The next morning a cold rain swept down from the north. On that tragic morn the Guldur's Orak allies joined the attack and the walls of Ai finally fell. As the rain and cold swept away the sweltering heat, so did the Orak forces sweep away the brave defenders of the last Stolsh stronghold on Ambergris, and drive them from their world. No one had known that the Guldur were allied with the Orak, but now they understood who it was that rode beside the King of Curs as an equal.

If the Guldur were canine derived, then the Orak were from porcine stock. Pigs, swine, hogs, and porkers, they were called, but in reality they were like huge boars standing upright, with sword, shield and tusks rending all before them.

The same ancient, Ur-civilization that seeded the galaxy with human, Sylvan and Dwarrowdelf to live on worlds with varied gravities, and Stolsh to live on aquatic worlds, had also chosen to wander farther afield in their genetic manipulation of the basic human stock. The Guldur were a strange cross of human and canine, but they were still far more man than dog, just as the Orak were more human than porcine. Most of these races could, reputedly, interbreed. Just as all the diverse breeds of canines or felines could generally mate and reproduce, although some such matches were reported to produce only sterile "mules."

Little was known about the Guldur, and even less about the Orak. They were from a distant part of the galaxy, far to the galactic east of the Guldur's star empire, and this was one of the elite divisions of that vast distant realm. The presence of this new enemy added a frightening new dimension to the war.

They must have been staged and ready to attack long before their leader came out with the Guldur king to survey the battlefield. Their attack was perfectly equipped and prepared, and it broke the back of the Stolsh defenders in less than an hour.

In the streets of Ai, chaos reigned.

There was one narrow street leading up to the Pier, and he stood astride it like a colossus. He was the biggest Stolsh Melville had ever seen, dressed in full armor, like some ancient knight. Every surface was polished to a mirrorlike l.u.s.ter, reflecting the rainy skies in dismal splendor. When he stepped forward and shook hands it sounded like a bra.s.s band rolling gently down a steep hill. Shaking his armored hand was like grabbing a sack of large bolts.

He was Marshall DuuYaan, the commander of the Stolsh rear guard. He'd seen combat on many worlds before, and his people called him the "bravest of the brave." Now Melville and his small force of sailors and marines were attached to him for this final defense. Melville had volunteered his men, and he was accepted with the same admonition that the Westerness consul had given him, "Doo noot becoome decisivelyy engaaged. Yoour ship willl be neeeded sooon."

The sudden fall of the city walls caused their carefully conceived, complex plans to collapse. Most of the preselected refugees had struggled through the panic-stricken mobs to the Pier, but they needed time to board and escape from the rapidly advancing enemy forces. The rest of the city's occupants, the vast majority of the remaining Stolsh population on Ambergris, were fleeing into the hinterland. But they, too, needed time to escape.

Time. It was all about time. Napoleon is reputed to have said, when asked by one of his generals for more time, "Ask of me anything but time." In war, time is almost always purchased with lives.

Much of DuuYaan's ad hoc force was already defeated and destroyed in desperate street battles. They'd traded their lives for time. Time for their wives and children to escape. Elite forces had been held in reserve for this mission, but now the rear guard was a tangled remnant of screaming, dying creatures battling in the street as Melville and DuuYaan looked on.

Melville watched in awe, with tears in his eyes as they died. No one ran, no one panicked. Each defender was a hero to the end. No, it was not about the "princes and prelates with periwigged charioteer." It was about these men . . .

The men in tattered battalion which fights till it dies,

Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries,

The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their eyes.

They'd been pushed back to the final wooden bridge leading up to the isolated high ground where the Pier was located. Engineers were arriving to rig the bridge for demolition. Below them a brook, now flooded with rainwater, gushed through a deep ravine. To their rear, on the far side of the bridge, a battery of light howitzers was being positioned to cover the approaches.

Immediately in front of the two leaders was a four-way intersection. Straight ahead was the battle, behind them was the bridge. Refugees flowed into the intersection from the left and right, and fled over the bridge. These were the ones who had been selected for evacuation. The rest of the city's citizens were headed into the swamps, marshes and coastlines of the outback. There were only three choices in the city that day. Escape to the Pier, flee into the wilderness, or die at the hands of the vast numbers of Orak, Guldur, and Goblan who were murdering, looting, tormenting, burning, molesting, torturing, raping, and eating everything in their path.

The rain pelted down and Melville shivered in his tattered blue wool uniform jacket. After the stifling heat, the impact of the cold front felt even more bitter than it actually was. Added to the shock of sudden defeat, the cold rain seemed to reach in and freeze men's hearts.

Melville's men stood behind him on the bridge, pressed to one side as the refugees flowed past. He and Petreckski, his two young lieutenants, four midshipmen, twelve marines, and two corpsmen all carried .45s. Von Rito and Kobbsven each had a BAR and an a.s.sistant gunner carrying extra magazines. Broadax and the two rangers brought up the rear with a reserve of ten marines. Each marine carried a bayoneted, double-barreled muzzle-loader, and a bandoleer of grenades. Each warrior also had a monkey, holding a belaying pin in its upper two hands.

The engineers were scrambling to rig the demo charges on the bridge's wooden support structures. This should have been done before, but the sudden collapse of the city's defenses had caught them by surprise.

"Ie knoow thaat yoou haave oorders too noot becoome decisivelyy engaaged," DuuYaan boomed out to Melville.

Yeah, yeah, he thought. I'm getting tired of hearing those words. But they were his orders, and he intended to follow them.

"Buut," the huge, gleaming Stolsh commander continued, "wee aapreciaate whaatever yoou caan doo foor us."

"We will be here as long as you'll have us, or until someone makes us go away. Either way I promise it'll be exciting," Melville said with a grin.

Even as he spoke, the flood of fleeing refugees dropped to a trickle, and the defending forces fell back from all directions. Left, right, and center, the retreating Stolsh rear guard now was pushed back into the intersection in one great heaving, dying ma.s.s of defenders.

An educated eye could tell that the defenders were losing heart. The engineers needed a few precious minutes to prepare the bridge for destruction. After fighting for every inch of city streets, the Stolsh rear guard was starting to crack. Dear G.o.d, thought Melville, they have been magnificent. But now, when they needed just a few more minutes, they were going to lose it all. That's how so many battles have ended up over the centuries. So close, so very close. All they needed was a few more minutes. Now was the time for the leader to commit his last reserve: himself.

"Thoose aare myy men, aand theyy aare dyying. Ie muust jooin them," said DuuYaan, drawing a long sword and cinching up his shield. A group of Orak broke through the line and he charged straight into them. The armored behemoth hit the enemy line with an impact that sounded like the bra.s.s band had rolled to the bottom of the hill and fallen into a deep ravine. In an instant his gleaming armor was coated with black powder, blood, and viscera. The men around him gained strength from his presence, the line stiffened, and they fought on for a few more precious minutes.

Steven Pressfield wrote historical novels about ancient Greece. He wrote with such scope and power that his works became required reading for military men across the generations. He'd written about what happened at moments such as this. . . .

Someone put the query, "How does one lead free men?"

"By being better than they," Alcibiades responded at once.

The symposiasts laughed at this . . . even our generals.

"By being better," Alcibiades continued, "and thus commanding their emulation. When I was not yet twenty, I served in the infantry. Among my mates was Socrates the son of Sophroniscus. In a fight the enemy had routed us and were swarming upon our position. I was terrified and loading to flee. Yet when I beheld him, my friend with gray in his beard, planted his feet on the earth and set his shoulder within the great bowl of his shield, a species of eros, life-will, arose within me like a tide. I discovered myself compelled, absent all prudence, to stand beside him."

Yes, thought Melville, that's what is happening here. I'm seeing something ancient and powerful unfold before my eyes. This is what Pressfield meant when he wrote: "A commander's role is to model arte, excellence, before his men. One needs not thrash them to greatness; only hold it out before them. They will be compelled by their own nature to emulate it."

And so they were. And so they were, for a little while.

DuuYaan was like a lighthouse, his men anchoring themselves around him as they were whirled and tossed by the storm. Then they were swept away and he stood alone.

Melville's men were in a battle line with eighteen .45s up front and a BAR on each flank. He had himself, Petreckski, the two corpsmen, and the rangers immediately behind the line. Broadax and her squad of marines stood in reserve behind them. The two rangers were already picking off enemy sharpshooters who were moving onto the roof lines, firing double-barreled rifles as fast as the ten marines could load them. Behind them the engineers still worked desperately with the demolition charges.

"Ready . . . FIRE!" Melville roared, and the battle line cut loose with a withering fusillade. Each of the eighteen .45-armed warriors on the battle line had a round in the chamber and seven rounds in the magazine. In just a few seconds, 144 .45 rounds were expertly fired into the enemy. It took less than a second to slam a fresh seven-round magazine into place and release the slide, then 126 more slugs plowed into the enemy. Then another mag change, and 126 more.

But the real killers that day were the two BARs, sending magazine after magazine of .30-06 rounds scything into the enemy ma.s.s on full auto. Each high-powered, copper-jacketed bullet punched through several bodies, greatly multiplying their contribution to the death that day, as Von Rito and Kobbsven plied their twenty- pound weapons with almost supernatural strength and skill.

Bullets are not magic. If you point a gun and pull the trigger, the bullets will not seek out living creatures with some preternatural, malevolent intelligence. Some people seem to believe this, and those people usually die quickly if they're unfortunate enough to get into a gunfight. In reality, just an eighth-of-an-inch elevation of a pistol barrel (the height of a front sight blade) at five yards is the difference between hitting an opponent between the eyes and having the bullet pa.s.s harmlessly over an opponent's head. At twenty-five yards, the same eighth-of-an-inch elevation in the front of the barrel would cause a bullet aimed for the heart to fly ineffectually over an enemy's head, and just a quarter-inch depression of the barrel at that range could cause a bullet to plow harmlessly into the ground. It takes a trained, skilled, determined warrior to kill consistently and well with a pistol, and that was exactly the kind of individual who stood on the firing line that day.

Each warrior held his pistol out in a firm two-handed stance, and then gently, carefully, lovingly pressed the trigger. "Two things you should never hurry in life," Fielder told them in their training, "A good woman and a trigger. Both will give you the result you want in their own time. Rush either and you'll be very frustrated." And so they silently repeated the mantra of all armed professionals since repeating firearms were invented: "Front sight, press trigger gently. Repeat as necessary."

Added to the physical effect of the thousands of bullets firing rapidly and accurately downrange was the impact of the noise. Again Melville thought of Lord Moran, the great military psychiatrist, veteran of both World Wars on Old Earth and author of the seminal book, The Anatomy of Courage, who had called Napoleon "the great psychologist." And Napoleon truly got it right when he said that the psychological, or "moral," factors were three times more important than the physical.

In this case the physical impact of the lead flying into the enemy ranks was tremendous. But the psychological effect of the sudden noise, flash, and concussion was even greater.

The effect of the two BARs was particularly potent. Its muzzle velocity of around 2800 feet per second, triple that of a .45, created intense concussion and noise for anyone downrange as it punched through the atmosphere at supersonic speeds. Its cyclic rate of fire of about 550 rounds per minute meant that the BAR tore through a 20-round detachable box magazine in under three seconds. Each magazine was like a burst of sustained thunder. Like a shattering, prolonged bolt of lightening.

Melville's tactics instructor, Major Johan Farnham, a master of all aspects of weapons, had taught them about the BAR in the academy. His words came flowing back, in one of those distracting thoughts that can come up in combat. "Aside from its weight, the BAR's only major drawback is its lack of a quick-change barrel. In order to sustain a high rate of fire, a machine gun needs to be able to quickly change barrels, or it needs a water-cooled jacket. I doubt you'll get much more than five magazines out of a BAR at its max rate of fire without risking a stoppage due to overheating." In this case, in order to maintain a sustained fire, his two BAR gunners both burned off four magazines and then started firing in short bursts, picking off particularly aggressive or excessively brave enemy attackers. Firing in careful bursts like this reduced the chance of a malfunction due to overheating.

The enemy line faltered and began to stagger back under this sustained psychological and physical onslaught. Out in front of them, only Marshall DuuYaan still stood among the Stolsh. The members of the firing line all worked hard to prevent hitting the Marshall. The good news was that so far no one had shot him in the back. The bad news was that the area immediately around him contained a high density of surviving enemy troops, and finally he was overwhelmed and brought down just thirty feet in front of them.

The enemy ma.s.ses began to slowly surge forward again, in spite of the withering fire. Melville looked over at the Stolsh engineer commander. "Five minuutes!" called out the harried engineer. "Dear G.o.ds, juust five moore minutes is aall we need!"

It has been proven over and over again, that the attack is psychologically more powerful than the defense. And it is a fundamental principle of combat, that the best time to retreat is after a successful attack. Numerous great commanders, when hemmed in from all sides, have been able to gain a needed respite through a vigorous attack. The Guldur and their Orak allies were on the offensive from the beginning, and thus far they had not been the recipient of any deliberate, decisive a.s.sault themselves. Now Melville was determined to buy those five minutes, and to give the enemy a taste of their own medicine. h.e.l.l, he could even give his men a mission, an objective to focus the attack around.

"On my command!" bellowed Melville, "the line will rapid fire and advance to within point-blank range of the enemy! The reserve will cut through the center and rescue the marshall, then we will pull back to the bridge." He looked at Broadax, who rolled her cigar to one corner of her mouth and gave him a nod of understanding coupled with a grin of absolute bliss. On her helmet her monkey capered gleefully. All along the line the firing eased as the warriors changed magazines so that they could launch the attack with a full weapon.

The enemy began to surge forward with renewed vigor as the fire ebbed. They were about twenty feet away when Melville stepped through the line, manhandling men to the left and right to create a gap for Broadax and her lads to come through. "Charge!" Melville roared, stepping steadily forward and firing his pistol in a two-handed grip as rapidly as he could bring the sights on target. The shots didn't even register, all that existed was: Front sight, press trigger. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Front sight, press. Change magazines!

As he drew closer, accuracy became easier and his rate of fire increased. Frontsight,presstrigger. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Frontsight,press. Changemagazines!

To his left and right every other individual armed with a .45, including the corpsmen, was doing the same, and on the wings Kobbsven and Von Rito burned several magazines of .30-06 ammo at their max rate of fire.

Against an enemy armed with repeating, breech-loading rifles, a pistol-armed force such as Melville's wouldn't have survived. But this enemy was armed with muskets (most of those now empty) and bayonets, with an occasional sword or muzzle-loading pistol. A force equipped with .45 autos, supported by a few BARs, (not to mention the bullet-catching monkey on each back!) had a tremendous, decisive advantage against this enemy.

The men of Westerness advanced to just outside bayonet range, pressing the trigger as rapidly as they could bring accurate fire, and at this range that was very fast. Then the enemy was treated to Broadax, two rangers, their dog, and ten marines sallying forth from the battle line like a high-pressure hose plowing through an anthill.

But before Broadax charged, she had her reserve lob their "cheater." Fielder had put it this way in their training, "The Most Important Rule of a Gunfight is, always cheat, because there are no second-place winners in a gunfight." This was their cheater.

Ten fragmentation grenades, then ten more, and then ten more soared over the firing line as they advanced. While the third volley was still in the air, but before the first volley exploded, Broadax told her marines, "Boys, we're gonna charge through the gap when the second volley explodes! Then we's gonna snag the lizard in the tin can, an' bring 'im back!"

Private Jarvis, standing at the end of the file of ten marines, began to whimper quietly to himself. Yer jist the one we needs, Sarge sez. Saw action wit da bayonet on Broadax's World she sez. Good, broad-shouldered farm stock she sez. Jist the sort I needs behind me on this one she sez. Oh G.o.d, get me out of this alive and I swear I'll go back to the farm and never leave.

"Sarge, er, sir," squeaked Jarvis, "I don't think this is a good idea!"

Then the first volley of grenades detonated among the enemy horde, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!" with ma.s.sive concussions hurling Guldur, Goblan and Orak into the air with magical ease.

"Don't try ta think, son, ye'll hurt yerself," said Broadax, patting as far up Jarvis' back as she could reach.

With that, the second volley went, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!"

"Come, on, ye b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" roared Broadax, "ye wanna live forever? Yeeeeee-Haaaaw!" This was accompanied by the screeching howl of her monkey, standing on top of her helmet and beating its chest with four little fists. Her ax hit the enemy like a machete through soft bamboo, just as the third volley of fragmentation grenades exploded, several ranks back in the enemy lines.

"CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!".

The six guns of the Stolsh light howitzer battery on the other side of the bridge opened fire, ripping canister rounds into the wings of the advancing enemy ma.s.s in a rolling volley. "CRUM!CRUM! CRUM!CRUM!CRUM!CRUMPP!"

The enemy was now confronted with a variety of new experiences, all of them bad. Thirty grenades were exploding in their midst. A battery of artillery was shredding them. A firing line full of semi-automatic pistoleros, supported by two automatic rifles, was advancing toward them. And now cold steel was penetrating into their ranks. All without warning, after a series of successful attacks. The only thing most of the attackers had to respond with was a muzzle-loader that they'd previously fired and hadn't yet gotten around to reloading . . . what with the mad rush and all.

Intelligent members of most species could adapt to almost anything . . . given enough time. Indeed, that might be considered one of the major definitions of intelligent life. Adapting fast enough though, that's the trick. It's the unexpected, the unantic.i.p.ated, that usually gets you in life. Or death.

A fountain of red follows Broadax's path into the enemy as her marines struggle to keep up. The marines quickly fire both barrels of their muskets and are now slashing and thrusting with bayonets, their monkeys working madly to block incoming bullets and blades.

An enemy blade is barely deflected up from Broadax's face to her helmet by the sadly overworked monkey on her shoulder ("urkk!") where it's further deflected up with a resounding "Clonggg!" Her small heavy skull might be confused and over-taxed by the complexities of "ossifer" duties, but it was designed by ages of selective breeding to be remarkably resistant to falling rocks and ax blows. She shrugs off the hit with little more than a brief instant of cross-eyed distraction, and then she eviscerates her opponent with a quick, upward, backhand slash of her ax.

The stunned enemy formation is rocked backward by this combination of unexpected blows. The ones in the front are retreating. The ones in the rear will eventually start pushing back. There is always a potential for compression in most substances, and compression is exactly what is happening to the attacking enemy forces. Many of them are packed together too tightly to fight effectively, almost none of them have room to reload. Can't fight, can't reload, can't run. The remaining option is to . . . die.

"Dear G.o.d I do love the Marines!" Broadax cries up to the rain- filled skies, or perhaps to her monkey, as her ax continues to cut great swaths through the enemy amidst a shower of blood and viscera. Emphasizing every sentence with a sweep of her ax, punctuated in gore and cigar smoke, her monkey working overtime to protect her from bullets and blows, in her deep, gravelly voice she continues her battle chant (with her monkey adding its terrified soprano counterpoint). "Every day's a holiday! (Eeek!) Every meal's a feast! (Eeek!) Every paycheck's a fortune. (Oook!) Every formation's a parade! (Aaak!) An' every battle's an adventure! (Urk?) IN THE MARINES!!"

Now she is standing over Marshall DuuYaan. She clears a s.p.a.ce with a horizontal, knee-high sweep of her ax. Curs and piggies, pruned at the knees, are pushed back to flop on the ground by a hedge of marine bayonets. Amazingly, the huge Stolsh marshall is still alive, amidst a pile of his dead soldiers. Broadax heaves him to his feet. (The lead cymbalist, who had climbed up the ravine, fell back onto the toiling percussion section.) A broken sword is dangling from his hand. Now they begin to pull back, the stunned, dazed "lizard in a tin can" staggering and stumbling back with them. ( . . . causing the bra.s.s section to lose their grip, just when they'd climbed halfway up.) Broadax chuckles grimly as she looks at the bedraggled, reeling marshall, "Did anyone git the license number of that truck?"

Not the be-medalled Commander,

beloved of the throne,

Riding c.o.c.k-horse to parade when

the bugles are blown,

But the lads who carried the battle and

cannot be known.

Melville began the battle with an ammo bag slung hanging on his left side, chock full of loaded .45 magazines, all carefully set in, upside-down, bullets pointed forward, ready for rapid reload. Now the bag was almost empty.

With Broadax and her marines safely behind the firing line, and a few precious minutes having been bought, they began pulling back to the bridge. Broadax had her boys chuck three more volleys of frag grenades into the enemy ma.s.s, "CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!, CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!, CHOOM-OOM-OOM!!"

A huge Orak plows through the enemy ma.s.s, hurling his own troops left and right to get to the front. His drug-hazed eyes focus on Melville, and he charges.

Oh no, thinks Melville, why do the big ones always have to home in on the leaders?