was more screaming, and then vibroknives hacked and slashed. The screaming grew higher-pitched. From above, as if timed, the entire granary shook. Static cut out communications. Helmet lamps snapped on, the light washing through chalky dust that floated everywhere. Shock grenades flew at every point of light.
“Turn them off and snap on your infrareds!” Marten yelled. He stood behind a chunk of fallen ceiling. Behind him, two privates fired blindly into the dark. He used his sidearm, firing at anything that moved.
“Omi!” he shouted into his mike. Crackle filled his earphones.
“Banzai!” screamed out of the darkness.
Marten whirled around. A grenade landed at his feet. Marten lunged, scooped and hurled it back, then ducked. It flashed. The blast knocked him against his concrete slab. Three howling enemy soldiers threw themselves at him. One FEC private gurgled as a blade whipped through his throat. Marten rapid fired. Two Japanese flopped against the wall. The last one tried to skewer him in the gut. For a second Marten’s armor held as the vibroblade whined against it. He clouted the soldier with the butt end of his pistol. Then he stomped on the man’s knife-hand, who grunted in pain. Finally, Marten put the barrel against the helmeted head and pulled the trigger. Gore and blood stained his armor, but Marten was past caring. Six weeks of training and something else deep in him bubbled to the forefront.
“Come on!” he shouted. The remaining private followed him into the darkness.
Picking up men as he went, Marten rallied what was left of his command. Too many, far too many of the former slum dwellers lay sprawled in death or scattered in bloody pieces. The survivors of Second Platoon demanded blood in return. Kicking, biting, firing, stomping and smashing they drove the tunnel rats back into their holes. Then a lull hit as the remaining enemy gasped his last on the floor. Single shots rang out as untrusting FEC soldiers checked the supposed dead.
Second Platoon was learning fast that only fools took chances. Shocked, pale-faced men, their chests heaving, looked to Marten for an explanation. He stared at the darkness out of which the enemy had come. His eyes narrowed. He was a soldier, eh? Then he was gonna do things right! He motioned them to follow him as he retreated, blowing corridors as they went, working their way topside step by step. Ten minutes later a headcount showed him fifty-eight men out of eighty had survived this first encounter with the enemy.
After manning the new positions, Marten called in to report. Captain Sigmir demanded a face-to-face encounter.
“Should I join you?” Omi asked.
Marten eyed the dark stairwell leading down to the basement. He didn’t want to face the captain alone, and Omi was his toughest, steadiest man. But that meant the ex-gunman was needed here.
“No,” said Marten. “I’ll be fine.” Besides, what could Omi really do against Captain Sigmir?
“I’m coming then,” said Stick.
Marten shook his head and humped alone to Tenth Company’s HQ in what had once been the granary’s receiving office. There was hot coffee and donuts, of all things. A man typed a report on a computer. The other HQ Company staff, including the two bodyguards, watched and listened.
Captain Sigmir leaned back in his chair. He sat behind a desk. Marten stood at attention before it.
“Lieutenant,” asked Sigmir, “how many enemy dead?”
Marten shrugged.
“Lieutenant, you surprise me. You left your basement post, retreated in face of the enemy—”
“Begging your pardon, sir, we first killed them all.”
“I fail to understand then why you retreated.”
“Because I took heavy casualties, sir.”
The captain drummed his huge fingers on the desk.
“Your orders included no such provision as retreat. You must hold your post until relieved or until you’re dead.”
“That isn’t what you told us in training, sir.”
The captain raised his eyebrows.
“You said a good commander saves his men through maneuver instead of being bullheaded. I retreated so I wouldn’t be outmaneuvered again. They know that basement too well, sir.”
“Spurious reasoning, Lieutenant. A barracks lawyer is what you sound like to me.”
“I repositioned Second Platoon at the two stairwells that are left, sir. They won’t slip up here so easily.”
Captain Sigmir slapped a hand onto the polished oak desk. “What? So the enemy is free to dig through the other stairwells!”
“No, sir. I put sensors amid those pile-ups. If they’re able to dig through there… sir, we’ll know right away.”
Captain Sigmir stood. Everyone around them stopped what they were doing, glancing up in fear at the massive, Lot Six, brain-damaged Highborn.
“Lieutenant, you realize that because of this act of cowardice on your part that I could have you dragged behind the office and shot in the back of the head.” Sigmir snapped his fingers. “Then you’d be dead and Top Sergeant Omi would take your platoon into the abyss.”
Marten stiffened to absolute attention.
“Or perhaps I should march you back to your platoon and throttle you myself, as an example to the others.”
“Sir, I—”
“Silence!” roared Captain Sigmir.
Marten’s fingers twitched, the only indication that he almost drew his pistol to try to gun down this monster. He was certain that it would be futile, but he didn’t want to die without a fight.
Captain Sigmir’s eyes gleamed as his weird smile stretched into place. “Step outside with me, Lieutenant.” The captain strode ahead and out of the office.
A moment later Marten stepped through, his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Captain Sigmir stood several feet away, his hands on his hips as he peered down at Marten. “So, the preman has balls, does he?”
Marten gulped the lump out of his throat, closing the door behind him.
“You could draw, Lieutenant, and then you’d be dead.”
Marten wondered if that was true.
Captain Sigmir showed his teeth in a feral grin. “How little you premen understand us, even me, a damaged beta. Yet I am a Highborn. Do you doubt that?”
Marten slowly shook his head.
“I herd premen into battle, trying to make warriors out of you. It isn’t an enviable task, but it is a purpose, and it is one that I will succeed at. Lieutenant, you can’t pit your skills against mine. To even think so is sad and hopeless. And so few of you actually have any potential. Yet… I will admit that there is something different about you.”
“Sir?”
“Your men look up to you, Lieutenant, and do you know why?”
“No, sir.”
“Come now, don’t be humble. I dislike such pretense.”
Marten licked his lips. Sigmir seemed capable of anything, of any absurdity. He dared say, “I’m not fond of pretense either, sir.”
That wolfish grin grew. “Well said, Lieutenant. They look up to you because you’ve dared to stand up to me. They rightly recognize that as an act of bravery. And now you’ve taken your platoon out of the tunnels. Yes, it was the correct military move. I knew you were the best of my tacticians.”
Marten was bewildered. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“You’ve shown initiative, Lieutenant, and you’ve gained the thanks and respect of your men because of it.”
“But…. I’ve only fifty-eight men left.”
“Premen.
“Sir?”
”
