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.

“How long you been here?” asked Omi.

“From the beginning. Okay, listen close now. When they tell you it’s the big push, they mean you gotta go over the top and storm assault a strongpoint. When they say hold, it means you’re surrounded and they can’t get any more supplies through until tomorrow. So don’t fire everything away in one burst, but start sniping. And if they tell you about how your name will go down in history, well, it’s all over for you then. Your only hope at that point is that masonry covers you in an enemy blast but doesn’t kill or cripple you—and of course that our side digs you out in several days. If it’s the enemy who digs you out.” He shrugged. “Save the last bullet for yourself is my advice. Like I said, they’re all bastards here. Oh, and don’t believe anything they told you about Suspend and revival later. That’s all crap. We’re all expendable expect for the Highborn.”

“How long can this go on?” shouted Turbo.

“I’ll tell you how long: Until the Highborn decide.”

“What do you mean?” asked Marten.

The corporal shouted, “Couldn’t the Highborn take Tokyo if they really wanted? I think so. They’ve taken everything else. Why not here?”

Marten and his sergeants must have looked unimpressed.

“Hey,” said the corporal, “I saw what the power-suited giants could do the first day of the invasion. Nothing could stand against them. If someone could stand, they simply leaped to a different place and attacked from the opposite direction. None of that matters to you. At o-three hundred tonight you’re moving into your defensive position. So good luck.”

He held out his hand, Marten shook it. “You’re not going with us?”

“No, sir. I’m getting off at the next stop to instruct the next batch of fodder.”

“Fodder?” asked Turbo.

“Sorry. I wasn’t supposed to say that.” The corporal grinned, but it lacked sincerity. “Show them what Aussies are made of, mate.”