Free No Other Gods by John Koetsier Page A

rest.
                  Rast jumped to his feet and picked his way through the mass of seated soldiers, then took a couple steps toward me. I walked to within about ten paces, covering him with my rifle. He was struggling to control himself: hatred, anger, shame, and resolve strobed over his face. Finally, quietly vicious, he spoke.
                  “Fight me, G. Fight me. Hand-to-hand, right now, right here.”
                  I paused, considering. There was, of course, no reason to. We had won, we had the upper hand, they had surrendered. Simple, and final. But … it would be a nice closure to the strangest battle I’d ever been involved in. And it might shut him up a little in the feasting hall.
                  Before he could go into the same old tired bully routine of questioning my courage and honor and integrity and everything else but my hair color, I nodded.
                  “Nothing I’d like better. Come on out.”
                  He stepped further toward me, away from the tight group of unarmed red soldiers still sitting on the ground. I stepped toward him, ground my rifle in his chest, and shoved him to the grass. He looked up, astonished and angry.
                  “But first, some ground rules,” I addressed the reds.
                  “As you’ve probably seen, there’s a lot of you and not many of us. That might give some of you some bright ideas about turning the tables here. Anyone who’s thinking that, stop now. It isn’t healthy.”
                  “First of all, I want you all against the canyon wall. Just scrabble along on your butts and hands, that’ll do. Right up against the wall.” They moved, and we covered them all — not forgetting Rast — and pushed them back in a big semicircle right up against the stone cliff.
                  I pointed to my other blues.
                  “I said thinking about rushing us was unhealthy. Here’s why. If we see a disturbance, we won’t come and ask questions. We’ll shoot. If we see a fight, we won’t try to break it up — we’ll shoot. If we see rocks being lifted or thrown, we won’t duck — we’ll shoot. If we see a look we don’t like, or a bunch of guys whispering -”
                  “We get it, we get it … you’ll shoot,” one of the reds interrupted.
                  “Right. Quick learner, gold star for you. And just a little FYI, we won’t be too particular about picking out which guy either. We’ll just hose the general area. And if you’re thinking, no big deal, s.Leep is coming tonight anyways, well, maybe we’ll just hit your legs, or your gut. You’ll have bought yourself three-four hours of bloody shits and giggles. Your choice, not mine.”
                  I looked around at the reds, ensuring everyone got the message. Then I looked at each of our blues. All of us were down on the valley floor now, except two scouts on the rim, just in case there were any more red stragglers. Seven men covering about a hundred fifty. But, those seven could put out a few thousand rounds a minute. It was as safe as it was going to get.
                  “OK, friend,” I said to Rast. ”You wanted this. Let’s dance.”
                  I dropped my rifle and sidearm, stripped off my jacket, and kicked him a combat knife while drawing my own. He picked his up, tested the edge, and stood with exaggerated slowness, then bull-rushed me from a half-kneeling, half-standing position about seven feet away. I had expected nothing less, and spun away easily, not even attempting to slice him on the way past.
                  He straightened and stood, a dozen paces away. Now he took the time to stretch and loosen a little, rolling his neck and swinging his arms. Every eye was on us as Rast started to close, slowly and carefully. We