Star Soldier

by Vaughn Heppner

  “They’ve never used Doom Stars this near Earth,” said Hawthorne.

  “What are they doing here?” muttered a staff officer.

  “We’ve been tricked,” said another.

  “They’re deep space vessels,” Commander Shell said. “Caught in Earth’s gravity they’ll be easy prey for us.” He frowned at the screen, at the mass of orbital fighters that were spewed from the two Doom Stars. “How many orbitals do they hold?”

  “I thought we destroyed the bulk of them at their stations,” an appalled staff officer whispered.

  “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.

  “Patheti
c 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!”