War World IV: Invasion

by War World IV Invasion v2 Lit

  Kamov seemed at first not to hear, then he nodded once as he reached the crowd.

  “Gather whatever horses you can. Anyone who can ride, do so. Head north to the sea, and wait there. Anyone who cannot ride, stay behind with a weapon and cover the retreat of the rest.” Kamov turned to Nikolai. “Find your sister, Nikolai. If she is a captive ...”

  Nikolai felt the blood drain from his face at his father’s tone, at the words he was sure must come next.

  Something shifted in Kamov’s expression, and he finished: “If she is a captive, try to let her know we will ransom her.”

  Nikolai let out his breath, and whispered “Da, Papa.” He galloped off as Kamov turned to the remnants of his people. The crowd had doubled already, with more arriving every moment, huddling beneath cloaks against the storm.

  Kamov looked at the two were carrying the trooper in camouflage. “Who is that?”

  “One of Cummings’ volunteers, Sergei. He was wounded with us while--”

  Sergei had stepped forward, gripped the man by the hair and lifted his face. The eyes stared forward sightlessly.

  “He’s dead.” Kamov let go of the man’s hair and turned away. “Leave him and start gathering those horses.”

  The crowd simply stood, unmoving. Kamov rushed at them, tore the volunteer from their grasp, and threw the body into the mud. “Go,” Kamov added in a quiet, even tone.

  Seeking shelter from the fury of the storm, Natalya had crawled into the wrecked yurt. She thought her ankle was probably broken, but her hands were unhurt, so of course, she had picked up another rifle on the way.

  Drenched and covered with mud, she worked her way back into the wreckage that included the ruins of the Sauron fighter. The interior of the yurt, she saw, was liberally coated with an interesting red paste of bones, flesh and weaponry parts--a mix, she realized, of the anti-aircraft mount and its crew, and the moment she was past it, she was violently ill. The sound of the storm outside was not quite so deafening here, and she was completely sheltered from the rain. The metal mass of the fighter, she knew, was a dangerous thing to be around with all the lightning, but she was simply too tired, cold, wet and miserable to care. Lavrenti was dead, she was sure Papa and Nikolai were dead, and she wished she were dead, too. In a few days, she thought, if the Saurons did not kill her outright, they would take her back to their Citadel, and there would be plenty of time to cry then. For now, she wiped her face, pulled a blanket toward her and tried to get warm.

  The blanket was pinned in the wreckage, so Natalya shifted her position to get closer to its anchor point and so get more of it about her shoulders. As she did, she saw something moving in the dim light, and leaning over, Natalya saw swaying in mid air an arm, covered in blood that had dried much too fast.

  Looking up the arm, she saw a shoulder, and a torso strapped securely into an acceleration couch. The top of a helmet, glossy black, was facing her, its wearer’s head tilted forward onto his chest. The rest of the pilot’s body was hidden in the wreckage, but it was clear to Natalya that he was securely pinned.

  The helmet moved.

  Thumbing the rifle selector to full automatic, Natalya raised the weapon to her shoulder and centered the sights on the top of the helmet.

  I will look him in the eye, she thought, and let him see I am only a girl. Then I will kill him.

  Slowly, the head came up, showing a face covered with blood from a broken nose. Natalya’s gaze flickered to a strange symbology stenciled across the visor:

  The helmet came up against padded headrest, the bloody eyes fixed on nothing. The Sauron, Natalya saw, was a ruin. She blinked.

  A moment later, the pilot’s gaze roved about the interior of the shelter, the blue eyes finally meeting her own. As they focused, Natalya clenched her teeth, and said: “Do svidanya, Sauroniki.”

  She began to squeeze the trigger, when she heard the pilot say: “. . . prokrassny . ..”

  Natalya stopped. She’d often been called pretty, but never by someone she’d been about to kill.

  The briefing room was quiet, the only sound the wind howling past the shutters outside. First Citizen Diettinger was dealing with his first disaster as political leader of the Saurons on Haven.

  Fourteen dead, he considered, reading the report a third and final time. Including two Cyborgs. In exchange for fifty-two female captives, seventy head of livestock captured and one hundred ninety-three enemy dead, the rest of the nomads having fled to the shores of the North Sea.

  He remembered, without conceit, an official commendation he had received for having never lost a battle when he had been in command. He also remembered recently having told Althene that martial virtues were not social ones, and he wondered if perhaps his new civilian career might present him with a string of such achievements as this; a bitterly ironic mirror image of his military record.

  Ah, well, Diettinger concluded as he closed the datapad cover. One cannot, after all, do everything. Even allowing for the astonishing level of firepower the Haveners had accumulated for their ambush, the colloquial term for Bohren’s level of error was un-recordable. He looked up at Assault Leader Bohren, standing at attention, meeting his gaze. Beside the Assault Leader stood Cyborg Rank Sargun, staring straight ahead.

  “You are reduced to the ranks, Trooper Bohren, and restricted from combat duty until further notice. Cyborg Rank Sargun.”

  There was no answer.

  “Cyborg Rank Sargun,” Diettinger repeated with a tone that made Althene shiver.

  “Sir.”

  Diettinger glanced toward Koln, then back to Sargun. “In addition to direct disobedience of standing orders, resulting in the deaths of two Cyborgs under your direct command, you are presently exhibiting contempt of command by your failure to address me as First Citizen.” Diettinger watched a muscle in Sargun’s jaw twitch, and every sense went on the alert. He continued speaking, addressing Koln: “Cyborg Rank Koln, as commander of the Cyborg forces here on Haven, I will consider recommendation from you as to the nature of disciplinary action in the matter of Cyborg Rank Sargun.”

  Koln’s answer was immediate. “Eradication, First Citizen.”

  Sargun’s lips parted; his shoulders actually slumped.

  Diettinger showed no reaction at all. “Agreed. Due to the scarcity of Cyborgs here on Haven, sentence to be commuted to personal sterilization and behavioral retraining, effective immediately. Report to the Breedmasters, Ranker Sargun. Dismissed.”

  Sargun’s head trembled as he left the room, somehow remembering to salute first.

  “Permission to speak, First Citizen,” Althene asked quietly after the door had closed.

  “Denied,” Diettinger said shortly. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  The rest of the staff filed out, leaving Diettinger alone with Althene and, she noticed, Cyborg Rank Koln, who stood by the window and stared out at the mountains beyond.

  When the last of them had left, Althene glanced at Koln, then addressed her husband: “First Citizen.”

  Distracted from some thought, Diettinger’s gaze flickered to meet Althene’s. “Hm? Oh, yes, Althene. What is it?”

  Althene’s gaze indicated Cyborg Rank Koln, but Diettinger gave no indication there was any problem with his presence. “I should like to discuss the situation regarding the battle. May we consider this a closed meeting?”

  Koln said nothing, and Diettinger nodded. “If you wish.”

  Althene collected her thoughts for a moment, then began: “The fact that a well-organized force of local militia was present with these nomads, apparently prepared for an ambush against our attack, indicates an ominous level of cooperation among the peoples here, one which we have not confronted previously.”

  “To say nothing of excellent intelligence on their part,” Diettinger added. “Perhaps even a security leak in our own organization.”

  Althene swallowed. “What?” she asked quietly. There had never been a traitor in any operation involving homogeneous Sauron forces, t
hroughout the entire history of the race. The concept was, quite literally, a contradiction in terms, and for a giddy second, Althene wondered if the catastrophe had unbalanced her husband.

  “What do you think, Cyborg Rank Koln?” Diettinger called across the room.

  “The possibility warrants investigation, First Citizen.”

  Althene was on her feet. “Galen. What is going on?”

  There was a long moment when Althene felt she really did not know who she was, or where. But at the end of it, Galen had risen from his chair to stand beside her, holding her gaze with his own.

  Cyborg Rank Koln had joined him, and said only: “It is almost certainly necessary that she be told.” With courtly grace, Koln had bowed to Althene, and excused himself with an almost elegant: “My lady.” He returned to the window, where he stood once more, motionless as the mountains he regarded.

  Diettinger turned to Althene and said: “I once asked a young fighter pilot what we Saurons were. As a race. Do you know, he couldn’t tell me.”

  Althene watched, and listened. In the past weeks she had been aware of some strange relationship growing between her husband and Cyborg Rank Koln. But Galen would not speak of it, and she felt that she was about to learn its nature, at last.

  “He wasn’t even able to voice an opinion, Althene. Utterly convinced that he was expected to know the right answer, he was incapable of even hazarding a guess. For that young Soldier, the problem was one of training. He had been educated--programmed--completely beyond any ability to exhibit intellectual initiative.”

  Diettinger went to the wall with its map of the Shangri-La and environs. “What sort of answer do you think you could expect to that question, were it asked of Cyborg Rank Koln?”

  Althene considered a moment. “I believe Koln would have an answer, Galen. At least as the question applied to Cyborgs.”

  “And that answer would be?”

  Althene shrugged, at a loss. “Koln would consider us the ultimate fighting man, I suppose.”

  Diettinger turned to her with a smile of triumph. “Exactly. And the tragedy, at least for Koln and all the other Cyborgs, is that he would be right.” Galen crossed the room and sat beside her.

  “What we are, Althene, we as a race, are a people dedicated to the proposition that the value of the universe descends directly from the result of man’s ability to observe it. Without man, of what use is the universe? As the only creature in his experience with the ability to intellectually apprehend existence, man is the creature whose observation of the universe establishes all concepts of value, which he then applies to his observations of the universe as tests of their validity. As we exist, and are intellectually aware of such existence, it is our nature, and even our obligation, to dominate the universe which we observe, intellectually as well as physically.”

  “Galen, this is primary school indoctrination, basic philosophy as taught to every four-year-old Sauron child--”

  He continued, seeming not to hear. “So, as man is the measure of the universe, he is obligated to achieve a state of intellectual, physical, and spiritual evolution commensurate with that responsibility. That is the basic premise behind the Sauron practice of eugenics. That is the answer to the question: ‘What are we?’, which that young fighter pilot could not answer. We are the guardians of the ongoing effort to make man worthy of his obligation--and his heritage--as master of his own destiny and the universe in which it will unfold.”

  Diettinger was quiet for a moment, waiting for some comment from Althene. When none was forthcoming, he continued: “So Cyborg Rank Koln would be right. He and the rest of his species are, indeed, the ultimate fighting men. And, insofar as mastering the chaos of war allows us, as Saurons, to master the universe, he is right.”

  “But martial virtues are not social ones,” Althene recalled.

  Diettinger nodded. “What many Saurons--and virtually all human norms--have forgotten, is that warfare is only a means to an end. A race such as ours, which masters it, has mastered only a small part of the fabric of human destiny. An important one to be sure, as such mastery teaches--or should teach--discipline in the face of chaos, the value of sacrifice, the wastefulness of suffering and the value of human life, norm or Sauron. Those are all lessons to be applied to the full range of human experience. But a species which can only fight, no matter how well it does so, has no capacity for further growth.”

  Understanding at last, Althene turned to Koln. “Do you agree with such an assessment, Cyborg Rank Koln?”

  Koln turned to her. “The logic is irrefutable, Lady Althene. It has been said that ‘Cyborgs exist only to fight, and they fight like nothing else in the universe.’ The second part of the phrase is mere hyperbole. The first is the more telling; it is, in fact, a pronouncement of doom.”

  “And as a result, you have no wish to usurp the First Citizen’s authority?”

  “Of course I do, my Lady. As does every other Cyborg. By our nature,” he glanced at Diettinger, “we are incapable of anything less.”

  Althene turned to her husband, who only nodded. “And what would happen in such a conflict, Koln?” Diettinger asked quietly.

  “The Cyborgs would win.”

  “And then?”

  “We would attack the Haveners.”

  “And win?”

  “Every battle we fought.”

  “Until?”

  Althene jumped in. “Until there were no more Cyborgs left.”

  “Precisely, my Lady,” Koln said quietly. “But knowing this, why--”

  Koln shook his head, and for the first time, Althene recognized the underlying emotion that suffused every Cyborg she had ever seen: Fatalism.

  “War is the only thing we know, my Lady.”

  “The Cyborgs are the ultimate achievement of human genetic engineering,” Diettinger said. “The operative word in that sentence being ‘ultimate.’ They are as perfect warriors as it is humanly possible to create. But they are the product of only a few dozen generations of human ingenuity and imagination. They are no match for the continuously evolving states of existence which humanity must face as it spreads throughout the universe. They are, by definition, limited. And thus, they are an evolutionary dead-end.”

  “Then the preservation of the Cyborg genotype---?” Althene began.

  “--is crucial, as I have always said,” Diettinger finished. “Just as it is crucial we maintain a technological advantage in weaponry superior to that available to the cattle here. As knowledge must be retained regarding modern combat tactics, literacy, printing, the arts--and indoor plumbing. The Cyborg population here on Haven, like that of the Soldiers, must be carefully guided, perpetuated--”

  Now it was Althene’s turn to interrupt: “And culled.”

  Koln and Diettinger shared a look, and it was the Cyborg who finally spoke. “Yes. Sargun was given the patrol because of the very great likelihood he would engage the Haveners in combat. Assault Leader Bohren was put in command because his lack of combat experience would require those under his command to demonstrate great levels of initiative to survive the Havener ambush.”

  ‘You knew?”

  “I guessed,” Diettinger said. “That was the reason for the delay in pursuit after the engagement at the river. To give the nomads time to be contacted by one of the roving militia patrols our scouts have reported to be organizing guerrilla activity in the Shangri-La.”

  “But we lost fourteen dead . . .”

  “Fourteen dead, including two Cyborgs, all of whom were, arguably, weak links in the chain we must forge here if we are to survive.”

  “Galen; Pyhrrus of Epirus is not a Sauron role model. Were our troops to kill a thousand Haveners for every Sauron lost in battle, we would still lose such a war of attrition.”

  Diettinger frowned; he was not used to Althene failing to understand him immediately. “That is precisely my point, Althene; we have no business fighting wars of attribution. The war we will fight here will be against Haven and ourselves
. Captives such as those taken today, and local women given over to our Breedmasters in tribute for passage into the Shangri-La, will be the true war; success in cross-breeding Saurons with Haveners the true victory. Engagements like these today will keep the more bellicose elements of our new society occupied, particularly the Cyborgs. Eventually, there will be a revolt--”

  Althene went white with shock. “What--?”

  Diettinger shook his head. “It is inevitable, but with Cyborg Rank Koln and myself manipulating the ringleaders, it will be contained, with the outcome finally establishing civil authority in our society here.”

  Althene’s head fairly swam; could this be the same direct, straightforward man she had fallen in love with? Was it possible he could be so calculating as to conceive of, let alone support, such a ruthless scheme? “Galen-- why?”

  “Because, my dear, as you said yourself: We have here a population of young wolves.” He nodded toward Koln. “And, if you will, bears. But these wolves and bears have no competition worthy of the name to keep them wary, and hungry, and smart. None, that is, except each other. Haven is a fine crucible, but it will be generations before they appreciate that. For now, they must be prevented from turning all their attentions into a fruitless war of attrition against cattle which are very un-cattlelike, indeed. By shifting the focus of their competition toward each other, we strengthen the security of all. More, they will begin to compete with one another as breeders, even as fathers.

  “To that end, we can all be guided toward battling our only real enemy on Haven: Infant mortality. We will mount a war against the Haveners, but one led by the Breedmasters. A war where the tally of names will be those of healthy Sauron children safely born; and not young men and women needlessly killed.”

  The First Citizen of the Saurons sat beside his wife, placing his hand against her flat stomach, a gesture of human protectiveness older than the race itself.

  “And that, in the end, will make it a better kind of war, after all.”