There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Lemme alone,” Wendell thought in a snarl. He brought his chaotic squads into reasonable order, trying to use Terri’s more successful units as a buttress. She recognized the effort and helped with a long, sweeping charge which momentarily broke the enemy’s pressure. The battle, made up of charges and sudden wheeling flights to regroup and charge again, rolled over wide areas of terrain, always moving. Lathered horses whinnied and screamed in the distant edges of Wendell’s attention.

  “Stop trying defense,” Richard said angrily. “Cavalry is an offensive weapon, you know that. Take—”

  “Shut up,” Wendell thought. He took two good swipes at the enemy flank, but then a concerted enemy charge separated him completely from Terri. A second later he was in full retreat.

  “Satisfied?” Richard growled. Terri’s force quickly collapsed under the undiluted assault from the other side. Still, her facility with this command remained obvious, even in defeat.

  “Victory Conditions, Mamluk Egypt,” came on the screen. The elapsed time was remarkably short, even for this kind of battle. All four players audibly relaxed and leaned back, their faces bathed in the phospher sheen of their screens.

  Wendell smiled weakly at Terri, who shrugged. He flexed his fingers and looked at the frozen screen, feeling anger rise inside him. Yet Richard had clearly been right in his advice. Well, after a short break, they would go at it again. Silence reigned in his mind, as neither he nor Richard would speak.

  “Tell me,” said Terri, smiling over the short candle between them. “Did you invite me out to dinner just to make up for that first loss this morning?” The yellow light flickered over her smooth cheeks. “You really didn’t need to.”

  Wendell smiled shyly and stared into his empty bowl. “Oh, I dunno. I just felt like I should acknowledge it as my fault.”

  “You fool,” said Richard.

  Wendell tried to ignore him. He had not been in this sort of social situation before, with Richard. “Anyway, that type of fighting has always come hard for me.”

  Terri nodded. Her dark hair was almost lost in the dimness of the restaurant, but the candlelight shimmered on the curls around her face. “You’re extremely tough defensively. The cavalry-to-cavalry attack just doesn’t offer a stationary unit to work from.”

  “After this morning, I’m certain I’ve been lucky never to have fought Ain Jalut in a match. I did even worse than the real commander, and he lost badly.”

  “You’re not kidding,” said Richard. ‘Very lucky.”

  “I was the commander today, don’t forget.” Terri laughed. “If you had fought a match, you would have been playing solo, and that’s much easier. I’m serious about your defensive instincts, though. We just have to mesh our abilities better.”

  “Oh, I agree.” Wendell leaned an elbow on the table, then changed his mind and took it off. “You think on your feet very well—adapt and respond while in motion.”

  Terri laughed again. “That comes from growing up in Queens—it’s my New York paranoia showing.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know where you were from.”

  “I left there quite a few years ago. Where are you from?”

  “Right here—born and raised.”

  “Me, too,” said Richard in a snide tone.

  “Shut up,” Wendell thought to him.

  “Really?” said Terri.

  “What?” Wendell blinked, in confusion.

  Terri laughed and cocked her head to one side, studying him. “Aren’t you paying attention? What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Yeah. Tell her what’s the matter, why don’t you?”

  “Stop it,” Wendell thought back angrily, clenching his teeth.

  “Wendell? Are you all right?” Terri brushed the curls from her eyes, frowning.

  “Yes, I’m okay. Sorry.” Wendell took a deep breath and tried to smile at her.

  “Getting kind of crowded here, isn’t it?”

  Wendell controlled himself with tremendous effort. He could feel himself quivering. “It certainly is,” he replied in his mind.

  “No more personal questions,” said Terri. “I promise.”

  “Oh—no, it’s not, uh, not that, I—

  “That’s all right. I wanted to tell you more about Ain Jalut, anyway.”

  “You don’t need to, it’s okay.” Wendell had been hoping for more personal questions, really.

  “It’s just that when we fought Zama and Doryleum, you used your cavalry very effectively against me. Ain Jalut was just a certain kind of problem. And now I’ll change the subject.”

  Wendell laughed. “All right. But you routed my cavalry at Zama—don’t deny it.”

  “Oh, all right.” Terri paused to take a drink of water. “But talking about different kinds of battles, weren’t you one of the ones playing when Master Cohn’s practical joke appeared in a match?”

  “Ha! I sure was.” Wendell grinned. “He paid for it, though—a year’s suspension, just for inserting a Moopsball program into the game banks.”

  “That must have been quite a shock, when you were all primed for a serious match.”

  “Yeah, but to tell you the truth, I would have been just as happy to go ahead and play.” Wendell made a grim face and drummed on the table as though it were a keyboard.

  “I think I would, too.” Terri smiled looking into the candle, and her teeth flashed white in the flickering light. “We’re more alike than you think.”

  “Uh… you think?” Wendell blinked again and met her eyes. They were bright blue, with a corona of yellow streaks radiating from the pupils. His felt bloodshot, and he chuckled at making the comparison.

  “What’s so funny, huh?”

  “I’m just having a good time. Would you like any dessert?”

  “Naw—too fattening.”

  She excused herself, and the candle flame fluttered as she rose. Wendell sat back and watched her go.

  Late one afternoon, they strolled through the Crown Center shops, unwinding from a hard-fought practice victory over Ferghana by Han Dynasty China in 102 B.C. Exhilaration had leveled off to a general simmer of satisfaction. Their teamwork was beginning to jell.

  Terri stopped in front of a window that held a back-to-school display. Pencils and notebooks were strewn all over the green carpet, while two giant cardboard children grinned ferociously in the background, marching arm-in-arm. They were wearing matching red plaid outfits, and clean white shirts.

  “Ugly kids,” said Terri. “Their heads are too big.”

  “You suppose those plaids are anything?” Wendell frowned at them, trying to remember if they were familiar.

  “Oh, I doubt they’re tartans. Probably just ordinary, modern plaids.”

  The next window offered rows and rows of handmade ceramics. Most of them were variations of brown and gray, for the coming fall.

  “Ferghana,” said Terri. “The T’ang Dynasty horses, that were immortalized in ceramic work.”

  “Same color,” Wendell agreed. He shook his head. “I wonder what knowing all this is good for.”

  “It’s good for a Master,” said Terri. “Not for much else, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I guess I’m just feeling futile these days. Too much practicing, probably.”

  Terri looked at him. “You almost quit once, didn’t you? A long time ago. I heard about it.”

  Wendell nodded. “A long time ago.” After the experience with Richard and the disastrous helmets.

  “He’s still in a coma, isn’t he? Your friend?”

  “Yeah.” Wendell looked at the floor. Richard’s collapse had been big news, back when it had happened.

  Terri pursed her lips, seeing that she had touched on a bad subject. She started to move on, then stopped.

  Wendell was nodding to himself, staring at a brown pottery teapot. It seemed to have a faint Japanese flavor in its glazed design, but that might be an accident. “You ever consider quitting the Guild?” he asked abruptl
y, putting the thought into words before he had a chance to reconsider.

  Terri looked up in surprise. “No, never. I mean until I have to on account of age, of course. Why, do you? Now?”

  “Yeah, often—that is, whenever I win. I guess today it’s from winning in practice session. I could never quit after losing; it’d have to be a victory.”

  Terri cocked her head to one side. “I see.”

  “Doesn’t it ever seem odd that we keep reliving other people’s lives, and killing them over and over? It’s all such total fantasy. And kind of disrespectful to them.”

  Terri nodded. “Of course. It’s just a game. Gaming Masters are some of the craziest fantasizers around. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No,” Wendell said slowly. “Maybe not to me. I knew it was true for me, but I guess I didn’t think about how anyone else thought of it. It is disrespectful, though, don’t you think? Kind of arrogant.”

  “We’re all crazy that way. That doesn’t mean it’s serious.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Wendell rocked on his heels, surveying the ceramics to avoid her eyes.

  Terri slid her thumb under the strap of her shoulderbag and hoisted it. “Are you really serious about quitting?”

  Wendell shrugged, still looking away. “I think if we score a victory, it’ll be a good time. I’ll be leaving at a sort of peak.”

  “I see.” She studied him for a moment. “Well, you’ve been at this for a while longer than I have. I suppose, well, if you’re sure you’ve had enough.”

  “I’m also afraid not to quit after a good victory—what if it’s the last one, and I pass up the chance? I might have to go out in defeat, if I’m not careful.” He glanced at her, sort of sideways.

  Other doubts remained unspoken. If Richard was the best Master, and he advised Wendell, then was Wendell really any good at all? Would he win without Richard, the twenty-year-old prodigy? Or go down the drain?

  Terri was silent a moment. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, Master Wei. We’ll make this a huge victory, and send you out in style. All right?”

  Wendell smiled self-consciously. “Uh, all right.” He cleared his throat and glanced at the store window once more as they moved on.

  “All right,” said Richard.

  As the practice sessions progressed, one pattern became clear. The team could not work properly as a trio, not indefinitely, not even if Richard was the top of the field. The certainty grew in Wendell’s mind that the official match itself would climax the entire situation. He suspected that Richard was somehow communicating the fact on a non-verbal level, but whatever the source, he accepted it. They conducted practice sessions with a grave civility between them which was more tense and calmly angry than even the silence, which now characterized nearly all the rest of the time.

  Wendell’s friendship with Terri bloomed quickly, watered by the familiar wasting of electronic blood. For the first time, now, he became less afraid that Richard’s presence had been seriously warping his perceptions and relations with other people. Richard meanwhile went into a cold eclipse, only expressing himself with a mechanical precision during practice games that evinced a raw-nerved hostility.

  On the night before the match, Wendell again slept deeply, without waking. Beside him, Terri stared fitfully into the blackness of his bedroom, trying to toss only very gently on the mattress. He noticed no movement, and did not stir at all. At one point, she raised herself up on one elbow to squint at the clock. She remembered Wendell telling her that a Scottish clan’s battle cry would activate it, but she couldn’t remember which one. She whispered the warcries of both Ross and Robertson before trying Munro, but even then, she said it in English instead of Gaelic, and nothing happened. Dropping back to the pillow with a tired sigh, she closed her eyes and started counting sheep-drawn chariots. After several minutes, they came upon a phalanx of Macedonians armed with giant blood-red sleeping pills. Instinctively, she drew them all up into battle formation. It was better than nothing.

  The attendant finished his introduction to the audience and motioned to the open doorways on each side of him. At the scattered applause, the house lights dimmed. The sound of September crickets came faintly through the walls.

  Wendell trembled slightly with nervousness as he walked to the game machine. He focused his eyes on his seat, ignoring the springy luxuriance of the carpet and the rows of privileged spectators, who had gathered to watch the first tandem game ever played—and, unknown to them, the first to decide an international issue between two governments. He was vaguely aware of Terri sliding into the seat beside him, and felt the familiar vibrations of the machine under his hands. Their opponents would be entering from the opposite door, and also seating themselves. The attendant stood by to await nods from all four Masters. When he had them, he pressed a lever on the screen and retired.

  A fifteen-second red warning light went on, and Wendell just had time to glance at Terri with a quick smile. She smiled back while chewing on the inside of her cheeks.

  “Here we go,” said Richard, in a neutral tone.

  The screen read: “Mount Badon. Ca. 490-503 A.D. Briton Dux Bellorum, Artorius.”

  “Mount Badon,” Wendell whispered to himself, staring. This hadn’t been in his Apprentice training. It was a recent addition to the military annals. “Mount Badon?”

  Richard was there as always, but not without hesitation. “Uh, Mount Badon. It was, um, a battle considered semi-legendary for almost sixteen centuries. Won by a Roman… Romano-British leader over waves of invading Saxons… yeah, that’s right.”

  “I need something useful,” thought Wendell, with unaccustomed deference.

  “The actual site was only discovered six or seven years ago.” Richard paused, then continued with more certainty. “Classic battle. We hold about five thousand infantry, stretched across the upper third of a gentle slope, facing down in three lines. Scouts and skirmishers have gone ahead. Experienced Briton commanders are joined in a confederacy under you, as Artorius. The decisive element is the heavy cavalry which you direct personally, numbering maybe a thousand. The Saxons want this slope to advance northward, divide the Celtic kingdoms, and control the horse-raising country. They must come to us.”

  “Hold it,” thought Wendell. “Look at the screen—that isn’t right. Mount Badon began as a siege, didn’t it? The Saxon host surprised Artorius with a small force atop Mount Badon and had him tripped.”

  “That was earlier,” Richard said forcefully. “This begins after reinforcements have arrived. The Saxons pulled back yesterday to avoid being attacked on two sides. Now they’re on the advance again—starting here.”

  “All right, sorry,” thought Wendell. “Let’s see—steeper slopes protect our flanks; we’ll send the cavalry out from there, of course.” He was musing to himself as much as to Richard. Checking the screen for Terri’s persona, he found her as a Briton commander whose name was unknown, in charge of the irregular infantry confederation below that was modeled on portions of the old Roman legion. In the single games, her role probably would have gone to a computerized personality.

  “Don’t worry about your cavalry command. You have a defensive posture here. And remember, this is not the era of the heavy lance, with armored horse. Your mounts are vulnerable, and the weapons will be primarily spear and javelin. Charge in a series of rushes, not a single heavy line.”

  “Right.” Wendell fastened his gaze on the screen, feeling a return of the confidence that he had momentarily lost. He recalled when the archival discoveries had been made; it had been a tremendous find, and he had studied it avidly. But the information had never been absorbed as thoroughly as the battle facts he had learned as an eager apprentice.

  The screen activated, and Wendell found himself on the right slope with all of the cavalry, still unpositioned.

  “We’re outnumbered by about three thousand,” said Richard. “But the Saxons have no cavalry. The real Mount Badon was a total slaughter of the Saxons; you’ll have to do very wel
l to equal that.”

  “Right.” Wendell looked out over the green valley beneath him. Far in the distance, the Saxon horde crawled like a giant, living carpet of blackness. Their van was fast approaching Terri’s advance skirmishers, who would slowly fall back to merge with the main force. A thin rain of arrows would be arching sporadically from the woods on each flanking hill; these were also from scouts and harriers of the Briton force, sent to annoy the enemy, to put their march off stride, and to return with information. They would not do significant damage.

  Terri held the three lines of infantry essentially motionless, making small adjustments. The infantry wings were comprised of light javelins and archers, and she pushed them forward slightly to increase their range. The Saxons were coming uphill, and every additional step they took cost them a little more breath. She began to move the standard bearers some, building morale. As the Saxons approached, the calls of their sheep-horn trumpets preceded them in Wendell’s mind, and the Britons answered with warcries and old Roman trumpets and by beating on their shields with their weapons. The valley began to fill with the dull roar of massed voices, spiced with the shriek and bellow of the horns.

  The Saxons were coming slowly, both to save their breath and to taunt the waiting Britons. Restraint, and a keen sense of timing, would decide the battle at many different junctures. Wendell also waited, trusting Terri not to break ranks early. In the fighting itself, if she could force the Saxon reserves into battle before he was forced to bring in the cavalry, all should be well. She, in turn, was trusting him to throw in the cavalry at the critical moment when she had held as long as possible— and no later.

  “Position the cavalry.” Richard’s voice was firm and cool, perhaps even more authoritative than usual.

  Wendell sent a third of the cavalry squads behind the crest of the slope, out of sight of the Saxons. They circled to the wooded area at the left of Terri’s infantry and then stood there assembled, still hidden to the enemy. Wendell guarded his trumpeters carefully; only they could signal the left wing now.