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Chapter the 11th

Siege: Hark to the Call of War! 
Far and near, high and clear,
Hark to the call of War!
Over the gorse and the golden dells,
Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells,
Praying and saying of wild farewells:
War! War! War!

"The Call"
Robert Service

 

 

 

Melville and Fielder stopped as they came down from their ship and looked out from the bluffs where the Pier was located. As always the transition from star-swept Flatland skies to a sunlit world was sudden and dramatic. In this case it was a sweltering tropical world, under a clear, brass colored sky. The visual impact of the light and the physical blow of the heat were joined by the additional sensory impact of a veritable nasal explosion of smells.

Before them, across the River Grottem, was the vast, low, teeming city of Ee. On their side of the river, high on the bluffs, encompassed by gray city walls and fortifications, was Ai, nicknamed "Bluff City," with its vast Pier, lofty villas, and proud municipal buildings. Both cities were swollen with refugees from Scrotche, the city surrounding Ambergris' Lower Pier, several hundred miles away and now conquered by the Stolsh invaders. All around them the twin cities swarmed and bustled with mobilization and preparation for war.

"There it is," said Melville with a sardonic smile. "Proud Ai and pestilent Ee. AiEe, pearl of cities!"

"Oh, aye, sir," replied Fielder. "This is indeed an annoying impurity, covered with the slimy secretions of an irritated, mindless sea creature. If I ever saw one, this is it."

Melville grinned. "Our lovely refuge in a storm doesn't appeal to you, Daniel?"

"I'll say this for it, sir. I've traveled the galaxy, man and boy, and I've seen prettier cities, and I've seen bigger cities, but no city can rival fair AiEe for its smell. Ancient Katmandu and far Qualth were ripe indeed, but even these classic samples of olfactory poetry were mere doggerel when set against the full gagging glory of AiEe." Looking down at a region of fetid sludge at the bottom of the bluff he continued. "And behold the River Grottem, which oozes between the proud twin cities. Reservoir, sewer and morgue, it serves each citizen from womb to tomb. Hastening the journey considerably in many cases."

"Aye, Daniel, and if the Westerness consul tells us to, we will fight for it unto the death."

"Damn," said Fielder, with a scowl, "I hate it when you talk like that. We've been shot to hell, sir. Twice. No, dammit, three times! Four if we count your battle on Broadax's World! Now we've accomplished a feat unprecedented in the annals of modern warfare. You yourself received a dozen minor wounds, and there are few men on board ship who aren't at least lightly wounded. We've done enough, sir. It's time for us to go home."

Then, for just an instant, Fielder looked into the eyes of a man who wasn't quite human, and he suppressed a shudder. Melville had grown. Leadership responsibilities and combat experience had forged him into a warrior. His deep communion with his Ship and cannons had also left a lasting mark, changing him into a killer. He'd "swapped moss," exchanging neurons with savage, exotic beings, and the thoughts of alien, feral creatures now echoed in Melville's brain. There is a streak of madness in anyone who spends quality time inside an alien mind. Only the demands of duty kept him on the slender rails of sanity, and the call of duty carved into his haunted soul was all that balanced the lust for blood. No living creature would keep him from his duty. If his duty was to kill, then that was good. That was very good.

Melville's coxswain, Ulrich, stood glowering beside him. They'd become virtually inseparable in the short period since the battle. Ulrich always made Fielder's blood run cold. The "murderous little killer of a hater" was as efficient and eager a killer as a sociopathic mongoose, and now he'd found his master. Fielder realized with a chill that the man who mastered such a killer was the one who truly deserved to be feared.

The butcher's bill wasn't as bad this time. Less than when they'd been ambushed by the Guldur. Far less than resulted from their boarding action. Most of their casualties were wounded, with only a handful of dead. It would have been much worse if AiEe's superb medical facilities had not been immediately available. Although Ambergris was a low-tech world, AiEe's upper city did have some superb mid-tech medical facilities, facilities which Lady Elphinstone was already putting to full use. Also, high up on the Pier, where the gravity was light, a hospital had been established where the wounded could recover in a low-gravity environment. Combining mid-tech medical treatment with low-gravity recovery facilities created a powerful, lifesaving synergy.

"Start getting the ship in order, and find us some replacements, Daniel," said Melville quietly. "There are humans here, many of them sailors who may be willing to sign on with us. Perhaps some Sylvans could be convinced to join. We know that they make great topmen. Meanwhile, I will talk with the port admiral. I'll pass on the message from Pearl, and try to get support for our repairs." He added with a sardonic smile, "They will hopefully feel grateful to us."

"Aye, sir. Aye they should," his first officer replied with a fierce scowl.

"After that I'll go to the consul. If he tells us to fight, then we will fight, and that's all there is to it."

 

High and low, all must go:
Hark to the shout of War!
Leave to the women the harvest yield;
Gird ye, men, for the sinister field;
A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:
War! Red War!

 

Corporal Kobbsven was the commander of Melville's small escort as he went to make his visits. In this case that meant that Kobbsven was the battering ram, flanked by two large marines, punching a path through the fear-maddened, refugee-clogged streets of a city preparing for war. Women wept, children cheered, men marched or cheered or wept, and insanity reigned. In the background a cacophony of bells, bugles and horns proclaimed, "War! War! War!"

Melville stayed right behind Kobbsven and his two flankers, while Westminster and Valandil, his two rangers, stayed behind their captain in a kind of wishbone formation, with Cinder trotting between them. They were ready to serve as countersnipers, or as a reserve force if need be. Immediately behind them were Gunny Von Rito and Ulrich protecting their rear. Von Rito was here in his capacity as the ship's armorer. If all went well, there would be a need for him.

It was a rather large entourage, but Melville wasn't in the mood to take any chances. He was developing what some would call paranoid tendencies, but in the mind of a warrior this was the kind of SOP, or standard operating procedures, that would keep you, and the people around you, alive.

They had just returned from the funeral for young Midshipman Ngobe and the others who had died in their approach to Ambergris. They'd also buried the handful of shipmates who had died in sickbay since their last planetfall. Those corpses had been kept in cold storage, towed along behind their ship in interstellar space. Now they had been pulled up and lovingly planted in the living earth of Ambergris. Melville and the crew had grieved intensely but briefly for these shipmates, and now they were ready to get on with business. The first order of business was a visit to the port admiral.

They pushed through the crowds to the port office, and Melville was shown directly in to the admiral. His entourage waited outside, Ulrich and his monkey making a fine game of staring down and intimidating everyone in the outer office, while Melville was escorted in to the admiral. He found himself in a spacious, sunny, corner office high upon a prominence. In one direction it looked out upon the immense expanse of the port, a seemingly endless orchard of Pier pilings, ropes, stairways and ladders, all disappearing up into nothing. In the other direction a wide window looked down upon the vast, teeming, lower city of Ee across the river.

The Sylvan fleet admiral was already there, slender and elegant, his long blond hair streaked with gray, standing in fine green silks with intricate yellow and red piping. His Stolsh counterpart sat behind an ornate desk, a tall, dark, dour individual swathed in complex layers of blue, green, white and brown, the colors of a world as seen from space. His look of calm and dignified control was belied by the steady pulsing of his gills. Both officers carried swords at their hips. Swords with well-worn, sweat-stained hilts.

A servant brought in a tray of refreshments, with two huge chairdogs trotting obediently behind him. The dogs curled up and Melville and the Sylvan admiral each took a seat. Melville was grateful for the opportunity to relax his battered body into the perfectly adjusting contours of the big, plush, warm, contented beast. His monkey delighted in the new experience of the chairdog, and the little creature was even further distracted by the fine Stolsh cheeses and Sylvan wines that were served. Then Melville made his requests.

It was as though some demigod had descended from above. There was nothing he could ask for that they weren't willing to give. The gratitude of these two battle-hardened old sailors was sincere and gratifying.

"No one can be completely sure," said the Sylvan admiral, "but we believe that thou hast personally destroyed over a dozen enemy frigates, and damaged at least as many more. The ships that followed thee in thy line of battle destroyed several more. There can be no doubt that the enemy abandoned the attack because of thy actions."

The Sylvans had the bulk of the naval forces around Ambergris, and the Sylvan seemed to accept it as his responsibility to personally acknowledge and thank Melville. "We were cut off by their 24-pounder frigates, as thou hast termed them, and probably could not have escaped. The Osgil fleet, and our Stolsh allies here in Ambergris, were all facing certain doom. We had reconciled ourselves to our deaths when thee didst descend upon them like a hawk among crows, turning our greatest defeat into our mightiest victory. Truly, we owe thee a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid."

Melville and his monkey both nodded somberly in response. Then Melville replied simply, "I am honored to have been of service in your hour of need." He was just too weary to think of anything else to say.

The two admirals didn't know what to make of this heavily bandaged young barbarian who had come to succor them, literally out of the blue, in their darkest hour. He was an enigma sitting before them in his faded, tattered uniform, with his strange pet beast sniffing and peering into the patient chairdog's eyes, ears, nose and mouth while periodically stealing tidbits and sips of wine. But they were warriors, veterans of many battles and skirmishes in distant corners of the galaxy. They understood that here was something beyond the ken of past experience. Something to be appreciated, supported, and perhaps even placated. Every resource of the vast dockyard was extended to him, and they also agreed to help find human sailors to fill out his crew. The Sylvan admiral even promised a draft of crack Sylvan topmen.

 

Prince and page, sot and sage,
Hark to the roar of War!
Poet, professor and circus clown,
Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town,
Into the pot and be melted down:
Into the pot of War!

 

His ship and men cared for, Melville and his entourage then fought their way through the weeping, cheering, cursing masses to the Westerness Consulate. Again Ulrich and his monkey very successfully performed their intimidation act in the outer lobby while Melville was shown directly to the consul. A bald, potbellied, bespectacled little man in a drab black, pinstripe suit sat behind his desk in a wide, expansive office. No seat was offered, no refreshments provided. It was like a house in mourning. The drapes were drawn on all the windows, as though that would protect them from the hostile world outside.

The Honorable Milton Carpetwright sat looking at Melville with eyes full of dread. He was as small in spirit as he was in stature. Here was a man in a quiet job, at the pinnacle of a quiet career, who suddenly found himself deep in affairs far beyond his ability. "No risks, no gambles, no chances," was his petty little life's motto. When a violent, harsh, unpredictable world intruded, as it inevitably does, he was completely bewildered and unprepared.

Now he was confronted with a wild-eyed, bandaged, tattered young captain with an exotic beast upon his shoulder. Both of them looked at him with a casual ferocity that made his bladder loosen. He was cut off from his immediate superior, who was the ambassador in the Sylvan capital world of Osgil. In the absence of other guidance his top priority became his personal survival. In his high-pitched voice he told Melville that he wanted to use Fang to immediately evacuate the consulate to Osgil.

"Yes sir, I can try to do that," answered Melville slowly. "But we've been shot up badly and will need a lot of repairs first. And we'd be on our own against the entire enemy fleet. I think we've proven that we are good, sir, very good, but chances are that we would all die if we tried to break out without the entire Sylvan and Stolsh fleets supporting us."

Carpetwright's eyes grew wide and his jaw quivered as Melville continued. "I think our chances are far better if we wait to see if the enemy ground forces are defeated. If we beat them on the ground here, then we are safe, and sooner or later they will have to pull off most of the forces besieging us. If we lose the ground battle then we will have to evacuate, but we will have the entire fleet here to support us. Probably some relieving forces from Osgil will also be available to link up with us by then."

The consul nodded. This did make sense. Here was wise advice.

"Basically, sir," Melville continued, "I'm under your orders. If you accept my advice to stay here, then the only question is, should my men support the ground defense of the city? They have attacked our Westerness flagged ships repeatedly, in a totally unprovoked manner. Essentially, they have declared war upon us, whether we want it or not. In a legal, diplomatic sense, would that make us justified in defending ourselves here?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed. Defending ourselves. Very important. 'The right of self defense is never denied.' "

"Then sir, again, the question is, do we participate in the defense of the city? I think we could contribute a lot, could significantly increase the chances of victory. The question is do we do it, and if so how thoroughly should we commit ourselves?"

Sweat beaded up on the little man's forehead as he committed himself. "If it will help us stay alive, then I want you to participate in the defense."

The diplomat is able to pull his head out of his . . . shell, thought Melville as he nodded to the consul, and make a decision.

"But under no circumstance should your forces become decisively engaged. Your priority is to prepare your ship for evacuation," he concluded, with a note that almost sounded like decisiveness.

Ah, but he is, in the end, still a diplomat. If the pig flies, don't blame him if it's only a little ways, and if the landing is rough.  

"Aye, sir. Will do," said Melville standing up. "Now, sir, if you'll permit me, I must attend to your orders."

"Indeed, Captain, indeed."

"Oh, sir," said Melville, as though it were a minor afterthought, "I recommend that your Marine guard should stay here to secure our noncombat personnel." As though this sad little man would have it any other way. His handful of marines wouldn't make that much difference anyway. "But I wonder if we could tap into the consulate's emergency supplies. It will greatly increase our chance of success."

"Oh, yes, indeed, Captain." Carpetwright was obviously relieved that this wild-eyed, young man didn't try to take his personal marine guard. Great military minds must think alike, he thought, preening and rebuilding his wounded ego slightly. Here is a man who thinks like me, someone I might be able to trust. "You have my permission to make any military decisions in that area. Just, again, my marines stay with me, and do not become decisively engaged."

"Yes sir, I agree completely." And in truth, he did. He had no intention of fighting to the death here, on land. But he did intend to hurt the enemy as much as he could, and the consulate's "emergency supplies" might make all the difference.

 

Women all, hear the call,
The pitiless call of War!
Look your last on your dearest ones,
Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:
Swift they go to the ravenous guns,
The gluttonous guns of War.

* * *

"Aye, sir. Here they is," said the consulate's little marine armorer, Corporal Petrico. "Each one made by hand from raw steel, with tendur luvin' care, acrost several decades, an' then carefully tested an' retested. M-1911A1, .45 caliber, semi-ottermactic, recoil-okerpated, magalzine-fed, gummernt modul pistuls. The finest pockin' low-ta-mid tech hand weapon efer inventud."

"Aye. Ahhh, aye, indeed," said Gunny Von Rito, holding one reverently in his hand. "Essentially using nineteenth century, Victorian era metallurgy and technology, it was developed in the early, early days of the twentieth century and first used in combat in 1916 against Pancho Villa. And yet over a century later it was still the dominant handgun of its time. Hell, until them la-tee-da blasters and phasers were developed, centuries later on high-tech worlds, there really was no better weapon for one man to hold in his hand. You'll seldom see any weapon with that kind of staying power, throughout the annals of history."

The bullet-headed, scarred old NCO was in a state of near religious veneration as he continued. "Can you imagine what kind of technology base it would take to develop blasters or phasers! And when you're done, you still will never have the psychological impact, the noise, concussion, flash, and smell of a .45. With just a minimal tech base this baby gives you maximum lethality. And, most importantly, when properly built, this is one of the most reliable, dependable guns ever built. In the mud and the blood and the beer, this baby will never let you down. All skill is in vain if the angels piss in the flintlock of your musket."

"Aye, Gunny," said Petrico, as they both paid homage at the altar of the .45 auto. " 'At's God's Gun."

"Aye, that's God's own gun," the Gunny replied. "The perfect gun. There's some that'd disagree, but I'm not one."

"Now," said Petrico, with reverence as he held the gun in his hand, "six hundert years later, it's da standart three-space weapin fer da hole pockin' Westerness forces any time they gets a chance ta develerp a perduction base. When wurd come out fer da marines ta develop small arms at each embassy an' consulate, waddaya suppose we turns ta? Saint Browning's pockin' masterpiece, thas wat. This baby wouldn' last fife minutes in two-space, but da plans, printed on paper, dey travels jis fine. Firs' we made da tools ta make 'em, an' then we begun ta work, buildin' 'em, one-by-one. Lots o' spare time the Marines have on consulate an' embassy duty. Wot better way ta spend it. I'm not even shur them pockin', mawdikker diplermats knows or cares about 'em. But we knows, we pockin' knows, ay gunny?"

The ceremonial guards of Westerness' embassies and consulates didn't waste a lot of time on spit and polish. Some fancy ceremonial guards spent all their time polishing their fancy ornamental armor. The marines did look good on duty, and everything that could be polished was well polished, but they hated being thought of as the kind of people who wore stupid ceremonial armor. They saw it as a kind of "gilt" by association. Thus they had a fair amount of spare time, but they believed in investing it. Physical fitness and combat training was important, and whatever time was left over, across the years, was spent handcrafting firearms. Mostly they built .45 autos, but they also built a few of Saint Browning's other masterpiece, the M-1918 Browning Automatic Rifle, or BAR, invented in the same general time frame. The technophobia of the Westerness Empire was able to stretch just enough to embrace these two, magnificent, almost Victorian era weapons, both of which were used in World War I.

"You know, Gunny, Corporal," said Melville, nodding to each of the old warriors respectfully as he held his own .45 up beside his ear and heard the satisfying "thok" of the reset as he put it through a function check, "The idea isn't new. Even in the twenty-first century, on Old Earth, there were craftsmen in Pakistan and other parts of Asia who could handmake a replica of almost any gun you brought to them. Give them a working model, and in weeks they could have an exact copy, made entirely by hand. The only thing that would stop them is if you needed something with fancy metallurgy, or with tight tolerances."

"Aye," replied Von Rito. "No fancy metals or tight tolerances here. Just a fistful of death and destruction. With the twenty-two .45s and the two BARs the boys can release to us, plus all the ammo they've ginned up, we'll make the Guldur mighty sorry they ever landed on this world."

"Aye, indeed, Gunny," said Melville grimly. "They might conquer this world, but if they do I intend for it to be a hollow victory. If I have my way, this arm of the invading force will have nothing left to attack any other worlds. And they'll think long and hard before they ever attack the Westerness Navy again."

* * *

Training their troops with the .45 wasn't something to be taken lightly. All of them had familiarized with the weapon in basic training, but this was the first Westerness force to use them in true combat, and the first force to tap into a consulate's "emergency stores." There was a responsibility to make sure the troops did a good job, and that meant intense training.

The BARs weren't a problem. Gunny Von Rito and Corporal Kobbsven were both instructor qualified with that weapon. Some might think that their two best marksmen, Westminster and Valandil, would be the best men to assign to the BAR. But proper use of a heavy automatic rifle is as different from a normal rifle as a submachine gun is from a pistol. The BAR required specific training and skills, which these two NCOs possessed in spades. The effective use of the massive BAR in crowd-clearing, close-range operations also required a big man, a strong man, and Von Rito and Kobbsven both met the standard there.

The real problem was making sure the .45s would be used to the maximum possible effect. They had several thousand rounds of ammunition for each weapon. For the BARs that meant the .30-06 ammo had to be held back, used conservatively. Firing at a cyclic rate of around 550 rounds per minute, the automatic rifles would burn a few thousand rounds, or fifty twenty-round box magazines, in a matter of minutes. There was no need to waste the BAR ammo for anything other than a quick test-fire, since they had experienced, highly trained gunners. But it took a long time to burn a thousand rounds of .45 ammo from a pistol. They could afford to fire a thousand rounds per man in training and still have a thousand rounds for combat. And so they did.

To Melville's surprise it turned out that Lieutenant Fielder was the best qualified individual to train their troops on the .45. He was instructor qualified and, according to his records, had even survived a gunfight with a .45. The specifics were vague. When asked about the incident Fielder's answer was, "The people you kill aren't important. What matters is the ones who fail to kill you." He'd even trained at Gunsite, the famous desert world where the monks at the Gunsite monastery followed the teachings of Saint Cooper. Thus he was called upon to be the lead instructor for the .45 training. And he did so, in his own, inimitable style.

He taught misfeed drills, tactical reloads, speed reloads, and one-handed reloads. Marksmanship wasn't as critical since most of his students were already extensively trained with two-space pistols, and with three-space, muzzle-loading, double-barreled pistols. But they still fired many, many rounds of ammunition to fine-tune their shooting skills with these weapons. What was important was the new philosophy and science of combat with a semi-automatic pistol. That was Fielder's specialty.

"Gentlemen," he began, "you are holding in your hands the universal translator. As the ancient wise man, Saint Clint the Thunderer, once said, 'You can say "stop" or "alto" or use any other word you think will work, but a large bore muzzle pointed at someone's head is pretty much the universal language.' I will teach you how to use your universal translator, and I will teach you much of the wisdom of Saint Clint and the other ancient wise men from the time of the great warrior Renaissance in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries."

They were standing in the sweltering heat of a Stolsh firing range as Fielder paced the firing line, looking at his twenty students. They each had a .45 holstered at their side. "The first thing we want to do is to avoid a fight! The First Rule of a Gunfight is don't! As a last resort, you use your weapon, your 'universal translator,' to communicate to your opponent that this is all a misunderstanding, and they really don't want to mess with you. The Second Rule of a Gunfight is, if you can't avoid it, bring enough gun. An armored vehicle with automatic weapons can be considered barely enough gun. But the enemy has forced this fight upon us, and you hold in your hand the biggest, best gun we can provide. So let us use it to communicate the most effective message possible!"

Melville and Petreckski stood to the side of the firing line with the remaining two .45s holstered comfortingly at their hips, listening, assessing, observing, and learning. Broadax stood beside them, scowling. Like most of her race she was essentially useless with a firearm, so she'd be conducting this battle with her trusty, faithful ax. Melville was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea to pull his first officer away from the Ship's repair and refurbishing for this training. But, in truth, what Fielder was saying did make sense.

"If you can choose what to bring to a gun fight, the most important thing to bring is a friend. Bring lots of friends. Bring a whole damned platoon! And be damned sure they're well armed and well trained!"

Fielder gestured to the left and right. "Look around you. Look carefully." Lieutenants Archer and Crater, their four surviving midshipmen (the unfortunate Faisal was wounded again, and poor Ngobe was dead), twelve marines, and two corpsmen obeyed, looking quizzically at each other. "These are your friends. Do not shoot them! They are well armed, and we will make damned sure that they're well trained. It doesn't do any good to have a well- armed, well-trained partner and then shoot 'em! Although," he added, quietly and introspectively, "I've had some partners I'd like to shoot . . ."

Breaking out of his reverie, he continued. "Teamwork is essential. For one thing, it gives the enemy someone else to shoot at. As a team player, shooting at your friends should be considered a major faux pas! Guaranteed to get you taken off their Christmas card lists. The only thing more accurate than incoming enemy fire is incoming friendly fire, and it's guaranteed to make you very unpopular!"

Taking a weapon from young Midshipman Aquinar, Fielder held it before them as he continued. "The primary thing that makes this weapon different from the weapons you're used to is the fact that it has lots of bullets! One in the chamber, and seven in the magazine. And we have lots of extra magazines. When I get done with you, you'll be able to change magazines in a fraction of a second, without conscious thought. So you have, essentially, an endless supply of ammo. Endless, that is, until you run out of magazines. But it's your commander's job to make sure that we break off before we get to that point. Since Captain Melville will be commanding you, I think we can all agree that you are in good hands when it comes to such matters."

Melville was mildly surprised by this vote of confidence from his first officer, and warmed by the chorus of agreement from the class.

"So, you have lots of bullets. That means you can afford to be generous! The First Rule of Target Engagement is this. Anybody worth shooting is worth shooting twice! But don't be wasteful! In a 'target-rich environment' such as this one, where a whole army will probably be charging at us, double-tapping each target is probably about right. Unless someone has singled you out for personal attention, at close range. Then the rule is, 'when in doubt, empty the magazine!'

"The bottom line is this: you're going to make your attacker advance through a wall of bullets. You may get killed with your own gun some day, but by God he's gonna have to beat you to death with it, because it's going to be empty! You must understand that, in the end, anything you do can get you shot, including doing nothing! So you might as well be putting lead downrange."

Then he got deadly serious. Even more deadly serious than before, and it became obvious that he was speaking from personal experience. "My friends, you've done a lot of shooting at targets, and you have all been in combat, but I can tell you that a gunfight with one of these babies in your hand is real different when the bad guy shoots back. It doesn't mean you're going to lose, it just makes the story more interesting afterward. To make sure that you do the right thing at the moment of truth, we must drill it into you. Drill it, and drill it, and drill it until your fingers bleed and it's burned into your midbrain as muscle memory. You'll hate me before we are done, but that's okay, I can live with that, as long as you're alive to keep me alive."

This is a far different Fielder than the panicky popinjay who met me down on Broadax's world, thought Melville as he watched his first officer at work. I'm learning more about him, but mostly he has grown . . . we've all grown.

The main enemy attack wasn't anticipated for about a week, which would be just enough time to make the men highly proficient with their new weapons. Melville intended to participate in most of the training, and Petreckski would help instruct when Fielder was needed with the ship. But Melville had another task to participate in. The Stolsh defenders had a special scheme to delay the enemy, a plan to buy that week. These tall, gaunt, dour amphibians came from an ancient race of mighty warriors, and they were grimly determined to make their invader pay dearly.

They'd invited Melville to be there at a "roasting" for the Guldur invaders. How could he refuse?

 

Rich and poor, lord and boor,
Hark to the blast of War!
Tinker and tailor and millionaire,
Actor in triumph and priest in prayer,
Comrades now in the hell out there,
Sweep to the fire of War!

* * *

The Guldur forces rushed the walls of the lower city in a great, vast wave. Limited by what they could transport in two-space, they had only muzzle-loading cannon and rifles. The Stolsh, limited by complacency and the kind of cultural technophobia associated with most low-tech worlds, had little better. There were some breechloading repeaters used by civilians. It wasn't illegal, just frowned upon. But the Stolsh army was pretty much limited to muzzle-loaders. The result was essentially a battle straight out of the Hundred Years War or the Napoleonic Era on Old Earth.

The scattered cannon on the low, thin battlements of Ee hammered the advancing troops, bringing the attacker's rage to a fever pitch, while expert marksmen on the walls killed their leaders. Just as they reached the walls, just as they were ready to close in honorable combat, the cowardly defenders fled.

From atop the walls the Guldur could see Stolsh women and children in the remote distance, far down the avenues, fleeing from their righteous wrath. All that stood in the way was a handful of defenders manning a feeble barricade in the street. Again a volley of snipers on the rooftops dropped their leaders.

 

Westminster and Valandil kneel on the roof of a carefully selected building. Before the rangers open fire, Westminster looks out at the approaching enemy horde and mutters those fighting words feared and dreaded across the galaxy, "Y'all ain't from around here. Are ya?"  

 

A group of Stolsh volunteers were reloading their weapons, feeding loaded rifles to the two buckskin-clad rangers as fast as they could fire accurately. Which was very fast.  

The rangers were the last of the crew to acquire monkeys, as though the little creatures were intimidated by them. These monkeys were quiet, taciturn creatures, much like the rangers themselves. They stayed low and hidden most of the time, giving quiet encouragement while keeping an eagle eye out for bullets to block.

Other teams of Stolsh sharpshooters were performing similar tasks, but none was half as effective as the two elite Westerness warriors. The enemy was evil. What they would do to the innocent Stolsh noncombatants was horrible, it was vile. And so the two rangers found nothing but satisfaction and pleasure in killing the enemy. But they knew, from their contact with the Guldur crew members on board the Fang, that the real evil was the nasty little Goblan "tick." And, most of all, the odious leaders and the repugnant system that perverted the average "doggies" into these packs of ravenous beasts.

Thus the rangers took particular joy in killing the leaders. All snipers, throughout history, have found it easier to kill leaders. For one thing, killing the leaders had a much greater impact on the enemy's effectiveness. But there was more to this than the physical, tangible, objective aspect of reducing the enemy's fighting power in the most effective way. There was also the fact that, to the degree that they liked to kill anyone, most snipers liked killing leaders. 

In most cases the average soldiers weren't too different from each other. It was often hard to get excited about killing them. But the leaders. Ah, the leaders who were sending those poor schmucks to kill you. Killing them was a different matter entirely. This was something a fellow could sink his teeth into. It was almost as good as killing their damned politicians who started this damned war in the first place.

It was this process of seeking out leaders, the idea of "common" soldiers knocking the muckety-muck nabob off of his pedestal. This was what, at least in part, appealed to the sniper. And offended their leaders. The idea of contributing to a brand of warfare where leaders were intentionally sought out and killed (nay, murdered!), by lowly, vulgar, baseborn soldiers, was offensive to a certain breed of military commander. Common, peon, pawn soldiers could die by the thousands and that was okay. But a kind of war where people systematically tried to kill them, the leaders, from a distance, where you couldn't even fight back? Well, that was something that it was best not to get started!

In this case the Stolsh leadership was able to bend far enough to accept the killing of the enemy's mid-level leaders. After all, things had deteriorated quite a bit! The Stolsh might have grudgingly tolerated it, but the rangers took great delight in it. An old saying put it like this, "Fighting with a ranger is like wrestling with a pig. Everyone gets dirty, but the pig likes it!"

For those who have never participated in long-range marksmanship, it's difficult to communicate the intense satisfaction that can come from that endeavor. Perhaps the golfer, striving for a lifetime to achieve a hole-in-one, can understand what it would be like if he could make every shot a hole-in-one. Even on a par five. And the result of the endeavor isn't to put some stupid ball in some silly hole in some sad little game. This game is real. In this game, if you're good, at the moment of truth you can slay a wicked foe and save the lives of your friends. And if, at the moment of truth, you fail . . . you might die. Your friends and family might die. And in the end, your nation may fall.

 

Josiah Westminster spends a half second scanning the battlefield, picking out the most obnoxious, offensive, insistent pack master whipping his beasts into a frenzy. The ranger chuckles to himself. When he was a boy, "He needed killing," was considered to be a valid defense in a murder trial. Well, here was an ol' boy who just needed killing.

He puts the front sight on the target, sighs, and strokes the trigger. "_____!" As always, when hunting men or beasts, he did not hear his shot. Ahh! The power, the godlike power to smite the enemy from afar. The satisfaction, the intense satisfaction as he watches Mr. Bloodlust R. Frenzy lose interest, gurgle blood, and fall. "Hooah!" says the ranger with satisfaction, then in the blink of an eye he picks another target, brings the front sight intensely into focus, sighs, and strokes the trigger for the other barrel. "_____!" and another leader drops his whip, looks confused, and crumples to the ground. He switches rifles and does it again, and again.  

Piss on golf, thinks Josiah. "_____!" Piss on basketball. Even baseball and football. "_____!" Those are pathetic little games for dismal little men. Fresh rifle and . . . "_____!" Sad, pale replacements for the real game. "_____!" The game our ancestors played with stones and arrows, with bullets and lives. Fresh rifle. Success in this game meant your children wouldn't starve and you could put meat on your family's table. "_____!" Success in this game meant no foe would lightly come to claim your land and defile your family. "_____!" Success in this game meant the difference between life and death. Fresh rifle. Piss on golf. "_____!" This is a man's game. "_____!" 

Now comes the tricky part. Deciding when to fall back to the next position. For the rangers the temptation to stay and kill, and kill, and kill . . . is intense. For the Stolsh helpers and loaders with them there is another temptation: the desire to pull back too soon, before all the juice has been squeezed out of this position. The perfect balance is what a true professional seeks.   

The tactical situation is just right when Westminster, Valandil and their helpers pull back. The enemy catch only a brief, fleeting glimpse of buckskin as the foe that has been tormenting them pulls back.  

Trotting over the rooftops, across narrow bridges (bridges pulled down after they pass), scrambling up ropes hanging from walls (ropes which are then cut), they fall back to the next position. Westminster looks at Valandil and grins. "I love this job," he says and his Sylvan comrade smiles back.   

"Too bad the dog can't be here," he says to his companion, "she'd love this." They both drop to one knee and scan their sectors for the most deserving leader from amongst the abundant, target-rich array set before them. Ahh, life is good, he thinks, as he strokes the trigger . . .  

With a roar, the Guldur headed down into the avenues, squeezing into the streets, packing together in a great raging mass of bloodlust and rage. Then the carefully primed explosive charges in the surrounding buildings blasted out from every window and door, just as the cannons on the barricades fired grapeshot at point-blank range. Nails, screws, and old hinges, lined with high explosive, and set carefully where an inside wall reinforced an outside one. They wanted the city? They got it. Metal bits first. At very high velocity.

Horse-drawn limbers stood by behind each cannon. As soon as the ambush with field-expedient claymore mines was detonated, the cannons fired one last volley of grape, hooked to the limbers, and galloped back to the next barricade.

The sappers who blew the charges slipped off through a series of mouse holes cut through the walls, along prepared routes, back to the barricades. For a little while, on that street, all that was left of the enemy's bloodlust was . . . blood. And still the snipers picked off their officers like a cook might flick the weevils from his flour.

Finally the unstoppable, irresistible mass crawled over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades and reached the hated barricades. Only to find them empty.

On every street coming into Ee, the situation was the same. At great cost of blood and lives they reached the barricades, only to find them empty, with yet another barricade waiting for them a few blocks farther down the street. And always there were the hated snipers, picking off the leaders like lint off a sweater.

In one case the Stolsh gunners were a little too good at killing the advancing foe. They fired one volley too many, and when it was time to pull back, they were too slow and were overwhelmed by the enraged Guldur and torn to ribbons. A reserve element was immediately moved up to the next set of barricades, filling the gap left by these losses.

That one success only fed the enemy's bloodlust. The fury, the wrath, the rage of the attacking Guldur was a thing to behold. There was no controlling them. Far in the distance they could see the remnants of the fleeing Stolsh civilians, their rightful prey, crossing the bridges into the upper city of Ai. They yearned to gratify their lust upon those bodies, then satisfy their hunger with their flesh, and slake their thirst with their blood. They charged the barricades and death exploded yet again, from every doorway and window, and the buildings collapsed down upon them.

And still, still the snipers, the thrice-damned snipers, picked off their officers like a fussy child might flick the seeds from a bun.

 

Valandil and Westminster grin. Happy, contented grins. Like wolves, as they lope back to the next position, their monkeys looking back over their shoulders, ready to block any stray bullets. The right side of their faces are blackened with the gunpowder of hundreds of shots. Hundreds of dead enemy leaders. Their business is killing, and business is good.   

 

Finally, after fighting their way over an endless series of barricades on every street that led directly toward the bridges; finally, after fighting through a living hell of death and destruction; finally, the attackers reached the bridges and swarmed onto them in great, living, raging masses.

Then the bridges were blown, and the attacking masses burst into the sky. Hundreds of Guldur and Goblan became spinning pinwheels, artfully pirouetting up into the air with balletic grace.

Those immediately behind the luckless attackers on the bridges were suddenly faced with a huge gap in the bridge. But that wasn't their major problem. Their major problem was the thousands of other attackers behind them, propelling them into the waters of the River Grottem. Untold thousands were pushed into the river by the enraged masses behind them.

The river. Sewer and morgue, serving from womb to tomb, hastening the journey helpfully whenever possible. The reeking, stinking river opened its loving arms and embraced an army. All without blinking. All in a day's work. Their passing was marked only by an occasional bubble, rumbling to the surface like the echoes of beans in a bathtub.

An army without leaders is a mob. A mob dies easy. Like sheep. Like cattle driven off a cliff. It might not have worked with another species, but the Guldur's mindless bloodlust made them vulnerable to this approach.

 

There were too few leaders to stop the enraged attackers from pushing thousands of their comrades into the tender mercies of the River Grottem. And when the attacking mob tired of that, there were still too few leaders to stop the mindless rampage. They spread out into every side street. Into every building. Atop every roof. Into every basement. They sought vengeance. Blood. Flesh to slake their lusts.

All they found was fire.

 

Westminster and Valandil lope across the bridge, two of the last few defenders to cross the bridge before it's blown. They run with the same tireless stride that carried them across the rooftops, on carefully preplanned and prepared routes, stopping constantly to pick off the enemy leaders. Many Stolsh snipers hunted the rooftops of Ee this day, but the survivors all speak in awe of the fearsome toll taken by the two rangers.  

When the bridge is blown behind them they don't even look back, they simply continue to trot up the slope, the monkeys on their backs batting aside a few bits of falling debris. Halfway up the steep road that climbs up to the battlements of the upper city, Gunny Von Rito waits with a BAR slung over his shoulder. Beside him is Cinder, with a monkey on her back. They have been standing by to cover their friends' retreat if need be. Cinder barks and shimmies with doggy joy upon seeing the returning rangers, while her monkey hops joyfully up and down on her back. They both drop to one knee next to her, turning now to look back while their monkeys scamper onto Cinder's back, to greet each other. 

"Everything go okay?" asks Von Rito.  

"Hooah!" replies Westminster with a calm, satisfied smile. "It's been a good day." 

The Westerness consul, the Honorable Milton Carpetwright, dressed in an elegant black suit, is standing by Gunny Von Rito. His squad of consulate marines are with him as bodyguards. A black bug in the midst of a red blossom, he strides forward to shake the rangers' hands.   

"A tremendous job!" he gushes. "Our allies are all talking about you. Our contribution may be small, but you have definitely brought credit upon us. Tell me, what's your secret, how did you get to be so good?"  

"Do you play golf?" asks Westminster with a lazy smile as he turns to shake the diplomat's extended hand.  

"Why yes. Is it like golf you think?"  

"Piss on golf," says the big, buckskin-clad ranger, laconically.  

"Eh?"  

"You asked me mah secret?" drawls the ranger. "The secret is, you just say, 'piss on golf.' " 

The diplomat turns without a word and trudges up the hill, his grinning bodyguards trailing behind him.  

"Diplomats," snorts Von Rito. "A fully loaded BAR is the best diplomat I know."  

The three humans, the dog, and their four monkey compatriots look across the river, watching with contented smiles as the fires begin. . . .   

 

It began in the vats and oil stores in the Merchants Sector and all along the Street of Restaurants, progressing in a blazing series of explosions and fountains that cooked the invading Guldur in a great, malefic skillet. The lower city of Ee usually was a teeming anthill of citizens, but it had been turned over to the enemy after only token resistance. Now it was a great, swarming, seething mass of Guldur invaders, and they were burning, burning.

Sweet, enchanting odors mixed briefly with the burned pork and charred fur smell of incinerating humanoids, as the blazing inferno hit the Perfumers' Market. It was sadly anticlimactic when the firestorm hit the whore pits and brothels of the Court of a Thousand Delights and Perversions. This was partly compensated for when the flaming tide hit the storerooms of the Avenue of Pharmacopoeia, Apothecaries and Druggists. The fumes caused the invaders to have conversations with their gods. Necessarily short conversations. And then they went to meet them.

Sparks drifted like fireflies across the river, where the defenders waited to drown each ember. Smoke from the inferno could be seen from hundreds of miles away, a vast, wind-sculpted shroud for the invading army.

 

Damn. I wonder if their fire insurance covers that? thought Melville with a grim smile.

Standing atop the battlements in the damp, warm air, the allied commanders watched as their artillery fire plunged mercilessly down on the Guldur masses clogging the gates as they struggled to escape the city. Earlier the same guns, hurling red-hot cannonballs, preheated in furnaces and fired with precision into preselected locations, had started the fires.

The commanders' various staff officers were currently dispatched to help put out nearby fires caused by the swarm of glowing embers that came across the river. For Melville, his "staff" today consisted of Broadax and Hans, along with a squad of armed marines as bodyguards. All of whom were off fighting fires.

Melville stood atop the crenelated ramparts beside the Sylvan and Stolsh commanders, holding his puppy in his arms. If given positive exposure at a young age to things like water, gunshots, wire-mesh stairs, or combat, then a dog will have no fear of these things. If his dog was going to be a properly trained war dog, he needed to be exposed to guns, blood, death, gore, and killing at the youngest possible age.

Earlier, one of the elegant, foppish Sylvan staff officers had made an effort at polite conversation by asking the dog's name.

"His name is Boye," Melville replied with a polite smile. "As in, 'Here boy!' but with an 'e' on the end."

"I have not previously heard of such a name. Art thou making some clever historical allusion?"

"He's named after one of the most famous dogs in our history. 'Boye' was a trained war dog that belonged to Prince Rupert of the Rhine. This was during the English Civil War, pitting the 'roundheads' against the 'cavaliers.' The roundheads feared and hated the aristocratic cavalier's fierce war dogs, particular Prince Rupert's Boye. They celebrated when the dog was finally killed in battle. There is a famous nursery rhyme that was originally a poem, mocking the motley, ragtag, cavalier army.

"Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town.

Some in rags and some in riches,

And some in velvet gowns."

 

The Sylvan smiled in a polite but confused manner. "But is it not dangerous to have the puppy up here?"

Melville smiled sadly and replied simply, "He knew the job was dangerous when he took it." The bewildered Sylvan nodded and backed away. Then all the staff officers went to put out fires in the immediate vicinity.

Melville's dog looked at the death and suffering across the river with the kind of keen, contented pleasure that a hound would have as it watched a deer being gutted and field stripped. Melville and his monkey both echoed this look of remorseless satisfaction. As his fellow commanders gazed out in wonder and horror, Melville began to recite reflectively, quietly but clearly,

 

"He said: 'Thou petty people, let me pass.
What canst thou do but bow to me and kneel?'
But sudden a dry land caught fire like grass,
And answer hurtled but from shell and steel.

 

"He looked for silence, but a thunder came
Upon him, from Liège a leaden hail.
All Belgium flew up at his throat in flame
Till at her gates amazed his legions quail."

 

The allied leaders standing next to him on the ramparts looked at him with a kind of horrified admiration. Here was a new twist to the strange, savage, barbarian killer who was their new ally.

The crisis immediately around them had passed, the situation was now under control and their staff officers began to return. Broadax and Hans and their squad of marine bodyguards came staggering up after having barely saved one building. Broadax and Hans moved up to stand beside their commander. Both they and their monkeys were singed and smoldering in various locations. Melville felt guilty about not having gone into "harm's way" with them, but he had decided it was important to stay here with his allied commanders.

"Funny thing 'bout eyebrows," muttered Hans, as he and his monkey launched tobacco juice over the edge of the battlements. "Ya never miss 'em 'til they's gone." Looking out at the blazing cauldron of death and horror across the river, Hans chuckled happily. "Urban renewal," he muttered, "prob'ly an improvement." Then he recited an old sailor's ditty, "Red sky at night, sailor's delight."

"Hah!" chuckled Broadax, she and her monkey both smoking from several places besides her cigar, "Red sky at night, the whole damned city's alight! An' a whole bunch of them cur bastards with it."

The Sylvan and Stolsh commanders, and their returning staff, looked in consternation at the human warriors' frank pleasure. "Gentlefolk," said one Sylvan staff officer in a braided, forest green uniform, "dost thou feel no remorse, no empathy for the suffering we have inflicted here today?"

Melville looked at him with feral eyes, thinking of the row of graves on Broadax's World. "A great leader of ours, a man named Winston Churchill, in similar circumstances, put it this way. 'If you will not fight when you can easily win, without bloodshed, and if you still will not fight when your victory is sure and not too costly, you may well come to the moment when you will have no choice but to fight with the odds against you, and you have only a small chance of survival. There may even be a worse case: you may have to fight when there is no hope of victory, simply because it is better to perish as warriors than to live as slaves.' "

The staff officer looked at him with a puzzled yet kindly expression. "We know that a captain's communication with his Ship can have a powerful effect, and we know that war can scar a man. Please forgive me, captain, I mean no offense; but surely, sir, war and communion with thy Ship hast seared thy soul? Otherwise how canst thou say that anyone deserves that?"

Melville returned a flat stare. "They'd do the same thing to you, your families, and everything that you love, without hesitation. It does you credit that you have remorse, that's what makes you superior to them. But it also does you credit that you are willing to fight them with every means at your disposal. You didn't ask them to come here. You didn't invade them. People find in war what they seek. They sought death and destruction, and they have found it." Looking out across the river, he mused,

 

"Efficient, thorough, strong, and brave—his vision is to kill.
Force is the hearthstone of his might, the pole-star of his will.
His forges glow malevolent: their minions never tire
To deck the goddess of his lust whose twins are blood and fire."

 

There was a long silence, then he whispered, "Reap what thou hast sown, O enemy mine. Thou hast taught me to hate. Thou hast lusted for blood and fire, now slake thy thirst."

 

Everywhere thrill the air
The maniac bells of War.
There will be little of sleeping to-night;
There will be wailing and weeping to-night;
Death's red sickle is reaping to-night:
War! War! War!

 

 

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