Eventually the sergeant’s head came up, and a few moments later he was nodding at what his commander was saying. The two men rose to their feet, and the captain clapped Escrima fondly on the shoulder, leaning close to share a few last words before leading him back to the bleachers.
O’Donnel found himself nodding as well.
Good. The little sergeant was much too good a man to be abandoned by his own during such a trauma. The major’s appreciation of his rival went up yet another notch as he turned his attention to the bout in progress.
“… the initial attack misses … passé … then the counterattack lands before the final replacement of the point. The touch is right … Score, three to one! … Gardez! …”
Three to one?
O’Donnel focused his attention on the action.
What was going on here? How could his man be down 3-1 so fast?
“Allez! Fencer!”
In the quick flurry of swords that followed the director’s signal, it became clear what was happening.
The little fencer representing the Legionnaires—what was her name? Oh yes, Super Gnat—had found a way to compensate for her shorter reach. She would hang back at the edge of Davidson’s lunge range, obviously too far back to launch an attack of her own, and bait the Eagles’ fencer into initiating the action. Sometimes she would simply step back out of the reach of the attack, but then …
The major scowled as Super Gnat dodged the oncoming point and stepped in close to her taller opponent. Davidson tried to reverse his advance to bring his point to bear again, but she followed him back down the strip and …
“Halt! The initial attack falls. On the recovery, the counterattack lands! Touch is right! Score, four to one!”
The bitch was so small, her target area was almost nonexistent! Hell, she could inhale and disappear behind her foil! And that footwork she was using …
O’Donnel watched closely as Super Gnat skipped and danced backward down the strip, leading Davidson like a terrier teasing a bull. He had seen that floating, pivoting footwork before. He couldn’t quite put his finger on where, but it wasn’t on a fencing strip! The Legionnaires had run another off-style martial artist in on him, but this one had managed to translate her moves into fencing! What was more, Davidson lacked Corbin’s experience and was clearly thrown off his normal form by his opponent’s unorthodox movements.
The Eagles’ fencer managed to rally and score two touches in a row, but to the major the outcome was already a given. The scrambling little fencer was simply too resourceful to let a three-point advantage slip away, and …
As if in response to his thoughts, Super Gnat launched a running, diving flèche attack, taking the offensive for the first time and catching Davidson napping as he planned his own attack.
“Halt! The attack carries! Touch is right! Five to three! Bout to the Space Legion! The meet is tied at one bout each!”
The spectators exploded with cheers and applause as Super Gnat saluted her opponent and pulled off her mask, revealing a beaming face that shone like the sun. She pumped the hands of her adversary and the director, nodding her thanks at their murmured compliments, then turned toward the Legion bleachers.
No cue had been necessary from their commander this time. The entire company was on its feet saluting its victorious champion. Still holding the jubilant smile that seemed to pass her ears, Super Gnat returned the salute with a flourish of her weapon that ended in an exaggerated mock curtsey. At that, the Legionnaires broke their stiff poses and swarmed out of the stands to surround their teammate.
“All right, Gnat!”
“Way to go!”
The first to reach her was the tall, misshapen nonhuman Legionnaire whose mere presence made the Red Eagles uneasy. In a move that could only be genuine affection, he snatched her into the air in a huge bear hug that was at once enthusiastic and gentle, then, without setting her down, shifted his grip and held her aloft to the cheers of the rest of the company.
“Sorry about that, sir.”
The terse apology pulled O’Donnel’s attention back from the other end of the gym.
“Don’t worry about it, Davidson,” he said firmly, lightly punching that notable on the arm. “Nobody wins all the time. Looks like it’s up to me to try to settle up.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal said, shooting a glance down the floor to where the Legionnaires were still celebrating. “Do you think you can do it? They may be goofballs, but they’re tricky as hell.”
The major nodded his agreement of the corporal’s assessment.
“To tell you the truth, Corporal, I don’t know. Ask me again in about ten minutes.”
Davidson flashed him a quick smile.
“Right. Good luck, sir.”
“Our next and final bout …” The director’s mike boomed through the loudspeakers, and he paused to wait for the Legionnaires to quiet down and take their seats again before continuing.
“Thank you. Our next and final bout will be épée. For those of you who have been confused by my explanation of the right-of-way rules, you’ll be glad to know there is no right-of-way in épée! Whoever hits first, gets the touch!”
A brief ripple of applause and laughter greeted this announcement, which the director acknowledged with a grin.
“This is because the encounter épée is re-creating a duel from the period after the Code Duello was changed to accept “first blood” rather than death to settle an affair of honor. First blood can be drawn from anywhere on the body, including the hands and feet, and accordingly the entire body is fair target when fencing épée.”
O’Donnel gathered up his mask and his weapon, plugging his body cord into the socket hidden inside the weapon’s bell guard. The movements were automatic and ritualistic as he began to mentally set himself for the upcoming bout.
“By watching the lights on the scoring machine,” the director was continuing, “it is easy to see who has scored the touch. The machine, which both fencers will be attached to by means of feed reels and body cords, determines within a twentieth of a second who hit whom first. If both fencers score a hit within that time frame, which happens more often than you might think, both lights will come on and it will be scored as a double touch. That is, a hit will be awarded to each fencer for that particular exchange.”
The major wished the bout would get under way. He was starting to feel the tension of the deciding bout creeping into his shoulders. Nervously he shook his sword arm to keep it loose. Tension meant stiffness, and stiffness meant slowed reflexes, a potentially fatal error in a sport where the winner and loser were often divided by split seconds.
“The final bout will be between the commanding officers of the competing groups. For the Red Eagles of the Regular Army, Major Matthew O’Donnel … and for the Space Legion, Captain Jester!”
“Go get him, Cap’n!”
“LEGION!”
The cheering section at the other end of the gym was obviously wound tight as a drum, bellowing out encouragement in their excitement that would be more appropriate at the opening of a boxing match than in a fencing meet. O’Donnel noted, however, that his opponent seemed oblivious to the racket as they moved onto the strip and hooked their body cords into the spring retrieval reels at either end. Saluting each other and the director, they donned their masks and stepped up to their respective on-guard lines.
“Fencers ready?”
“Ready, sir.”
“Ready!”
“Allez! Fencer!”
Judging from what he had seen before, both this evening and this afternoon, the major had expected Jester to be an off-the-wall, unorthodox fencer, relying on weird, unexpected moves to score his points. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to see his opponent take a conventional, textbook guard stance as they began to jockey for position.
Fine by me, mister. By the book it is. Let’s see how good you really are.
Unlike foil and saber, where the hits are usually scored “deep” to the body
in flashy, driving attacks, épée is more of a sniper’s weapon where the touches are made with sudden quick jabs to the arm and hand—and, rarely, the leading foot—of one’s opponent.
Silence slowly descended on the crowd as the two men edged back and forth on the strip, watching each other for the slightest opening.
O’Donnel was now oblivious to the audience as he studied Jester’s guard stance.
… weapon arm ramrod straight at shoulder level, hiding the entire arm and hand behind the oversized bell guard … never a waiver in the coverage as he advanced and retreated in small, coiled spring steps … Classic! … No cheap, easy touches here! … Maybe if he invited an attack to …
In a flicker of movement, the Legionnaire attacked … not with an explosive burst of energy, but seeming to almost collapse as his sword dropped and …
BZZZ!
“Halt! One light! Touch is right! Score, one to zero! Fencers ready?”
The major barely heard the director’s call, much less the applause from the stands as he mentally raged at himself.
The foot! He had been hit on his leading foot! Of all the …
While foot hits were, of course, permitted, they were rarely tried in actual bouts. If the defender simply withdrew his lead foot, the attacker would be left with no target, and his entire arm exposed for the counter hit! Still, occasionally a low attack would catch the defender flat-footed, but your opponent had to be …
O’Donnel pushed his self-criticism from his mind, focusing instead on the next touch as the director placed them on guard again.
Okay, wise guy. You know I’m ticked at having gotten caught that easy. If you’ve got any smarts at all, you’ll fake your next attack to that same foot, counting on me to overreact in defense. When I do, you’ll be back on the high attack before I can cover. Well, I’m waiting for you, buster, so just …
“Allez! Fencer!”
BZZZ!
“Halt! Again, there is one light …”
Jester had attacked as soon as the director dropped his hand to signal the start of the action. No feint … no tricky fake … just a quick darting jab … to the foot again!
Two-zero!
The major tried desperately to get his annoyance under control as they came on guard again.
The sonofabitch caught him twice with the same sucker move!
“Allez! Fencer!”
The progress of the bout was relentless, giving O’Donnel little or no time to regroup mentally.
Jester stamped his foot noisily, and the major had to fight to keep from twitching defensively at the sound.
Don’t fall for a sound feint! It’s just the kind of thing this joker will use to …
The Legionnaire surged forward, catching and controlling O’Donnel’s sword with his own weapon, moving the deadly defending point to one side with a flick of his wrist while slamming his own point squarely into his opponent’s mask.
BZZZ!
“Halt!”
The major turned his back on the proceedings, shaking his arms and rotating his shoulders as the touch was awarded.
He had tightened up! Fighting the reflex to move at the sound of the foot stomp, he had tensed his arm, and Jester seized the opportunity before he could regain enough flexibility to evade the attack on his blade!
Three to zero! No! Put it out of your mind! Think of it as coming on guard for the first touch … except now Jester would be going for double touches! Two double touches and the bout would be over!
“Fencers ready?”
“Ready!”
“Just a moment, sir!”
O’Donnel took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. His opponent might protest the delay, but even that would buy him some time to get himself under control … and break Jester’s momentum.
As it was, nothing was said by either the director or the Legionnaire until the major stepped up to his on-guard line and raised his sword.
“Ready, sir!”
“Allez! Fencer!”
To O’Donnel’s surprise, Jester did not immediately press the attack. Instead, he stood waiting in his guard … just a second! The classic picture wasn’t there! Instead, the point of Jester’s épée was above his bell guard … not much, barely an inch, but …
The major was attacking even before he finished the thought.
BZZZ!
“Halt! One light! Touch is left! Score is three to one!”
That was more like it! In an épée guard, holding the sword at an angle to the arm, however slight, was a dead giveaway that there was target exposed, even if you couldn’t see it. Slipping his point past Jester’s bell guard, O’Donnel had caught a piece of the underside of his opponent’s arm … not much, but enough for a touch. Now to see if the bastard had figured out his mistake!
“Allez! Fence!”
BZZZ!
“Halt!”
Got him again! Three to two now!
The major was waiting at the on-guard line as the touch was awarded, eager for the bout to resume before his opponent had a chance to analyze the hole in his defense.
“Fencers ready?”
“Ready.”
“Ready, Sir!”
“Allez! Fence!”
BZZZ-UZZ!
“Halt! Both lights are on! Double touch! Score is four to three!”
Four to three! He had to be careful now. One more touch and …No! Jester had been lucky to catch a piece of his arm as he came in on the attack. He had to keep the offensive. Still, his opponent was expecting the shot to the underside of the arm now. Maybe a feint to draw his reaction …
“Allez! Fencer!”
The major deliberately gave the point of his weapon a small twitch, and was rewarded by a quick flash of light reflected from his opponent’s bell guard as it moved.
BZZZ!
“Halt! There is one light! Touch is left! Score is four all. Bout and match point, gentlemen. Fencers ready?”
Got him! Now, just one more. C’mon … think! One more touch!
“Allez! Fence!”
For a moment, it was as if neither fencer had heard the director’s signal. Motionless, they stared at each other, watching for an opening yet unwilling to make a move which might create a vulnerability. Then, with slow deliberation, Jester raised his sword arm six inches, exposing the target his opponent had been scoring on, daring him to try again. That frozen tableau was held for a few heartbeats, then O’Donnel went forward in a gliding rush, accepting the invitation. Jester’s point darted down, racing to intercept the attack, and …
BZZZ-UZZ!
“Halt!”
The major whipped his head around, looking to the electronic box to see who had scored the touch first.
Both lights were lit! Double touch!
Jester jerked his mask off and stuffed it under his arm as he saluted the director and his opponent, then strode forward with his hand outstretched for the traditional handshake that signaled the end of hostilities.
“Excellent bout, Major. Thank you.”
Startled, O’Donnel found himself shaking his rival’s hand reflexively.
“But … the bout …” he managed at last.
“Tournament rules, as agreed,” the Legionnaire said firmly. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
That last was addressed to the director, who shook his head and shrugged. “Well … in a double elimination tournament, it would be scored as a double loss …”
“There! You see?”
“… but I suppose we could have a fence-off to decide a winner. Perhaps a one-touch sudden-death bout,” the director rallied gamely. “It’s really up to you gentlemen.”
“Well …” O’Donnel hedged, removing his mask as he tried to organize his thoughts.
“Major.”
The word was said so softly that it took O’Donnel a moment to realize Jester had spoken it rather than it being a random thought flitting through his mind. Their eyes met.
“Take the tie.”
“What?”
/>
His rival looked away, smiling at the audience as he spoke, like a ventriloquist, without moving his lips.
“Take the tie. We’ll split the competition … and the contract. I wouldn’t want to see either of our forces lose at this point … would you?”
Good combat commanders do not survive by agonizing over decisions, and O’Donnel was no exception.
“Tournament rules were agreed upon.” He shrugged dramatically, turning to the director. “The Red Eagles and the Space Legion stand by their word. Announce the double loss, sir.”
Turning on his heel, he marched unswervingly back to his men, barely remembering to unhook his body cord, as the director’s announcement echoed in the silent gym. Weak applause greeted the explanation, though the confused babble in the audience nearly drowned it out.
From the look on the faces of the Red Eagles, the audience wasn’t alone in its puzzlement.
“What the hell happened … sir?” Master Sergeant Spengler said, rising to meet his commander.
“Well, Sergeant, what we have is—”
“Company! Atten-hut!”
O’Donnel turned to look down the floor.
The Space Legionnaires were on their feet, Captain Jester centered in front of them. With a picture-book precision they had not shown during the close order drill competition, they were saluting the Red Eagles.
The major stared at them for a few moments, but their pose didn’t waiver. Correct military procedure called for holding a salute until it was returned or the person or unit you were saluting was out of range.
This time, O’Donnel’s decision was easier.
“Red Eagles … Atten-hut!”
And for the first time since their arrival—in fact, in the history of the Red Eagles—the crack unit of the Regular Army saluted the Space Legion, and meant it.
* * *
Soaking in a hot tub can be of mental, as well as physical, therapeutic value, and Phule was enjoying it to the fullest as he felt his muscles slowly begin to relax.
“Sir?”
Slowly, reluctantly, he raised his head and opened his eyes.
The Complete Phule’s Company Boxed Set Page 22
