Two Space War

by Dave Grossman

  The creatures of this world seemed to have a sensitive nervous system. Happily, one hit seemed to drop their opponents most of the time, but Melville was saddened to see that the concussion of their volley dropped most of the glistening ruby and sapphire fireflies between the firing line and their opponents. If the insects weren't already dead, they were certain to be trampled by the approaching mob. In the midst of battle he was a little embarrassed to feel a twinge of sorrow at the deaths of these innocent, beautiful creatures.

  Broadax walked across the front of the line, moving to the left. Melville worked his way along the back, moving right. The marine sergeant talked quietly as she moved in front of each man. The young lieutenant did the same, placing a hand on their shoulders and calling each man by name, just as he'd done many times on the firing line in training. By the time the second volley was loaded, Broadax had worked her way back to the center.

  The light breeze was blowing in their faces, clearing the smoke of their first volley. It also began to bring with it the stench of their approaching foe, like a vast, rolling manure pile, replacing the warm, dusty scent of the dried grass. "All right lads, set yer sights for a hundred and fifty yards this time." Again her voice carried clearly. There was no need to shout yet. "Readddy, fire."

  In the fifteen seconds since the last volley, the foe had swarmed over the two hundred yard stake. Running uphill, tired, over broken ground, they were covering about fifty yards every fifteen seconds. The rangers were now at the hundred-yard mark, still maintaining a hundred-yard lead. As Broadax's ax fell, the rangers dropped, and an instant later roughly twenty-five of the foe staggered and fell. A second later the second barrels fired and claimed another twenty or more.

  The rangers were no longer firing themselves. Their goal was to get to the firing line as quickly as possible. It was likely they were very low on ammo. "Aquinar!" shouted Melville to the young midshipman behind him. "Have ammo ready for the rangers as soon as they hit the firing line."

  "Aye, sir!"

  One hundred fifty yards. "All right lads, treat this one like a hundred yards. Watch fer the rangers now. Yer making yer old sarge proud lads, yer shooting good. Readyyy, fire!" Fifty yards out the rangers hit the dirt again as her ax fell and the third volley swept the enemy ranks. Well over thirty fell, and at least another twenty-five were claimed by the second barrel. Still they came on clambering over their dead without hesitation.

  This close they could see the foe's six legs splay out as their bellies thumped the ground, raising a puff of dust. Their heads, with the mouths on top, slammed teeth-first into the ground with a small explosion of dirt. Legs (splay!), belly (thump! dust), mouth (slam! dirt).

  "Ha!" shouted old Chief Hans from the right wing. "At's the way ta make 'em eat dirt!" A roar of laughter ran down the line and an appreciative grin split Broadax's face.

  "All right, lads," Broadax said, with an admiring, gap-toothed, cigar-filled grin at her fellow NCO, "silence in the line now. Concentrate on yer loading and listen fer yer commands."

  . . . The thundering line of battle stands,

  And in the air death moans and sings;

  But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,

  And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

  The rangers put on a burst of speed and come into the line with grins on their faces. The firing line cheers. Their two dogs, grinning with doggy glee, are greeted by the three smaller ship's dogs with eager barks and rump sniffing. Aquinar hands fistfuls of paper cartridges to the rangers.

  Josiah drops to one knee, patting his dog and panting as he puts the cartridges into his ammo pouch. He looks up at the lieutenant with a feral grin strikingly similar to his dog's. "They followed me home, sir. Can ah keep 'em?" Another cheer broke from the raw throats of the firing line.

  One hundred yards. "Treat it like seventy-five yards, lads. Readyyyyyy, fire." Again, over thirty apes dropped. Legs, belly, teeth. Splay, thump, thump. Then another thirty with the second shot. Splay, thump, thump.

  These were the warriors of Westerness. They'd drilled for a lifetime for this day. In their training on high-tech worlds, they'd done this in virtual reality simulators hundreds of times. By his count their company had dropped almost two hundred of the aliens by now. By God, Melville almost did feel sorry for the poor bastards. Almost.

  At this range their attackers look like big, dingy white, six-legged versions of the little brown, eight-legged spider monkeys they'd seen high up in the branches of their own little grove of trees. Broadax bellows, "All right boys, load fast now, we're gonna get two more volleys in before we feed the bastards our bayonets!"

  Valandil calls out in his clear, ringing voice. He too is down on one knee, one arm around his dog, checking the load in his musket. From now on the two rangers will add their fire to the battle line. "Up close they will stand up on their back two legs. They are as tall as a man then. The top half of their head is all mouth, a bullet there is wasted. A bullet in the lower part of the head or the center of the chest will drop them instantly." Many in the line nod in understanding as they load their weapons.

  Sixty yards. The howling and roaring of the foe is now loud enough that Broadax has to shout to be heard out at the far ends of the line. The troops in the line are intentionally using their breathing exercises to remain calm, just as they'd been trained. They need their fine motor skill to load their weapons this last time. It took calm, steady nerves to ensure that the ramrod hit true, and to be certain they didn't fumble the little percussion caps.

  The enemy's stench would be overwhelming if sensory gating didn't shut out everything but the vital input needed to survive. The only sensory input that comes in is the sight of their enemy and, if they concentrate, the sounds of their leader's commands. Previously many took time to drop to a knee or sit as they fired. Now everyone stands. "Readyyyy, lads! Fire!" Ch-BLAM! Ch-BLAM! The foe is visibly rocked this time. Well over thirty fall to the first barrel, nearly as many to the second. Legs, belly, teeth. Splay, thump, thump. Still they came obstinately on.

  "All right now! Load quickly, lads!" The apes rear up on their back two legs, their front four legs reaching out. Three claws as long as a man's finger extend out from the end of each limb. Four equally long fangs protrude from each mouth, two top and two bottom, with lots of little teeth in between.

  A bayonet on the end of the barrel interferes with rapid loading, so Broadax had intentionally waited until now to command, "FIX BAYONETS!" She has to bellow to be heard over the foe's eerie roars, her cigar in one hand and her ax in the other. Earlier the line had concentrated their fire at the enemy formation's flanks in order to avoid the rangers. This gave the center slightly less attention. Now the enemy formation, if you could grant that term to this mob, is in a loose wedge shape, aimed straight at the center of the line. Melville and his tiny reserve stand behind the line, ready to reinforce the center.

  The blackbirds sing to him, "Brother, brother,

  If this be the last song you shall sing,

  Sing well, for you may not sing another;

  Brother, sing."

  Melville felt a surge of joy and elation. He knew in his heart that this could well be his "last song," and he was determined to sing well indeed.

  The leading wave was barely five yards out. Melville saw that they stood approximately man high as they reared up like this. Broadax now slipped in behind the line, joining the reserve. This was the point where bravery turned into stupidity if you stayed out front, to be caught between a seemingly irresistible force and a hopefully immovable object.

  "FIRE!!!"

  "Ch-BLAM! Ch-BLAM!" At point-blank range seventy-six minié balls cut through the enemy mass. Some of those in the lead were each hit several times, but that wasteful redundancy was balanced out by the fact that many bullets punched straight through the upraised chest of the first target and dropped yet another immediately behind.

  Now that they were reared up on their hind legs, the apes died differently. In
death all six legs still splayed out, but their torso, head and gaping mouth lunged up and out in an arc that landed many of them, teeth first, with a thump at the marines' feet, gouging out a divot of parched sod with their mouths. In two cases they sunk their teeth into trees marines were using for cover. The carcasses hung there in death, imbedded into the thick gray bark by their fangs. In many cases they landed close enough that men had to scramble out of their way, creating breaks and disruptions in what should have been a solid fence of gleaming bayonets.

  The roaring, raging foe paused for a split second in response to the noise and shock of the final volley, and then they lunged into the center of the line. Suddenly they were in the line, swirling and twisting in flashes of white fur, red jackets, lunging yellow teeth and gleaming bayonets.

  Here a marine's mouth and jaw disappears in a smear of white bone and red blood as an ape's claw connects. There another marine is disemboweled by a blow, viscera and blood coming out and up in an arc of gray, brown and red.

  Now it's the reserve's turn to contribute to the battle. Melville held a double-barreled pistol in each hand. So did his purser, Petreckski, and the three midshipmen.

  An ape loomed before him. Melville snapped into "slow-motion time" and hunter vision. Every event happened slowly and with incredible clarity. It seemed to take forever to swing the weapon up to eye level. "____!" He fired the pistol in his right hand. It flashed and created a puff of smoke, but he didn't hear a sound or feel the recoil. The ape spasmed forward in its death dive, but it seemed like there was all the time in the world to step aside.

  As early as the twenty-first century, Dr. Alexis Artwohl's research found that eight out of ten of all law enforcement officers in gunfights experienced this diminished sound effect. Seven out of ten had heightened visual clarity, and six out of ten experienced slow-motion time. In the five centuries since, every warrior has been taught about this, and these powerful survival responses have been nurtured and encouraged. Melville had wondered if it would happen to him, and now here it was.

  On his left a marine went down and a dog placed itself over the body. Again it seemed to take forever to swing and aim. "____!," Melville fired the second barrel of his right pistol, dropping the ape and giving the marine a split second gap to recover. Again, he saw the flash and smoke, but didn't hear the sound or feel the gun buck in his hand.

  Like a predator in nature, he didn't hear his own "roar," he tuned out the distracting sounds of the "herd," and saw everything his "prey" and his "pack" did with vivid clarity.

  Directly in front a marine went down with an ape on his back. "____!," "____!," Melville fired both barrels of his left pistol. In the turmoil he missed the first time, but the other ball went true. The beast on the marine's back suddenly went limp, giving the man a few seconds to scramble out of the melee and then stagger back into the line.

  His midshipmen were still boys in every sense of the word, but they were very well trained boys. They were products of state-of-the-art training and the finest combat simulators that high-tech worlds could provide. In this melee they were definitely holding their own. Melville caught a flash of little Aquinar standing on tiptoes to shove his pistol into the mouth of an ape that had all four upper limbs wrapped around a marine. The thrust of the pistol was all that stopped the ape from biting off the marine's face. "Ch-blam!, ch-blam!" The sound was muffled by the ape's mouth as a spray of gray brains and red blood fountained out the back of the beast's head.

  Funny, he'd heard these shots. He knew that the diminished sound or "auditory exclusion" worked like that sometimes. You shut out your own "roar" but not others'.

  In a few seconds the reserve fired twenty shots. But the real bulwark, the seawall on which the filthy white tide raged futilely, was Sergeant Broadax and her twenty pounds of double-bladed battle-ax, and the two rangers with their dogs. She's singing, thought Melville in wonder as he watched the Dwarrowdelf. She is actually singing. Lo! She sang as she slew, for the joy of battle was on her, and the sound of her singing was fair and terrible. I wonder how she does it with that cigar in her mouth?

  Her ax flashed in arcs of red, fountains of red, as she planted her mighty thews and hacked the heads from lunging apes, as a master swordsman might flick the buds from a rosebush in idle practice in his garden. She scorned to even notice the arms and claws of her foes, striking every time for the head. Her iron helm and splaying locks were splashed with red. Her red jacket was soon torn to shreds, displaying her lingerie of finest Dwarrowdelf mail underneath.

  Hers was a race of delvers, mining deep into the hearts of high-gee worlds for heavy metals. Even after long years of service to the Crown of Westerness her face wasn't well suited to endure direct sunlight. She was already red with sunburn and now her face glowed as bright as her cigar tip with exertion as the battle fury of her forefathers ran like fire in her veins.

  This is what she'd hoped for when she abandoned her people to be the first Dwarrowdelf to enlist in the Marine Corps of Westerness. As a female, her own society wouldn't allow her to be a warrior. They wanted to deny her the glory of battle, but now she was in her element. There was no regret for turning her back on her people and her culture to fight as a mercenary for some distant kingdom. This is what she was born for.

  The two rangers and their dogs worked as a team, like the four fingers of a hand, reinforcing, supporting, assisting, and always, always attacking. These fell-handed warriors were indeed the "glory of the race of rangers." Truly "matchless" in every endeavor.

  Valandil worked high, his height and reach giving the Sylvan an unmatched ability to deflect all blows from the beasts' upper limbs. He thrust his blade into the necks and open mouths of the approaching beasts with uncanny accuracy. Josiah took the center, deflecting blows from the middle limbs, and thrusting with great strength and power to the chest and gut. The dogs went low, biting and snapping at feet and knees. These dogs were larger and stronger than the ship's dogs and with one chomp they could hamstring any ape they caught from the rear, to bring them crashing down with limbs flailing.

  For one brief moment Melville had a chance to observe this masterful team at work. Three apes came at them simultaneously. Valandil blocked an ape's overhand blow with his sword edge. The ape's "hand" flew off. The ranger's sword swept forward and down in a red blur, cleaving the head off at the neck. Josiah blocked a reaching claw with the flat of his blade. He used the impact to bounce his sword point over and in, to punch into the beast's chest. One dog feigned at an ape's knee. The beast turned to face this danger and exposed the hamstring at the back of its opposite leg to the rangers' other dog. With an audible "Crunch!" of jaws the hamstring was ripped out in a mass of white tendons and red blood. The ape plunged to the ground. In the blink of an eye, three foes were down.

  The team of Dwarrowdelf, rangers and dogs held the center, forming a living barricade, a reef of steel, flesh and fang that the stinking white wave of apes smashed into in futile fury. Around them, others also helped to stem the tide.

  . . . And when the burning moment breaks,

  And all things else are out of mind,

  And only joy of battle takes

  Him by the throat, and makes him blind.

  Melville held his sword in his right hand. The swords of those who sail in Flatland were all straight, since the corrosive influence of that strange realm played the devil with curved surfaces. The influence of two-space also helped to keep their weapons deadly sharp. Melville didn't remember drawing his sword. He'd tossed his pistols to the midshipmen for reloading, but he didn't remember doing that either.

  He was in the thick of battle now. Countless years of practice made every thrust and stroke go true without thought. Pistolcraft is a conscious skill, even at close range. Selecting, aiming and dropping a target takes careful control. But swordcraft is an unconscious skill. The hand has to move before the mind even thinks. Here again slow motion time and visual clarity kick in at odd moments.

  Danger! Parry
, thrust! His sword blade magically appears in a beast's mouth. Without conscious thought it flicks back. With exquisite clarity he watches the sword tip slowly draw back a viscous strand of red. Danger! Parry, thrust. Again his blade magically impales an ape's exposed chest and flicks back. Stimulus, response. Stimulus, response.

  Here Petreckski, the purser, also made his mark. In the ordinary course of duty his job was to find whatever was of value as potential cargo at every stop. He was expected to be a master of many fields. Passengers, gems, creatures (and parts thereof), plants (and parts thereof), technology, writings, music, exotic food and spices, artwork, alien archeology and many others were all his responsibility.

  His job was to survive and thrive anywhere, in the markets or wilds of any world. He was seminary trained, a monk, complete with brown robe and bad haircut. He was virtually useless with a rifle, but for personal defense he'd been trained extensively in mid- and high-tech close-range weapons, to include pistol- and sword-craft.

  Petreckski wasn't a strong man. Most of his development was in his mind, and he carried a few too many pounds on him. His sword slashes held little power, but his thrusts were precise and deadly. He was surprisingly nimble on his feet, and he danced in and out on the edge of the fray, placing a fusillade, a blur of sword thrusts into exactly the right spot while others held their opponents' attention. Like a huge sewing machine needle, his sword flicked out, deep into an ape's eye, and then back so quickly it seemed to pull back a strand of red with it. The red sword tip flashed back out again while the old strand still hung in the air, seeming to form a red cobweb of death.