War World IV: Invasion

by War World IV Invasion v2 Lit

  “Not deep enough,” Klimkans muttered.

  The Sauron commander patted her arm. “No herd gabble! Speak Americ!”

  Janis Klimkans swallowed his anger. Displaying so many lights, the builders of the encampment must want to be noticed. Why try to avoid what was now inevitable? He recalled previous forays. “There is a ford, lord,” he said. “But the lord must be wary. There are gaps, and the water is deep.”

  The Sauron commander gave him a puzzled look. “Your behavior improves, beast. Lead the way!”

  Darkness was complete. Cat’s Eye and Byers’ had set. They rounded a bend and saw a swarm of fireflies flickering on the steppe. Klimkans caught his breath. Someone definitely didn’t intend to be overlooked.

  The Sauron pointed. “Observe the largest tent, beast!”

  Klimkans peered into the night. “Lord,” he apologized, “this creature sees only lights.”

  The Sauron frowned. “You have defective vision?”

  “No, lord,” murmured Klimkans. “Just beastly optics.”

  “Watch your tongue,” cautioned Authority, “or you may be lamenting its absence.”

  Janis Klimkans clamped his jaw shut.

  The trail descended the last slope. But for the darkness, the entrance to Refuge would be visible a few versts ahead. Could the Saurons see that far with their infrared vision? A little distraction might help. Klimkans licked his lips. “Permission to speak, lord?”

  “What is it?” snapped the Sauron.

  “This creature can no longer see the path, lord.”

  The Sauron spoke into his helmet. Torches illuminated the trail underfoot.

  “Thank you, lord.” The dazzle of the lights made the surrounding night darker. It might help to obscure what lay ahead. He plodded on, watching for the path the camp builders must have used.

  Within minutes, he found it. Pointing, he called, “There, lord!”

  Lights swung to illuminate a well-trodden track leading riverwards. Frozen ruts and hardened footprints obliterated any sign that the trail led elsewhere.

  Without orders, Klimkans turned onto the new trail. The platoon halted, then followed him like sheep. He plodded on, exultant. These supermen weren’t so goddamn smart. And, whatever lay across the river, they had been turned away from Refuge.

  A spidery structure loomed out of the shadows. Klimkans recognized the lattice work of an army bridge he had seen bolted together many times on maneuvers.

  The Sauron commander unholstered his sidearm. “Beast, what is this? Why did you not inform me there was a bridge?”

  Janis Klimkans’ mind went blank. There had been nothing over the river when he and the corporal had left Refuge that morning.

  Beside him, Linda Berkis froze. Unless Janis found his tongue, their captor might use that laser. And Klimkans seemed struck dumb.

  She plunged in, tongue thick in her mouth. “Permission to speak, lord?”

  The Sauron swung round. “What is it, little beast?”

  “The bridge is new, lord,” she gabbled. “It must have been built after we crossed this morning. Our khan must have decided to make our return easier.”

  The Sauron inspected the structure. Its newness was unarguable. Fresh paint shone on the pontoons below. He slid his weapon back into its holster. “You have a considerate leader, little beast.”

  She started to sweat. “My lord is too kind.”

  He eyed her speculatively. “Let us meet this considerate leader of yours.”

  The banks of Karsts Udens were already freezing. The Sauron tested the ice with a wary boot. “The water hardens fast,” he told the corporal. “In another hour this structure will not be necessary.”

  Her head spun. Did he expect her to justify the bridging of a freezing river? Why couldn’t Klimkans dig up some excuses? “We were expected back before nightfall, lord,” she improvised. “And the ice cannot be trusted to bear much weight.”

  “Let us see if we can trust this flimsy structure,” he said.

  “Perhaps we should cross singly, lord?” she ventured.

  “That will not be necessary.” The Sauron grasped her arm, and led her onto the bridge. The plastic floor creaked and boomed beneath them. She thought of the heavy equipment carrier following them, and walked faster.

  “You are concerned for my welfare, little beast?” queried the Sauron. “Even though I have forced you to haul my equipment?”

  “I wouldn’t like to see you drown, lord,” she told him.

  Faced with such a happy event, she reflected, one could always close one’s eyes.

  He showed surprise. “You creatures are capable of loyalty?”

  “We do have feelings, lord,” she admitted.

  “But your companion is less amiable.”

  “He has much on his mind, lord.”

  The Sauron frowned. “The surly one has a mind?”

  They were challenged a hundred paces from the angle of tents and transport. The sentry wore soup bowl helmet and padded jacket. He carried a strung bow, a scimitar dangled from his belt. Berkis shrank back: as a child she had been scarred by Tartar tales.

  The sentry let an eyelid droop.

  She caught her breath. What was Karlid Vittenbergs doing here in that rigout? And would the Sauron be deceived?

  Authority eyed the bogus sentry. “Out of my way, beast!”

  Karlid Vittenbergs remembered instructions. He stretched his bow and aimed an arrow at the Sauron’s breastplate. “Who goes there?” he demanded. “Friend or foe?”

  Linda Berkis smothered a giggle.

  Authority unholstered a deadly side arm. “Do you wish to become carrion, animal?”

  Vittenbergs, who, when not being a Tartar, sold vegetables from a barrow in Udenspils market, hastily lowered the bow. “The khan invites you to visit his yurt, sir,” he gulped.

  The Sauron bolstered the side arm. “Your khan chooses hospitality instead of hostility? How original.”

  Vittenbergs unnocked his arrow. “Follow me, chief.”

  “Proceed, creature,” ordered Authority. “And the correct mode of address is ‘lord.’ “

  “Yes, lord,” gurgled Karlid Vittenbergs.

  Ducking under a canvas awning, Berkis recognized the marquee used for Udenspils carnivals. Floored with cushions, and draped with hangings normally the property of Udenspils Operatic Ensemble, it made a convincing yurt. As she and the Sauron commander entered, a glittering major domo she had last seen fining traffic offenders, stepped out. He raised a hand. “No females!”

  Authority halted in mid stride. “The little beast is with me. You will allow it to pass.”

  Berkis smirked. It would do Peter Arajis no harm to learn that the customer was not always intimidated.

  Major domo Arajis clutched the jewelled belt supporting his ornamental scimitar, and pondered the wisdom of overdoing the act. He had heard tales of Sauron brutality. Perhaps the Pirmais would permit some relaxation of the rules. “The lord wishes the woman to accompany him?” he queried.

  The Sauron commander eyed the mock major domo with ill-concealed enmity. “Must I repeat myself beast?”

  Arajis stepped back. “That will not be necessary, lord. Please proceed. No one will impede the lady.”

  “Lady?” queried the Sauron commander, staring about him.

  “The--er--little beast,” explained Arajis delicately. A helmet bobbed in comprehension. “Ah, yes--of course.”

  They entered in triumphal procession. Fake Tartars made way for authentic supermen. Sauron and captive proceeded along a red velvet carpet, and halted before the great khan himself.

  Like an unfolding flower, Jekabs Ozols rose from his cushions. He bowed. “Welcome to my humble yurt,” he declaimed.

  The Sauron commander ran his gaze over the marquee. “Is this your domicile, beast?” he demanded.

  “While the grazing lasts,” confirmed the counterfeit khan.

  The Sauron’s lips compressed. “Do you know who I am?”

&nb
sp; Ozols blinked. For the sake of his role, he had discarded his spectacles, but one would be myopic indeed to be unaware of his interrogator’s identity. “We have heard of you,” he admitted.

  “And you bid me welcome?”

  Ozols shrugged. “You have conquered our world. We would be foolish not to face facts.”

  The Sauron commander raised his eyebrows. “Another reasonable beast? Life is full of surprises. Beast, I am addressed as ‘lord.’ You will answer some questions.”

  Ozols concealed his uneasiness. “Ask away . . . lord.”

  The Sauron glanced at Berkis. “That bridge was built this morning?”

  Ozols hesitated. The superswine must be referring to the flimsy structure the army had flung across Karsts Udens that morning to facilitate moving props onto the steppe. Why was this creature interested in a bridge? Behind the Sauron’s back, the female corporal looked sick. Jekabs Ozols suspected his response might be a matter of importance. The Pirmais examined the roof hangings for inspiration. What had the corporal told the superswine? It would be safest to opt for the truth--but the truth precisely, and not a syllable more than the truth. “It was not built this morning, lord,” he said.

  Authority pondered. The surly beast had been veracious! Perhaps these creatures were incapable of deceit! “When was the bridge built?” demanded Authority.

  Ozols tried to catch the corporal’s eye, but Berkis’ head was lowered in what looked suspiciously like prayer. How could a man respond correctly when he didn’t know what untruth was required? Ozols sighed. “It was built this afternoon, lord.” He waited for the explosion.

  The Sauron commander nodded: the beast’s accuracy was commendable. “And why build a bridge?” he asked.

  Ozols swallowed. By keeping strictly to the truth, he seemed to have avoided disaster so far. He glanced at the corporal, seeking further inspiration.

  Linda Berkis refused to look up. The Commissar was a better fencer than either she or Janis.

  Ozols perspired. Why build the bridge? Tell the truth, and ruin his scheme? No way! But why else build a bridge? South of Karsts Udens there was summer pasture. Grazing might be an excuse. But he had told the Sauron that the bridge had only been built that afternoon, and the creature would have noticed evidence of traffic on the far bank. Jekabs Ozols cudgelled his brain. Invention was the daughter of necessity. “There was a previous bridge which collapsed, lord,” he gabbled. “We salvaged the remains.”

  He waited, sweating. The Sauron nodded his head. “You construct bridges quickly, beast.”

  Ozols damned the army and all its works. “It only needed bolting together, lord,” he choked. “We have done it before. It is the only way to get our ‘lopes over to the south bank.” The Pirmais clamped his mouth shut, and defied the lightning.

  The Sauron commander glanced around the marquee. “You say you are nomads,” he observed, “yet you are profligate with light and heat?”

  Ozols untangled his tongue. Breathing easier now they had got off that bloody bridge, he said, “My yurt is heated by a portable power source, lord. Some of my people rely on solar power packs, and batteries for the night. Others use windmills, or fuel cells. I believe it is even possible to suck heat from frozen ground, but we don’t have the equipment to do that. Each yurt is responsible for its own comfort.”

  “And why camp on the edge of the steppe?”

  Ozols ventured a shrug. “The grazing is rich here in the summer, lord. We give our ‘lopes a treat.”

  Authority reflected. “I am minded to give you a clear bill of health, beast. You do not appear to be a threat, although there could be questions about your power source. I have orders to destroy all power plants I discover.”

  Ozols remembered he was an uncultured barbarian. He clasped his hands. “Lord, I beseech you, be merciful. Without our plant we would freeze during the night . . .”

  Linda Berkis choked. Jekabs Ozols had missed his calling. He would have been a riot on the stage.

  Authority deliberated.

  Ozols pressed on hurriedly. “Would your highness not share our meal before deciding?” The Pirmais clapped his hands, not waiting for a response. “Ludzu, pusdienas!”

  Female slaves appeared, bearing bowls as big as cartwheels. Berkis recognized one flimsily clad serf as a waitress from her favorite snackbar. The bowls, she realized, were trophies from the Folklore Museum. A steaming dish was set before the bogus khan. Ozols waved an invitation. “Be our guest, lord!”

  The Sauron commander eyed the food suspiciously. Jekabs Ozols knew the value of sacrificing a pawn. He jerked a thumb at Berkis. “We do not permit the animal that speaks to eat in male company, lord.”

  Authority removed its helmet, a frown on its aquiline features. “The little mare is an honorary stallion,” the Sauron announced.

  Ozols subsided into his cushions. “As your honor decrees.” He indicated the dishes set around them. “Will you permit us to offer meat to your men, and the other prisoner?” He dipped into a bowl, fished out a dripping gobbet, and popped it into his mouth. Jaws working, he stared blankly at the Sauron commander.

  Authority closed its eyes, for a moment looking sick, then spoke into a comm unit. The thud of feet on Udenspils’ Opera House carpet, the rumble of wheels, announced the arrival of the Sauron platoon. The trooper sharing Klimkans’ burden dropped his section of harness, removed his helmet, and joined in a rush to the nearest bowl.

  The Sauron commander tugged off metalled gloves. He stared warily at the bowl before Ozols. “What is this?”

  “ ‘Lope stew, lord,” mouthed the Pirmais, fishing for further tidbits. “Thickened with a little barley, and maybe a carrot or two.”

  The Sauron sniffed at it. “Nothing else?”

  “We have nothing else,” lied Ozols. “Vegetables are costly.”

  “Hardly a balanced diet,” commented the Sauron.

  Ozols wiped fingers on his thighs, probed a pocket, and placed a bottle on the nearest cushion. “Try one of those, lord.”

  The Sauron examined the offering, eyes doubtful. “Pills? What are they for?”

  The bugger was softening. Ozols scented victory. “Vitamin pills, lord,” he murmured confidentially. “They help to keep us fit.”

  The Sauron commander put down the bottle unopened. “Manufactured in Castell City, I see.” He dipped a cautious finger into the stew. “You nomads certainly travel around.”

  Ozols kicked himself. Showing the pills had been a slip. Next thing, this cocky bastard would be wanting to know where he did his shopping. He belched, allowing a rivulet of gravy to run down his chin. “We buy where we can, lord.” He nodded imperturbably at the carrier thawing out on a borrowed carpet. ‘Why do your men pull that?”

  The Sauron commander licked his fingers. The stew was tastier than anything he had eaten recently. He decided to overlook this Tartar’s prying. “The power pack does not function,” he grunted.

  Superswine was definitely mellowing. Ozols risked a reproof. “Perhaps it is repairable, lord. Would your highness permit one of my technicians to examine it?”

  Linda Berkis blinked. Had Ozols gone mad?

  “No one meddles with my equipment,” grunted Authority, fishing deeper into the bowl.

  “I do not suggest meddling, lord,” larded Ozols. “My technicians are experts.”

  Janis Klimkans murmured. “I suspect his highness maybe suffering from a gimp coil burnout.”

  The Sauron suspended mastication. Was the surly beast actually trying to help? “What is a ‘gimp’ coil, beast?”

  Klimkans shot a glance at Ozols. One didn’t steal the Pirmais’ thunder with impunity. “You--you may know it by a different name, lord,” Klimkans stammered. “But, a burnt out gimp coil means the carrier’s power pack won’t work.”

  “You are the expert?” asked the Sauron mildly.

  “No, lord.” Klimkans pointed to Berkis. “She is the expert.”

  Corporal Berkis blushed.

 
The Sauron commander stared. “You, little beast?” She bowed her head modestly.

  “I have some expertise, lord.”

  The Sauron frowned. “Where did you learn about power packs?”

  Panic gripped her. To explain that she was normally neither soldier nor nomad, would reveal the existence of Refuge. “I studied books, lord,” she improvised.

  “And you believe you can repair the carrier?”

  “If you will permit, lord, I will try.”

  The Sauron waved a hand. “Let the little beast look at the machine. Give her what assistance she needs.” He turned to Klimkans. “Help her!”

  They found the power pack cell. Berkis pulled out a rack. The circuits resembled those which powered her drills. Maybe the Saurons shopped in Frystaat too! She located a blackened area where current had grounded, and prised out the dud coil. “Do you carry spares, lord?” she asked.

  The Sauron commander raised his eyes to the chevroned Sauron. A quick exchange followed. “We have no spares, little beast,” the Sauron told her.

  Had the army used her drills to build that bridge? Best not enquire. Any talk of such technology might lead them to Refuge. But where else find a gimp coil substitute? Chameleon suits? Hers was tucked under a rock some thirty versts back along the Karsts Udens trail!

  Berkis dropped into Latvian. “Any chance of getting hold of a frysuit, boss?”

  “Kapec?” he demanded.

  “Gimps in the powerpack.”

  He shook his head. “No way we can risk letting this superswine know we have chameleon suits.”

  She brushed hair from her eyes, feeling tired and defeated. “What do we do, then?”

  He stared at her. “Don’t Sauron suits use powerpacks?”

  Her eyes lighted. “And they’ll have spares!”

  He glanced at the Sauron commander. “He’ll tell you. You’re his pet.”

  She got up, burned out coil in hand. “Lord, I need a replacement for this. May I look in the powerpack of one of your suits?”

  Sauron eyes narrowed with suspicion. A queasy feeling told her she was treading on dangerous ground. “It is only a suggestion, lord,” she said hurriedly. “We have nothing here that will do the trick.”