Star Soldier (32 page)

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.

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
Genghis Khan
. Torpedoes poured out of the interceptors’ tubes and their laser cannons spewed at will. The
Genghis Khan’s
anti-missiles knocked out ninety-nine percent of the interceptors’ torpedoes. Packets of prismatic chaff absorbed the lasers. Then the orbital fighters began a turkey shoot, destroying interceptors as fast as they could target, lock and fire.

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
Genghis Khan
sprayed more. Their supply seemed endless. Yet  the new and deadly beams kept shining. Closer and closer, the devastating fury of the proton beams neared the Doom Star.

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
Genghis Khan
. Normally it would have been simplicity itself for the Highborn to knock out the merculites. However, the orbital fighters alone didn’t have the ECM power to lock onto them. The
Julius Caesar
tried, but amid the proton beams, the incredible gel mass between it and its target and the orbital fighters, the
Julius Caesar
failed for the first time in its existence. Anti-missiles from the
Genghis Khan
zoomed at the merculites. The heavily armored Earth rockets shrugged off the majority of the anti-missiles. Of course, a few of the merculites were shifted off target by the blasts. A few headed for deep space. Very few of the merculites exploded. But more than one slammed into the Doom Star
Genghis Khan
.

 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
were
the Highborn, the essence of their power. If one was destroyed....

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
Genghis Khan
to break off.

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
Genghis Khan
could very well be destroyed if something wasn’t done fast to counteract such a tragedy.

Reluctant, enraged, baffled, Grand Admiral Cassius ordered an antimatter strike in near space.

Bombs sped almost instantly from the
Genghis Khan
and detonated just as fast. Killing EMP surges washed over the Doom Stars and down at the merculites racing up. Hundreds of orbital fighters and the remaining interceptors died in the antimatter blasts. Thousands of Highborn aboard the
Genghis Khan
perished or they would die in hours or days from poisoning. Social Unity had never managed to strike such a savage blow before.

The antimatter blasts gave the
Genghis Khan
the time she needed. The
Julius Caesar
finally hove into position. Her anti-missiles and more importantly her heavy beams blew up the next flight of merculites. And now the million-ton rocks entered the stratosphere.

“Scum!” roared Cassius. “Animals! Eat this!”

19.

Cheers filled the command center as the
Genghis Khan
broke off. Men leaped to their feet and hugged one another. The Highborn weren’t invincible. They could be beaten after all.

Space Commander Shell rose to his feet and squared his shoulders as he took off his hat and placed it over his heart. Air Marshal Ulrich slapped him on the back. “Brave lads.”

“The best,” whispered Shell.

General James Hawthorne glared at screen after screen.

“Sir!” shouted a staff officer.

Hawthorne strode to him and gaped at what he saw. It looked like a meteorite. “Where’s it targeted?”

“Beijing, sir.”

The cheers died as men turned to look at the TV screens.

“Hong Kong!” shouted another man, pointing at his screen and the vast meteorite it showed.

“Taipei!”

“Manila!”

“Shanghai!”

“What do we have that can stop them?” shouted Hawthorne.

Space Commander Shell shook his head. Air Marshal Ulrich was speechless. There was nothing.

“What about nukes, sir,” suggested a staff officer.

“Target the Beijing meteorite with nukes!” shouted Hawthorne. “Now!”

A staff officer shouted orders.

On screen, the meteorites streaked toward Earth, the proton beams washing them unable to destroy enough of them to matter.

“Sir! We need Lord Director Enkov’s authorization to launch nuclear weapons!”

“Raise him,” snapped Hawthorne. “You, order them to launch regardless of authorization, on my authority.” Hawthorne found himself spun around to face the captain of the bionic men.

“Belay that order,” the bionic man said.

“Look at the screen!” shouted Hawthorne. “Unless I destroy that meteorite Beijing will be obliterated, and so will the other cities. Then Enkov will die. I don’t think he’s going to thank you for that.”

“
Lord Director
Enkov,” corrected the bionic man.

“You fool!”

The pressure on Hawthorne’s arm increased painfully. In moments, the bone would break. “Listen to me.” Then it felt as if his bone creaked in complaint. The bone felt like a piece of lumber under terrific pressure.

“Cancel my order,” whispered Hawthorne.

The staff officer said, “But, sir—” A bionic guard put a gun against that man’s ribs. “Yes, sir,” said the staff officer.

In the rest of the command center, the other bionic security men along the walls trained their carbines on the staff officers. A massacre of debilitating proportions seemed only seconds away.

“I beg you to listen to me,” Hawthorne told the bionic captain. “We have—”

“Impact in thirty seconds, sir!”

Hawthorne turned from the shouting staff officer and stared into the bionic man’s eyes. It was difficult to think with that bone-crushing grip on his arm. The bionic man didn’t seem to be straining at all. Briefly, Hawthorne wondered why they didn’t create an army of these bionic men. Then he had to use all his concentration in order to form his words. He said, “Your loyalty and obedience is impeccable, but surely you can see that we must save the Lord Director’s life, not to mention our capital.”

A sour smile creased the bionic captain’s lips. “Disobedience is not allowed. Termination is the result, both yours and mine. I refuse to be terminated.”

“Look at the screen.”

“Yes, unfortunate.”

“Are you willing that the Lord Director should perish?”

“Obedience is mandatory.”

“Look,” said Hawthorne, trying to turn and look at the screen.

“Negative,” said the bionic man, using his infinitely greater strength to keep Hawthorne from turning.