Omi arched his eyebrows. “What did you do after he hit you?” he asked Marten.
“Attacked the bastard.”
“You’re kidding,” said Turbo. “He was huge.”
Marten shrugged. He was still a bit bemused by what he’d done. “I didn’t really think about it. I just found myself lunging at him.”
“Not me,” said Stick. “I figured he was just waiting for me to do something stupid so he could beat me to death. I figured he was testing for obedience, whether I could take orders I didn’t like.”
“So what did you do?” Turbo asked.
“Hey, what could I do? The guy towered over me, and he was deciding my future, right? I told him give me my knife to even the odds and let’s try that again.”
“What did he say to that?” asked Turbo.
“Nothing. He just grabbed my hand and stamped a three on it.”
“Huh.”
“What did you do?” Marten asked the lanky junkie.
“I told him that was a lousy thing to do. Here they wanted me to fight for them and first thing they did was abuse me. How did he expect me to go all out for them if that’s what they were gonna do?”
“And he stamped your hand with a four?”
“Sure did,” Turbo said, restudying the big number four on the back of his hand.
“Omi?” asked Stick.
“I tried a chop at this neck.” Omi asked Marten, “What did he do when you attacked him?”
“He flipped me onto my back.”
The ex-gunman nodded sagely.
“He do the same thing to you?” Turbo asked.
Ignoring the question, Omi regarded his tattoo. He looked up. “It would be interesting to know what a number one did.”
“If there is such a number,” Marten said.
Stick scanned the crowd. “Might be dangerous to try to find out.”
“How come?” Marten asked.
“Couple different gangs in here,” said Stick. “Kwon’s Crew is over there. And I see Slicks and Ball Busters.”
“Yeah,” said Turbo, jutting his chin toward the front, “and over there is Kang of the Red Blades.”
Marten saw a massive Mongol with black tattoos on his arms. No one sat too close to him. He had flat, evil- looking features, with eyes almost slit shut.
Omi stood and started walking there.
“Idiot!” hissed Stick. “Come back before you start a rumble.”
Omi ignored the advice.
“Them gunmen are all alike,” Turbo whispered to Marten. “They think they can do whatever they want.”
They watched Omi wade past the other gang members, who glowered uneasily. Omi ignored them, moving slowly and deliberately toward Kang of the Red Blades. When he reached the forward area, Omi bowed his head. Massive Kang simply stared at him with his almost closed eyes. His flat, blank-looking face was unreadable. Omi showed him his hand, and then he bowed again and seemed to ask a question. Everyone in the van watched what Kang would do, some in anticipation. Finally, the huge killer showed Omi his hand. Omi bowed his head again and turned. A sigh, a release of tension, drained from everyone. Soon Omi took his place back between Marten and Turbo.
“Well?” whispered Turbo. “What was his number?”
“One.”
“What he do when slapped?” asked Stick.
“He said he waited. And when the Highborn reached for his stamp he slapped him across the face.”
“You’re kidding?” Stick said in awe. “Then what happened?”
“Then Kang said the Highborn set down the stamp he’d picked up and chose another one, the one.”
“Did the Highborn flip him?” asked Stick.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yeah,” Turbo said, “that was probably smart.”
Marten thought about the numbers and why they’d been given different ones. He spoke to several other men sitting nearby. They had sixs and sevens. He found they hadn’t done much of anything when slapped. What were they going to do to a killer giant anyway? Marten had agreed. A two, was that bad or good? He glanced at the huge, flat-faced Mongol Kang who held court in his part of the van. A two was almost a one. So the Highborn thought he was a lot more like a vicious gang leader than the more harmless sixes and sevens. He wasn’t sure he liked the implications.
After several hours, the smooth van came to a halt. The doors swung open and two towering Highborn in powered battle armor gestured for them to hurry out. They did, forming two long lines around a parade ground as more vans disgorged their occupants. All of the recruits were Sydney slum-dwellers.
They were in the desert, several low-built concrete buildings around them. Barracks, no doubt. In all directions stretched a red sand desert. Here and there, gusts of wind stirred up sand. Marten noticed most of the recruits squinted at the harsh overhead sun just as he did. Most of them had probably never been in sunlight before. It was hot—nothing like being underground in carefully selected temperatures. Sweat prickled Marten’s underarms.
“This is great,” Turbo whispered, who tugged at an already damp collar.
With servos whining, the two Highborn clanked to the center of the parade ground as the convoy of empty vans roared away along the single ribbon of road. Marten figured that maybe six hundred other men stood under the sweltering sun. A squad of beefy Earth soldiers in combat vests and armed with machineguns jogged out of the nearest building onto the edge of the field.
“Regular men,” whispered Turbo. All around the field slum-dwellers whispered likewise.
“Silence!”
Everyone fell silent. One of the Highborn had spoken.
Finally, a huge man strode out of barracks. He had to be at least seven feet tall. He was shorter than the Highborn and not quite as muscled. He wore a black cap, uniform and combat boots, with a knife and pistol on a heavy belt. His face was hawkish, with a long, knife-like nose. He didn’t really walk, Marten decided, but strutted, knowing that he was putting on a show. There was something odd about his features; something twisted, out of kilter. Maybe it was his eyes, too focused, or the little superior grin that kept twitching into place.
He took his place in front of the squad of armed Earthlings. He clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the slum dwellers. There was some of that strange vitality to him that all Highborn seemed to have. Yet….
“Greetings, premen. I’m Captain Sigmir of Training Camp Ninety-three C. I will drill you into competent combat soldiers within six weeks or I’ll see you dead. On the seventh week, you will undoubtedly enter combat of the most ruthless sort. Whether I learn to like you or not is meaningless. You are in an army run by Highborn. I wish therefore to reassure you about nothing. What I will say now is perhaps the most important aspect of Highborn philosophy that you will ever learn,” he said, pausing to look at them all. “Remember this:
Captain Sigmir paused as he inspected the recruits.
Marten noticed that twitching smile again, and the almost hungry way Captain Sigmir watched them. There was something strange going on here.
“Let me say again,” said Captain Sigmir: “Excellence brings rewards. In terms of your enlistment, the ability and willingness to kill the enemy is what counts. Little else matters. Neither the….” He seemed to choose his words with care. “Neither the ‘end product’ Highborn nor I care about your opinions. Think what you like, as long as you kill the enemy. As long as you are proficient at arms, as long as you obey orders on the instant, yes, then you may say or think what you like. Oh, but if you are not excellent, if you are not proficient at arms…”
Captain Sigmir shook his head. Then he removed his cap. He was bald, and an ugly, twisted red scar slashed across his upper forehead. He touched it.
“You notice this, I’m sure. I received it in combat. It killed me.” He laughed a little too shrilly as they stared and gaped. “Yes, yes, I assure you I died. Enemy shrapnel tore through my helmet and into my brain. Fortunately,
