War World IV: Invasion

by War World IV Invasion v2 Lit

  He removed the canister from the bird’s leg, and tipped out the paper cylinder. Spreading the paper amid the bird seed on the balcony, he donned his spectacles.

  “Suds!” he muttered. “This is catastrophe!”

  Breathing hard, General Galdins thrust the bird into a cage. Sometimes one’s job had to take priority over one’s hobbies.

  Jekabs Judeiks Ozols, twenty-third Pirmais and hereditary ruler of Refuge, despite epicanthic eyefolds betraying a Tartar ancestry, boasted of direct descent from the legendary Orfan who had given his name to the first valley dwellers. Perhaps the blood of a certain Cham Khokuts, who, weary of a freezing yurt, declared peace on his Lettish neighbors and moved in with them, had diluted the original Orfan ichor. The Pirmais could be as sly and lazy as any Tartar. But, unlike his forbear, he wished to be loved as a benevolent despot. Refuge tradition, requiring him to appoint deputies, thwarted any aspiration towards tyranny, absolute or otherwise. Jekabs Ozols knew what was good for his subjects. Trouble was, his subjects often disagreed with him. He waved the paper, foul with seeds and traces of guano, at his Deputy for Defence. “What is this rubbish, Andrei?”

  General Galdins twitched. The Pirmais evidently intended to be difficult. “Sir, as you know, in pursuit of more secure means of communication, I have been experimenting with pigeons for the transmission of messages--”

  Jekabs Ozols raised an admonitory finger. “Don’t beat about the bush, Andrei. I know you’ve been up to something. I scent lese-majesty here, and I warn you, I take a dim view of it.”

  Galdins paled. Jekabs Ozols didn’t joke where the Pirmais’ dignity was concerned. The general gulped. “Please read the message, Pirmais.”

  Ozols frowned. “What message?”

  “On the paper--in your hand, sir.”

  Ozols gave his deputy a cold eye. “Why did you not say, nederigums?

  Galdins swallowed the insult. “I am a fool, sir,” he mumbled, feeling there were grounds for that opinion.

  Ozols held the sheet of paper as far away as he dared. The pencilled scribble danced before his eyes. He muttered a Russia blasphemy. “This man’s hand should be cut off. Can you read this scribble, Andrei?”

  Galdins took the paper. In a quavering voice, he read aloud, “Have spotted a Sauron troop near the old fuser mound. Suspect they are looking for power installations. Will do our best to entice them away from Refuge. Try to think of something in case we fail.”

  Ozols paled. “A Sauron troop, did you say?” he queried.

  “That’s the message, Pirmais.”

  “And who is this ‘we’ who have spotted Saurons?”

  “Captain Klimkans is a reserve captain in the Pioneers, Pirmais. He is the Klimkans of Klimkans Construction which is currently extending Your Excellency’s realm.

  When he was due for military service I decided he should try out our new chameleon suits. Corporal Berkis, one of his employees, is testing the female garment. I sent them up the Karsts Udens trail as far as the railway cutting.”

  The Pirmais looked down his nose. “I hear the suits were modified, Andrei. Let’s hope they work properly.” He nodded at the paper in the general’s hand. “Where do your pigeons fit into this tale?”

  The Deputy for Defence traced a pattern on the carpet with a delicate toe. “Sir, you know I believe that pigeons can be useful as message carriers in wartime. Unless they are physically intercepted, no one can pry on information transported by pigeon--”

  “Which wartime are we discussing?” interrupted Ozols coldly.

  Galdins’ exposition floundered before the Pirmais’ attack. “Sir,” he gabbled desperately, “think what this report implies. If those supermen discover our valley . . .”

  Jekabs Ozols sat down, the delights of tormenting his deputy forgotten. He propped an elbow on an ornate table imported from St. Ekaterina, and dabbed his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. “Can we deal with a Sauron invasion, Andrei?” he asked.

  Andrei Galdins seated himself without permission, relief tempered by fear of the Saurons. “There is no doubt we could cope with a single troop of the creatures, sir. But we have to remember their main force. If a single warship can render Haven’s defences nugatory, what chance does our army have? We have the chameleon suits, of course. But not all the high-tech life support equipment is fitted. They make our soldiers practically invisible and bulletproof, but I can’t claim they’d enable them to defeat supermen.”

  Ozols sighed. “Does that mean we must surrender, Andrei?”

  Galdins sat to attention. “No, sir. But it means we must devise a way to keep them out of the valley.”

  “Easier said than done,” grunted Ozols.

  “Don’t be despondent, sir. Our dusty sky vents baffled their satellite cameras. Refuge’s existence might still be a secret.”

  Jekabs Ozols chewed on a thumb nail. “Assuming prisoners don’t talk,” he grunted. “What if this Sauron patrol follows the river to the Gullet?”

  “If they do not suspect the valley exists, they might miss it.” Galdins forced himself to sound cheerful. “I’m sure Captain Klimkans will do what he can to steer them away.”

  Ozols was not impressed. “What would Orfan Pirmais have done in my shoes?” he asked. Jekabs Ozols yearned to emulate the first ruler’s wisdom and statecraft.

  “A good question, sir.” Galdins kept his voice cheerful. “He’d surely have found a way of outwitting the Saurons. But then, the first settlers were giants.”

  Pirmais Ozols looked up, his eyes bleak. How easily this prosy numbskull assumed the improbable! “The first settlers were ordinary men and women, like us, Andrei,” he snarled, “with their backs to the wall.”

  “Yes, sir,” acknowledged his deputy hurriedly. The Pirmais obviously didn’t want to be cheered up.

  The Commissar got to his feet. “Get me Zeltins,” he ordered.

  Linda Berkis had reached the limit of her endurance. Her back ached. Her knees were rubber. The palms of her hands chafed on the harness straps. Her existence had become a nightmare in which her only purpose was to drag this Sauron truck up and down the twists and turns of a rocky Karst Udens trail. Klimkans plodded beside her, heedless of her suffering. Around her, Saurons trotted like automata. She wiped perspiration from her face, stifling a sob.

  Without warning, the platoon halted. Klimkans dug in his heels, his back against the carrier, and brought it to a stop. Grateful for a respite from hauling, Berkis stood and waited. The Sauron Commander appeared, arms akimbo. “The little beast is tired?”

  She nodded, too weary to speak.

  “Rest,” he ordered. “I have commanded a halt.”

  Shaking with relief, she sank to the ground.

  Authority turned on Klimkans. “You rest also, surly beast!”

  Without a word, Klimkans slumped.

  The Sauron commander patted her shoulder. “Remember, little beast--you volunteered to pull my equipment.”

  “I’m not complaining, lord.” Her throat was dry. She found it difficult to speak. She croaked, “Will there be anything to drink, lord?”

  “Refreshment will come,” he promised. “Someone will bring you food.”

  The corporal stared tiredly at her boss. Had he been listening? Janis must be as hungry and thirsty. Did his silent back show his opinion of collaborators?

  A trooper wearing chevrons on his sleeve opened a locker in the carrier’s flank. He tossed two packages to Berkis.

  She retrieved them from the dust. Klimkans’ back was still turned to her. “Janis?” she whispered. He sat motionless, unspeaking.

  She tugged at the plastic wrapper of a package. “Ludzu, Janis!” she pleaded in the old tongue.

  His face remained averted. “Ko tu grib’?”

  She pushed a pack towards him. “There’s a place ahead where we pass a steep drop to the river.”

  “So?”

  “We could lose the carrier, there.” He picked up the Sauron food. “What use would t
hat be?”

  She examined her package, seeking a way in. “If they lost this truck, they might call off the patrol.”

  “Why should they do that?” He jerked a tab, and peeled back plastic. His pack began to steam.

  She found the tab on her own pack, and tugged. “They’d lose their equipment, wouldn’t they? That must make a difference. They wouldn’t have brought the damn thing if they didn’t need it. Some of the stuff on it must be essential.”

  He eyed her sourly. “What’s essential to a Sauron platoon?”

  Her pack began steaming. Her mouth filled at the delicious odor. “How should I know? Platoon gear.”

  He opened his package. “Like?”

  She shrugged. “Ammunition? Tents?”

  “You could be right.” He sniffed at the food. “This smells like ‘lope.”

  She tasted hers. “Could be vulpe.” Uncaring, she began to eat. “Do you think it’s worth a try?”

  His eyes glinted. “That superswine will make puddles of us.”

  She shrugged. To be incinerated for sabotage was more dignified than being wiped out as a nuisance. Any true Orfanian should jump at the chance to sacrifice herself.

  “I’d risk it,” she told him. “If it forces them to abandon the patrol, it would save Refuge from being invaded.”

  He chewed reflectively for a moment. “Okay, Berkis. We’ll give it a try. When I shout, drop the harness. I’ll see the truck goes into the river.” He grimaced wryly. “And if that bastard liquefies us, I’ll recommend you for a posthumous decoration.”

  She grimaced. “I’ve always wanted a medal.”

  “Me too,” he assured her in a voice lacking conviction.

  General Teodors Zeltins studied the floor gloomily. “There must be a way to stop them,” he muttered.

  Jekabs Ozols peeled a citron grown in his own garden. “Have we no army, then?” He watched the general. Zeltins’ wriggles were often as entertaining as those of Galdins’.

  “It isn’t that, Pirmais.” The general fingered his tiers of medal ribbons. Why couldn’t the Pirmais keep his nose out of military matters? Given time, a man could think up ways of handling these superswine. But with Ozols’ beady eye watching every move . . . The general’s gaze lingered longingly on a well padded armchair: only the paramour had been invited to sit.

  “Then what is it, man? Are my soldiers not eager to kill Saurons?”

  “Sir,” began Zeltins hesitantly, “if this patrol finds our valley, there’ll be a Sauron fighter overhead within half an hour dropping nukes on us.”

  “So?” The Commissar heaped peel on a plate. “You listen to too many radio reports, Teodors. Do you really think we are worth nuking?”

  The general shot an appealing glance at the other Deputies present. Neither spoke. People grew wary in the Pirmais’ company. Galdins caught the eye of Victorija Budina. The Commissar’s mistress, he suspected, was laughing at him. “It’s safest to assume they would use nukes,” he growled.

  “Then,” said Ozols, waving a citron segment, “this patrol must not be allowed to discover our valley.”

  “That should be our aim, sir.”

  “So we set an ambush for them, and wipe them out!”

  Zeltins licked his lips. “It isn’t that easy, sir. Those Saurons are better armed than our soldiers. Remember, a single Sauron cruiser neutralized all Haven.”

  “So?” Ozols swallowed a segment of fruit, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “They missed us, General. And this platoon has no cruiser with them. Send in a few of our fliers. They should have no trouble.”

  General Zeltins clenched his fists. Attack first and repent at leisure. This idiot had all the finesse of his Tartar forbears. “Sir,” he assured the Pirmais, “we can destroy the Sauron patrol without much difficulty. It is how to prevent them reporting the existence of the valley which bothers me.”

  Jekabs Ozols looked down his nose, mouth twisted into a tart rosebud. “Are you telling me that is beyond your ability, General?”

  Zeltins detected the threat in his master’s voice. His shirt grew clammy on his back. “I’ve said, sir--there must be a way.”

  Greta Vitolins, Deputy for Interior Security, intervened bravely. “I think Teodors means the Saurons must be prevented from finding the way through the Gullet.”

  The Pirmais smirked. “How? Do we paper over the crack?”

  Zeltins closed his eyes. Ozols’ juvenilities irritated him. “That would be quite a task, sir,” he said patiently. “But we do need to find a way of concealing the gorge’s entrance.”

  The woman lounging on a divan, exercised a paramour’s privilege. “That shouldn’t be too difficult, General dear.”

  Ozols whipped around, fingers spraying citron juice. “You have a plan, Vicky? Do tell us!”

  Victorija Budina clasped slim hands behind an elaborate coiffure. “If the Saurons are not allowed to reach the Gullet, they will not be able to discover it.”

  Ozols nodded. “Very true, my love. But how do we achieve this desirable state of affairs?”

  She told him.

  The Pirmais fingered his chin. “The idea is attractive. Can we muster enough people to fill the relevant roles?”

  Zeltins clutched at a provident straw. “You may leave that to me, sir.”

  Ozols shot him a nasty look. “Sometimes I feel I might do better to leave as little as possible to you, Teodors.” He glanced around the room. “And the equipment we shall need?”

  Greta Vitolins said, “We have plenty of props in store, sir.”

  Ozols’ eyes glittered with sudden exultation. The Budina’s plan offered him the opportunity to act out a long nurtured fantasy. “By the blood of my ancestors!” he shouted. “We’ll do it! And I, your Pirmais, will personally conduct the enterprise.”

  Linda Berkis staggered under the strain of dragging the heavy carrier. The temperature had dropped in the last hour. Her breath hung visible in the air. She whimpered. “Man salst, Janis.”

  “Freeze, then,” he responded, rejecting the intimacy of their mother tongue. “I can’t do anything about it.”

  She bit her lip. Her numbed feet skidded on rimed rock, stiffening harness chafed her skin. Could she endure it much longer?

  A tall shape moved beside her. A hand took the weight of the harness. A voice said lightly, “My little beast tires?”

  Tears trickled down her cheeks. Were these creatures telepathic? “I’m cold, lord,” she whimpered.

  “You came unprepared for the night?”

  Was the bastard being solicitous? His tone sounded amiable. The corporal thought regretfully of a warm fry-suit secreted versts back on a hillside. “We didn’t expect to stay out so late, lord,” she lied.

  The Sauron spoke into his helmet. A trooper pushed Corporal Berkis aside, and took her place in the harness. The Sauron commander tugged a sheet of plastic from the carrier, unfolded it, and draped it over her shoulders. “This will keep out the cold.”

  So his concern was genuine! Teeth chattering, she clutched it around her like a cloak. “Thank you, lord.”

  “The other animal does not feel the cold?” he asked.

  “I think he--it--does, lord.”

  The Sauron commander raised his voice. “Do you want a sheet, surly beast?”

  Janis Klimkans turned his head. His face was white, his lips blue. “If you please, lord,” he mumbled, shamefaced.

  The Sauron dragged another sheet from the carrier, and tossed it to Klimkans. “You were a fool to hunt inadequately clad. Where is this base of yours?”

  Klimkans surveyed the trail before them. The mountains harboring Refuge should be visible around the next turn. “We will see it soon, lord,” he muttered. Numbed fingers tried to spread the plastic without ceasing to press his chest against the harness. The Saurons made no attempt to help him. Arrogant bastards. It had been a mistake to think he could talk them into anything. Making the most of a free-wheeling moment in a declivity, he got t
he sheet around him. The warmth cheered him immediately. The light was fading. Would there be a chance to escape in the darkness? Tethered to a truck, with a Sauron beside him, the matter was debatable. Especially if they really could see in the dark.

  The Sauron commander frowned. “Your base comes no nearer, beast. Is it on wheels?” He paused, listening. “Point reports there are tents out on the steppe. Do cattle use tents?”

  “Lord?” Klimkans faltered.

  The Sauron commander said patiently, “My man at point can see what appears to be a number of tents pitched on the steppe. Do cattle dwell in tents?”

  Klimkans’ brain spun. Tents? On the steppe outside Refuge? Was this a Galdins dodge to divert the Saurons?

  “I--I--” he stammered.

  The Sauron commander patted Berkis’ shoulder. “I seem to be taxing your companion’s abilities, little beast. Can you answer my question?”

  She was just as puzzled. Who was crazy enough to camp on the steppe after nightfall?

  “Are there many tents, lord?” she asked.

  The Sauron consulted his radio. “At least a hundred,” he told her. “And many campfires. Also carts, and beasts like you among them. Also the beasts which walk on four legs.”

  Berkis’ mind raced. It sounded like a Tartar settlement. But no Tartars lived on the nearby steppe these days. Her pulse pounded. What if it were a mock camp, set up to deceive the Savrons for some reason? She feigned surprise. “It sounds as if you’ve found our base, lord.”

  He patted her encouragingly. “What else does my little beast tell me? May we ford the river here?”

  Whoever had built the bogus camp, must have crossed Karsts Udens. She muttered in her own language, “Boss, how deep is the river here?”

  Janis Klimkans’ back stiffened. “This two legged creature wouldn’t know, Corporal.”

  She eyed him patiently. No doubt Klimkans resented being addressed as “beast” by an arrogant bastard who only distinguished between men and muskylopes by counting legs. But what did Janis expect? He had been quick enough to call the Sauron “lord” at their first encounter. “Come on, boss,” she urged. “No one likes being considered a ‘beast.’ You have to put up with it. Can these bastards cross the river here? Is it too deep?”