Star Soldier

“I want to know which Doom Stars those are,” said General Hawthorne crisply.

“The Genghis Khan, sir.”

“Grand Admiral Cassius’s flagship?” asked General Hawthorne.

Commander Shell grew pale.

“Yes, sir. And the Julius Caesar, sir.”

Somewhere a man retched. The tension in the command center had grown oppressive. The very air seemed to thicken. The Highborn hadn’t yet used the Doom Stars like this—they couldn’t afford to lose one. Everyone wondered what their potential was when fighting this far down the gravity well of a major planet.

General Hawthorne stared at the two Doom Stars as if he could will them away. The Highborn had out maneuvered them again, and so easily. If he’d known that Doom Stars were so near—disaster loomed.

“Sir,” said Commander Shell, “this means—”

“All interceptors at the Genghis Khan,” whispered General Hawthorne, glad he’d insisted they all be launched. Already a plan formed in his brilliant mind, a risky, all or nothing gamble.

“What?” said Shell. “But that’s suicide! The Doom Stars are still too far out. Let them come into closer Earth orbit.”

“Don’t you think I know they’re still too far out?” shouted Hawthorne.

Commander Shell took a step back.

General Hawthorne breathed deeply, once more using his sleeve to dab his features. “Straight at the Genghis Khan,” he said softly. “We have to buy our boys time and pray for luck. We’ll have the added advantage of surprise.”

“What?” said Shell. “Surprise?”

“They’ll never expect us to throw the interceptors so deep into space.”

A visibly agitated Commander Shell collected himself. Once he had been the highest rated interceptor pilot of Earth. His first love still lay there. Everyone knew it.

“General Hawthorne, sir….” Commander Shell straightened his uniform, stepping closer and saluting. “I respectfully beg to report, sir, we cannot afford to throw away the interceptors.”

“Thank you, Commander. I understand your feelings.”

“Sir! I—”

“I said thank you, Commander.” General Hawthorne stared the smaller man down.

At first Shell stiffened, and something in his manner alerted the bionic guards along the walls.

They shifted their attention to him, an ominous, absorbing interest. He glanced at them. A nervous tic twisted the commander’s mouth. Now he couldn’t seem to bring himself to stare back into General Hawthorne’s eyes. Yet he was a stubborn man, and with eyes downcast, he faced the general. “Sir, if we regroup and scramble North and South American squadrons and met the enemy in the stratosphere—”

“No.”

Commander Shell swallowed audibly. “Sir,” he said, his shoulders hunching and something elemental draining from him. He turned to the screen.

So did General Hawthorne. Already the interceptors popped out of the stratosphere and into space. Their rockets glowed orange as they shot toward the nearer Genghis Khan. As far out as the Doom Star was, it would be doubtful that the interceptors would have enough rocket fuel to return to Earth, not after burning their reserves in space-battle maneuvering.

“The orbitals have high ground,” whispered Shell.

General Hawthorne knew that in terms of a space battle Earth was a heavy gravity well. That any craft coming toward the planet came as if down a steep hill and any craft heading up fought gravity, the same for their torpedoes and missiles. As it was, the squat orbital fighters already held every advantage over the interceptors. To give them high ground as well…

Commander Shell, trembling, ashen-faced, turned for the last time toward General Hawthorne. “Sir—”

The general put his hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “We’re going to take massive losses today. My only goal now is make them bleed as much as possible. That means some of the amphibious troops have to make it through.” In an authoritative voice he said, “Alert the merculite batteries and the proton stations!”

“We can’t fire until the interceptors are out of the way,” said Shell.

General Hawthorne stared steely-eyed at the screen. “Like you said, Commander, our interceptors don’t have a chance. But they can still be of use as decoys.”

A staff officer said, “The batteries and stations are online, sir!”

“Tell them to target the Genghis Khan and fire everything they have.”

Upon hearing those words, a shocked Space Commander Shell slumped into a nearby chair. His eyes seemed to film with tears, but it was difficult to tell.

17.

The bloody remnants of the 93rd Slumlords fell upon a trench line of Samurai defenders. Men fired at pointblank range. Vibroknives whined; the dying screamed and the shock of grenades hurled both attackers and defenders against the trench walls. Then Captain Sigmir jumped down among them. With his gyroc pistol, he blasted Samurais into gory chunks. When his gun clicked empty, he went berserk. Armored elbows, hands and feet, he lashed in every direction, laughing in maniacal glee as he slaughtered those weaker than him.

Then it was over, the trench taken. The survivors crumpled and tore off their helmets, gasping for air. They were shaken and surprised to be alive. Their faces reflected the certain knowledge that they’d been transported to Hell and that no one knew the way back. Slowly, sanity returned to their eyes. They were embarrassed to glance at each other, to know that others had seen them behave like animals so they could endure another hour of life.

Three hundred meters in front of them towered their goal, the end of a savage quest, a cup of blood that they’d paid in pounds of flesh to sip. The mighty merculite missile station was almost in their grasp—it seemed that they would be the first to reach it. After weeks of butchery and dying, the 93rd Slumlords had breached the battery’s outer defenses. Few of the original FEC soldiers were left: Marten, Omi, Turbo, Stick, Kang, Petor and a few others. The 10th Company had less than forty soldiers to its name. Those few set up flamer tripods and smart missile sites. The others guzzled synthahol and cleared filth off their weapons.

These past weeks the FEC 4th and 7th Armies had been bled white, lashed to the attack by the Highborn battalions to their rear and the Lot Six commanders among them. The 5th Panzer Corps also prowled the rear lines, adding to the menace for possible deserters. Both FEC infantry armies were like javelins, hurled at the enemy and broken upon them, but not before killing the target. Effective Tokyo defense had ended, except for pockets of fanatical diehards. The toughest enemy clot remained around the merculite missile station. The FEC survivors now stormed those outer lines, pouring their lives away for the dubious honor of being first to breach the high-tech site.

Sigmir reloaded his pistol and ordered weary men to their feet—they had been attacking continuously for thirteen hours. He motioned to Marten, and together they explored the trench system, finally coming to the trench nearest the station that towered five stories tall. Nearly two hundred meters to their left, FEC storm groups clambered out of the trench and ran in a hunched crouch toward the station.

“No!” hissed Sigmir, as he brought up his gyroc, leveling it at FEC troops that belonged to a different Highborn.

As he aimed mines roared out of the ground where the storm groups ran, killing almost all of them in flashes of flames and hot shrapnel.

Relieved, Sigmir lowered his gun.

“Pathetic suicide,” Marten said bitterly. He hated Sigmir. The Highborn… he couldn’t decide whom he hated more, PHC officers like Major Orlov or Highborn madman like Captain Sigmir.

Sigmir narrowed his intense gaze as he studied the station. His broad, snow-white face was a strange blend of almost sexual relief and twisted, unbearable tension.

“Maybe one of the Samurais we killed has a map of the minefield,” Stick suggested.