A glance over his shoulder-a board fence, then downslope their bicycles, and the road far behind and to the right, with a strip of scrub and trees along it. Ahead was the rest of this field of oats. More fences eastward toward the enemy, but he could see over them, and it struck him how pretty this part of the Island looked. The steel plant where he worked was useful, good honest work, but nobody could call it good-looking.

The sergeant-foreman at the Bessemer works-and a corporal went by, dropping board cartons of fifty rounds by each rifle pit. As he stopped by Hopkins's, he left a canvas bandolier of grenades as well, the new kind with spoon-and-ring detonators. Hopkins felt an instant's gratitude; the older type with friction primers gave him the willies.

"Make it count, Garry," the sergeant said, with a taut smile; his face was sweat-beaded too. "We need your right arm when baseball season starts again."

"Best outfielder on Seahaven Engineering's team," he agreed.

A voice came from the next hole. "A hero in your own mind. With a bat you couldn't hit your own feet."

He looked over and grinned at Evelyn Grant. Never noticed she has a cute smile before, he thought. After this is over, have to do something about it. That moment seemed infinitely far away and suddenly more desirable than anything in the world.

Longing turned to rage as he saw something tiny moving at the edge of sight, over toward Sconset. Black ant-figures in a strung-out line, trampling the barley planted there, then more distinct. Enemy. On his ground, his land.

A voice behind shouted: "Lieutenant says open fire at seven hundred yards-sixth fence out! Sixth fence-count it!"

He did, and checked the range estimate himself. Checked that his Werder rifle was loaded, checked that there were two grenades firmly planted in the sand near his right hand, checked that the six rounds in the strip of loops sewn to the left breast of his khaki tunic were in place, checked that the cover of the bandolier at his right hip was buckled back to show the staggered rows of shells. Then he noticed how dry his mouth was and took a sip from his canteen.

Thousand yards, he thought, when he put it down. They were only a thousand yards away, and he could see the flapping of a banner in their midst. The enemy were advancing in two lines twenty yards apart, with a spacing of twelve feet or so between each man. Not too different from the formation he'd been taught.

His head whipped around at the crack of a shot off to his right, and he heard someone reaming someone out for firing too soon. Now they'll know we're here, he thought.

The Tartessians checked a second at the sound, then a trumpet sounded, two rising and three falling notes. They came on at a trot now, and the spring sunlight blinked on their fixed bayonets. His mouth was dry again, and there was a tremor in his hands. He took a deep breath and forced it out, another, and felt a little better.

But I really have to piss, he thought. Suddenly it rammed home that not only were those men going to kill him if they could… but I have to kill them to stop them. I have to.

To quiet the thought he brought the rifle to his shoulder and checked again, this time that the sights were set at seven hundred yards. They weren't; the little arrow at the side had 200 under the pointer, the lowest setting-point-blank range. He shifted his thumb to it and clicked it up to 700.

The sergeant came by again, stooping as he ran this time. "Check your sights, check your sights," he said. His Fiernan accent was thicker. "And for Moon Woman's loving sake, don't forget to adjust them as they get closer. Doesn't do any good to shoot unless you hit."

"Hope they don't get any closer," Hopkins muttered.

His tongue felt thick and dry despite the water he'd drunk, as he brought the rifle to his shoulder, leaning forward against the cool, damp surface of the firing pit. It soaked through the khaki jacket in spots-hung up fresh-smelling and spotless after his mother took it down to Squeaky Steam Cleaning when he came back from Drill Weekend last month.

Mom will be with her unit, he thought-she was in the last-ditch outfit, the over-fifties. Jesus. I really hope she doesn't have to do this.

The bright morning narrowed down to the little notch at the top of the rear sight, and the pip of the foresight through that. He could see the fence, gray weathered oak planks nailed to square posts. He'd earned a little extra money one summer over on Long Island, putting up fences like that. That had been the summer he'd lost his cherry with a Fiernan girl working on that farm, in a pile of clover that smelled like honey, like her.

A man was climbing over the fence; awkwardly, holding his rifle out in one hand for balance. Hopkins adjusted his rifle's aim automatically, and noticed things-the green tunic and bare hairy legs and strap sandals, dark bearded face with a round iron helmet, a heavy pack.

"Fire!"

His finger squeezed, as if the word had pulled a wire in his brain that ran down his arm to his hand. The Werder kicked against his shoulder and a puff of smoke rose from the muzzle, wafting away to the right as the wind caught it. Bambambambambambam as the rest of his platoon fired as well, and the hot shell ejected and bounced off his cheek, burning a little.

The slight pain jarred him out of the daze of seeing the foreigner pitch backward and lie still, one leg caught in the middle plank of the fence, tunic falling up to show a soiled loincloth.

Hopkins swallowed something that tasted like his breakfast ten days dead and reached down to reload. The voice in his head sounded like the Marine regular who'd taught him during his basic camp-harshly accented, with the staccato choppiness of someone born speaking one of the Sun People dialects, bored, slightly contemptuous.

Aim at his belt buckle and a little down, that's best for a chest shot. Don't get fancy. You usually won't be able to tell if you hit him. Shoot, reload, look for another target, shoot. Don't think, you Island-born think way too fucking much. Thinking rots your guts. Just shoot.

He shot, reloaded, shot. The Tartessians were much closer now, coming forward at a slow run. Another pitched forward just as Hopkins was about to fire at him. Jesus. Limp, gone, dead, thud facedown and lie there. Hopkins swallowed, tracked the man next to him, fired.

Crack. Ping. Reload, and the chamber was hot enough to scorch his thumb a little when he pushed the round home. The first line of Tartessians went to one knee, thumbing back the hammers of their rifles- just like the Westley-Richards he'd trained on first before they got the new Werders. Which meant-

"Christ!" He dropped the rifle onto the pile of dirt he'd been leaning against and ducked.

The volley, and ugly flat whizzing craaak sounds above him- whipcrack sounds, meant for him. Screams from nearby, louder screams than he could believe possible, someone he knew. The Tartessian war shouts were much closer; he forced his body to stand again, snatched up the rifle. The ones who'd fired were reloading, and the second rank of the Tartessian formation had run through them, sprinting forward. He could see a thick scatter behind them, all the way to the fifth fence-dozens, maybe hundreds, lying in the oats, sprawled still or thrashing or crawling back toward where they'd come from.

" You fuckers can all go back where you came from!" he shouted, firing again. The numbness that had gripped him since he shot the man climbing the fence was gone, replaced by a wild anger.

The man he fired at dropped his rifle, staggered, and stumbled away. The others around him threw themselves to the ground and a ripple of fire ran down their suddenly hidden ranks, only puffs of smoke showing where they were. Hopkins suddenly looked at the sights; they were readjusted to "400," and he couldn't remember doing it. Then he fired again, as the line that had fired first finished reloading and charged through their prone comrades. More fell, and the rest went to ground in their turn and opened up. This time the men behind them crawled forward; that would have given them better protection if the ground hadn't sloped gently upward, putting the Islanders above them.