David Sherman & Dan Cragg - [Starfist 14]

by Double Jeopardy (lit)

  * * *

  Captain Fassbender heard the fierce fighting on the left flank and the screams of Fuzzies struck by the Marines’ blaster fire. The firing on his front was just as fierce, but only bullets seemed to be coming his way—then he realized that there were no screams of the wounded from the Fuzzies advancing toward his position.

  Damn! The brush must be blocking the flechettes from getting through! He crawled to Sergeant Vodnik.

  “I don’t think our flechettes are making it through the scrub,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Vodnik thought for a moment, listening to the sound of fire from the scrub to their front. “I think you’re right,” he said. “And the Fuzzies already figured it out—they’re only firing their bullet rifles.”

  “Then we’re just wasting ammo.”

  Vodnik looked sick when he nodded.

  “Cease fire!” Fassbender shouted to his troops. “Cease fire! You’re wasting ammunition. The flechettes can’t cut through the scrub to reach the Fuzzies!”

  Only half of the Sharp Edge troops stopped shooting. And many of them continued to fire even after Fassbender screamed his ceasefire order again. Keeping low in the trench to avoid the bullets, he scrambled along the line, yelling at the men still shooting, punching shoulders to get their attention, yanking weapons away from those who just wouldn’t stop firing. Vodnik ran along the line in the opposite direction, doing the same. Between them, they got everybody to stop shooting.

  “We’ve got to keep them steady,” Fassbender said to Vodnik when the two got back to the center of the line.

  “We can split up, each of us behind half the line,” Vodnik offered.

  Before Fassbender could say anything else, Lieutenants Crabler and Zamenik joined them.

  “Why did you call a cease-fire?” Crabler demanded. “We’re under attack! We need to beat them off. We have to pour fire at them!”

  “I called a cease-fire because our flechettes aren’t doing any good,” Fassbender snarled. “All we’re doing is wasting ammo. When the Fuzzies get closer, then we can fire on them again.”

  “The Marines are still firing,” Crabler shouted, and swung an arm to point at the left flank, where the steady CRACK-sizzles came in volleys that drowned out individual shots.

  “The Marines have blasters, dammit. Their bolts burn right through the scrub. Our flechettes can’t get through that much growth. Listen to the fire from the Fuzzies. They knew that before I figured it out. They aren’t firing their flechette rifles, only bullets from their own rifles!”

  Fassbender glared at the two lieutenants. “We need to keep everybody steady. When the Fuzzies get close enough, we’ll open up with everything we’ve got.”

  “And when will that be?” Zamenik shrilled. “When they come over the wall?”

  “We’ll know soon enough to do some damage to them before their final charge,” Fassbender snapped. He looked at the tower and muttered, “We need somebody up there, to let us know how close they are.”

  Sergeant Vodnik heard. He looked at the tower, swallowed, and whispered, “I’ll go, sir.”

  Fassbender shook his head. “No, I can’t afford to lose you.”

  “I’ll armor up, just like the Marine officer did. All I’ll have to do is watch to the front. They won’t knock me off like they did him.”

  Fassbender looked at Vodnik. The sergeant was right on both counts. “All right, do it. Let me know when you’re armored.” Vodnik scrambled to the rear to find Lieutenant Bass and get his armor.

  Fassbender turned to the two lieutenants. “You’re officers. You have to help me keep the troops steady. Now get behind your platoons and get them calmed down. Tell them we’ll open fire when we can do some damage to the Fuzzies, and then we’ll stop their advance, drive them back. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in grudging agreement. They went. Not sharply, not as though they were doing the right thing; they went because soldiers obey orders.

  On the left flank, the two blaster squads continued volley fire while both guns swept the scrub brush side to side. Even though much of the brush in front of the Marines had been burned away by the fire, they still couldn’t see the Fuzzies because the burning foliage was giving off a lot of smoke.

  “How the hell can they breathe in there?” Lance Corporal MacIlargie asked on the fire team circuit.

  “How the hell do I know?” Corporal Claypoole shouted back. “Damn, but they just keep coming!” He flinched as another flechette splatted against his faceplate. A few more hits like that and it could crack, he thought. Then I’m cooked, he thought, unconscious of the pun. More flechettes zipped close by; one or two pinged off Claypoole’s armor; many plunged into the dirt wall in front of the trench. Then he saw something he hadn’t noticed before.

  “Hey, honcho,” he called on the squad circuit. “Have you seen, there’s a clear space between the ground and the bottom of the smoke.”

  Several meters to Claypoole’s right, Sergeant Kerr stuck his head over the wall and then ducked low.

  “I think you’re right, Rock,” Kerr replied. “Fire! That’s how come they’re still able to come at us; they stay below the smoke. Fire! Let’s try to make our bolts stay below the smoke.”

  “H-how can we do that?” Corporal Doyle asked.

  “Fire! You’re smart,” Kerr answered. “Figure it out for yourself. Fire!” That’s a good question, he thought. How can we make our bolts stay below the smoke?

  The Marines kept volley firing, and the smoke kept thickening.

  In the CP bunker, Sergeant Vodnik explained to Lieutenant Bass what he wanted to do.

  “Good man, Sergeant,” Bass said dreamily. Doc Hough had given him a sedative. “I’d help you, but the Doc has me bandaged up too tight for me to move much.” Bass’s right arm was tightly bound to his torso to keep the edges of broken bone from shifting about and causing more damage.

  “I’ll help you,” Hough said. He began putting Bass’s armor on the Sharp Edge noncom.

  Bass was clearheaded enough to be able to give the corpsman some direction on applying the supplementary armor for additional protection. After only a few minutes, Vodnik vaulted out of the dugout and sprinted to the tower. Bass went back to watching Lieutenant Prang and the Fuzzy in their animated attempts to communicate. Prang was obviously excited at trying to talk with a previously unknown sentience. The Fuzzy looked agitated.

  Sergeant Vodnik didn’t have to climb all the way to the top to see where the Fuzzies were.

  “Captain Fassbender!” Vodnik shouted. “They’re only thirty meters away!”

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, in overall command of the defense of Camp Godenov, had been concentrating almost all of his attention to the south wall, where the camp’s flank was still under attack. Vodnik’s shout and Fassbender’s immediate call for his men to open fire brought his attention back to the front.

  “Hound!” Hyakowa shouted. “Get a gun turned around to sweep the front. The Fuzzies are close!”

  Sergeant Kelly snapped orders, and Corporal Kindrachuck quickly reoriented his team so that Lance Corporal Tischler was firing across the front of the Sharp Edge troops.

  “Marine gun,” Sergeant Vodnik shouted from his perch clutching the watchtower ladder, “left ten meters! You’re shooting in front of the Fuzzies.”

  Kelly didn’t think that the Fuzzies were suicidal enough to jump up and try to charge through the enfilading fire, but it might have been possible for them to crawl under the stream of plasma bolts and then appear in the trench with the defenders before the gun could do any damage to them.

  “Gun one,” Kelly ordered, “left ten. Pound the ground!”

  Kindrachuck directed Tischler in adjusting his fire until the plasma bolts were striking among the Fuzzies closing on the front of the perimeter.

  “You’re getting them!” Sergeant Vodnik cried exultantly.

  Mercury watched as another Naked One climbed the watchtower and ordered the fighte
rs with needle rifles nearest himself to fire on the exposed Naked One, but their fire seemed to have no effect. Mercury was close enough to see that the Naked One was indeed being hit, so what magic was this? How was it possible for a Naked One to be hit so many times and not be injured? Mercury knew how devastating the needles were to flesh; he had been in enough battles and seen the effects with his own eyes.

  He looked more closely at the Naked One; something was wrong with his shape. Yes! He was thickened; he must be covered with something that was impervious to the needles. But bullets had been fired at the Naked One as well, and Mercury couldn’t believe that all of them had missed. Whatever the covering was that the Naked One was wearing, after the battle he would have his fighters strip it from the corpse so that they could use it in future battles.

  Then all thought of the body covering was driven from his mind by a stream of fire that shot across his front. He shrieked in surprise and shock. Instantly, he realized that the Naked One on the watch-tower had the fire-stream gunner adjust his aim so the stream of fire blazed along the line of fighters. He leaped to his feet and shrilled the command to charge—just as the fire-stream gunner adjusted his aim and balls of fire began blasting into the prone fighters.

  “Here they come!” Captain Fassbender shouted at the top of his lungs. “Blow them away!”

  A hundred and then some flechette rifles opened up at the charging Fuzzies. But the Fuzzies were close and outnumbered the defenders more than two to one. The gun took down a few more but most of them reached the trench and jumped into it.

  Staff Sergeant Hyakowa saw that the incoming fire from the left flank was slackening; either the Fuzzies there were backing off because of the increasing smoke or the platoon was killing more of them. The hundred Sharp Edge troops were in danger of being overwhelmed by the Fuzzies who were leaping into their trench.

  “Hound,” Hyakowa yelled, “get both guns firing on the flank. Rabbit, move first squad to help the mercs!”

  In seconds, Corporal Kindrachuck had Lance Corporal Tischler firing into the burning, smoking scrub on the left flank again, and Sergeant Ratliff had first squad pounding toward the melee in the front trench. When they had clear shots, a few of the Marines fired single shots at Fuzzies that were in the trench or jumping into and over it.

  In seconds the nine Marines of first squad were barreling into the flank of the Fuzzies.

  Lance Corporal Zumwald jumped into the trench, landing hard with both boots on the lower back of a Fuzzy who was grappling with a Sharp Edge soldier. The three went down in a pile. The merc had his breath knocked out, then was stunned when his head struck the hard bottom of the trench. The Fuzzy, stunned by the sudden agony in his back, collapsed, his full weight falling on the soldier when Zumwald raised himself to his knees and slammed the butt of his blaster into the back of the Fuzzy’s head. Blood splashed from the blow, and bone cracked and splintered.

  Just past where Zumwald had killed a Fuzzy, Corporal Dornhofer jammed the muzzle of his blaster into the side of a Fuzzy. A bolt of plasma burned a hole through the Fuzzy’s torso and shattered against the outer wall of the trench; bits of star stuff splashed back, striking that Fuzzy, the soldier he’d been grappling with, and the Fuzzy next in line up the trench, wounding all three. Dornhofer jumped into the trench, past the soldier, and hammered the butt of his blaster into the next two Fuzzies, whom he’d just wounded.

  PFC Gray, running alongside Dornhofer, held his blaster cross-body and slammed it into two Fuzzies who had just jumped over the trench, bowling them over. He stuttered his step just enough to bring one foot pounding onto the neck of one of them, breaking it. The other Fuzzy scrambled to all fours and dove at Gray, tumbling him to the ground. The Fuzzy clawed at him with hands and feet, but Gray’s body armor protected him from the knifelike claws. Gray whipped his fighting knife from its scabbard and plunged the blade into the Fuzzy’s shoulder where it met his neck. The Fuzzy reared back and screamed, blood gushing from the wound. Gray viciously twisted the knife, then jerked it out. He jumped to his feet and looked for his dropped blaster.

  Corporal Dean led his men past first fire team. He saw a knot of Fuzzies who had leaped the trench and were headed for the watch-tower and Sergeant Vodnik. Dean skidded to a halt and threw his blaster to his shoulder to start pressing off bolts at them. He got three before the others realized they were being attacked from the rear and turned to charge the new threat. But Lance Corporal Ymenez shot them down.

  Sergeant Vodnik waved his thanks to the three Marines.

  Lance Corporal Quick and his men bolted past third fire team while they were dealing with the Fuzzies charging the watch-tower and ran into more Fuzzies who had jumped the trench. As soon as they were clear of their fellow Marines, they began firing straight ahead, boring instantly cauterized holes through many of the Fuzzies.

  A Fuzzy who had just killed an unarmored Sharp Edge soldier leaped out of the trench and slashed at Quick, with claws gory from disemboweling the man. The blow staggered Quick. Before the Marine could regain his balance, the Fuzzy was on him, bloody claws slashing and ripping at his armored neck and shoulders. One claw got stuck in Quick’s neck seam and broke off—but not before breaking the seal, baring Quick’s neck. The Fuzzy chittered a cry of victory as he drew his hand back to plunge it down in a death blow. But he couldn’t strike the blow; Dean and his men had caught up, and the corporal slammed the Fuzzy’s head with the butt of his blaster.

  Ymenez speared a charging Fuzzy with the muzzle of his blaster, and then pressed the firing lever. With the muzzle pressed against the Fuzzy’s flesh, the plasma bolt spread wide and burned out his middle, almost cutting him in half.

  The Marines of first squad were making short work of the Fuzzies at the south end of the trench, but a hundred meters away, at the center and far end of the trench, the Fuzzies were overwhelming the defenders.

  In the nearer bunker, four Sharp Edge soldiers fought fiercely against the Fuzzies who were trying to break in to get at them. The Fuzzies had already killed two of the mercenaries in the bunker with rifle fire but the others jammed themselves into the corners next to the entrance and were stabbing and slashing with knives to keep the Fuzzies at bay. The bodies of three Fuzzies were clogging the entrance. So far, none of the Fuzzies had thought to go around to the front and fire their rifles through the aperture—but it would only be a matter of time.

  Farther along, the mercenaries were doing their best, beating at the Fuzzies with rifle butts and spearing with muzzles. Some fought with knives. Most of the Fuzzies dropped their rifles in favor of using their claws. The knives were no match against the claws, and most of those fights saw the men go down with blood flowing out of their rent climate-control uniforms. The men’s sole advantage was that their arms and shoulders had evolved from tree-dwelling ancestors and had greater upward reach and striking power than the arms and shoulders of the Fuzzies, which had evolved from ground-walking legs. If only they’d had bayonets to turn their rifles into spears.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Prang and the Fuzzy who had gotten the leaves to ease the pain in McGinty’s hand were still intent on their attempts to communicate, but the Fuzzy was struggling against the bonds that held his hands behind his back and hobbled his feet. Lieutenant Bass was barely conscious and crooning a tuneless song. Doc Hough, busy tending to the wounded who had been brought to the topless bunker before the final assault, was the only person who could hear the raging battle and do anything defensive—but he was too engrossed in his ministrations to pay any attention to what was happening outside.

  Until he heard the crack of bullets just overhead.

  Then he looked up, over the edge of the bunker, and saw Fuzzies coming in his direction, chittering and firing as they moved. He dove for a blaster.

  The agitated Fuzzy trying to get a point across to Prang saw Hough go for the blaster and looked up to see the oncoming Fuzzies. He sprang to his feet and shrilled out rapid chittering, waddling to stand b
etween the humans in the bunker hole and the attacking Fuzzies.

  At an order from one of the Fuzzies, they all dropped to the ground and pointed their rifles at the bunker, but they stopped shooting. There was a rapid exchange of chitters between the one who’d evidently given an order to drop and cease fire, and the Fuzzy prisoner. Then the leader snapped another order, and the rest of the Fuzzies, looking confused, pointed their rifles away from the bunker. The prisoner turned his head around to look at Prang. He chittered at the officer and wiggled his hands. Prang looked uncertainly among him and the Fuzzies outside the bunker.

  “I think he wants me to cut him loose,” Prang said to Hough. “What do you think?”

  The corpsman nodded. “I think that’s what he’s asking,” he agreed. “Why not? If they want to kill us, we can’t beat them off. And it does look like he got them to stop shooting at us.”

  “All right,” Prang said slowly. He stood and walked over to the prisoner, careful not to make any sudden movements. He slowly and openly drew his knife and reached for the bonds holding the prisoner’s hands behind his back. He stopped when several of the Fuzzies suddenly aimed their rifles at him. He held the knife up and reached for the bonds with his other hand. The prisoner presented his wrists to Prang and bent over to give him easier access. None of the muzzles wavered as the officer reached the knife to the bonds and cut them loose. Then he crouched and cut the bonds on the prisoner’s ankles.