Omi snorted at the idea.
“We’ll have to slither over the top to get there,” said Sigmir. “We’ll use sonics to detect and then avoid the mines.”
“And die to a flamer sweep,” said Marten.
Any good humor he might have had drained from the seven-foot Sigmir. His eyes held death, had seen death, lived it and come back again. The tension in him coiled tighter than ever. What made him an invincible warrior, a death-dealing machine, now radiated toward his own men—that might dare thwart him so near his goal. Softly, with infinite menace, he asked, “You have a better idea, Lieutenant?”
“Yes.” Marten gestured to the FEC soldiers that had survived the mines and now furiously dug foxholes as protection against gunfire from the fort. “But until we bring those men out there back here we can’t use my idea.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Sigmir. “Tell me.”
Marten hesitated. The fanatical way Sigmir scratched his throat told him he didn’t really have an option— unless he wanted to kill his commander. But with Highborn that was surer suicide than running over the top. “It’s simple,” Marten said. “Order an artillery barrage onto the mines.”
“Perfect.” Sigmir rubbed his hands, and he lifted his com-unit.
“Wait,” said Marten. “We have to bring them back first.”
“Negative,” said Sigmir. “There’s not enough time for that. Someone else might enter the station before me if we wait.”
“You’d murder them?” Turbo asked in outrage.
Sigmir whirled on him.
“He’s tired,” said Marten hurriedly. “It’s been a long thirteen hours.”
Stick nudged Turbo and whispered hotly in his ear.
Turbo got that stubborn look, shaking his head. He told Sigmir, “Crawling out there is insane. Worse, it’s death.”
Sigmir laughed mirthlessly. “What do you know about ‘worse than death’?”
Turbo maybe realized his danger. He shut his mouth and shrugged.
“Yes,” purred Sigmir. “It’s like I thought. You know nothing. So I will teach you.” He shoved his pistol against Turbo’s face.
“No!” shouted Marten.
Sigmir fired. Turbo’s head disintegrated and his torso flopped to the bottom of the trench. Sigmir jumped back, aiming the gyroc at all of them. “Who else questions me?” he asked in a strange, transported sort of way, as if this was the extreme moment of his life.
They were too stunned to react, and the huge muzzle of the .75 gyroc was aimed at them. Perhaps it was the thirteen hours of constant combat. Besides, what was one more death anyway, even if that of their friend? Before they knew it, Sigmir called for an artillery strike.
“Get down,” he ordered.
Marten and the others put on helmets and crouched low, their heads between their knees. Soon hellish screams told of incoming fire. The ground shook and buckled as 155mm and 209mm shells impacted with tremendous roars. High explosive shards flew everywhere, shredding whatever was caught in the open.
Marten endured. If he died, then it was over. If he lived… a savage snarl twisted his lips. Turbo!
The barrage stopped, an awful stillness taking its place. All Marten heard was buzzing and an inner roar. He dared lift his head. A bloody haze mingled with the dust and the rubble that had been rearranged. Beyond the worked-over ground stood the mighty merculite station, the same as ever.
He couldn’t believe that Turbo was dead, killed, murdered by Sigmir, just as the FEC soldiers out there in the minefield had been butchered.
“Over the top,” shouted Sigmir.
At that moment, the four-thousand-ton clamshell of the merculite missile station whirled open. Rockets roared into life, once more making speech impossible. Huge, heavy missiles lifted out of the station, flames belching behind them. Missile after missile rose and accelerated into the heavens.
As they did, Marten and the others climbed out of the trench, sonic locators in their hands as they crawled across no man’s land. Most of the mines had been destroyed. But some always remained. A great weariness filled Marten. It made him so tired that he almost didn’t care that Sigmir had murdered his friend. Turbo… there would be no revival for a preman, for a subhuman, a nothing to these… these who called themselves superior, Highborn.
As Marten crawled through the plowed-up ground, he glanced at Omi. The ex-gunman had a hard, grim look. A little farther back, Stick clenched his teeth in rage. If they made it across this expanse—Sigmir’s day was near at hand.
Marten’s sonic locator beeped. A live mine was getting ready to leap.
18.
Over half of Earth’s interceptors hurdled toward the
Amid the slaughter, the heavy proton beams from Manila, Taipei, Shanghai and Vladivostok shone. Interceptors and orbital fighters—every space vessel caught in the dull-colored beam—vanished. The real target sprayed lead-lined gel, thousand pound layers of it. The gel absorbed protons, dissipating strength. The proton beams didn’t flash in pulses like lasers, however, but maintained constant targeting. The gel heated, melted, and then vanished. The
Grand Admiral Cassius roared orders.
Million-ton chunks of rock previously blown off the moon were maneuvered into position. General Hawthorne’s assessment teams had considered them mining asteroids brought near Earth for the industrial habs in high L-5 orbit. Their assessment was horribly wrong. Engines attached to the million-ton rocks pumped furiously. Targeting computers guided the rocks toward their impact points on Earth.
Meanwhile, the first merculite missiles streaked out of the gravity well of Earth and toward the
Explosions like volcanoes threw metal, air and flesh into space. Flames roared briefly, mere nanoseconds, before vacuum stole the needed oxygen. The Doom Star was compartmentalized like a beehive, but Grand Admiral Cassius was flabbergasted that the premen had attained this much. The Doom Stars
More merculites hit the stricken vessel.
Admiral Cassius closed his eyes, trying to contain his rage. He breathed heavily, opened bloodshot eyes and ordered the
As he spoke, more explosions rocked the massive ship. Damage control reported a full eighth of the ship on fire or destroyed. Another eighth was in immediate danger. The
