Free Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle by William C. Dietz

hands on narrow hips.
    Stop dancing, boy. Posturing means nothing and wastes energy. You want the other cub to know how tough you are? Wait and teach him with your hands and feet.

    The marine closed in. “Here kitty, kitty. Come to daddy, you goddamned freak. Daddy has something for you.” Booly saw the thought pass through greenish brown eyes and flicked his head to the right. A fist brushed his ear. Another came right behind it. Booly ducked, landed two blows to the man’s rock-hard abdomen, and did a backwards flip. The use of gymnastics as part of hand-to-hand combat was something of a Naa specialty and more than a little disconcerting where the marine was concerned. His spin kick traveled through empty air and left him momentarily open. Booly stepped in, delivered three quick blows to the man’s face, and danced out again. Blood trickled from the marine’s left nostril and he bellowed with rage. “You goddamned freak! I’ll kill you!”
    Booly didn’t know where the knife came from, only that it appeared in the other man’s right hand, and gleamed with reflected light. It was double edged and shaped like a dagger. The other marines roared their approval and one of them yelled “Skin the damned thing . . . we’ll use it for a throw rug!”
    Booly wished for his uniform jacket but knew he wouldn’t be able to grab and wrap it around his arm quickly enough to do any good. But his uncle was there and served to calm him.
    Knives are dangerous, boy. In order to use them you have to get up close and personal. That’s why most sentients invented guns. So the first thing to remember is this: If your opponent has a knife, and you don’t, accept the fact that you’re going to take a cut . You have no choice. But choose the cut the way you would choose a best friend, taking the one that will damage you the least, and help you when times are hard.
    Booly circled left, his eyes on the marine’s face, rather than the knife in his hand. He could almost feel his uncle’s large, callused hands close around his boyish arm. Look, son, the warrior had said, look at the inner surface of your arm. The blood flows here and muscles run here. . . . Never, ever, take a cut on the inside of your arm .
    But here, his uncle said, rotating the boy’s arm so that the outer surface was uppermost, we have a thin layer of skin followed by good, hard bone. Take your cut there, block the knife, and blind your opponent. A knife means nothing when you cannot see.
    So Booly waited, heard Riley yell words he couldn’t understand, and allowed the marine to move in. He heard something wail in the distance and was trying to figure out what it was when the attack came. The marine held the knife in an overhand cutting rather than stabbing grip. He pulled his arm back and slashed down towards Booly’s throat. The Legionnaire threw his left arm up, felt the sudden jolt as the knife sliced to the bone, and stabbed the other man’s eyes with two stiffened fingers. The results were spectacular. The other officer dropped the knife, grabbed his eyes, and started to scream.
    Booly had less than two seconds to take the scene in before both he and Riley were buried under an avalanche of marine green. The attack was painful, but short lived, since the faint wail had transformed itself into the full-fledged scream of sirens.
    The marines, who were well aware of the penalties for entering the DMZ, delivered a flurry of kicks and disappeared, leaving their buddy behind. Booly felt strangely light, but not light enough to stand, and remained where he was. His left arm hurt, and he was just about to cradle it against his chest, when a boot pinned it in place. A face appeared over him. It was fuzzy at first but blinked into focus. Kadien smiled. “Ooops! Did the freak fall down and go boom? Too bad, old weasel . . . but that’s life. See you around.”
    Booly heard laughter and the face disappeared. He tried to move but found that he couldn’t.