by John F. Carr
Diettinger nodded. The prime concern of all Saurons was that Haven’s technology be reduced to—and maintained at—a level which did not allow for contact with any remaining part of the Empire or its ships. In the current, planet-bound state, the first Imperial warship that found the Saurons on Haven would be the last any of them ever saw.
Althene’s plan would go a long way toward denying the Haveners that technology, with very little effort on the part of the Saurons themselves—the human norms were unlikely to starve in a week for the prospect of rescue in a decade.
“Those towns and villages without such items to trade may offer tribute maidens,” Althene continued. “Fertile females under the age of twenty should be best suited, I think.”
“Agreed. Although we may have to delay its implementation until after Breedmaster Caius has his breeding stock. For the long run it will save time, grief, and most of all, ammunition, to trade rather than raid. It will even establish some sort of peace, however uneasy, between the conquerors and the conquered.”
“You are thinking of Brigadier-General Cummings,” Althene said.
“I think of very little else, of late. First the Fomoria, then the attack on Firebase One. If trade allows us to undermine the support for his resistance one iota, then trade is the order of the day.”
Neither he nor Althene mentioned those enclaves of Haven survivors who had neither industry, nor technology, nor maidens to offer in trade—neither needed to. Having nothing the new masters of Haven needed or wanted was to be a death sentence in the years to come. They would need to do no more than turn their back to carry it out.
“In regards to breeding facilities,” Althene asked, “will there be more fortifications built at the Citadel for them?”
Diettinger considered that for a moment. “It may not be necessary; structures would only attract the attention of the cattle. The last thing I want is to be surprised by another attack like the last one, only directed at our next generation. I have an idea that I will bring up at the next Staff meeting; Survey needs time to verify data on possible living spaces. By then Combat Engineering will have the completed damage and repair estimates for the Citadel as well.”
Diettinger consulted the chronometer implant in his skull—what is the value of this simple device now? The things we once took for granted...
He held out his hand. “Come, my Lady. Back to work.”
Lady Althene rose and took his hand. Together they headed back toward the bunker. Diettinger believed he was successful in keeping her from seeing the figure he had picked out on the breastworks, the powerful two-and-a-half meter, sinewy bulk of a Cyborg. A silhouette against the setting sun, spying on them.
Chapter Three
I
For once, John Claude Hamilton didn’t wake up at his usual early hour. In fact, he could have spent the entire day in bed. Word had arrived the previous evening from Brigadier Cummings that the Saurons were doing a survey of the central Shangri-La Valley. He had been expecting them ever since the dustup with Wheelock’s Raiders. John knew they didn’t have the weapons or men to go up against the Saurons, but the Haven Volunteers did.
John knew that his grandfather would want him to stay in Whitehall and prepare for its defense; an impossible undertaking should the Saurons decide to besiege the old castle. There was no air defense and modern projectile and energy weapons would make quick work of the castle’s stone walls. It had never been designed to stop off-world invaders, just local warlords and bandit gangs. To that end, it had done good work, so far.
Sooner or later, the Saurons would survey their part of the Valley. He wasn’t looking forward to another confrontation with the Baron. His grandfather still treated him like an adolescent, even after he had proved himself in battle against King Steele and Wheelock’s Raiders. When will grandfather learn to trust my judgment? Of course, I’m not my brother Raymond, but I am the only male Hamilton left. Maybe that’s part of the problem, if anything happens to me, the line stops. But what about Mattie and her children?
He could hear his grandfather’s argument in his mind’s ear: “Mazurin’s a good man, but he’s not a Hamilton.” End of argument. The old man was like one of the castle’s stone blocks, as hard as durasteel and impervious to discourse. He wasn’t really scared, but butterflies had filled his stomach ever since waking. He’d rather face a Sauron Soldier than upset his grandfather, yet, one more time. Part of him felt like pulling the bedspread over his head and hibernating; instead he got up and started to dress for breakfast.
It turned out he’d missed first meal so he went into the kitchen and asked the cook to fix him a plate. While waiting he took a seat at the small table and began to drink a cup of hot yerba mate. As a teenager, when Imperial trading ships still came to Haven, he’d drunk real coffee. The last time he’d drank any had been when Raymond sent them some ‘real coffee’ from Tabletop, and he’d fallen in love with the flavor. Yerba mate, on the other hand, had an herbal taste he didn’t much enjoy. Unfortunately, the yerba mate, other than some nasty tasting green teas, was the only caffeine producing bush or shrub that was able to survive in Haven’s climate. It only flourished within Haven’s equatorial zone, but it had a lot more kick than carob or chicory coffee substitutes.
John was just about to start in on his duck eggs when Ingrid came into the kitchen. She looked fetching in her blue skirt and brocaded blouse. He couldn’t help but notice the way her pert breasts pushed out her top. John felt his heart lurch; Ingrid was a young woman at the peak of her physical beauty. Yet, if he could have flown away like a ‘dactyl, he would have. “Hi,” he muttered.
She gave him the look one might give a land gator on first encounter. “Good day, M’Lord.”
He knew Ingrid hadn’t forgotten or forgiven him for having taken advantage of her in the tower right after the Sauron ship had flown overhead. They had both needed comfort, and had taken their solace in the way couples had taken it since time immemorial. Still, Ingrid was no scullery maid; she was the daughter of grandfather’s best friend, Brigadier Gary Cummings, and under the Baron’s protection. It had been a stupid, thoughtless move on his part and he’d been avoiding her ever since. At least, she hadn’t told anyone and—thank God—it had happened underneath the castle’s gossip radar, or everyone would know.
Maybe the best response was to pretend it hadn’t happened. “Will you join me for breakfast, Ingrid?”
She scowled. “I missed breakfast, too. Yes, I’ll join you.” The words had come out of her mouth as if pulled by tongs.
Ingrid called out her breakfast order. The cook served her a cup of yerba mate and got busy over the wood stove. Gas was expensive and almost impossible to obtain these days, but there were always plenty of trees on the grounds of Greensward.
“John, this is the first time I’ve seen you since…our time together. Why have you been avoiding me?” Her tone was as sharp as a freshly honed knife blade.
He could feel his cheeks burning. “I…I…didn’t know what to say, but I am—”
“Please, I don’t want your lame apology,” Ingrid interrupted. “I know your reputation. I’m the one who was a silly fool for thinking…”
What? he asked himself. Did she actually think I’d marry her, or some other romantic nonsense? Still, at some point, he would have to find a wife and give the Baron the heirs he so desperately wanted. But, I’m still too young, and there are yet so many tasty fish in the sea…
“Never mind,” she finished, turning away as a blush stole over her face.
By God, she had. Now, he was really uncomfortable.
The tension in the kitchen was so thick it could have been cut with a butter knife. John quickly finished his meal, made a quick good-bye and left as if a Sauron Super Soldier was on his trail.
II
Cyborg Rank Köln had little to do to prepare for the staff meeting. If the truth be known there was no real reason for him even to attend. He no more accepted Diettinger’s relegation of the C
yborgs to stud duty than First Rank’s imminent ascension to First Citizen. Köln believed his duty to the Cyborgs no less important than his duty as a soldier, and part of that duty meant quietly demanding a Cyborg presence at all Staff meetings.
Köln left his quarters in the new bunkers and went down the hallway, with the smell of fresh concrete thick in his nostrils. After a moment, he recognized another scent—Cyborg, glandular secretions, he identified them, promptly analyzing their message: stress, indecision; and then, surprising himself—fear?
Associating that emotion with “Cyborg” was fit only for the minds of cattle. He turned, curious as only an enhanced Cyborg can be, the naked glowplate in the ceiling above throwing his angular features into sharp relief—his face even more a death’s-head than usual. At the end of the hall behind him, Cyborg Rank Zold rounded the corner, his eyes meeting Köln’s immediately. His stance and expression—unreadable even to other Saurons, although Cyborgs denied such signals existed— told Köln that Zold wanted to speak to him. In private—right now!
“Second,” Köln acknowledged. Though their monosyllabic names identified them of equal rank, Köln’s seniority had put him in command of the surviving Cyborg Super Soldiers—a turn of events that Zold had never fully accepted. As alike physically as eugenics could make them, even the Cyborgs retained enough essential humanity to be vain.
“Your work at the Citadel is complete?” Köln asked.
Zold was in overall charge of the project to return the Citadel to full operational status, even though Engineering Rank Denbannen was the actual commander of the work. Another unintended slight that had aggravated Köln’s second in command.
“Negative, Köln. I am here at the Citadel for supply acquisition.” The last two words fell from Zold’s lips like molten lead. “While awaiting shipment, I went to the ramparts to inspect the positions.”
The needless qualification of Zold’s presence on the ramparts was code; it told Köln that Zold’s message had nothing to do with the positions or the ramparts.
Köln switched to a dialect of Sauron known only to Cyborgs: “Why do you seek me?”
“Diettinger and his mate were conversing. They plan extensively for the future of the Race.”
“Do not we all? “ Köln had no particular respect for Diettinger, with his unorthodox methods and ideas which fortunately for him bore good results. Neither had he any respect or trust for Zold. The Cyborg Ranks were almost evenly divided in their opposition to the establishment of a dynasty by Diettinger and his mate; Köln was absolutely sure of whom among them he could speak freely to. Zold was not of that number; he was rash.
“We are the future of the Race,” Zold answered fervently. “It is an affront by First Rank to reduce us to non-combatants when an entire world lays prostrate before us. We are wasted—under the First Rank.”
“You are overly familiar, Cyborg Zold,” Köln dropped into normal Sauron as they emerged from the hallway into the main corridor. “I presume you refer to the First Soldier.”
Zold hissed his reply in the Secure Tongue. “That status must not be conferred on a Sauron norm! It belongs to one of the High Blood!”
Zold’s use of the most secret of Cyborg designations for themselves almost moved Köln to kill him on the spot.
“You are insubordinate, soldier,” Köln replied instead.
Zold’s face turned ashen at the insult.
When Zold had regained some measure of self-control, Köln spoke again. “I have six minutes remaining before the Staff meeting. What is your purpose in speaking to me?” Zold was silent for a moment as he concentrated, casting his sense in all directions for some sign that they might be overheard by any of the non-Cyborgs in the Citadel. There were none close enough to hear him endanger both Köln and himself by answering in Sauron: “When the instatement ceremony is carried out, it must be for a Cyborg.”
Köln watched Zold coldly for a long time before he replied. “If the subject comes up at the Staff meeting, I will mention your suggestion.”
He pushed past Zold and into the Command bunker without another word.
III
Deathmaster Quilland was pleased. The fortifications at the Citadel were proceeding tolerably well. They’d even had time to set up proper quarters for First Rank and Lady Althene, when they had arrived; thankfully, unscathed by the Fomoria disaster. The loss of so much valuable mass was not critical at the moment, but would slow down future efforts at expansion. Already, teams of Soldiers were scouring the countryside surveying recoverable pieces of the former starship.
One of the squads had accidentally stumbled on a party of militiamen as they had been evacuating the former Imperial garrison at Fort Fornova. If the documentation was correct, they had bagged and killed the commander of the Falkenberg Irregulars, a Colonel Nelson Harrigan. Too bad it hadn’t been the wily fox himself, Brigadier-General Gary Edmund Cummings, the commander of the Haven Volunteers. That would have been a kill that would have brought a smile to even Cyborg Köln’s impassive countenance.
As the Deathmaster peered out his casemated lancet window, he could see a large, twisted hunk of metal on the bed of a large transport being driven through the Karakul Pass. It looked like a section piece from one of the Fomoria’s hanger bays. Behind it followed a horse-mounted band of merchants, wearing the festive rags that passed for garments in this sector of the Shangri-La Valley. He was pleased to see that the locals were returning to pre-invasion activities so quickly. It boded well for the local economy.
Evaskar had fallen with predictable ease, almost a textbook assault. The local cattle were cowed and already scrambling to curry favor from their new masters. There were reports of small arms fire as the various political and ethnic factions competed among themselves for advantage. This was not discouraged as long as the fighting was kept off the streets and no Saurons were in the line of fire.
Let the cattle cull themselves, he thought with satisfaction. It will save the Race valuable ammunition and improve the breed overall.
Transports had already brought up representative breeding stock to the Citadel. Holding pens for thousands of fertile local women were already finished and filling up at Firebase One; others were under construction at the Citadel. The seeds had been planted for long-term occupation. Evaskar would prove a useful adjunct to the new Sauron capital.
Best of all, though, are these cattle. They had already mounted several effective, if limited, assaults on his outlying positions. Two Soldiers had been lost, and several weapons, in exchange for only a hundred and sixty-two enemy. Quilland knew that such a ratio meant these cattle showed promise. Haven indeed bred well.
Quilland favored the cattle with a thin smile. Perhaps his favorite example of their character had come only an hour ago. Assault Rank Becker’s squad had almost been wiped out. The cattle had taken a Sauron radio from Becker’s unit and called in mortar fire from the Sauron RAM positions on the heights right onto the Sauron team that was assaulting their own position!
By the time their deception had been realized all the cattle had escaped. One of his rankers had asked Quilland if the cattle here could possibly be that good.
“It would appear so,” he had replied.
Chapter Four
I
Galen Diettinger sat before the assembled staff of his last naval command, the Fomoria—renamed the Dol Guldur as a ruse de guerre to initially persuade the Haveners that they were being attacked by pirates, not Saurons. Now the name had become a sort of badge of honor among the younger crewmembers, one which showed no sign of losing its appeal.
Around the table were a dozen section heads representing all the important functions aboard a combat starship. Overnight, they had been transformed into governmental ministers. Yesterday, they had been smoothly integrated members of a military chain of command, now they were councilors. They had not yet begun to explore their new capabilities of limited disobedience, but he knew they would—in time.
Nor had Diettinger
avoided a metamorphosis of his own. His place at the head of the table was now the seat of the First Citizen of the Sauron State of Haven. The collar tabs that had borne the insignia of First Rank—the stark, white bar on a black field—had been replaced with the single round gem studs that symbolized the leader of all the Sauron people. Or, at least, all those known to remain alive.
The subtle changes in his uniform had been carefully engineered by his wife. Despite unanimous acceptance of his new status as First Citizen by the survivors of the Fomoria, the First Lady had left nothing to chance. A trained historian and behaviorist, Althene Diettinger had been careful to combine elements of his new appearance, proclaiming his civilian authority, while reminding all those around him of its recent military roots; to the Sauron mind, its only possible justification.
Althene had not been able to find diamonds of the proper size for his collar tabs, but an Assault Leader had just returned from a patrol with a captured set of Haven shimmer stones. She’d immediately seen the symbolism in them and suggested to Galen that they might serve as well. Having enjoyed something of a vogue centuries before in the CoDominium era and the early Empire, the shimmer stones were in fact more valuable than mere diamonds. Better still, they were unique to Haven, and as such, he had decided that they were far more appropriate to their function than diamonds would have been.
All that remained of his link with the Fomoria was the “vessel” badge, a gunmetal pin over his left breast depicting a Sauron starship in profile over a five-pointed star, which had defined his position of First Rank. Scarcely five centimeters across, the pin was a subtle but striking reminder of his past command and Homeworld.
