The Rival Rigelians up-3

by Mack Reynolds

“The phalanx will extend here, about a mile or so. Across the flat plain. The terrain is ideal. At the right flank, light cavalry and auxiliary troops. They’re our weakest element, but they can skirmish up into these hills indefinitely. The terrain is such that the enemy will have a hard time utilizing his cavalry.”

  Leonid Plekhanov was scowling, out of his element and knowing it. “How many men has Mynor been able to get together?”

  Barry Watson avoided looking into the older man’s face. “Approximately half a million, according to Dick Hawkins’ estimate. He flew over them this morning.” Barry jabbed at the map again. “They’re coming down here, by these two roads. Their line of march extends…”

  “Half a million!” Plekhanov blurted. There was almost an element of accusation in his voice.

  Barry said, “Including the nomads, of course.”

  Joe Chessman growled. “The nomads fight more like a mob than an army.”

  Plekhanov was shaking his massive head. “Most of them will melt away if we continue to avoid battle as we have been doing. They can’t feed that many men on the countryside. The nomads, in particular, will return home if they don’t get a fight soon.”

  Watson hid his impatience. “That’s the point, sir. If we don’t break their power now, in a decisive defeat, we’ll have them to fight again, later. And already they’ve got iron swords, the crossbow and even a few muskets. Given time and they’ll all be so armed. Then the fat’ll be in the fire. There’s another element, too. Our strength is in our infantry; they dominate the countryside with their cavalry. The cities and towns that have come over to us are hard to protect with our limited number of men. They’re wavering in their loyalty. We’ve got to be able to protect them.”

  “He’s right,” Chessman said sourly.

  The Khan, Reif, nodded his head as did his general officers. “We must finish them now,” he said. “If we can. The task will be twice as great next year.”

  Plekhanov grumbled in irritation. “Half a million of them, and something like forty thousand of our Tulans, most of them armed with nothing more than overgrown spears. Why, they could trample that number of men to death.”

  Reif corrected him. “Some thirty thousand Tulans, all infantrymen.” He added, “And eight thousand allied cavalry, only some of whom can be trusted.” Reif’s ten year old son came up next to him and peered down at the map.

  “What’s that child doing here?” Plekhanov snapped in continued irritation.

  The boy looked up at him calmly, then at his father. There was a strength in the lad’s face, strength and calm, duplicating his father.

  Reif looked into the Earthling’s face. “This is Taller Second, my son. You from First Earth have never bothered to study our customs. One of them is that a Khan’s son participates in all battles his father does. It is his training. One day, without doubt, he will lead the armies of the People.”

  Plekhanov snorted ungraciously.

  Barry Watson had turned back to the map, and was demonstrating again, his finger touching here, there. “They are coming down through here as fast as they can. They probably figure that at last they’ve got us at bay. They’re moving fast, and tiring themselves and their horses. By the time they get here, we’ll have had lots of rest, lots of time for preparation. It will take a full three days for their whole army to get through this defile.” He touched it with his finger. “It’s narrow.” He added with emphasis. “In retreat, it would take them the same time to get out.”

  Plekhanov said heavily, “We can’t risk it. If we were defeated, we have no reserve army. We’d have lost everything.” He looked at Joe Chessman and Watson significantly. “We’d have to flee back to the Pedagogue.”

  Reif’s face was expressionless, but his eyes went from one of the Earthlings to the other.

  Barry Watson looked at him. “We won’t desert you, Reif, forget about that aspect of it. We’re all of us in this together.”

  Reif said, “I believe you, Barry Watson. You are a…soldier.”

  Dick Hawkins’ small biplane zoomed in, landed expertly at the knoll’s foot. It was a simple craft, propeller driven, and with a light machine gun mounted to fire directly ahead. A one seater scout, its pay load consisted of pilot and a few bombs. The occupant vaulted out and approached them at a half run.

  His arrival coincided with that of Isobel Sanchez, who came up mounted on a snow white horse, richly saddled. She looked as though she was on a pleasure ride and came accompanied by two maids and a trio of her young, handsome interns.

  Hawkins called out as soon as he was within shouting distance. “They’re moving in. Their advance cavalry units are already in the pass. The main body is only a day’s march behind.”

  When he was with them, Plekhanov rubbed his hand nervously over heavy lips. He rumbled, “Their cavalry, eh? Well, let’s teach them a lesson. Listen, Hawkins, get back there and dust them. Use the gas. That’ll slow them up. Terrify the horses.”

  The pilot said slowly, “I have four bullet holes in my wings.”

  “Bullet holes?” Isobel said. She was slightly miffed by the lack of attention her arrival had precipitated. She had dismounted and moved to Leonid Plekhanov’s side, taking him by one heavy arm. “I thought it was only our side that had guns. Zen, this whole thing begins to get dangerous.”

  They ignored her.

  “Bullet holes?” Joe Chessman repeated.

  Dick Hawkins turned to him. “By the looks of things, MacBride’s whole unit has gone over to the rebels. Complete with their double barreled muskets. A full thousand of them.”

  Chessman closed his eyes, wearily. “How about MacBride?”

  “I don’t know, Joe. All I saw was his cavalry fraternizing with the lead elements of Mynor’s force.”

  Watson looked frigidly at Leonid Plekhanov. “You insisted on issuing those guns to men that we weren’t really sure of, then putting them under command of a man without military background. Why didn’t you let one of Reif’s officers head that detachment, somebody that would have recognized trouble when it started?”

  Plekhanov grumbled, “Confound it, don’t use that tone of voice with me. We have to arm our men, don’t we? And as far as MacBride is concerned, I like to keep command in the hands of our group.”

  Watson said, “Our still comparatively few advanced weapons shouldn’t go into the hands of anybody but trusted citizens of the State, certainly not to a bunch of mercenaries. If you can buy a mercenary, so can your enemy. He can buy him right from under you with more money. The only ones we can really trust, even among the Tulans—excuse me Reif, obviously I don’t mean you and your officers—are those that were kids when we first took over. The ones we’ve had time to indoctrinate.”

  “The mistake’s made. It’s too late now,” Plekhanov said doggedly. “Hawkins, go on back and dust those cavalrymen as they come through the pass. Maybe we can throw enough of a scare into them that they’ll retreat.”

  The seldom speaking Khan said now, “It was a mistake, too, to allow them the secret of the crossbow. It is a weapon almost as dangerous as the musket.”

  Plekhanov suddenly angry beyond the bounds of his ragged temper, roared, “I didn’t allow them anything. Once the crossbow was introduced to our own people, it was simply a matter of time before its method of construction got to the enemy.”

  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 mi
ldness, “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.”

  “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 c
an 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.