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.