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.
Two of the nine-foot giants clanked to Sigmir and set him in a black plastic freezepack that they’d brought. The pack had medkits and other strange devices. Needles stabbed the corpse and then the giants zipped the freezepack shut. The other two spoke with Petor, who pointed out Marten.
Marten rose from where a few of his storm group waited. They’d hurried over after hearing the news. Marten walked away from them so he wouldn’t implicate his men in case the approaching masters decided he was to blame for Sigmir’s death. Marten stood at attention as the two armored giants clanked to him.
They were huge, towering, menacing. Twenty-millimeter cannons aimed at him. Dark visored helmets, like techno-demons, watched him impassively. His weapons would be useless against them in their armor. He wondered why the battalion attached to the 4th FEC Army didn’t simply take Tokyo. Mortar tubes and smart missiles were slung on their backs. They seemed invincible.