Wielding a Red Sword (18 page)

He donned his golden cloak, mounted his palomino, and rode out with the others. This time they descended on the border between two so-called Middle-Eastern nations, whose long-dragged-out war had broken out again after the breakdown of a truce. Persia was preparing a massive
assault on the entrenchments of Babylonia, and the scale was far larger than that of Gujarat and Maharastra had been. There was no single spot that My could settle on for effective supervision; there were thousands of troops deployed along a front hundreds of kilometers long.

Last time, he had sought to enter the mind of a general and had made little progress. This time he wanted to act with better effect. He had to gain a proper understanding of what was going on here. Then he could devise some strategy to diminish the wastefulness of it. Perhaps it would be better to phase in to the situation of one of the common troops.

“When is Persia’s attack scheduled to be launched?” Mym inquired of conquest, whose business it was to know such details.

“Not for several hours yet,” the white-caped warrior replied. “That will give us opportunity to plan for the greatest harvest.”

“Then I shall make my own investigation during that period,” Mym sang. “See that nothing starts prematurely.”

Conquest nodded. War’s word was law to those others, for he was the primary Incarnation here.

He rode to the lines of Babylonia first. He saw in a moment that the defenses were formidable. Behind towering masses of barbed wire there were extensive mine fields, and beyond these were concrete abutments and hardened emplacements for machine guns. Any human attack on these fortifications would commence at the cost of many, many lives. If it broke through, only a small fraction of the attacking troops would survive.

Obviously the Persian military command was aware of this. What kind of an attack did it contemplate? There had to be something special.

Mym rode to the other side. None of the mortals saw him or his horse, of course. He rode through the barber wire without being touched and into the Persian formation. There were only a few armed men at the front; the majority were in special camps, getting ready for the assault.

Who would be best to identify with for the ground-level survey? Mym pondered momentarily and decided on a random sampling. He would enter the camp, count off heads, and take the tenth soldier he found.

He found a large, crude temporary barracks building. He rode through the wall. There were the troops, massed for a preparatory briefing. Mym counted heads, identified the tenth, and dismounted. “Be near when I need you,” he directed the horse. Then he strode to the soldier he had identified, stood before him, and backed into the man. In a moment he overlapped him and felt the confusion of double identity.

Slowly his eyes caught the focus, and his ears became those of his host. The sensations of the body became his own. He was still himself, but also, gradually, the soldier. He concentrated solely on tuning in, on aligning the sensations of the mortal body with his own, so that his identification clarified. This took some time; while it occurred, the body was going about its own business, but this was a necessary delay. For one thing, the body used an alien language; the only way that Mym could understand it was to orient on the meaning as registered by the brain, rather than the actual sounds of it. He made steady progress in this, but the process could not be rushed.

The first significant thing he realized was that this body was young. This was no man; this was a boy of about eleven! Yet he was definitely a soldier; he had the military garb and a rifle and he had been drilled in its use. He was now being exhorted to go into battle for the honor of his country. It was, the instructor was assuring him and the other boys of this command, a great honor to fight for one’s country and a greater honor to die for it in this Holy War. He must go out and destroy the infidel enemy!

A child, Mym thought. They were all children, some younger than this one. All garbed in ill-fitting military uniforms, bearing archaic rifles with limited ammunition, and steeped with the ferver of fanaticism.

He thought of the formidable Babylonian emplacements he had viewed. These children would be crucified against those defenses! He probed in the mind for some
comprehension of what lay ahead, but none of that information had been provided. This young boy was very like an occidental cow in the corral, moving with the herd toward the slaughterhouse. Cows were never treated in that barbaric fashion in India, of course.

It seemed that Persia, having largely exhausted its experienced adult personnel, was now throwing the lives of its children into the breach. They would die like flies—but perhaps they would force an opening in the enemy line that the experienced troops could then exploit.

It made sense on one level. It was pointless to throw away seasoned troops on an impossible assault and leave the children to carry the major part of the action. Better to confine the heavy losses to those who were least trained, ten use the effective troops where and when they could count.

But Mym was sickened by this tactic. What barbarism threw away the hope of its future, its children, in such manner?

But he drew on his own memory to fill in more of the picture. This war had started when Babylonia, perceiving an opportunity to take advantage of its weakened neighbor, had invaded, seeking to add territory and acquire important seaports. Babylonia had acted with complete indifference to international law, grabbing at anything it supposed wasn’t nailed down. Persia had fought doggedly back with inadequate personnel and resources and turned the tide, driving the invader back out of its territory. Naturally the losses had been substantial. Had Persia confined itself to conventional recruitment, it would not have had the personnel to do the job. So it had reached into its reserves—the reserves of its future—in order to guarantee that there would be a future for its national identity. Outsiders like Mym might condemn such desperation—but what would he have done, as the leader of Gujarat, if his kingdom had found itself in a similar situation? Some evils were simply not to be tolerated, and among these was capitulation to brutal conquest.

He explored the attitude of the boy and found some justification there. The internecine war, dragging on as it
had, had decimated the population of the region. The boy’s family had been ruined by the passage of the troops, both directions; the crop had been destroyed, the father drafted and killed, the brothers driven away, the mother forced to work at starvation wages in a failing effort to sustain her remaining family, one sister raped and killed at age twelve, and the other simply stabbed by the bayonet of an enemy soldier when she screamed in fear and protest. This boy, eleven, had joined his nation’s military service in order to get money for his mother, who was working herself to death; this removed from her the burden of sustaining him and made it possible for her to buy some additional food and pay rent in a temporary camp for refugees. This boy had taken the part of a man during desperate times—as had the other boys of this unit. If he died in battle, a death benefit would accrue to her support. He was proud to do this—and Mym was forced to echo this pride. Given the situation of this region, the boy had done what he had to do, with honor and courage that would have befitted a man of any age.

No, Mym could not condemn that. Neither could he condemn the nation of Persia for using boys of this age; there was almost nothing else they could be used for, in this place and this time, and using them made it possible for them to serve both themselves and their nation. If this boy were discharged at this moment from this service, it would not be a victory for what was right and good; it would be disaster.

Mym found himself both glad and sad that he had chosen to share this young soldier’s experience. How true it was—a man had to walk a distance in the shoes of another to understand the other’s situation.

Now he understood enough of the local situation; he could withdraw from this host and return to his own form to supervise the coming battle. But now he knew this boy—and he found he could not simply desert him at this stage. He knew that they boy was headed straight for death—and not an honorable, hard-fought death. For a slaughter.

He had to do something. But what? This war had been grinding on, with brief intermissions, such as the one that helped eliminate Mym’s predecessor, for years. Its momentum was inexorable, and the damage it had already done was staggering. Even if he managed to abolish it this moment, the carnage it had wrought would remain.

Mym struggled with this, as the preparation for the onslaught proceeded. Could he remove this boy from the locale, at least saving his life? But that would cause him to be branded a deserter—and how would the lad fare then? Looking into the boy’s mind, Mym saw that this was no solution; the boy had to be allowed to complete his mission in whatever manner he could.

Could he manage to get this battle called off? Not by any action of this boy; he had chosen the wrong host for that. Now it was too late to phase in to another; the boy’s unit was being marched directly to the front. The attack would commence within the hour.

There was nothing Mym could do—yet still he did not leave the boy. He had to find some way!

The unit formed at the top of a small hill. Other units formed to either side. There were thousands of youths in this action! Most of them would be dead an hour from now—and what would they have accomplished?

The order to attack was given. Bravely, the boy charged over the brim of the hill and down toward the enemy line. His associates ran beside him, their faces grim, but also charged with the unholy joy of the mission: they were engaging in the Holy War! They were half-drunk with the glory of this combat as harangued into them by the instructors. Theirs, as the words of another culture had phrased it, not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

For moments there was nothing from the enemy. Then the big guns fired. Shells detonated in the midst of the charging line. The Babylonians had this section zeroed in, awaiting this very charge. One went off not far from Mym, and he felt the blast of it. He turned his head to look and saw something flying at him. It landed before him—a human arm, severed at the shoulder.

Now, suddenly, the truth hit home to the boy.
This was a deathfield
! Whether he lived or died had no relation to
his personal merit. It was random. If a shell landed on him, he was gone; if it didn’t, he was free to keep running. Nobody cared. There was nothing he could do to save himself; it all depended on the shells.

The boy froze. He
was
a boy; he had not been hardened to the reality of his own complete impotence. He had thought that somehow things would turn out all right, if he just did the best he could and obeyed orders. Now he knew that was not true. The realization paralyzed him.

The sounds of the slaughter became loud in the boy’s ears. Not all of the victims of the shells were dead, but many were dying. Scattered anguished exclamations projected from the over-all noise. “My foot—it’s hanging by a flap of skin!” “I can’t
see
! My eyes—my eyes are all blood!” “Where did those intestines come from? Allah preserve me—they’re
mine
!” “My friend—his shoulder is gone—and half his head.” The boys, stunned, simply did not know what to make of the horrendous carnage; they were reacting like sightseers, in these first moments of horror. But very soon they would get down to the serious business of bleeding to death. The charge had been broken, but still the shells came.

Mym, with his training in the military arts and his experience as a commander, automatically analyzed the pattern of the detonating shells. There were five big guns oriented on this region, and they were firing sequentially so that it was possible to judge the approximate locations of the forthcoming blasts. One was due for this spot in a few seconds.

Mym extended his will and took over the boy’s paralyzed muscles. He had not realized he could do this; perhaps he could not, had the boy been operative, but under this immediate pressure, he did. He plunged directly forward, getting as far away from the critical location as he could.

The shell landed behind him. The blast of it half lifted him, throwing him forward.

In that moment he spied an Incarnation. He knew it was one, because he saw a large spider slide in from some celestially anchored thread and convert to a middle-aged woman whose eyes were fixed on him.

He willed the Sword to still the scene. The action of the battle froze, with boys locked in place in mid-stride, and pieces of boys paused in mid-air.

“Mars, whatever are you doing?” the woman demanded.

“Who are you?” he demanded in return, using his necessary singsong.

“I am Lachesis.”

“Ah, Lakshmi, Goddess of Fortune,” he agreed.

“What?”

He smiled. “There seem to be parallels between your mythology and ours. I recognize your nature.”

“But I am only one aspect of three,” she said, nonplused. She wavered and was replaced by a beautiful young oriental woman, then by an old negroid woman. Then she was back to her original form.

“Yes, Lakshmi has an aspect for each of Vishnu’s incarnations, to be his consort in each. When she manifests with only two of her four arms, she is the most beautiful of women.”

The lovely oriental reappeared, intrigued. “Oh?”

Then the original Lachesis reasserted herself. “Stop this nonsense! I’m not part of your pantheon! I am the Incarnation of Fate, whose threads govern the lives of mortals.”

“Those lives are ending,” Mym pointed out. “No one can govern them now.”

“
All
human events are arranged by Fate,” Lachesis said firmly. “Like the tide, I will have my way.”

The tide. Something connected in Mym’s mind. “W-Water!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“In the organization of the book,
Five Rings
, one of the five major strategies is based on water. But we five Incarnations may relate to this framework. War is Fire; Fate is Water.”

“Perhaps,” she said, nonplused. “I will debate theology with you some other time. Right now I must have an answer. Just what do you think you’re doing here?”