But Galen remained silent. She knew his moods; he did not seem angry, only thoughtful. She suddenly had the feeling that he was thinking about something totally removed from the subjects of Cyborgs or pacification raids, or even of her.
She changed tack. “I’m going back to our quarters, then.”
Diettinger only nodded.
“Are you coming?”
He turned and shook his head. “No. Go ahead. I’ll be along shortly.”
You are dismissed, Second Rank, she thought abruptly, and for a moment her years of service had overlain the thought, making it seem perfectly reasonable and proper. But only for a moment. She was no longer the Second Rank of the Fomoria; she was Althene Diettinger, she was Galen’s wife, and he had neither cause nor right to simply dismiss her. And she knew herself well enough to dread her own outburst of righteous indignation, perhaps even outright rage--she could have a terrible temper. But not today.
Instead, she nodded and turned to leave, and to her own surprise only felt sorry for her husband. In her heart she knew he would never speak to her with any conscious intent to hurt her. For him to have done so, he must be dwelling on something troubling indeed. When he wished to talk about it, she knew that he would talk to her.
Althene had been gone for exactly one minute when the opposite door of the office opened quietly. Not turning from the window, Diettinger shifted his eyes to look at the figure in the doorway.
“You heard, then?”
“Clearly.”
Diettinger raised his hands from the sill and folded his arms. “You will agree, then, that we have a great deal to talk about.” It was not a question. Even so, when no reply was forthcoming, Diettinger turned his head and looked at his silent companion.
The figure stepped from the shadowed doorway, closed and locked it behind himself, then moved quietly into the room and sat down at the conference table.
“I agree,” said Cyborg Rank Koln.
Sergei Kamov reined in hard, leapt from the saddle and pulled his horse Mischa down to the sloping ground in a single smooth motion. The animal, superbly trained and accustomed to such treatment, barely grunted as its ribcage thumped against the cold, dry Haven soil. It had been a long, thirsty ride, and though he could now smell water, Mischa lay still, his nostrils flaring once as he calmly placed his head flat against the earth. Sergei drew his carbine from its sheath and steadied it across the animal’s ribs, then he, too, became absolutely motionless.
Looking down the sights of his weapon, he watched the Sauron patrol on the other side of the river as it moved along the rock face like a pack of lizards; it was wondrous to behold. They clung to sheer rock walls beyond the ability of the finest mountain peoples Sergei had ever seen or heard of.
Still, it cannot be all that easy for them, or they would surely have noticed me.
Sergei was in dense brush, but he had heard that Saurons could see into the infrared spectrum, giving them a tremendous advantage when seeking the warm bodies of enemies against the low background heat of Haven’s terrain. Surely, then, the climb which was impossible for normal humans must at least be difficult for the invaders, to so command their concentration.
As if to confirm this hypothesis, one of the Saurons had reached the bottom of the rock wall, and instead of watching the opposite bank for threats--where, in fact, Sergei now lay--the Sauron turned back to check his comrades’ progress.
It must be training of some sort, Sergei decided. He recognized the behavior in the way the Saurons were conducting themselves; each man concentrated on the task at hand while the Sauron on the ground--apparently their leader--concentrated on their performance. Sergei Kamov himself had once borne such scrutiny under the watchful eyes of a Sergeant Major in the Haven Militia, and as he watched the Saurons, it told him what they were about. Their leader has spread them out across a rock face with no place to go should they be attacked, he thought. Which means they are not concerned with being attacked; which means they must have many friends nearby.
Suddenly feeling colder than even Haven’s chill could account for, Sergei Kamov considered his predicament.
Sergei calculated that with a quick re-mount, he could be a quarter of a mile away before the first Sauron got across the river. At forty years of age, and having been on Haven since he was ten, Sergei Kamov was no longer young; even so, he was known and respected among his people for the skills he now exhibited. Squeezing the trigger, he did not wait to see the Sauron leader’s head explode, but tracked immediately to the highest of the five figures remaining on the rock face.
Another shot, but the top-most Sauron’s descent had changed from a careful progression to an eerily graceful flow of limbs; he and all the others were out of sight almost instantly. There came a ripping crackle from across the river, and Sergei saw he no longer had targets. The remaining Saurons had simply jumped to the river bank, perhaps fifty feet below, and were now laying down suppressive fire along his side of the river. To his right, several square meters of brush were sheared off as if a scythe had passed through them, showering him with leaves and wood fragments.
They will see my horse! Mischa’s body heat must look like a bonfire to them! Gripping his saddle’s pommel, Sergei threw his weight back and half dragged the horse a full meter. Responding to the familiar command, Mischa grunted and scrambled to his feet as Sergei threw one leg over the saddle. Wheeling, the cossack was heading away from the river when his mount suddenly screamed and pitched forward, catapulting Sergei over the animal’s head. Sergei rolled into a crouch, turning to see Mischa frantically kicking his front legs, trying to find purchase to stand. Disemboweled by a burst from a Sauron weapon, the horse’s hindquarters dragged uselessly behind it, the ground all about a vast smear of red. Sergei aimed at the center of Mischa’s head, and was about to fire when he saw a figure appear on the ridge directly beyond his dying mount.
Without thinking, Sergei lifted the barrel a fraction of an inch in automatic reaction even as he squeezed the trigger; by nothing but great good fortune, the bullet struck the approaching Sauron beneath the chin, doing what only cross-cut rifle slugs could do to a human skull, Sauron or otherwise. Sergei’s next shot gave Mischa a merciful death, then he was down behind a rock, only beginning to realize that the Saurons had already crossed the river! He shook his head. I never had a chance of killing some and then getting away. . . .
He could smell Mischa’s blood from here. In a moment, he knew, his own blood would add to the scent, bringing tamerlanes and other Haven denizens down from the hills to feed; the rest of the Saurons would be on him any second. . . .
“Pah dak. Ta ma kuhk sa.” Patrol Sub-Leader Ogme barked the commands in the Battle Tongue. An ambush, and Patrol Leader Parland had been the first casualty! Ogme restrained an urge to shake his head in dismay. The probabilities had shifted against them; or, as First Citizen Diettinger was sometimes heard to say: “Bad luck.” Either way, Ogme and the other survivors of his squad were in a very bad position. Ogme had watched as Blooder Wirren reached the top of the ridge along the far riverbank only to be cut down almost instantly.
The cattle must have seen Blooder Wirren crossing the river; which implied that they had marksmen in the high ground on the far side. The low number of shots Ogme had heard bespoke excellent fire discipline, to say nothing of impressive accuracy. Almost, Ogme wondered if his patrol had not blundered into another group of Saurons, but that was only wishful thinking.
Ogme was well-trained; abruptly finding himself in command of a unit which had suffered two casualties without ever seeing the enemy, he made exactly the proper decision based on what little information he had. Moving with the superhuman speed and grace possessed only by Saurons, he and his two men withdrew from the river. Skirting along the base of the rock wall in cover only they could have exploited, Ogme’s unit was well away from the killing zone in two minutes. One minute after that, Ogme was calling in his report.
Sergei frowned. Where were they? He had chance
d moving twice, and was now almost fifty meters away from the body of Mischa and the last Sauron he had killed. He had expected to be dead long since, but the hail of fire had not come. Sergei could not understand why the Saurons had not killed him already; he knew only that he would never see it coming. No Havener lived who could apprehend the approach of Saurons when the Soldiers chose to move by stealth.
Suddenly, inexplicably, Sergei was seized with terror. That was why he could not hear them! They were not rushing to kill him, they were closing in on him to take him prisoner! Through him, the Saurons would find his village and obliterate his people. Again, acting almost before he was aware of it, Sergei bolted away from the river. Only occasionally did he stop to look back, and each time he did so the very lack of evidence of pursuit convinced him that the Saurons were closing in on him. By the time he stopped running, it was deep into true night and he was near death, but he had reached the pickets of the camp made by his people on the plains of the Northern Steppes.
He had gone less than a hundred yards when a tripwire caught his ankles, and he pitched forward onto the gritty Haven soil. Before he could roll over, a soft-soled boot was put against the back of his neck, and next to it he felt the pressure of a rifle barrel.
Kamov closed his eyes, thought of his family, and prayed.
“Now where would you be going in such a quick hurry?” The voice from behind the gun barrel asked in clipped Imperial Anglic.
And Sergei began to breathe again.
It had been three days since the last full staff meeting, but Diettinger could have waited a great deal longer for this news. He listened to Deathmaster Quilland’s report without comment. In a way, he was almost relieved.
Had Patrol Leader Parland survived--and had we Soldiers to spare--I would have ordered his execution, Diettinger thought. The reinforcing squad had combed the area for signs of the ambushing force, finding only one dead horse and four cartridge casings.
Order Parland’s execution? More likely I’d have killed him myself. Letting a single horse-nomad kill two Saurons from ambush! What in God’s name had that fool been doing, exposing his squad on a rock face like that?
“First Citizen?”
Diettinger turned his gaze on Quilland. The Death-master very nearly flinched. “First Citizen, having confirmed the presence of a single Havener nomad, Sub-Leader Ogme took another squad out this morning and conducted an extensive reconnaissance of the surroundings area. The nomad was met by a foot patrol of six human norms. This party then proceeded north by northwest into the steppes. Sub-Leader Ogme believes he has found the tribe of horse-nomads this fellow came from.”
“Why is a tribe of horse-nomads sending out foot patrols, Deathmaster?”
Quilland shook his head. “Unknown, First Citizen. Sub-Leader Ogme believes this patrol might have been one of the Roving Squads reported active in this part of the valley.”
Diettinger was silent for a moment. While all organized Havener military operations had ended with the invasion, lately there had been increasing guerrilla activity, far too well organized to be simple resistance cells. A large cache of weapons had apparently been spirited away into the Shangri-La’s trackless mountains, and was systematically finding its way into the hands of human norm tribesmen, where it could--and frequently did-- wreak havoc on the occasional Sauron patrol caught unawares. Diettinger took the long view of his people’s existence on Haven, and an alliance between horse-mounted nomads and any other surviving, efficient and well-armed Havener military units was too dangerous to tolerate.
“Estimated strength of these horse-nomads?”
“One hundred, First Citizen. Twice that many females and children. Four times as many mounts, all of those being horses. None of the indigenous muskylopes used by so many other nomadic groups we’ve encountered.”
Diettinger considered that. From what the Survey Ranks had been able to learn, that made these people extremely wealthy, by the standards of Haven nomads. And Haveners who could live on the steppes and retain such wealth were extremely dangerous, by any standards. “Livestock?”
Quilland shook his head. “None, according to Ogme.”
“Interesting,” the First Rank said. “A strong band. Able to seize or demand in tribute the best mounts as well as food animals; having apparently no need for self-sufficiency.” Which meant a strong band, indeed, if they could take whatever they needed from their fellow Haveners. “Structures?”
“None, in the conventional sense,” Quilland answered. “Some two dozen large mobile tents; I believe they are called ‘yurts.’ “
Diettinger turned to Weapons. “Airpower status?”
“Two elements of atmospheric strike fighters are now operational. Fifty-six ground attack configuration rotary-wing aircraft have been acquired from indigenous military units. We do have pilots qualified to operate such vehicles.”
Diettinger nodded, once. “Sufficient. Coordinate with Deathmaster Quilland to determine the location of these nomads. Capture as many of their women and animals as possible and bring back as many male prisoners as practical. Kill the rest.”
Breedmaster Caius looked pleased at the order. The implanting of local women with fertilized Sauron ova brought to Haven aboard the Fomoria had fallen behind schedule, and Caius wasn’t sure how long his Breedmasters would have an operational birthing facility; sooner or later, technology on Haven was going to level off.
“First Citizen.” Cyborg Rank Koln had precisely the same voice as did all other Cyborgs--or at least it sounded that way to non-Cyborgs. Rich and deep, it was an orator’s voice, or perhaps an opera baritone’s. It had been quite literally designed to command attention; few Saurons--and no human norms--were immune to its influence.
Diettinger was quite aware of the implicit challenge to his authority by the simple fact of Koln addressing him unbidden, and dealt with it accordingly: “Speak,” the First Citizen said after a long interval.
“I point out that had the Cyborgs been conducting this reconnaissance, or had even one Cyborg been participating, such an ambush would not have been possible.” Only a Cyborg could have made a reprimand of the First Citizen sound like a status report.
“I am aware of the efficacy of Cyborg senses,” Diettinger’s tone could have dropped the temperature in the room another ten degrees. “It is one of their assets of greatest value to the Breedmasters.”
Which rather clearly puts you in your place, Althene thought with some surprise as she saw everyone at the table except Koln stiffen slightly. Deathmaster Quilland caught her eye and gave her an approving nod.
Althene knew that against the Empire, Quilland had been only too glad to have Cyborgs to commit to action. But he was as staunchly opposed as she to having them in charge of the Sauron society Diettinger would establish on Haven. Quilland had privately admitted to Althene that, in his opinion, the Cyborgs were out of touch with the realities facing that society.
“Be that as it may,” Koln continued, “The Pathfinder Cyborgs are already in the field. On salvage duty.” Even Koln’s soft Cyborg inflections could not mask the irony in his tone. “They can be recalled from this and remanded to those units of Deathmaster Quilland which will conduct this operation. In addition, I suggest-- again--the full release of all Cyborgs from the authority of Breedmaster Caius until all Havener nuclear weapon stockpiles can be found and seized, and the military situation thus stabilized.”
Which will be in perhaps a thousand years, if ever, Althene thought. But no matter; Althene knew her husband, and by his wording, Koln had denied his own request.
“Regrettably, Cyborg Rank Koln,” Diettinger pronounced, “it is the very instability of the military situation which precludes the investment of Cyborg assets.”
Althene blinked in surprise, permitting herself an unprofessional reaction. “Assets” is putting it rather forcefully, indeed.
“There are too few Cyborgs for the colony to risk losing,” Diettinger concluded. “At least until Breedmaster Ca
ius and his staff have determined the prospects for continuation of the genotype. Weapons Ranks now have sufficient anti-missile stations to defend our colony here against more such attacks, and roving patrols will keep the surrounding mountainsides clear of other sappers. The Cyborgs are to continue their salvage operations, but you may rotate the personnel as you wish, subject to Breedmaster Caius’ approval.”
Well, he’s said it, Althene thought. He used the word colony; by definition a political institution, and thus requiring, and subject to, political--not military-- authority.
Though in fact, in Sauron society the two differed very little from one another, the status of combat-dedicated citizens like the Cyborgs was clearly subservient in a political environment, however potent their reputation among the citizens of that environment might be.
It’s a step in the right direction, at least, Althene thought with real relief. And Galen’s decision to allow Quilland to deal decisively with these nomads was more good news. Still, Koln’s persistence troubled her. She had the feeling that something unknown to her had just passed between Galen and the commander of the Cyborgs, that perhaps more battle lines had been drawn than were obvious. Or safe.
Diettinger concluded the meeting half an hour later, without any further comments from Koln. After the others had left, Althene watched her husband enter notes on his datapad, fold the cover down and only then look up at her.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
Althene inclined her head a fraction. “Although allowing the Cyborgs to rotate duties ...”
Diettinger waved a hand in dismissal. “They can’t be completely idle. In a sufficiently extreme emergency, they would have to be committed to battle. They must maintain some level of activity to keep in fighting trim.”
“Yes. I am glad, however, that you refused to allow them to participate in the pacification of these horse nomads.”
War World IV: Invasion Page 7
