Rule one: ALWAYS check your six. Rule two: NEVER, EVER, forget Rule One.
Nothing but trees.
He slowly started a visual scan turning to his left and covering about 45 degrees of arc, followed up by a scan with the binocs set on wide spectrum infrared. The next time he stopped to check his six, he would begin his look around by turning to the right.
Results of scan as follows: Trees. More trees. Trees again. Some low bushes. Even more trees. A patch of dense underbrush growing in a patch that gets a little sun. Yet even more trees. Oh, here’s something interesting: large gymnosperm and angiosperm organisms generally referred to as . . . wait for it . . . “trees.” I’m almost done with the first 45 degree segment and nothing but plant life.
Max put down the binocs, and couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of what he saw. Before him was a study in light and shadow: golden sunlight slanting into the dark forest, carving from the gloom columns of warmly brilliant sunlight, columns that--paradoxically--were brilliant, as they were created by the blindingly bright light of the sun and yet ethereal, almost ghostly, as they revealed themselves only where the columns struck trunk and branch or lit up drifting dust motes and lazy insects that seemingly flashed, glinted, and twinkled as they drifted through the light’s path.
The sight triggered a memory that Max had not revisited in years--how on shore leave from the USS Hyderabad he was struck by the brilliant beams of multicolored sunlight streaming through the masterpiece stained glass windows into the darkened sanctuary of the enormous, Byzantine style Cathedral of St. Thomas Taxidiotis (the Traveller), in the city of Epicherisi on Nea Korenthau. More than any other Max had ever visited, it looked like a holy place. This place, too, felt special, even holy. Somehow.
I’ve wasted two seconds, now. That’s more than enough. Back to scanning. Aha! Trees! And, much to my amazement, bushes and trees! And, over there . . . .
Waaaaaaait a second.
The tree trunks in this part of the forest were all approximately the same diameter. And, illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering so delightfully through the forest’s upper branches, each of these trees cast a shadow of roughly equal diameter to that cast by the others.
Except for that one. It’s wider than the other shadows, even though the tree casting it is just as wide as its brothers. And, there’s something funny about the ground around it. A mound of dirt or leaves?
Max couldn’t figure out exactly what he was seeing. On infrared, the binocs’ sensor was overwhelmed by the thermal signature of the direct sunlight, showing him nothing other than a bright patch surrounding a blacked out shadow no different from the other bright patches caused by sunlight shining through the trees and blacked out shadows cast by those trees.
He picked up the binocs and ran up the magnification until, with the benefit of digital image stabilization, without which the image would be so unsteady at this magnification that it would be useless to him, he could see each individual leaf on the shadow. There was something funny about the leaves--they were less distinct than the leaves on the floor of the forest, and seemed to be moving back and forth ever so slightly, about ten times a minute. Max systematically scanned the whole lump in this same fashion. That’s when he saw them.
Eyes.
Max gasped from the jolt of adrenalin that crashed through his system as he saw two yellow-green eyes peering back at him from the suspicious-looking lump. Even before he could drop the binocs to hang on their neck strap, Max got a glimpse of the animal pulling back its lips to reveal a perfectly enormous set of wickedly sharp teeth set in a brilliantly red mouth. Max reached for the grip of his boarding cutlass just as the owner of those eyes and teeth sprang into motion straight toward him.
Apparently, Max’s gasp had telegraphed to the beast, whatever it was, that Max had seen it. The animal’s response was to charge Max hell-bent-for-leather, its no-longer-camouflaged sharp, yellow teeth bared and led by two gleaming, steak knife sized tusks extending from its lower jaw. The creature’s astonishingly effective camouflage combined with its surprisingly rapid motion made it difficult for Max to focus eyes on it, but it looked to be roughly hog-sized and, in fact, moved in a manner more reminiscent of a hog than of a classic apex predator like a wolf or a big cat.
This observation did not by any means prompt Max into thinking, “Oh, it’s just a pig.” In fact, Cyprien Meche, one of Max’s ancestors and one of his homeworld’s pioneers, lost his right leg to a feral hog descended from stock left behind by the terraformers. Cajuns on Earth and on Nouvelle Acadiana knew the danger of hogs in the woods and treated them with the utmost respect. Max knew he faced a deadly opponent.
The pig was low to the ground, and Max had been well trained on how to respond to an attack from that direction. He waited for the last split second, then stepped deftly to his right while rotating his body slightly to his left to unmask his boarding cutlass which he brought down with all his might a few hands breadths behind the still clearly visible teeth and eyes to slice off the beast’s head at the neck. Not only had he practiced the move a thousand times, he had twice used it on Krag, and knew exactly what it felt like to cut off a head with a boarding cutlass.
This didn’t feel like that.
Not even slightly.
Instead of the sensation of a steady push as the razor-sharp, friction-reducing polymer-coated advanced-alloy steel blade sliced through the cervical vertebrae, followed by a sudden cessation of resistance as the blade exited the neck, and a swift follow through allowing him to bring the blade back up to deal with any of the now-dead attacker’s buddies, Max felt a solid “thunk” and then a violent, twisting pain as the boarding cutlass was powerfully wrenched from his hand. He looked around frantically to try to figure out what had just taken place.
Fucking hell.
Ten or twelve meters away, Max saw the ill-defined shape of the highly camouflaged greenpig (as Max suddenly found himself calling it) turning back toward him for another charge with a 63.5 centimeter, Union Space Navy standard issue boarding cutlass stuck in its neck. It looked as though the cutlass had penetrated four or five centimeters into the animal and gotten wedged into its flesh so tightly that the creature’s forward motion had ripped the weapon from Max’s hand. Max knew better than to run, as there were very few animals of this kind that a man could outrun, especially in the woods. And as running communicated to the animal that the runner was prey rather than predator, turning tail made it even more likely that the runner would be the predator’s next meal.
Time for Plan B.
Max pulled his fighting knife (known, for reasons unknown to him, as a “Ka-Bar”), grasped the flat edge of the blade between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, cocked it beside his right ear, and with a well-drilled move, threw it at the pig. Max had something of a gift for hitting what he aimed at, whether with rifle, pistol, arrow, grenade--or a thrown fighting knife. The knife flew toward its target with Max’s customary accuracy, striking its target dead between the eyes.
Where it stuck, quivering with the force of its impact for half a second before its weight pulled it free of the pig’s face to slide harmlessly over its snout, landing with a soft crackle on the dry leaves of the forest floor. The only evidence of Max’s attack: a small slice in the pig’s forehead that oozed a few drops of blood, and the knife resting on the ground. The knife looked just as it did when it left Max’s hand, save that the very tip, the last half centimeter or so--all of the knife that penetrated the skin--was tinged with the animal’s blood. With seeming contempt, the pig flipped the knife a half meter to the side with its snout and prepared to charge, viscous saliva dripping from its bristled jowls as though the beast were some sort of Pavlov’s pig that had just heard its dinner bell. Max’s instinct to run was nearly overpowering.
He stood his ground.
Welcome to the Devil’s Foyer.
“The Devil’s Foyer” was Max’s name for the handful of seconds leading up to close combat with
an enemy who any sane person would bet was about to kill him. His weapon of choice in those situations was his dirk. Unfortunately, that old friend was useless to him now. Even though Max might be able to kill the animal with it, the 330 millimeter long blade wasn’t long enough to keep alien tusks and teeth at bay while he did so, meaning that the animal would most likely tear off a delectable one or two kilo chunk of Max meat and, when Max went down from the shock, charge back in for the bloody kill.
That leaves just one option. Plan C: Close Order Battle.
Viking style.
Max reached behind to his pack and pulled out his Model 2197 battle ax, not his favorite weapon, but a truly deadly one, with one side of its head a curved, gleaming blade and the other a long, needle-sharp spike. With a snap, he extended the handle to its full one meter length and secured it with two quick twists to the locking ring. Taking the weapon in a firm two-handed grip, Max took a stance worthy of Sweyn Forkbeard and Eric Bloodaxe: feet just over shoulder-width apart perpendicular to the line of attack, left shoulder turned toward the attacker, ax head over the right shoulder.
Max noticed that his hands were shaking and that there was a distinct weakness in his knees.
He was scared shitless. And with good reason.
There was no Plan D.
Max stared his own fear in the eye.
Well, Mr. Ham Hock, this isn’t my first scared shitless visit to the Devil’s Foyer and no camo-clad hunk of drooling pork roast with delusions of grandeur is going to make it my last.
He gave a gallows chuckle.
No Plan D? So. Fucking. What. The Union has fought this whole bloody damn war with no Plan D and WE’RE STILL FIGHTING! Let’s see how Piggly Wiggly over there handles a large helping of Viking-style melee weapon mayhem seasoned liberally with good old Coonass defiance!
Max was good at defiance. In fact, he considered it something of a personal specialty. If there was a badge for it like ones for Space Warfare or Combat Intelligence, his would be in gold with a silver star showing he finished first in his class.
“Allo, monsieur le porc,” Max shouted at the animal, “I’ve got a deal for you. You bring back my boarding cutlass and I’ll give you some of this battle ax! And, play your cards right and I’ll treat you to some of my dirk as lagniappe.”
The pig stood its ground, digging the tips of its hooves into the soft forest floor, the better to launch itself at Max for the kill.
“Come on, you ugly pig bastard. I ain’t afraid of your sorry fat ass. . . you’re nothing but half a ton of pissed off sausage, boudin, and cracklings on their way to the Boucherie. So come on, I’ve got cold steel waiting for you . . . plus an envie for some hogs head cheese!”
As though it knew that only the poor quality pork went into boudin, sausages, and cracklings while the good stuff became chops, roasts, bacon, ham, and spare ribs, the pig appeared to take offense at Max’s taunts, springing suddenly into rapid, furious motion. Max stood fast as, a few strides short of goring him, the animal dropped his head to put its tusks in the optimum position for ripping into Max’s legs, putting him on the ground where he would be easy meat.
Having worked the toe of his left boot under a small clump of decomposing leaves, Max kicked dirt and compost in the pig’s face while letting loose with a deafening OORAH! battle cry some Marines had taught him. Continuing the motion of his left foot, Max took a cross step past his right foot as the pig overshot his mark. Max then planted his left foot and swung his right wide so that he spun behind the pig’s hindquarters just as it rushed past, continuing the swing until his left shoulder was facing the pig’s right flank. As soon as he had completed the turn, Max planted his right foot and, as an extension of the same continuous motion, wielded the ax in a broad, sweeping arc that caught the animal just behind the right shoulder and at the height where its belly met its flank. The cold, hard steel bit deep, slicing back through its abdominal cavity and into the pig’s right rear leg, amputating the limb about 30 centimeters above the ground.
The pig hit the ground on its right side, rolling to expose its belly, desperately trying to regain its footing even as its entrails spilled from the forearm-long gash Max had carved into its side. Just as the animal had nearly gotten itself upright, Max took a swing at the other flank. This time, the blade cut straight into the animal’s left side and struck with so much force that the impact pushed most of the pig’s entrails out of the existing cut on the other side. Weakened by the first cut, the animal’s intestines burst in three places, spraying the forest floor with blood, partly digested food, and feces.
Yet, somehow, the animal managed to rise unsteadily to its feet to face its adversary, glaring at Max with fire in its eyes. Max couldn’t help but feel that the animal knew it was done for and was meeting its end with the same kind of defiance Max had shown only a few moments before. Max sketched out a quick “present arms” salute with the ax, took two quick steps splitting the difference between going straight toward the pig and sliding off to the right, then stepped directly toward the animal’s flank while swinging the ax with all his strength aimed at mid-abdomen where Max hoped he accurately remembered the porcine aorta to be located.
Max’s diligent studies of vertebrate anatomy (well, maybe not all that diligent) paid off as the blade sliced through the hog’s liver and right into the aorta. The largest artery in its body cut in twain, the animal went down in a spray of blood. A few seconds later, having bled out nearly two thirds of its blood volume, the animal expired with a loud basso profundo death rattle.
“Jesus, that was hard work. No wonder humans invented firearms,” Max muttered exhaustedly. At 16 years old, Max did not yet have the upper body development necessary for protracted battle ax combat. But, Max knew he couldn’t rest yet.
He recovered his cutlass from the beast’s neck and the fighting knife from the ground where it fell. Using the knife, Max made a series of quick cuts along the animal’s neck to see if he could determine what had thwarted his cutlass attack. He found an articulated bony plate that ran like armor beneath the greenpig’s skin from the base of its skull down the length of its spine. Most likely, there was a predator on this planet that liked to kill by biting through spinal cords, and this species evolved the plate as a protection from that kind of attack. Max also examined the skull, and found the forehead to be enormously thick, perhaps because head butting was part of these creatures’ mating ritual.
Anyway, now I know how to kill the damn things: attack from the flank.
Max’s quick look at the greenpig’s internal organs, the similarity of the animal’s anatomy confirming what the Vaaach had told him about planet’s life forms being descended from Earth life transplanted at some time in the distant past. The greenpig was definitely a pig and, just as the pig could have used Max as food, Max could probably eat the animal’s meat.
Too bad I don’t have time for a couchon de lait. Some nice, tender charcoal roasted pork would go down real good right now. He looked at the pig’s carcass and shook his head.
“Naa,” he said to the pig. “You’re probably too old and tough and stringy, anyway. You can just stay here and rot. The maggots won’t mind that you’re not tender. I’ve got better things to do.”
Working quickly, Max cleaned and lubricated his weapons, stowed them in their proper places, and used some waterless field cleanser to clean his hands and some of his clothing of the animal’s blood. He found a fallen tree on which to sit, ate a few ration bars, and took a long pull from his canteen. After only ten minutes or so of rest, he shouldered his pack, took a compass bearing, and set out again. After taking a few steps, he stopped and reversed course.
That was stupid.
He pulled out his binocs, pointed them at the greenpig, and keyed for “PEASPEC,” or “peak spectrum.” The binocs found the infrared frequency at which the greenpig was radiating most strongly, about 25 terahertz. Using that frequency as a base, Max programmed in a band from 23 to 27 terahertz for the device to hig
hlight for him in future scans.
Maybe I can spot the next one of these damn things early.
Max set off, making his way steadily, if more carefully, through the forest. He stopped every ten minutes or so for a good look around, once with the Mark I eyeball and once with the binocs. The next seven hours were uneventful, even dull, with Max taking a repeated series of bearings and moving with fair speed through the forest. Slightly after local solar noon, he came across a clear-running stream and, with the aid of his navy-issued water filtration kit and purification drops, refilled his canteens.
The afternoon was equally dull, save for a few fleeting glimpses of some squirrel-like animals scampering through the trees as easily as a fast cat dashes across firm ground. Sight of them caused Max to ask himself the question that occurs to any good Cajun when he encounters an unfamiliar animal in the wild.
I wonder if it tastes good in gumbo.
Max suspected that he would never find out.
As daylight started to fail, Max started looking for a campsite. Calculating that, no matter what he did, the creatures of the forest would be able to see him long before he could spot them, Max decided to opt in favor of a spot where he had a good view of the surrounding ground, rather than one in which he would find some sort of concealment. For similar reasons, he opted to start a fire: failing to start a fire wouldn’t hide him from predators, while Max reasoned that the need to avoid being immolated in a forest fire would instill a healthy fear of fire in most animals of almost any conceivable ecosystem on almost any planet with enough oxygen in the atmosphere to support combustion. The fire would also cast a circle of light inside which he could clearly see any threat. Accordingly, he believed himself to be safer with fire, than without. On top of that belief, he knew he would be more comfortable, especially as he did not plan to sleep that night, or any night before reaching his destination.
The Hunters of Vermin Page 11