Two Space War Part 3

In the center, where the final volley caused dying opponents to lunge into the line, there were gaps in the hedge of bayonets. Gaps which the enemy exploited. With deployment of the small reserve, at great cost of life and limb, and with a little help from above, the center of the line was stabilized.

Throughout history a hedge of spears or bayonets could generally be counted on to stop a cavalry charge. It's widely believed that no horse ever intentionally charged into a hedge of sharp objects, no matter how badly their riders might desire otherwise. Upon occasion a wounded or dying horse might crash into a line, creating a gap that could be exploited, but it is likely that no healthy horse ever willingly flung itself on a bayonet. The warriors of Westerness hoped the attacking apes would react the same, and they did.

Other than the fluke of creating a gap in the line with a dying horse, the primary way cavalry can defeat infantry is to use their superior mobility to swing around the line. This is what happened on the left flank.

The wings swung back according to plan, precisely as they'd rehea.r.s.ed it. All battle movements were best rehea.r.s.ed ahead of time. Even if you had only a short time to prepare, the one thing you always tried to find time for was rehearsing "actions on the objective." And Broadax had days to prepare the defense of this hill.

A navy petty officer and a marine corporal fell back behind each wing to control the movement. On the right, the west wing, Chief Hans kept everything perfectly under control. However, on the left end the line of warriors hesitated for an instant as it pulled back, and a swarm of reeking white apes poured around them. The apes swirled around the flank and over the Pier, like a flurry of snow around the end of a fence.

Private Jarvis was the last marine on the left flank. After him, the line was held by sailors. He had rehea.r.s.ed this in simulators, but this was no simulation. Simulations could do a lot, but if he lived through this he'd be a real veteran.

His training failed him as the apes began to swirl around the left wing. He forgot to control his breathing. His heart pounded in his chest. He was "ham fisted" and clumsy as he tried to load his musket. Then the battle became a swirling maelstrom of white fur, and red and blue jackets.

Jarvis' tunnel vision was focused down to a "soda straw" as he thrust his bayonet at the ape in front of him. He didn't hear a sound. Cut off, he and the sailors to his left fought back-to-back. He didn't feel the ape's claws rake his shoulder, and he wasn't even aware of it when he wet himself and messed himself.

The only thing that saved Jarvis, and most of his comrades, was the fact that fewer apes were out on the flanks. Once a gap was created most of them ignored the warriors of Westerness and charged straight into the center of the perimeter. Some climbed the trees, where they died at the hands of their tiny cousins. A large group swung all the way around and reached the Pier, where the cutter, Lady Elphinstone and her helpless patient waited.

In the bowels of the beached cutter was Lady Elphinstone, their aid station, and their remaining water. Petreckski became aware of the threat when he heard Elphinstone's two small, single-barreled pistols fire to their rear. In a flash Petreckski turned, sheathed his blade, and picked up two freshly loaded pistols. The mids.h.i.+pmen had just finished ramming a paper cartridge down each barrel, c.o.c.king the two hammers and putting two percussion caps in place. He shouted to the middies, "Grab all the pistols! Follow me!"

Cutting through the woods he quickly got a line of fire to the cutter. From here it was still a fairly long pistol shot, perhaps twenty yards. At the east entrance to the cutter two apes had already been dropped by Elphinstone, but at least one other was inside the cutter where Petreckski couldn't get a clear shot at it.

Inside the cutter Lady Elphinstone knelt beside her only patient. He was Glyn Ramano, an unlucky sailor whose chest was crushed in their initial crash landing into this world. Fortunately, none of the wounded on the battle line had been brought back to the aid station yet. Elphinstone's two small pistols dropped the first two apes as they approached the eastern entrance, but now she held only a dagger as yet another came at her.

The s.h.i.+p's cat, perched on a beam above the intruder, launched himself at the ape. Landing on the beast's back, the cat scrambled around the neck to the left, beneath the slavering jaws on top of the head, sinking claws and fangs into the left eye as it peered out from behind the breast bone. Each facet of the compound eye burst wherever claw or fang pierced it, spraying a milky white fluid.

With a howl of rage the beast reached up with its two topmost arms and one additional left arm to impale the cat. "Mwrrarw!!" The cat squalled in pain and death.

Elphinstone lunged. Quick as lightning her right hand sunk the dagger under the creature's lower left armpit and she felt fetid air escape from its lung. "That should let some of the wind out of ye!" she shouted. She was slammed backward by the impact as the beast came forward to stand over her helpless patient. Almost casually, each of the two limbs on the ground pierced Ramano as he lay helpless.

Two legs were imbedded in the dying sailor, three were impaled in the cat. The beast's remaining arm slashed at her, but the Sylvan healer ducked under the blow and crouched back. There was escape available out the other side but she wouldn't take it, not while there was any hope that her patient might be saved.

She held her b.l.o.o.d.y dagger as the beast swayed, then the head lunged forward in a last, spasmodic death dive, jaws open wide. She leapt to the side and the ape's teeth sank into the cutter's timber. Outside a ma.s.s of other apes fought to enter the narrow way.

Petreckski stands holding a pistol in a two-handed grip. The monk's left foot and left shoulder are slightly forward. The enemy is cl.u.s.tered around the narrow east entry to the cutter, literally fighting to get in. He permits tunnel vision to set in. All that matters in all the world is the entrance to the cutter, the ape closest to it, and the sights of his pistol.

"____!," "____!," both barrels fire, the lead two apes drop, but he hears nothing. Vision is the only sense required here, and his mind tunes out all other sensory input. Without forward momentum the apes die with a sudden splay of all six limbs, then collapse into a heap of stinking white fur.

Both of Petreckski's hands reach back. He drops the empty pistol from the left hand. A clever middy slaps a fresh pistol into his empty right hand.

Roughly twenty yards range. Each shot has to be carefully aimed from this distance. At very close ranges most modern warriors were taught to use "point" shooting. Look through the weapon, point and shoot. The physiological arousal of close combat often makes the eye incapable of focusing on any close-in objects, like pistol sights. This loss of near vision makes point shooting a viable alternative at very close ranges, if it is practiced long and hard enough.

But bullets are not magic. They don't hit their targets by themselves. The inverse square law applies, and the odds of missing your opponent increase exponentially as you move away from the target. At twenty yards the chance of making a kill with a hasty, unaimed shot is tiny. Remote. Miniscule. At this range it was vital that he take his time and . . . aiiimmm.

The key is to focus the eye on the front sight. Whatever the eye focuses on, consciously and unconsciously that is what your fine motor muscles will work to stabilize. Everyone has baited hooks, threaded needles, and cut with steak knives. Each time we focused our eyes on the end of the tool, and that was what we held steady. On a pistol the vital thing is to hold the front sight steady and on the target. If you do that, everything else will follow.

Petreckski was firing a SIG pistol, which was standard issue for the Westerness Navy. He'd been lucky enough to actually train at the SIGArms Monastery, under the supervision of Father "Bang" Miller and Brother Johan Pederson. Petreckski was a faithful servant of his G.o.d. As faithful as any flawed, fallen human can be. But Father Miller taught him that G.o.d would forgive him if, just for a moment, he wors.h.i.+pped at the Holy Church of the Front Sight. The alternative was the Discount House of Wors.h.i.+p: pull, point, and pray. Petreckski was certain that G.o.d could do anything He chooses, but He most often chooses to bless those who practice and prepare.

The other part of the combat marksmans.h.i.+p equation was even older than the Church of the Front Sight. It was, "aim small, miss small." You must pick the smallest aim point you can discern. You don't aim for the ape, you aim for a specific spot on the ape, like the yellowish patch of fur under his armpit. That way even if you miss your mark by a little, you'll still hit your foe.

The front sight, a simple blade placed on the end of the barrel, comes into focus, superimposed over the white ape's armpit, which is out of focus. Every scratch, every mark on the little sight is in perfect focus. Two-handed grip. Breathe . . . front sight . . . squeeeeze . . . "____!" Don't wait for the target to drop, don't look at the falling foe, go on to the next. Pick your mark, front sight . . . squeeze . . . "____!" The middies look on in wonder as two more apes splay and drop.

Hand the empty pistol back with the left hand where it is s.n.a.t.c.hed away to reload. Breathe. Simultaneously reach back with the right and a middy slaps a new pistol, c.o.c.ked and ready, into his hand. Front sight . . . "____!" Front sight . . . "____!" Each time the lead ape falls. And again. And again. "Front sight, front sight," is his mantra. If he loses concentration and focuses on his target, he'll miss, and Elphinstone surely will die. The middies reload feverishly. Finally there are no loaded pistols left to slap into his hand.

Petreckski has fired twenty-four shots in as many seconds, and twenty-four apes join the two already outside the cutter. A swirl of red and blue jackets swarm over white fur. A flash of bayonets and swords, and the few remaining apes fall. Petreckski stands confused and dazed. He has been concentrating with superhuman intensity and when all his targets are gone he isn't sure what to do.

Suddenly, there is silence. No foe is left alive. The battle is over.

Lieutenant Melville looked out at the carnage. Heaps of reeking white fur were everywhere. He was stunned to realize that the battle didn't end until the last ape died. In real life no enemy ever fought to the end. A few always turned and ran, or surrendered, or committed ma.s.s suicide when defeat was imminent. Here was something truly different.

In the silence, Private Jarvis stood, dazed and staggering, clutching a bleeding shoulder with his hand. He looked with wide-eyed wonder at Sergeant Broadax and said, "Dear G.o.d, Sarge, they was brave."

"Aye, maybe they was, lad," answered Broadax. "Maybe. But as the great Dwarrowdelf general, Gzagk Pazton once said, 'Untutored courage is useless in the face of educated bullets.'"

Their victory was bitter bought. Six dead, eleven seriously wounded. He'd begun the battle with forty warriors, forty-four counting Elphinstone and the mids.h.i.+pmen. Now over a third of his men were dead or disabled. Not to mention over half his dogs and his one cat! And it had been so close, so very close.

Uninvited, a little ditty came to mind: I never shall forget the way

That Blood upon this awful day

Preserved us all from death.

He stood upon a little mound,

Cast his lethargic eyes around,

And said beneath his breath:

"Whatever happens we have got

The Maxim Gun, and they have not."

Well, they didn't have Mr. Maxim's machine gun of yore. Its complex mechanisms wouldn't last an hour in two-s.p.a.ce. But they did have "educated bullets," Westerness' finest double-barreled rifled muskets, and a company of stalwart hearts with steady hands that could load and fire four volleys a minute as they "stood upon their little mound." And that was sufficient unto the day.

Chapter the 3rd.

Monkeys: Kindness in Another's Trouble Question not, but live and labour Till yon goal be won, Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none; Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone, Kindness in another's trouble, Courage in your own.

"Man's Testament"

Adam Lindsay Gordon

> thought Lieutenant Melville as he rested in the stifling heat and reeking stench. It was midafternoon, barely three hours after their battle. He was on the Pier, leaning back against the Keel. From here he could observe the east side of their beached cutter, and the odd behavior of Mids.h.i.+pman Aquinar.

> replied Swish-tail, > The tap to their water barrel was above and slightly to the other side of where Aquinar was crawling. So the little middy couldn't be after their precious supply of water, which was barely enough to last another few weeks with careful rationing.

After the punishment Melville had administered to him for wasting water, and the boy's sincere repentance and remorse, Melville felt certain that young Mids.h.i.+pman Garth Aquinar would never again waste a drop of water. The day that the boy had spent without water was hard, but in the end it taught him a lesson that every sailor must learn. In the end it would be good for him. That is, if they lived through this. If their long overdue mothers.h.i.+p ever came to rescue them.

Four times now Aquinar had made his little trip. His sailcloth pants and white cotton s.h.i.+rt made Melville think of the little middy as a dirty white moth, flitting quickly from the woods to the bones of the cutter. Then he moved slowly, ever so slowly back to the trees, like a grubby white inchworm.

Except for his one embarra.s.sing slash on the b.u.t.tock, Melville hadn't been hit in the battle, even though he was in the thick of it throughout. Yet his body ached from exertion, as though he'd been used as a punching bag by a whole family of six-legged apes. As though papa, mama, and little baby ape had all given him six licks each.

What does it matter what some little boy is doing? thought Melville. We are going to die here. Our linkup with Kestrel is over a week late. We're almost out of water. Over a third of my company is dead or wounded.

> replied Swish-tail, indignantly. Melville hadn't meant to communicate that thought to his s.h.i.+p, but when they were in physical contact like this he couldn't help but share his thoughts. > she added, with the pure, strong faith of a child in its parent. He felt the simple confidence of his s.h.i.+p flowing through him, strengthening him Like the boy he was watching, Melville had an irrepressible, cheerful spirit. He possessed a few gifts that were unfolding in a satisfying manner. The voice of command and authority, something that many leaders never develop, was coming early for him. He had a knack for poetry that often provided the right Words at the moment of truth, and he had the ability to communicate them well. He was a natural at tactics and military history, and he was very good with a sword and a pistol. But perhaps his most important gift was his ability to live intensely in the present.

Most people live their lives in antic.i.p.ation and dread of the future. Or they desperately cling to the past. They spend most of their energy thinking and worrying about what happens next or what just happened. The only time they really deal with what is happening now, is when they look back on it. And because of this, most people learn how to fear, dreading the future instead of living in the present.

Perhaps it was because he wasn't like this, because he lived so intensely in the present, that Melville was generally fearless. It was really nothing special. Most dogs can do it. That's why they're usually happy, and often so full of joy and glee. They never had to deal with the whole human angst business. Melville felt that people could learn a lot from dogs. They seemed to have things better worked out, dogs.

So it was that Melville didn't need hope, as long as despair could be postponed. Like little Aquinar he was ever curious, and usually able to find the energy to satisfy that curiosity. Swish-tail's encouragement was all he needed to indulge his curiosity and postpone his despair. And so he resolved to solve this mystery. In doing so he was to witness something near unto a miracle, and open a door that would save their lives and turn the tide of future events, both great and small.

The little company slept, as best they could, through the stifling dry heat of midafternoon. The boy was in the bowels of the cutter. Melville knew from past observation that he would stay there for quite a long time, so he took this opportunity to move to a better position to observe the boy's movement. The slender young lieutenant was sitting cross-legged and he rose straight up, scissoring his legs up with the unthinking ease of youth. Then he moved into the trees to get a better view. Except for the pickets and the medical personnel, Melville and Aquinar were the only ones who moved amidst the gray boles of the emerald green trees.

From here Melville could only see the boy's back, as he returned from the cutter. He appeared to be walking with great care, and then he disappeared into the woods. Minutes later he came running out to the cutter again, scrambling over the heap of apes that Petreckski had shot, oblivious to the stench and heat, to enter into the narrow gap on the east side.

Again Melville moved to another tree, where he could see the little middy's destination. Again, with a slow, careful stride, the boy returned to the woods. This time Melville could see that he held his cupped right hand tight against his belly, apparently to stabilize it. Finally it dawned upon him that the boy had water in his hand. A few, a precious few drops of water.

Melville understood where the water must have come from. There's always a little natural seepage from between the slats of a s.h.i.+p's wooden water barrel. Their crash landing on this world probably had sprung the joints of the barrel even further. The boy crawled under the back end of the barrel, and carefully, patiently caught the slow drops as they fell.

Precious few drops, but enough, perhaps, to moisten the lips of an injured man. Melville thought of their wounded, sweltering in the heat, and he felt a slow anger begin to burn within. But he didn't interfere just yet. He wanted to see what this young miscreant, this insect, this worm was doing with the water.

As he leaned around the tree to observe the middy's final destination, Melville was suddenly stunned by what he saw. A small opening, a gray bowl formed by the great trunks of several trees was now exposed to his view. Within that bowl were dozens, no, scores of little fawn-colored, eight-legged spider monkeys. They clung from the trees, they rested on the ground, and they observed from the branches above. Now that he looked more closely, Melville saw that there were hundreds, perhaps thousands more watching from the branches high above.

He remembered how those spider monkeys had dealt with the apes that trespa.s.sed into their territory. He remembered the apes' body parts raining down from the trees and he suddenly felt fear for the little mids.h.i.+pman, for Aquinar now knelt in the midst of this furry brown throng.

But the little monkeys didn't threaten him. They didn't even move as the boy knelt down beside a tiny, dappled brown spider monkey. They simply watched, with rapt attention.

Melville moved closer. Mesmerized, he stumbled to the edge of the bowl. He could see that the baby monkey, little bigger than the palm of his hand, lay helpless on the ground, panting with dehydration. With a great effort the little head, no bigger than a baby's fist, raised up to slowly lap the precious drops cupped in the boy's hand. When every drop of moisture was licked from his hand the boy stood carefully up, and came face to face with the lieutenant.

His little eyes began to fill with tears. "I . . . I wasn't wasting it, sir. Honest, I wasn't. They," here he gestured at the many monkeys who solemnly watched from within arm's reach, " . . . they're our friends. They helped us. Lots of them died to help us. I know how it feels to be thirsty, sir, and now . . . now he's dying . . . an' . . . and he needs our help."

The lieutenant had trouble finding words and his throat grew tight. "Very well," he croaked, nodding. "Carry on." He stepped carefully back to let the boy pa.s.s.

The boy began to walk back to the cutter. As he went, Melville walked beside him wrapping an arm around his shoulders. The boy's shoulders still shuddered with sobs. Melville guided him around to the west side of the cutter, through the wounded, to the front of the water barrel. There the young lieutenant drew a cup of water.

Beside him the other mids.h.i.+pmen, perpetually hungry, were gnawing on s.h.i.+p's biscuits and discussing the advisability and practicality of cooking "monkey meat." "Them apes clearly aren't sentient," Archer was saying, "and there's nothing wrong with eating something that tries to eat you. 'S only fair . . ."

"Mister Archer," said Melville.

"Aye, sir?"

"Mister Aquinar has discovered that there is a very slow leak coming from the underside of the water cask. Get something down there to catch any water, and be sure it's put to good use."

"Aye, sir."

"Lieutenant Melville?" Lady Elphinstone asked softly as she walked over.

Melville turned to the Sylvan healer. Her green sash on her yellow gown emphasized her likeness to a lovely flower, but now she was a yellow flower that had stood upon the field of battle. A flower much splattered with blood. "Yes my lady?"

"Josiah's dog is dead. We could not save him."

Melville felt crushed by the loss. He felt so foolish. Six men had died, yet somehow the loss of this n.o.ble dog was almost too much to bear. He felt shamed and confused by the tears that welled in his eyes. He didn't want his men to see him weep but there was no choice. He must do his duty and offer his condolences, even if his tears shamed him. Not to do his duty would be a far greater shame.

"Thank you, my lady." He turned to where the two rangers knelt upon the ground. Josiah was stroking the gray fur of his dog's corpse. Valandil's dog lay next to the Sylvan ranger. Her black fur was streaked with gold, her ears large and erect. She looked up at Melville with intelligent brown eyes, head c.o.c.ked slightly to the side. He walked to them and dropped to one knee. Great pain and loss could be seen in their weary faces.

"I'm truly sorry for your loss," he said, looking at Josiah.

Josiah turned to him with a sad smile. "Well, he knew the job was dangerous when he took it."

It was the ranger's way to make jest of grave events. Melville grinned appreciatively through his tears. He placed a hand on the shoulder of Josiah's dog, and said his benediction. Like Josiah's jest it was his way, and it was all he had to give.

" . . . The burning sun no more shall heat,

Nor rainy storms on him shall beat;

The bryars and thornes no more shall scratch,