Mack Reynolds - The Rival Rigelians

“Dress it up, you funkers! Dress it up,” the sergeants rasped. The phalanx ground forward, into the shouting, screaming mob opposed to them.

Joe Chessman stood on the knoll flanked by the Khan’s ranking officers and the balance of the Earthmen save Terry Stevens, who was somewhere in the cavalry fray. Natt Roberts was at the radio. He turned to the others and repeated Watson’s message.

He added, “I can’t raise Terry. Haven’t been able to for the past fifteen minutes.”

Joe Chessman looked out over the valley. The thirty thousand-man phalanx was pressing back the enemy infantry with the precision of a machine. He looked up the hillside to the point where the enemy cavalry was turning the right flank. Given cavalry behind the Tulan line and the battle was lost, as everyone involved realized.

“O.K., boys,” Chessman growled sourly. “We’re in the clutch now. All bets are down. Hawkins!”

“Yeah,” the pilot said.

“See what you can do. Use what bombs you have, including the napalm. Fly as low as you can in the way of scaring their horses.” He added, sourly, “Avoiding scaring ours, if you can.”

“You’re the boss,” Hawkins said, and scurried off down the hill toward his scout plane.

Joe Chessman growled to the others. “When I was taking my degree in Primitive Society and Primitive Military Tactics, I didn’t exactly have this in mind. Come on, boys!”

It was the right thing to say. The others laughed and took up their equipment, submachine guns, riot guns, a flame thrower, grenades, and followed him up the hill toward the fray.

Chessman said over his shoulder to Reif, “Khan, you’re in the saddle. You can keep in touch with both us and Watson on the radio.”

Reif hesitated only a moment. “There is no need for further direction of the battle from this point. A warrior is of more value now than a Khan. Come my son.” He caught up a double barreled musket and followed the Earthmen and other Tulan officers. The ten year old Taller scurried after with a revolver.

Natt Roberts said, “If we can hold their cavalry for only another hour or so, Watson’s phalanx will have their infantry pressed up against the pass they entered by. It took them three days to get through it; they’re not going to be able to get out in a few hours.”

“That’s the idea,” Joe Chessman said dourly. “Let’s go.”

Terry Stevens and a lone Tulan sergeant, whose name he did not know, were making their stand in a shallow, natural depression in the shade of a raw cliff. The sergeant had taken earlier a crossbow arrow in his shoulder and under the circumstances they had been unable to dislodge it, the point being barbed. He had lost a lot of blood and his stolid face was pale.

Terry Stevens looked up at the cliff. He said, “Well, Joe said to hold the right flank. You can’t get any further to the right than this. Not unless you’re a bird.”

The sergeant peered over the top of their improvised entrenchment. All up the slope were sprawled the bodies of Tulans and nomads, of cavalry horses and desertland ponies. There was a blast from below and a shattering against a nearby rock. The sergeant jerked his head down.

“You never hear the one that hits you,” Terry Stevens told him.

“So I am told,” the other growled. “But those muskets are double-barreled. Perhaps there is a second slug on the way.”

Terry was looking out over the valley. “Barry Watson seems to be doing all right. See that tiny bug down there in the rear of the third division. I’ll bet that’s him.”

The sergeant growled. “I wish I was in the rear of the third division.”

Terry Stevens looked over at him worriedly, then took a quick peek over the embankment. He brought his submachine gun up quickly and let loose a short burst.

“Get him?” his companion said, disinterestedly.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. They’re slowly edging up. This time, they’ll wait till they’re close before they rush us.”

The sergeant grunted sourly. “They don’t know how many of us are here and they can’t leave us, with these other-world weapons in their rear.” He switched subject. “Are you sure that talk-thing on your wrist won’t work?”

Terry Stevens looked down at the shattered two-way radio on his wrist. He pulled it off and threw it aside. “Last word from Joe Chessman was to hold, no matter what. See the fighting down there? If this gang surrounding us was free to erupt around this flank, that’d be the end.”

“It is the end for us, anyway,” the sergeant said. “One more rush does it. There must be a thousand of them.”

Stevens was peering over the embankment. He said, “Do you have any more of Cogswell’s grenades?”

“No.”

“There’s a gang of them collecting in that arroyo down there.”

The sergeant looked over at the body of one of his fallen cavalrymen. He squirmed toward the dead man, keeping head and body low. Their shelter was not overly deep. He ran his hands over the other’s body, came up with a metal ball. He squirmed back to the Earthman, handed the small bomb over.

“Watch it with care,” he growled. “It is one of the earlier models. You will blow your arm off if you do not watch it with care.”

Terry Stevens hefted it, pulled the pin, lobbed it over the top of their shelter and pressed himself to the ground. There was a blast and they both raised their heads. Stevens shuddered.

The sergeant brought his weapon up and let fly another burst.

Stevens said, “Better watch the ammo.”

The sergeant snorted dourly. “This is my last clip, but my arm stiffens. I will not be able to fire much longer.”

Stevens looked at him anxiously. “Want some more of the pain killer?”

“No. It is not necessary. Already it is as though I float. It does not hurt, it is only that the arm stiffens.” He peered over the rim of the crater-like depression. “They fight all the way from here to the valley floor. You can not tell our people from the natives. Do you realize we started with five hundred men? All dead, or will be when they root us out of here.”

Stevens said mildly, “Some of the boys that were with us are still fighting down below.”

The sergeant growled, “Well, it looks as though all five hundred are sprawled around here.”

“How you and I survived is a mystery,” Stevens muttered.

“It will not be for long. I wonder if there is more ammunition on any of those bodies close enough to get to.”

“No. I shook them all down. I’ve got one extra clip here.”

“That will not last long.”

Terry said, “Look. Down there. A new group coming up. Look, there’s Dick Hawkins in that little crate of his. He’s flying air cover for them. It must be Joe Chessman and the rest. They’ll all have automatic…”

A crossbow quarrel whirred above his head, missing him by millimeters. He ducked and shook his head ruefully. “I didn’t even see where that one came from.”

“How far are they?” the sergeant growled. He shifted his gun, trying to get it into a position so that he could rest it on the ground and fire with one arm.

“I don’t know. A mile or two.”

The sergeant grunted.

Terry Stevens fired another burst. “Here they come!” he rasped. He could hear the submachine gun of his companion blasting away beside him.

Up the hill scrambled a hundred or more black garbed nomads, shouting desert battle cries. Most of them carried viciously long, two-edged swords—long, thin lances. A small number were equipped with muskets.

“Get those fanatics out front!” Terry rasped. “Holy Men!” His gun burped, burped again. Fell silent. He slammed his hand against its side, dropping the empty clip. He fumbled at his belt, brought out the sole remaining ammunition he possessed. He jammed it into the gun, blasted again. Three of the ascending enemy toppled over, one to remain motionless, the other two screaming pain and fear.