head. Now listen to me. I’ve ordered an artillery strike on the building, then—”
Hideous but pitiful screaming interrupted the speech.
Marten and Sigmir jerked to their left. Two Kamikazes popped out of the earth and sprinted toward them, screaming their death cries, their eyes drugged and glistening. Marten threw himself onto the rubble. Sigmir coolly sighted and fired once, twice, the rocket shells barely igniting before slamming into the two doomed men. One of them, however, pressed his detonation button. He exploded and hot shrapnel flew through the air. One small piece sliced through Sigmir’s throat. The huge Highborn had taken off his helmet like everyone else, and his gorget guard had been unbuckled. A look of amazement filled his snow-white face. Then blood jetted and the seven-foot Highborn pitched backward.
Horrified, Marten back-pedaled. For a moment, no one did anything. Then Petor ran forward as he shouted into a hand unit. When he reached the corpse, Petor roared, “Help me!”
“Help you do what?” shouted Marten.
Petor pressed a hypo against Sigmir, no doubt shooting Suspend into the Highborn.
“Help me carry him!” Petor shouted.
Marten hesitated. He should have shot Petor before the bodyguard brought out the hypo. Then Sigmir would stay dead. Maybe—
“Fool!” Petor shouted. “Help me or he’ll kill you when he returns.”
The second bodyguard ran up. Marten doubted he could kill both of them without notice. And Sigmir already had Suspend in him.
So Marten helped the Muscovite bodyguard haul Sigmir to the rear of their area. It was a cleared plaza with a cluster of torn, two-story buildings. As they lay the body down a rescue team of battle-suited Highborn arrived, four of them. Marten watched them bound in one hundred-meter leaps. They landed in the plaza, their servos whining as the half-ton armor crushed bricks.
Two of the nine-foot giants clanked to Sigmir and set him in a black plastic freezepack that they’d brought. The pack had medkits and other strange devices. Needles stabbed the corpse and then the giants zipped the freezepack shut. The other two spoke with Petor, who pointed out Marten.
Marten rose from where a few of his storm group waited. They’d hurried over after hearing the news. Marten walked away from them so he wouldn’t implicate his men in case the approaching masters decided he was to blame for Sigmir’s death. Marten stood at attention as the two armored giants clanked to him.
They were huge, towering, menacing. Twenty-millimeter cannons aimed at him. Dark visored helmets, like techno-demons, watched him impassively. His weapons would be useless against them in their armor. He wondered why the battalion attached to the 4th FEC Army didn’t simply take Tokyo. Mortar tubes and smart missiles were slung on their backs. They seemed invincible.
The one with a sword emblem on his helmet spoke through amplifiers. “You are Lieutenant Marten Kluge, 2nd Patloon/10th Company/93rd Battalion?”
“I am.”
“Report.”
In short, concise sentences—the way he’d been trained to speak to Highborn—Marten told the two giants what had happened.
After he was finished, the two giants glanced at each other, their dark visors revealing nothing. Marten felt like a naughty child, and that made him angry. But here, in front of these two, he struggled to suppress his anger.
“Why didn’t you fire at the enemy?” asked the giant with the sword emblem.
“They surprised us.”
“So you threw yourself down?”
“Yes,” said Marten.
“An act of cowardice.”
“No,” said Marten. “It was one of survival.”
“You will not raise your voice to us.”
Marten hung his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Cowardice,” repeated the giant.
“Perhaps even retreat in face of the enemy,” suggested the other.
“Which is punishable by death,” said the first.
Marten looked up. The two armored giants decided his fate. His only weapon was his wits. “May I speak?” he asked.
The dark visors stared at him.
“Speak,” said the first, the one with the sword emblem on his helmet.
“Captain Sigmir shot and killed both Kamikazes. It was due to his misfortune of having taken off his helmet and gorget that he died. I reacted instinctively. And I might add that my storm group had just taken an enemy bunker.”
“That is immaterial.”
“You’ll find that my storm group is the most decorated in the 4th FEC Army.”
“Meaningless.”
“Surely not,” Marten argued. “You Highborn are said to honor valor. If my unit is the most valorous, then surely I, as its leader, must be also.”
The two giants considered that. Then the first one said, “If what you say is true, your act of… I will not say cowardice. Rather, cunning, is deplorable.”
“I don’t understand,” said Marten.
“You dropped to the ground in the hopes that your Lot Six commander would be killed.”
“I’ve been in battle too long to think that,” Marten said, his stomach knotting at their implacable will. “In fact, I’ve never heard of two Japanese killing a Highborn.”
“Say rather: a Lot Six specimen.”
“Captain Sigmir isn’t a Highborn?” asked Marten.
The two nine foot giants said nothing. Finally, the first one’s amplifier crackled. “We are superiors.”
“Why explain anything to him?” asked the second.
“So he understands his insolence and why he must die.”
“Does my battle record mean so little?” asked Marten, sweat oozing out of his armpits. “Is there no way that I might gain honor among you?”
Again, they were silent, as if he spoke nonsense and they tried to decipher his possible meanings.
“Show us your hand,” said the first.
Marten shucked off his gauntlet and showed them the number two tattooed onto the back of his hand.
“He has risen above himself,” said the second.
“So it seems,” said the first. “Preman—” The giant suddenly tilted his armored head, no doubt listening to an incoming radio message. A few seconds later he said, “Your Lot Six Captain will deal with you upon his return.”
As easy as that, they granted him life. Marten’s knees almost buckled, but he locked them and refused to kneel before them.
They turned and clanked to the other two Highborn. Together the Highborn bounded away with Sigmir, their twenty-millimeter cannons barking at an unseen enemy as they leaped toward the rear lines.
Omi strode to Marten, who felt limp, drained, surprised to be alive.
The tough Korean studied him closely.
“I didn’t understand half of what they were saying,” Marten explained. “But I understood they look at me as if I’m subhuman. And you know what?”
The ex-gunman grunted.
“I’m beginning to take that personally.”
11.
