Star Soldier

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re right. He shouldn’t tell those.”

  “I think they’re BS.

  “Why is that?”

  “The Highborn have the game sewn up,” Omi said. “Social Unity is on the run. No way is Social Unity going to train soldiers fast enough to face the Highborn before it’s all over.”

  “Social Unity might get desperate.”

  “So?”

  “Desperate men do dangerous things.”

  “I suppose…”

  3.

  One of those desperate men wiped sweat off his face. He was a little over thirty kilometers away, deep under the tossing waves. The captain of the Riga stepped behind the tracking officer. The officer tapped a chart, and whispered, “As clear as it’s going to get, sir.”

  The captain closed his eyes. He was queasy. The enemy’s hunter/killers were too efficient. Too many fellow captains had already paid the ultimate price for this wild strategy. Yet he nodded. One must obey Enkov.

  “Fire one and two,” he whispered.

  The watch officer stared at him. Everyone else held his breath.

  “Fire,” repeated the captain. “Tubes one and two.”

  “Firing one and two, sir,” said the firing officer.

  The Riga shuddered.

  In the dark ocean depths, two nuclear-tipped missiles hurtled skyward. Enemy radar and sonar picked them up. Enemy officers roared orders. Planes turned to intercept. Counter missiles left circling bombers. Other bombers and choppers needed less than fifty seconds to rendezvous to the drop zone to let their ultra-powerful depth charges sink. None of them, however, were going to make it in time.

  4.

  Unaware of their fate, Marten and Omi continued to talk. Then, over twenty kilometers away, an amazingly bright flash lit up the dark clouds. A huge, ominous mushroom cloud arose. It towered higher and higher. Marten and Omi stared at it in shock, their mouths open.

  Omi tried to speak, but failed.

  Marten’s chest tightened with terror. He couldn’t believe what he saw. There had been rumors. Turbo had said—His chest unlocked and his numb mind started working from its momentary stoppage. “Get below!” he shouted, shoving Omi toward the nearest hatch.

  They turned and ran, staggering and stumbling along the pitching deck. So did other men, babbling sailors who sprinted for the hatches. They jammed the nearest hatchway. Fists started flying, until a boatswain bellowed orders.

  The hovers and ships of Convoy A22 acted amazingly fast. Perhaps the ships’ captains had been given secret instructions in case a nuclear bomb should explode in their vicinity. Not as smoothly and as in unison as some of their earlier maneuvers had been done, they veered from the nuclear blast. Each ship throttled up, until they fled at full speed. One hover lifted onto its cushion of air, higher and higher as it leapt past the other hovers. Then a glitch hit its engines. The hover’s nose sank. A wave rolled and crashed down hard, and the airborne hover flipped onto its back.

  That was Marten’s last sight of it as the shouting sailors shoved him through the hatchway. He fell down the steps and landed on his hands and knees, and twisted away as others landed on top of him. He crawled, and then unsteadily arose and staggered into the rec-room.

  “Nuke!” he bellowed.

  Omi shoved in behind.

  Shocked, paling faces stared up at him.

  At that moment, loudspeakers crackled, and the captain spoke. “All personnel are to grab hold of something solid. A nuclear shockwave will soon hit the ship. Please be prepared. That is all.”

  In a bedlam of shouts men scrambled for safety. Marten thrust himself at his spot at the card table, clutching the bolted down furniture with all his strength. Seconds later the shockwave hit. The transport shuddered and groaned, and they skipped across the ocean waves like a flung stone. Howling, screaming winds tore over them, and a hot flash caused men to open their mouths. Marten knew they were wailing in terror, but the winds were too loud for their shouts to be heard. Somehow, their hover kept upright. These ships had been built to take a pounding.

  Across the table, Turbo stared slack-jawed at Marten. Stick mumbled prayers. Omi squeezed his eyes shut. Finally, no one knew how long, the winds died down and the pitching lessened.

  Wide-eyed soldiers sat up. A few of them wept. More than one had broken bones.

  “This is war,” Omi said grimly, at last opening his eyes.

  “I wonder if they targeted a convoy ahead of us?” asked Marten.

  “Our baptism of fire,” mumbled Stick.

  Turbo laughed. “We haven’t seen nothing yet, is my guess.”

  “You’re crazy!” Stick shouted in outrage.

  “Earth has gotta hold somewhere if they’re going to win,” said Turbo.

  “So?”

  “So maybe Tokyo is where they’re gonna hold.”

  “Tokyo is where we’re going,” Omi said.

  “Yeah,” said Marten.

  “Tell me one thing,” whispered Stick.

  “What?” asked Turbo.

  “How do I go AWOL and survive?”

  They each glanced at one another, perhaps all wondering the same thing. Marten knew he couldn’t get the image out of his mind of lasering those four poor fools in the desert. Maybe he didn’t deserve to live.

  5.

  Convoy A22 split soon thereafter or at least the eight transports that had survived the shockwave did. It was decided providing a smaller nuclear target was more advantageous than group protection versus submarine torpedo attacks. So a single destroyer patrolled for the four transports of the Slumlord Battalion, minus the HQ Jump Jet and artillery detachments. They had presumably gone down with their ship. None of the V-Boats ever showed up again, and only one other time did they see a chopper. It was far in the distance, undoubtedly looking for a place to land after its carrier had gone down. They also saw a second nuclear blast, a flash that was too far away to send another shockwave rolling over them.

  Dispirited and scared, the men gloomily wondered if the dark ocean would become their grave. Luckily, the storm abated the next day and they rode their air cushion as fast as the turbines could whine. Marten led the men in hard calisthenics, exhausting them physically so they didn’t have enough mentally to conjure up unneeded terrors. The hovers whisked over the Pacific Ocean all alone. From horizon to horizon stretched the mighty salt sea.

  “It almost seems peaceful,” said Turbo several mornings later. Rumors said they were a day out of Tokyo.

  “It gives me the creeps,” Stick muttered. “Everywhere you look is endless sea, water and clouds.” Stick shook his head. “It doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on. It makes a guy feel insignificant.”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “No,” said Marten.

  “No?” asked Turbo.

  “Breath the air, taste the salt tang. Look at the view and enjoy it, because today you’re alive.”

  “And tomorrow I die,” said Turbo.

  “Maybe,” Marten said, “but today you can affect the world, or if not the world then somebody in it. So that means you’re not insignificant.”

  Turbo shrugged.

  “You’d better not feel that way when you’re covering my backside in Tokyo,” Marten told him.

  “Good point,” said Stick. “In the old days I told the Blue Jackets the same sort of thing before we strolled the streets for a rumble.” He flexed his muscles. The short, stocky youth looked more dangerous than ever in his brown uniform and steel-toed combat boots.

  “We’re gonna die in Tokyo,” Turbo said gloomily.

  “We didn’t die in Reform,” Stick growled.

  “Because we were lucky,” said Turbo.

  “No, because Marten had balls to act,” said Stick. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

  “Must you?”

  “Life is like a knife-fight. You gotta crouch, glare your man down and grit your teeth. Then you gotta attack before you get a knife stuck in your ribs.”


  “How can you slip a vibroblade into life?” asked Turbo.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Stick said. “It’s the attitude.”

  “Wonderful,” Turbo said. “Attitude.”

  Stick shoved him. “Better keep on my good side, junkie, or it’s you who’ll get the knife in the ribs.”

  Turbo squinted down at the shorter, much more thickly built Stick. “I’m combat trained, you ape. You can’t push me around anymore.”

  Stick pushed him again.

  “I’m warning you!”

  “Knock it off,” said Marten. “Here comes the captain.”

  Captain Sigmir strolled onto the front deck. He’d been jumping between transports, inspecting what was left of Tenth Company. Other than a lone sailor swabbing the middle deck, the captain and they were the only ones topside. Captain Sigmir wore the same black uniform he had the first day. Behind him followed two carbine-toting thugs, his personal bodyguards. Officially, they were his batman and orderly, both corporals and dirty-fighting experts.

  “Gentlemen,” said the captain.

  Marten and Stick saluted. Turbo lowered the brim of his hat.

  Captain Sigmir expelled his breath as if someone had slugged him in the gut. His two bodyguards, odd-looking men, grinned at one another as they took up port arms behind the towering captain.

  “After shock?” asked the captain softly.

  “Sir?” said Turbo, the one addressed.

  “Your disrespectful salute, soldier. I want to know what caused it.”

  “Oh,” said Turbo. “It must have been my preoccupation with the joy of being alive, sir.”

  Captain Sigmir narrowed his strange eyes. Since the end of training camp, he’d been acting even more weird than usual.

  “Salute, you idiot,” said Stick, prodding Turbo in the ribs.

  “Sir!” barked Turbo, snapping off a crisp salute.

  “Is your sergeant being insubordinate, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir,” said Marten, “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  Captain Sigmir clucked his tongue a few times, as he eyed Turbo. “Sergeant,” he finally said, “take off that silly looking cap.”

  Turbo wiped it off his head.

  “You seem pale, Sergeant. Sickly.”

  “I feel fine, sir.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In top physical shape?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked you a question, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. In top physical shape.”

  “Excellent. I want you to roll up your sleeves and square off against Petor.”

  The thickest bodyguard, a roly-poly Muscovite with a single hairy eyebrow over his bluest of blue eyes, handed his carbine to the other guard.

  Marten tried to explain. “Captain—”

  “Please keep quiet, Lieutenant, and watch your sergeant’s fighting technique. I’m sure you’ll see areas that need improvement. Begin.”

  Turbo was still rolling up his sleeves as Petor snapped a kick at his left knee. Turbo cried out, flopping onto the deck. Petor attempted another kick. Turbo rolled and clutched the foot, but Petor jumped back, yanking his foot free. Turbo scrambled up. It didn’t really matter, though. Despite his comical appearance, Petor truly was an expert at dirty fighting, and twenty seconds later Turbo slumped to the deck, nearly unconscious.

  Stick and Marten had grown tense and angry, easing onto the balls of their feet. The second bodyguard, however, had lowered his carbine in an apparently nonchalant manner. Now he aimed it at them. Captain Sigmir appeared not to notice the interplay. He kept licking his lips, chuckling as Turbo grunted or cried out. As the lanky sergeant hit the deck, the captain held up his hand. Petor stepped back, a slight sheen of sweat on his ever so round face.

  Squatting beside the fallen Turbo, Captain Sigmir grabbed him by the hair and jerked up his head so they could peer eye-to-eye. “Joy is a wonderful feeling, Sergeant. But where we’re going, it’s a dangerous emotion. Work on hate, or if that’s too difficult for you then fear. Fear of pain or death would be the two most appropriate emotions.”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Turbo, who was missing one of his front teeth. It lay on the deck in a small, bloody glob.

  “I like your attitude now, Sergeant. So run along to the infirmary and see to your mouth.” Captain Sigmir let go of Turbo’s hair, rose to his imposing height and faced Marten. “I abhor slack discipline, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marten growled. His stomach had the feeling it once had when Hall Leader Quirn had his hands on Molly, and he had that same helpless feeling as when he’d seen his father slain. He hated that feeling. Today, however, he wasn’t that young teenager.

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as that, Lieutenant. A few scrapes and bruises and hopefully a lesson finally driven home.”

  Marten nodded sharply.

  “Ah, I see a word of advice is in order. Life is precarious, Lieutenant, so you must grab it by the short hairs and force it to accommodate you. Soon we will be in combat. You must therefore learn to enjoy what pleasures you can squeeze out of life, yes?”

  “If the Captain says so, sir.”

  “But you just heard me say so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Sigmir removed his cap and rubbed the forehead scar. He squinted as he muttered to himself. Then he brightened, set his cap back on and moved a step closer to Marten. “Can it be that you also need more combat training?”

  Marten glanced at Petor, who grinned evilly at him.

  Captain Sigmir put a single finger on Marten’s chin, turning Marten’s face so they stared eye-to-eye. “I’m addressing you, preman.”

  “Sir,” said Marten, hating that finger on his chin so much that he could hardly think.

  Captain Sigmir searched Marten’s eyes.

  Marten finally reached up and took hold of the captain’s huge wrist, moving it so the finger no longer touched his chin.

  Captain Sigmir’s pursed his lips. “Lieutenant—”

  “Have a care, sir,” Marten told him softly.

  Captain Sigmir’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

  “Do you, sir?”

  The astonishment left the captain’s face. A weird gleam now appeared in his eyes. “Very well, Lieutenant. Petor!”

  “Won’t be doing anymore fighting today,” Marten said, his hand dropping to his holstered pistol.

  “Oh no, Lieutenant, no, no. Perhaps you think I can’t disarm you on the instant. So please notice my other bodyguard.”

  “I am. My Top Sergeant stands behind him.”

  Captain Sigmir raised his eyebrows, held Marten’s gaze a moment longer and glanced back. Omi stood behind the bodyguard. The ex-gunman leaned against the railing. As if resting his hand, Omi had it on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  Captain Sigmir smiled in a strange way and said, “Very good.” Then he turned and without another word marched off, his two bodyguards trailing.

  “I don’t like this,” said Stick, as he helped Turbo.

  “No,” said Marten, his gut churning. What did that strange smile mean? And why had the captain given up so easily? Marten feared for their future.

  6.

  The following evening Tokyo hove into view. They saw the fires kilometers before they saw the Japanese landmass. An orange glow sat on the midnight horizon. Even this far out smoke blotted out the stars and the half moon that an hour ago shone serenely upon the sea.

  The original port of entry, according to swollen-mouthed Turbo, had been Tokyo Harbor. They would now disembark on the peninsula and in the city of Miura. A seventy kilometer march would bring them near the merculite missile battery, the site of the civil war’s most vicious fighting. They feared Captain Sigmir, wondering how he would discipline them. They hoped his Tenth Company operational planning kept him from carrying-out any retribution long enough for him to die in combat.

  An hour later, the four transport-hov
ers docked and the men jogged off in full gear. Instead of marching into the heart of Tokyo, they filed into waiting trucks—ancient, beat-up relics—and they immediately roared off toward the fires in the distance.

  A corporal on loan from the 9th FEC Division, a first-wave invading unit, shouted instructions at Marten as the truck bounced along the potted road. Enemy artillery boomed in the distance. Highborn rocket launchers whistled loudly in return. Besides the outer noises, their truck rattled and quavered as its worn engine roared.

  “If you see anybody who’s not wearing FEC brown, combat body armor or riding the sky on his jetpack, you shoot him!” shouted the corporal, a skinny kid who couldn’t have been any older than nineteen. “And don’t take off your armor or helmets unless you’re underground in a bunker or in the infirmary!”

  “What about the Highborn?” Marten shouted back.

  “What about them?”

  “What do we do if we run into them?”

  “Stay out of their way. But if you can’t, don’t speak unless spoken to. You already know that. Surely your captain has taught you the proper responses.”

  Stick muttered something unintelligible.

  “Now,” shouted the corporal. “If somebody waves to you, a civilian I mean, shoot him. If he looks sick or is crying, shoot him even faster. They’re all bastards and trying to get close enough so they can blow you and them to heaven. They’re all insane in this part of the world.”

  “What about children?” shouted Turbo.

  “They’re the worst.” The corporal thoughtfully studied the worried soldiers of Second Platoon. “I know it’s hard, and you’ll feel terrible afterward. But when you see your buddies shredded before your eyes and you’re the only one left after several days, it gets easier. So just gun them down and maybe you’ll be riding a truck someday telling others how to survive this hellhole.”

  The men absorbed his words in silence.

  “How long you been here?” asked Omi.

  “From the beginning. Okay, listen close now. When they tell you it’s the big push, they mean you gotta go over the top and storm assault a strongpoint. When they say hold, it means you’re surrounded and they can’t get any more supplies through until tomorrow. So don’t fire everything away in one burst, but start sniping. And if they tell you about how your name will go down in history, well, it’s all over for you then. Your only hope at that point is that masonry covers you in an enemy blast but doesn’t kill or cripple you—and of course that our side digs you out in several days. If it’s the enemy who digs you out.” He shrugged. “Save the last bullet for yourself is my advice. Like I said, they’re all bastards here. Oh, and don’t believe anything they told you about Suspend and revival later. That’s all crap. We’re all expendable expect for the Highborn.”