slipped in quietly through windows, or they opened holes-in-the-wall with mortars fired directly. Once they were inside, their machine pistols rattled or a gyroc handgun whooshed as it shot a rocket-propelled slug. The heavy rounds were either chemical or high explosive. Grenades, too, by the cluster, took out stubborn defenders.
Then it was close-in work with vibroblades and spades, which in the furious hand-to-hand combat were often wielded like axes. A rigid biphase carbide/ceramic corselet protected their torsos. The rest of their body and limbs was covered by a full bodysuit of articulated metal and ceramic-plate armor. Their helmets had HUD. They were in constant contact with each other, using their built in com-units. Despite so many advantages, they took inevitable losses.
The assault groups didn’t go in without support. As soon as the assault group was inside, a reinforcement group followed. Upon taking and clearing a building, the next objective was preventing the enemy from returning. The reinforcement groups were more heavily armed with tripod flamers, heavy gyroc rifles, mortars, anti-tank missiles, crowbars, picks and explosives. In addition, a reserve group helped the assault groups block off enemy flank attacks. And if it proved necessary, they helped cover the withdrawal of the assault and reinforcement groups.
Refined through daily practice, Marten and the others became experts at this bitter street warfare. Their biggest threat loomed in Captain Sigmir, in his driving lust to be the one who stormed the merculite missile battery. He fed his obsession to the Colonel, who for reasons unknown thrived upon it. Thus in rather short order Sigmir became the tainted soul of the Slumlords.
Three weeks after the initial Japanese frontal assault, Marten slumped exhausted in an underground enemy bunker. Around him on the floor lay the bloody ruins of twelve Japanese soldiers. The last one, the only body- armored enemy, wore the red epaulettes of PHC. Likely, his fanaticism had kept the other eleven at their post. The rest of the room had shot-up furniture and radios and reeked of cordite. The assault had cost Marten’s storm group two men. Omi’s reinforcement group charged into the bunker and began searching room through room for secret tunnel entrances.
Marten’s joints ached and he’d had his fill of battle. Night and day, he killed men, terrified draftees who fought to protect their homes. He had no love for Social Unity, but were the Highborn any better?
Turbo slid down beside him. His thin face had grown skeletal, his eyes sunken and strange looking. For the past several weeks, his supply of drugs had been cut off.
“When’s it gonna be our turn to die?” Turbo whispered.
Marten didn’t want to think about that. Besides, he’d vowed his father and mother that he’d die free. This wasn’t free. It was just free from the clutches of Social Unity.
“Sigmir’s mad,” Turbo said quietly.
Marten unlatched his canteen, unscrewed the cap and guzzled water. His throat hurt because he always seemed to be screaming orders in the midst of gun-roaring battle. Where a bullet had grazed his armor, his ribs throbbed. He was dirty, scared and half in a daze.
The bunker reeked of sweat, blood and fear. His men moved sluggishly, some eating their rations, some cleaning their weapons, a few staring at the single dim bulb that provided illumination for this main room. Omi’s shouts from the corridors proved he’d found a tunnel entrance. He ordered his reinforcement group to bobby-trap it. Less exhausted than the storm troopers, Omi’s men bustled to his command, a few moving through the main bunker room.
“Did you hear me?” whispered Turbo.
“Sure Sigmir’s mad,” said Marten, screwing the cap onto his canteen. “So what?”
“So what! We gotta do something.”
Marten rubbed his eyes. His head hurt most of the time and it was so difficult to think.
”
“Me?”
“You saved Sydney.”
“Turbo….” Marten looked away.
“Is this our life then? Slave soldiers for the masters?”
Marten sat a little straighter. He had to survive… and then what? Maybe one of these days he could escape to the Outer Planets. He snorted at the idea. It seemed impossible that he’d survive this abattoir they called the Siege of Tokyo. Surely, within the week he’d be dead while his friends trudged to the next strongpoint.
“It’s either kill or be killed,” whispered Turbo.
Marten nodded wearily.
Turbo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, as if judging the effect of his words. “You know, personally speaking, I think Sigmir hates you. He uses you, Marten.”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s afraid of you.”
Marten snorted.
“You’re… different,” Turbo said.
“I’m just a man.”
“Exactly.”
Marten faced the thin junkie. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a man, and that scares Sigmir.”
“I’m a preman.”
“No, we’re premen. You’re something else, something from an earlier time, I think.”
Just then, Sigmir ducked into the bunker. He rattled in his combat armor. It wasn’t a battle suit as the nine- foot Highborn wore, but armor much like the storm troopers used. Sigmir held onto a massive pistol, a gyroc gun that fired .75 caliber rocket shells.
“On your feet!” the Lot Six captain shouted.
The tired storm troopers grumbled, stirring as they glanced at Marten.
“What is it, Captain?” Marten asked from his spot on the floor.
In two strides, Sigmir loomed over him. “On your feet, soldier.”
Marten slowly climbed up.
“The 9th had penetrated a street ahead of us.” Sigmir said in his overloud voice.
“The 9th FEC Division?”
“Gather your men,” said Sigmir.
“Look at them,” Marten said in a let’s-be-reasonable tone. “We just took this bunker. You can’t order them into another assault now.”
“Get them on their feet!” Sigmir roared, “And outside.”
“Captain,” said Marten, “sir, you can’t just hurl us at another strongpoint without letting us rest first.”
Sigmir’s eyes widened. “Would you deprive me of glory?”
Marten stared into those wild eyes. Around him Omi and the others watched—they’d come to see what the commotion was about. It would be so easy to step back, lift his gun and kill this insane beast. Perhaps Sigmir sensed that, for he aimed that huge pistol at Marten’s face.
“Come with me,” whispered the Captain.
Omi stepped forward to protest. Sigmir touched the barrel to Marten’s forehead.
“Stay back,” Marten told Omi. Then he nodded to Sigmir.
The huge Captain pushed him ahead onto the stairs and up out of the captured bunker. It was a steel-shelled dome only a few feet above ground. Behind them and over a slight rise of rubble waited other FEC assault groups in newly dug trenches. In the other direction lay another field of rubble and then a row of skeleton-like buildings. Far in the distance loomed the mighty merculite missile battery.
“Do you see that building?” Sigmir whispered into his ear.
Marten saw a pockmarked building, a vault-like enemy fortress.
“You will storm it immediately,” Sigmir said.
“Now?”
“That is what immediately means.”
“May I speak, sir?”
“Ah, at last I’ve found the key to you, eh, preman. You’re pleasant enough when a man has a gun to your
