17.

The bloody remnants of the 93rd Slumlords fell upon a trench line of Samurai defenders. Men fired at pointblank range. Vibroknives whined; the dying screamed and the shock of grenades hurled both attackers and defenders against the trench walls. Then Captain Sigmir jumped down among them. With his gyroc pistol, he blasted Samurais into gory chunks. When his gun clicked empty, he went berserk. Armored elbows, hands and feet, he lashed in every direction, laughing in maniacal glee as he slaughtered those weaker than him.

Then it was over, the trench taken. The survivors crumpled and tore off their helmets, gasping for air. They were shaken and surprised to be alive. Their faces reflected the certain knowledge that they’d been transported to Hell and that no one knew the way back. Slowly, sanity returned to their eyes.  They were embarrassed to glance at each other, to know that others had seen them behave like animals so they could endure another hour of life.

Three hundred meters in front of them towered their goal, the end of a savage quest, a cup of blood that they’d paid in pounds of flesh to sip. The mighty merculite missile station was almost in their grasp—it seemed that they would be the first to reach it. After weeks of butchery and dying, the 93rd Slumlords had breached the battery’s outer defenses. Few of the original FEC soldiers were left: Marten, Omi, Turbo, Stick, Kang, Petor and a few others. The 10th Company had less than forty soldiers to its name. Those few set up flamer tripods and smart missile sites. The others guzzled synthahol and cleared filth off their weapons.

These past weeks the FEC 4th and 7th Armies had been bled white, lashed to the attack by the Highborn battalions to their rear and the Lot Six commanders among them. The 5th Panzer Corps also prowled the rear lines, adding to the menace for possible deserters. Both FEC infantry armies were like javelins, hurled at the enemy and broken upon them, but not before killing the target. Effective Tokyo defense had ended, except for pockets of fanatical diehards. The toughest enemy clot remained around the merculite missile station. The FEC survivors now stormed those outer lines, pouring their lives away for the dubious honor of being first to breach the high-tech site.

Sigmir reloaded his pistol and ordered weary men to their feet—they had been attacking continuously for thirteen hours. He motioned to Marten, and together they explored the trench system, finally coming to the trench nearest the station that towered five stories tall. Nearly two hundred meters to their left, FEC storm groups clambered out of the trench and ran in a hunched crouch toward the station.

“No!” hissed Sigmir, as he brought up his gyroc, leveling it at FEC troops that belonged to a different Highborn.

As he aimed mines roared out of the ground where the storm groups ran, killing almost all of them in flashes of flames and hot shrapnel.

Relieved, Sigmir lowered his gun.

“Pathetic suicide,” Marten said bitterly. He hated Sigmir. The Highborn… he couldn’t decide whom he hated more, PHC officers like Major Orlov or Highborn madman like Captain Sigmir.

Sigmir narrowed his intense gaze as he studied the station. His broad, snow-white face was a strange blend of almost sexual relief and twisted, unbearable tension.

“Maybe one of the Samurais we killed has a map of the minefield,” Stick suggested.

Omi snorted at the idea.

“We’ll have to slither over the top to get there,” said Sigmir. “We’ll use sonics to detect and then avoid the mines.”

“And die to a flamer sweep,” said Marten.

Any good humor he might have had drained from the seven-foot Sigmir. His eyes held death, had seen death, lived it and come back again. The tension in him coiled tighter than ever. What made him an invincible warrior, a death-dealing machine, now radiated toward his own men—that might dare thwart him so near his goal. Softly, with infinite menace, he asked, “You have a better idea, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Marten gestured to the FEC soldiers that had survived the mines and now furiously dug foxholes as protection against gunfire from the fort. “But until we bring those men out there back here we can’t use my idea.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Sigmir. “Tell me.”

Marten hesitated. The fanatical way Sigmir scratched his throat told him he didn’t really have an option—unless he wanted to kill his commander. But with Highborn that was surer suicide than running over the top. “It’s simple,” Marten said. “Order an artillery barrage onto the mines.”

“Perfect.” Sigmir rubbed his hands, and he lifted his com-unit.

“Wait,” said Marten. “We have to bring them back first.”

“Negative,” said Sigmir. “There’s not enough time for that. Someone else might enter the station before me if we wait.”

“You’d murder them?” Turbo asked in outrage.

Sigmir whirled on him.

“He’s tired,” said Marten hurriedly. “It’s been a long thirteen hours.”

Stick nudged Turbo and whispered hotly in his ear.

Turbo got that stubborn look, shaking his head. He told Sigmir, “Crawling out there is insane. Worse, it’s death.”

Sigmir laughed mirthlessly. “What do you know about ‘worse than death’?”

Turbo maybe realized his danger. He shut his mouth and shrugged.

“Yes,” purred Sigmir. “It’s like I thought. You know nothing. So I will teach you.” He shoved his pistol against Turbo’s face.

“No!” shouted Marten.

Sigmir fired. Turbo’s head disintegrated and his torso flopped to the bottom of the trench. Sigmir jumped back, aiming the gyroc at all of them. “Who else questions me?” he asked in a strange, transported sort of way, as if this was the extreme moment of his life.

They were too stunned to react, and the huge muzzle of the .75 gyroc was aimed at them. Perhaps it was the thirteen hours of constant combat. Besides, what was one more death anyway, even if that of their friend? Before they knew it, Sigmir called for an artillery strike.

“Get down,” he ordered.

Marten and the others put on helmets and crouched low, their heads between their knees. Soon hellish screams told of incoming fire. The ground shook and buckled as 155mm and 209mm shells impacted with tremendous roars. High explosive shards flew everywhere, shredding whatever was caught in the open.

Marten endured. If he died, then it was over. If he lived… a savage snarl twisted his lips. Turbo!

The barrage stopped, an awful stillness taking its place. All Marten heard was buzzing and an inner roar. He dared lift his head. A bloody haze mingled with the dust and the rubble that had been rearranged. Beyond the worked-over ground stood the mighty merculite station, the same as ever.

He couldn’t believe that Turbo was dead, killed, murdered by Sigmir, just as the FEC soldiers out there in the minefield had been butchered.

“Over the top,” shouted Sigmir.

At that moment, the four-thousand-ton clamshell of the merculite missile station whirled open. Rockets roared into life, once more making speech impossible. Huge, heavy missiles lifted out of the station, flames belching behind them. Missile after missile rose and accelerated into the heavens.

As they did, Marten and the others climbed out of the trench, sonic locators in their hands as they crawled across no man’s land. Most of the mines had been destroyed. But some always remained. A great weariness filled Marten. It made him so tired that he almost didn’t care that Sigmir had murdered his friend. Turbo… there would be no revival for a preman, for a subhuman, a nothing to these… these who called themselves superior, Highborn.

As Marten crawled through the plowed-up ground, he glanced at Omi. The ex-gunman had a hard, grim look. A little farther back, Stick clenched his teeth in rage. If they made it across this expanse—Sigmir’s day was near at hand.

Marten’s sonic locator beeped. A live mine was getting ready to leap.