotion. Work on hate, or if that’s too difficult for you then fear. Fear of pain or death would be the two most appropriate emotions.”
“Yes, sir,” whispered Turbo, who was missing one of his front teeth. It lay on the deck in a small, bloody glob.
“I like your attitude now, Sergeant. So run along to the infirmary and see to your mouth.” Captain Sigmir let go of Turbo’s hair, rose to his imposing height and faced Marten. “I abhor slack discipline, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Marten growled. His stomach had the feeling it once had when Hall Leader Quirn had his hands on Molly, and he had that same helpless feeling as when he’d seen his father slain. He hated that feeling. Today, however, he wasn’t that young teenager.
“Oh, it’s not as bad as that, Lieutenant. A few scrapes and bruises and hopefully a lesson finally driven home.”
Marten nodded sharply.
“Ah, I see a word of advice is in order. Life is precarious, Lieutenant, so you must grab it by the short hairs and force it to accommodate you. Soon we will be in combat. You must therefore learn to enjoy what pleasures you can squeeze out of life, yes?”
“If the Captain says so, sir.”
“But you just heard me say so.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Sigmir removed his cap and rubbed the forehead scar. He squinted as he muttered to himself. Then he brightened, set his cap back on and moved a step closer to Marten. “Can it be that you also need more combat training?”
Marten glanced at Petor, who grinned evilly at him.
Captain Sigmir put a single finger on Marten’s chin, turning Marten’s face so they stared eye-to-eye. “I’m addressing you, preman.”
“Sir,” said Marten, hating that finger on his chin so much that he could hardly think.
Captain Sigmir searched Marten’s eyes.
Marten finally reached up and took hold of the captain’s huge wrist, moving it so the finger no longer touched his chin.
Captain Sigmir’s pursed his lips. “Lieutenant—”
“Have a care, sir,” Marten told him softly.
Captain Sigmir’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
“Do you, sir?”
The astonishment left the captain’s face. A weird gleam now appeared in his eyes. “Very well, Lieutenant. Petor!”
“Won’t be doing anymore fighting today,” Marten said, his hand dropping to his holstered pistol.
“Oh no, Lieutenant, no, no. Perhaps you think I can’t disarm you on the instant. So please notice my other bodyguard.”
“I am. My Top Sergeant stands behind him.”
Captain Sigmir raised his eyebrows, held Marten’s gaze a moment longer and glanced back. Omi stood behind the bodyguard. The ex-gunman leaned against the railing. As if resting his hand, Omi had it on the butt of his holstered pistol.
Captain Sigmir smiled in a strange way and said, “Very good.” Then he turned and without another word marched off, his two bodyguards trailing.
“I don’t like this,” said Stick, as he helped Turbo.
“No,” said Marten, his gut churning. What did that strange smile mean? And why had the captain given up so easily? Marten feared for their future.
6.
The following evening Tokyo hove into view. They saw the fires kilometers before they saw the Japanese landmass. An orange glow sat on the midnight horizon. Even this far out smoke blotted out the stars and the half moon that an hour ago shone serenely upon the sea.
The original port of entry, according to swollen-mouthed Turbo, had been Tokyo Harbor. They would now disembark on the peninsula and in the city of Miura. A seventy kilometer march would bring them near the merculite missile battery, the site of the civil war’s most vicious fighting. They feared Captain Sigmir, wondering how he would discipline them. They hoped his Tenth Company operational planning kept him from carrying-out any retribution long enough for him to die in combat.
An hour later, the four transport-hovers docked and the men jogged off in full gear. Instead of marching into the heart of Tokyo, they filed into waiting trucks—ancient, beat-up relics—and they immediately roared off toward the fires in the distance.
A corporal on loan from the 9th FEC Division, a first-wave invading unit, shouted instructions at Marten as the truck bounced along the potted road. Enemy artillery boomed in the distance. Highborn rocket launchers whistled loudly in return. Besides the outer noises, their truck rattled and quavered as its worn engine roared.
“If you see anybody who’s not wearing FEC brown, combat body armor or riding the sky on his jetpack, you shoot him!” shouted the corporal, a skinny kid who couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. “And don’t take off your armor or helmets unless you’re underground in a bunker or in the infirmary!”
“What about the Highborn?” Marten shouted back.
“What about them?”
“What do we do if we run into them?”
“Stay out of their way. But if you can’t, don’t speak unless spoken to. You already know that. Surely your captain has taught you the proper responses.”
Stick muttered something unintelligible.
“Now,” shouted the corporal. “If somebody waves to you, a civilian I mean, shoot him. If he looks sick or is crying, shoot him even faster. They’re all bastards and trying to get close enough so they can blow you and them to heaven. They’re all insane in this part of the world.”
“What about children?” shouted Turbo.
“They’re the worst.” The corporal thoughtfully studied the worried soldiers of Second Platoon. “I know it’s hard, and you’ll feel terrible afterward. But when you see your buddies shredded before your eyes and you’re the only one left after several days, it gets easier. So just gun them down and maybe you’ll be riding a truck someday telling others how to survive this hellhole.”
The men absorbed his words in silence.