There Will Be War Volume I, page 28
The backward shock of meeting has bunched the natives. The press of undisciplined reserves from behind adds to their confusion. Vibulenus jumps a still-writhing body and throws himself into the wall of shields and terrified orange faces. An iron-headed spear thrusts at him, misses as another warrior jostles the wielder. Vibulenus slashes downward at his assailant. The warrior throws his shield up to catch the sword, then collapses when a second-rank legionary darts his spear through the orange abdomen.
Breathing hard with his sword still dripping in his hand, Vibulenus lets the pressing ranks flow around him. Slaughter is not a tribune’s work, but increasingly Vibulenus finds that he needs the swift violence of the battle line to release the fury building within him. The cohort is advancing with the jerky sureness of an ox-drawn plow in dry soil.
A window of native bodies lies among the line of first contact, now well within the Roman formation. Vibulenus wipes his blade on a fallen warrior, leaving two sluggish runnels filling on the flesh. He sheathes the sword. Three bodies are sprawled together to form a hillock. Without hesitation the Tribune steps onto it to survey the battle.
The legion is a broad awl punching through a belt of orange leather. The cavalry on the left stand free in a scatter of bodies, neither threatened by the natives nor making any active attempt to drive them back. One of the mounts, a hairless brute combining the shape of a wolfhound with the bulk of an ox, is feeding on a corpse his rider has lanced. Vibulenus was correct in expecting the natives to give them a wide berth; thousands of flanking warriors tremble in indecision rather than sweep forward to surround the legion. It would take more discipline than this orange rabble has shown to attack the toad-like riders on their terrible beasts.
Behind the lines, a hundred paces distant from the legionaries whose armor stands in hammering contrast to the naked autochthones, is the Commander and his remaining score of guards. He alone of the three thousand who have landed from the starship knows why the battle is being fought, but he seems to stand above it. And if the silly bastard still has half his bodyguard with him—Mars and all the gods, what must be happening on the right flank?
The inhuman shout of triumph that rises half a mile away gives Vibulenus an immediate answer.
“Prepare to disengage!” he orders the nearest centurion. The swarthy non-com, son of a North African colonist, speaks briefly into the ears of two legionaries before sending them to the ranks forward and back of his. The legion is tight for men, always has been. Tribunes have no runners, but the cohort makes do.
Trumpets blat in terror. The native warriors boil whooping around the Roman right flank. Legionaries in the rear are facing about with ragged suddenness, obeying instinct rather than the orders bawled by their startled officers. The command group suddenly realizes the situation. Three of the bodyguard charge toward the oncoming orange mob. The rest of the guards and staff scatter into the infantry.
The iron-bronze clatter has ceased on the left flank. When the cohort halts its advance, the natives gain enough room to break and flee for their encampment. Even the warriors who have not engaged are cowed by the panic of those who have; by the panic, and the sprawls of bodies left behind them.
“About face!” Vibulenus calls through the indecisive hush, “and pivot on your left flank. There’s some more barbs want to fight the Tenth!”
The murderous cheer from his legionaries overlies the noise of the cohort executing his order.
As it swings Vibulenus runs across the new front of his troops, what had been the rear rank. The cavalry, squat-bodied and grim in their full armor, shows sense enough to guide their mounts toward the flank of the Ninth Cohort as Vibulenus rotates his men away from it. Only a random javelin from the native lines appears to hinder them. Their comrades who remained with the Commander have been less fortunate.
A storm of javelins has disintegrated the half-hearted charge. Two of the mounts have gone down despite their heavy armor. Behind them, the Commander lies flat on the hard soil while his beast screams horribly above him. The shaft of a stray missile projects from its withers. Stabbing up from below, the orange warriors fell the remaining lancer and gut his companions as they try to rise. Half a dozen of the bodyguards canter nervously back from their safe bolthole among the infantry to try to rescue their employer. The wounded mount leaps at one of the lancers. The two beasts tangle with the guard between them. A clawed hind leg flicks his head. Helmet and head rip skyward in a spout of green ichor.
“Charge!” Vibulenus roars. The legionaries who cannot hear him follow his running form. The knot of cavalry and natives is a quarter mile away. The cohorts of the right flank are too heavily engaged to do more than defend themselves against the new thrust. Half the legion has become a bronze worm, bristling front and back with spearpoints against the surging orange flood. Without immediate support, the whole right flank will be squeezed until it collapses into a tangle of blood and scrap metal. The Tenth Cohort is their support, all the support there is.
“Rome!” the fresh veterans leading the charge shout as their shields rise against the new flight of javelins. There are gaps in the back ranks, those just disengaged. Behind the charge, men hold palms clamped over torn calves or lie crumpled around a shaft of alien wood. There will be time enough for them if the recovery teams land—which they will not do in event of a total disaster on the ground.
The warriors snap and howl at the sudden threat. Their own success has fragmented them. What had been a flail slashing into massed bronze kernels is now a thousand leaderless handfuls in sparkling contact with the Roman line. Only the leaders bunched around the command group have held their unity.
One mount is still on its feet and snarling. Four massively-equipped guards try to ring the Commander with their maces. The Commander, his suit a splash of blue against the gravel, tries to rise. There is a flurry of mace strokes and quickly-riposting spears, ending in a clash of falling armor and an agile orange body with a knife leaping the crumpled guard. Vibulenus’ sword, flung overarm, takes the native in the throat. The inertia of its spin cracks the hilt against the warrior’s forehead.
The Tenth Cohort is on the startled natives. A moment before the warriors were bounding forward in the flush of victory. Now they face the cohort’s meat-axe suddenness—and turn. At swordpoint and shield edge, as inexorable as the rising sun, the Tenth grinds the native retreat into panic while the cohorts of the right flank open order and advance. The ground behind them is slimy with blood.
Vibulenus rests on one knee, panting. He has retrieved his sword. Its stickiness bonds it to his hand. Already the air keens with landing motors. In minutes the recovery teams will be at work on the fallen legionaries, building life back into all but the brain-hacked or spine-severed. Vibulenus rubs his own scarred ribs in aching memory.
A hand falls on the Tribune’s shoulder. It is gloved in a skin-tight blue material; not armor, at least not armor against weapons. The Commander’s voice comes from the small plate beneath his clear, round helmet. Speaking in Latin, his accents precisely flawed, he says, “You are splendid, you warriors.”
Vibulenus sneers though he does not correct the alien. Warriors are capering heroes, good only for dying when they meet trained troops, when they meet the Tenth Cohort.
“I thought the Federation Council had gone mad,” the flat voice continues, “when it ruled that we must not land weapons beyond the native level in exploiting inhabited worlds. All very well to talk of the dangers of introducing barbarians to modern weaponry, but how else could my business crush local armies and not be bled white by transportation costs?”
The Commander shakes his head in wonder at the carnage about him. Vibulenus silently wipes his blade. In front of him, Falco gapes toward the green sun. A javelin points from his right eyesocket. “When we purchased you from your Parthian captors it was only an experiment. Some of us even doubted it was worth the cost of the longevity treatments. In a way you are more effective than a Guard Regiment with lasers; out-numbered, you beat them with their own weapons. They can’t even claim ‘magic’ as a slave to their pride. And at a score of other job sites you have done as well. And so cheaply!”
“Since we have been satisfactory,” the Tribune says, trying to keep the hope out of his face, “will we be returned home now?”
“Oh, goodness, no,” the alien laughs, “you’re far too valuable for that. But I have a surprise for you, one just as pleasant I’m sure—females.”
“You found us real women?” Vibulenus whispers.
“You really won’t be able to tell the difference,” the Commander says with paternal confidence.
A million suns away on a farm in the Sabine hills, a poet takes the stylus from the fingers of a nude slave girl and writes, very quickly, And Crassus’ wretched soldier takes a barbarian wife from his captors and grows old waging war for them.
The poet looks at the line with a pleased expression. “It needs polish, of course,” he mutters. Then, more directly to the slave, he says, “You know, Leuconoe, there’s more than inspiration to poetry, a thousand times more; but this came to me out of the air.”
Horace gestures with his stylus toward the glittering night sky. The girl smiles back at him.
Editor's Introduction to:
I AM NOTHING
by Eric Frank Russell
Eric Frank Russell was a British writer and a founding member of the British Interplanetary Society, although many of his stories feature authentic American protagonists. A number of his stories are genuine classics. “…And Then There Were None” is one of the most powerful statements of the libertarian position in all of science fiction.
One of the temptations of Faust was Pride. In the Richard Burton film, Mephistopheles has given Faust charge of an army. With banners flying they gallop to the sound of drums and trumpets, and Faust shouts “Is it not a pleasant thing, to be a king, and ride in triumph to Samarkand!”
There are other forms of conquest, some equally glorious, which do not lead to the sin of pride.
I AM NOTHING
by Eric Frank Russell
David Korman rasped, “Send them the ultimatum.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“But what?”
“It may mean war.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing, sir.” The other sought a way out. “I merely thought—”
“You are not paid to think,” said Korman, acidly. “You are paid only to obey orders.”
“Of course, sir. Most certainly.” Gathering his papers, he backed away hurriedly. “I shall have the ultimatum forwarded to Lani at once.”
“You better had!” Korman stared across his ornate desk, watched the door close. Then he voiced an emphatic, “Bah!”
A lickspittle. He was surrounded by lickspittles, cravens, weaklings. On all sides were the spineless ready to jump to his command, eager to fawn upon him. They smiled at him with false smiles, hastened into pseudo-agreement with every word he uttered, gave him exaggerated respect that served to cover their inward fears.
There was a reason for all this. He, David Korman, was strong. He was strong in the myriad ways that meant full and complete strength. With his broad body, big jowls, bushy brows and hard gray eyes he looked precisely what he was: a creature of measureless power, mental and physical.
It was good that he should be like this. It was a law of Nature that the weak must give way to the strong. A thoroughly sensible law. Besides, this world of Morcine needed a strong man. Morcine was one world in a cosmos full of potential competitors, all of them born of some misty, long-forgotten planet near a lost sun called Sol. Morcine’s duty to itself was to grow strong at the expense of the weak. Follow the natural law.
His heavy thumb found the button on his desk, pressed it, and he said into the little silver microphone, “Send in Fleet Commander Rogers at once.”
There was a knock at the door and he snapped, “Come in.” Then, when Rogers had reached the desk, he informed, “We have sent the ultimatum.”
“Really, sir? Do you suppose they’ll accept it?”
“Doesn’t matter whether they do or don’t,” Korman declared. “In either event we’ll get our own way.” His gaze upon the other became challenging. “Is the fleet disposed in readiness exactly as ordered?”
“It is, sir.”
“You are certain of that? You have checked it in person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. These are my orders: the fleet will observe the arrival on Lani of the courier bearing our demands. It will allow twenty-four hours for receipt of a satisfactory reply.”
“And if one does not come?”
“It will attack one minute later in full strength. Its immediate task will be to capture and hold an adequate ground base. Having gained it, reinforcements will be poured in and the territorial conquest of the planet can proceed.”
“I understand, sir.” Rogers prepared to leave. “Is there anything more?”
“Yes,” said Korman. “I have one other order. When you are about to seize this base my son’s vessel must be the first to land upon it.”
Rogers blinked and protested nervously, “But, sir, as a young lieutenant he commands a small scout bearing twenty men. Surely one of our major battleships should be—”
“My son lands first!” Standing up, Korman leaned forward over his desk. His eyes were cold. “The knowledge that Reed Korman, my only child, was in the forefront of the battle will have an excellent psychological effect upon the ordinary masses here. I give it as my order.”
“What if something happens?” murmured Rogers, aghast. “What if he should become a casualty, perhaps be killed?”
“That,” Korman pointed out, “will enhance the effect.”
“All right, sir.” Rogers swallowed and hurried out, his features strained.
Had the responsibility for Reed Korman’s safety been placed upon his own shoulders? Or was that character behind the desk genuine in his opportunist and dreadful fatalism? He did not know. He knew only that Korman could not be judged by ordinary standards.
Blank-faced and precise, the police escort stood around while Korman got out of the huge official car. He gave them his usual austere look-over while the chauffeur waited, his hand holding the door open. Then Korman mounted the steps to his home, heard the car door close at the sixth step. Invariably it was the sixth step, never the fifth or seventh.
Inside, the maid waited on the same corner of the carpet, her hands ready for his hat, gloves and cloak. She was stiff and starched and never looked directly at him. Not once in fourteen years had she met him eye to eye.
With a disdainful grunt he brushed past her and went into the dining room, took his seat, studied his wife across a long expanse of white cloth filled with silver and crystal.
She was tall and blond and blue-eyed and once had seemed supremely beautiful. Her willowy slenderness had made him think with pleasure of her moving in his arms with the sinuosity of a snake. Now, her slight curves had gained angularity. Her submissive eyes wore crinkles that were not the marks of laughter.
“I’ve had enough of Lani,” he announced. “We’re precipitating a showdown. An ultimatum has been sent.”
“Yes, David.”
That was what he had expected her to say. He could have said it for her. It was her trademark, so to speak; always had been, always would be.
Years ago, a quarter of a century back, he had said with becoming politeness, “Mary, I wish to marry you.”
“Yes, David.”
She had not wanted it—not in the sense that he had wanted it. Her family had pushed her into the arrangement and she had gone where shoved. Life was like that: the pushers and the pushed. Mary was of the latter class. The fact had taken the spice out of romance. The conquest had been too easy. Korman insisted on conquest but he liked it big. Not small.
Later on, when the proper time had come, he had told her, “Mary, I want a son.”
She had arranged it precisely as ordered. No slipups. No presenting him with a fat and impudent daughter by way of hapless obstetrical rebellion. A son, eight pounds, afterward named Reed. He had chosen the name.
A faint scowl lay over his broad face as he informed, “Almost certainly it means war.”
“Does it, David?”
It came without vibrancy or emotion. Dull-toned, her pale oval features expressionless, her eyes submissive. Now and again he wondered whether she hated him with a fierce, turbulent hatred so explosive that it had to be held in check at all costs. He could never be sure of that. Of one thing he was certain: she feared him and had from the very first.
Everyone feared him. Everyone without exception. Those who did not at first meeting soon learned to do so. He saw to that in one way or another. It was good to be feared. It was an excellent substitute for other emotions one has never had or known.
When a child he had feared his father long and ardently; also his mother. Both of them so greatly that their passing had come as a vast relief. Now it was his turn. That, too, was a natural law, fair and logical. What is gained from one generation should be passed to the next. What is denied should likewise be denied.
Justice.
“Reed’s scoutship has joined the fleet in readiness for action.”
“I know, David.”
His eyebrows lifted. “How do you know?”
“I received a letter from him a couple of hours ago.” She passed it across.
He was slow to unfold the stiff sheet of paper. He knew what the first two words would be. Getting it open, he found it upside-down, reversed it and looked.
“Dear Mother.”
That was her revenge.
