Star Soldier

them are soldiers, none warriors. The enemy has now shed the useless ones for you.”

“Sir?”

“Fifty-eight men out of eighty, Lieutenant, the ones who fought their way out of the horror of hand-to-hand combat in the dark. The fifty-eight: those who might yet make passable soldiers. By posting you where I did, I’ve done the hard work for you.”

Marten stared at Captain Sigmir, at the nakedness of the man’s arrogance and madness.

Sigmir clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you know, Lieutenant, that I will gain rank because of the Siege of Tokyo? I will gain a high place in the New Order.”

“On our bodies, sir?”

“Exactly! Yes, you do understand. I suspected you might. I have given you the respect of your sheep, Lieutenant. It is my gift to you because of what I will demand. Consider my revelation, and perhaps someday I will allow you to be my aide as I rise in rank.” The smile became a trifle sad. “For premen, I’m afraid, true rank is impossible to achieve, no matter what the Colonel told you.” The smile became crooked and Sigmir’s eyes gleamed. “Do you know, Lieutenant, that in reality Lot Six wasn’t a failure?”

Marten spoke carefully. “No, sir, I didn’t know that.”

“Lot Six was the first of the new men, the Herrenvolk, the Master Race.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you truly understand?”

“I think so, sir.”

Sigmir nodded. “Yes, perhaps you do. You may go, Lieutenant.”

Marten saluted crisply, turned and marched back to his platoon. He realized that as long as Sigmir ran the company that all their lives were in danger. The captain viewed the world through the prism of Highborn concepts of glory.

Marten soon climbed over hunks of concrete and coughed dust out of his throat. Through a hole in the wall, he saw blazing, burning Tokyo. Even though it was day, the black smoke overhead produced a pall of gloom over the doomed city. Tracers flashed and a glob of plasma flew somewhere that thankfully wasn’t here. He strode a little farther and shouted the password to a hidden sentry.

Marten soon flopped down within the strongpoint. His men trained their guns at the open stairwell a short distance away. It led into the basement none of them ever wanted to reenter.

“Drink this,” said Turbo.

It was hot and jolted Marten’s tired brain. At the other strongpoint, Omi commanded the other half of Second Platoon with help from Stick. At least his friends hadn’t died in what already was blurring in Marten’s mind as a mad, senseless killing frenzy.

He studied his men. Tired, determined soldiers watched that stairwell with grim intensity. Grime streaked their faces, and cuts and bruises. They no longer looked like slum dwellers to Marten.

Turbo had a gash under his eye to add to his puffy lips. He sipped the hot liquid. “This don’t make sense,” Turbo suddenly whispered, as he leaned near Marten.

“Huh?”

“We can’t afford to take losses like this.”

Marten thought about Captain Sigmir’s words, but he said, “Why do you think the Highborn keep feeding more and more of us into battle?”

“That’s just it,” Turbo whispered. “That nuke took most of our convoy. How many other convoys have they decimated?”

Marten envisioned the enemy using nukes here. The thought made him sick. “This is Earth’s holdout,” he said.

“That’s what I’m saying. Why don’t the Highborn clean it out?”

Marten nodded toward the dark stairwell. “Because these people can fight—and don’t forget those sea-launched nukes. Maybe the Highborn can’t get enough people here to take it.”

“I wonder if that’s the reason,” said Turbo. “Maybe there’s a—I don’t know, one of their slick, Highborn plans behind all this.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Marten, standing. “Grab some shut-eye. Take a pill if you gotta. I want you fresh in a couple hours when I try to sleep.” Then Marten made the rounds to see how his troops where holding up.

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