Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

There was the faintest of frowns on the forehead of Isobel Sanchez, she looked from Plekhanov to Reif, and squeezed tighter the pudgy arm of her lover as though to regain confidence.

Reif’s eyes were unflinching from the Earthman’s. He said, “Then the crossbow should never have been introduced. It wasn’t necessary for the military plans Barry Watson has made for us.”

Plekhanov ignored him. He said, “Hawkins, get going on that dusting. Maybe you can scare them away. Watson, pull what units we already have in this valley back through the pass we control. We’ll avoid battle until more of their army has fallen away.”

Hawkins said with deceptive mildness, “I just told you those cavalrymen have muskets. To fly low enough to use the gas on them, I’d have to get within easy range. That pass is narrow. Point one, this is the only aircraft we have, and it’s priceless for reconnaisance. Point two, one of our number, MacBride is already dead as a result of poor decisions. Point three, I came on this expedition to help modernize the Texcocans, not to die in battle.”

Plekhanov snarled at him. “Coward, eh? Alright, well turn the aircraft over to Roberts, or somebody else who can take commands.” He turned churlishly to Watson and Reif. “Start pulling back our units. We can be completely out of this valley before Mynor can get his full force here.”

Barry Watson took a deep breath and looked at Joe Chessman. “Joe?”

Isobel Sanchez dropped the arm of Plekhanov she had been holding. A tiny tongue tip protruded from her overly red lips, and her eyes darted from one of the men to the other.

Joe Chessman shook his head slowly. He said to Reif, “Khan, start bringing your infantrymen through the pass. Barry, we’ll follow your plan of battle. We’ll anchor one flank on the sea and concentrate what cavalry we can trust on the hills to the right. You’re correct, that’s going to be the crucial spot. That right flank has to hold while the phalanx does its job.”

Plekhanov’s thick lips trembled. He said in fury, “Is this insubordination?”

Reif looked from Plekhanov to Chessman, then turned and followed by young Taller and two of his staff, started down the hill to where their horses were tethered.

Chessman turned to Dick Hawkins. “If you’ve got the fuel, Dick, maybe it would be a good idea to keep them under observation. Fly high enough, of course, to avoid any gunfire.”

Hawkins darted a look at the infuriated Plekhanov, then turned and hurried back to his plane.

Joe Chessman, his voice sullen, said to Plekhanov, “We can’t afford any more mistakes, Leonid. We’ve had too many already.” He said to Watson, “Be sure and let their cavalry units scout us out. Allow them to see that we’re entering the valley. They’ll think they’ve got us trapped.”

“They will have!” Plekhanov roared. “I counter that order, Watson! We’re withdrawing.”

Barry Watson raised his eyebrows at Joe Chessman.

“Put him under arrest,” Joe growled sourly. “We’ll have to decide what to do about it later.”

Barry snapped an order to two of the remaining Tulans.

Isobel Sanchez came up to the stolid Chessman, her eyes shining. She said, “Joe, don’t let it worry you. You did what you had to do. I’m proud of you.”

He looked at her thoughtfully.

By the third day, Mynor’s rebel and nomad army had filed through the pass and was forming itself into battle array. Rank, upon rank, upon rank until the floor of the valley seemed carpeted with humanity and horses. Behind them slowly ground a seemingly endless wagon train pulled by oxen and mules.

The Tulan infantry had taken less than half a day to enter. They had camped and rested during the interval, the only action being on the part of the rival cavalry forces.

Now the thirty thousand Tulans went into their phalanx and began their slow march across the valley floor toward the enemy.

Joe Chessman, Hawkins, Natt Roberts and Khan Reif again occupied the knoll which commanded a full view of the terrain. With binoculars and wrist radios from the Pedagogue they kept in contact with the battle.

Below, Barry Watson walked behind the advancing infantry. He was armed only with a swagger stick, which he periodically tapped against his right knee.

There were six divisions of five thousand men each, twenty-four foot long sarissas stretched before their sixteen man deep line. Only the first few lines were able to extend their weapons; the rest gave weight and supplied replacements for the advancing lines’ dead and wounded. Behind them all, the Tulan drums beat out the slow march.

Cogswell, beside Watson with his wrist radio, said excitedly, “Here comes a cavalry charge, Barry. Reif reports that right behind it the rebel infantry is coming in.” Cogswell cleared his throat. “All of them.”

Watson held up his hand in signal to his officers. The phalanx came to a halt, received the charge of nomad cavalry on the hedge of sarissas . The enemy horses wheeled and attempted to retreat to the flanks but were caught in a bloody confusion by the pressure of their own advancing infantry.

Watson muttered, “They thought they’d brush us aside with one wild attack.”

Cogswell, his ear to the radio, said, “Their main body of horses is hitting our right flank.” He wet his lips. “Terry Stevens is over there. He’s outnumbered something like ten to one. At least ten to one.”

“They’ve got to hold,” Watson said. “Tell Reif and Chessman that flank has to hold, no matter what. You can’t allow a phalanx to have a flank turned. It’s too clumsy to maneuver. If those nomad funkers come around our end, we’re sunk.”

The enemy infantrymen in their hundreds of thousands hit the Tulan line in a clash of deafening military thunder. Barry Watson resumed his pacing. He signaled to the drummers, who beat out another march. The phalanx moved forward again slowly, and slowly went into their formation, each of the six divisions slightly ahead of the one following. Of necessity, the straight lines of the nomads and rebels had to break, and their line became a mob of raging warriors.

The Tulan drums went: boom , ah boom , ah boom , ah boom .

The Tulan phalanx moved slowly, obliquely across the valley. The hedge of spears ruthlessly pressed the mass of enemy infantry before them.

The sergeants paced behind, shouting over the din. “Dress it up, you bastards, you funkers. Dress it up! You spearman! Your spearpoint is three inches low. Dress it up!”

“You there,” a sergeant yelled. “You’ve been hit. Fall out to the rear.”

“I’m all right,” the wounded spearman snarled, battle lust in his voice.

“Fall out, I said, you cloddy! Back to the dressing station. You there, take his place!”

The Tulan phalanx ground ahead.

One of the sergeants grinned wanly at Barry Watson as his men moved forward’ with the preciseness of the famed Rockettes of another era. “It’s working,” he said proudly. “All that drill. But it’s working!”

Barry Watson snorted, and hit his leather kilt with his swagger stick. “Don’t give me the credit,” he said. “It belongs to another man a long ways away in both space and time.”

Cogswell came up, worriedly. He reported: “Our right flank cavalry is falling back, being pushed up into the hills further. Joe Chessman wants to know if you can send any support.”

Barry Watson’s face went expressionless. “No,” he said flatly. “It’s got to hold. We need another hour. Possibly two. If the nomads get around that end, there won’t be a Tulan alive by nightfall. Tell Joe and the Khan that flank can’t be turned. Suggest they throw in those cavalry units they’re not sure of. The ones that threatened mutiny last week.”