by John Carr
Or Raymond could be - He stopped himself. Don’t even think that word! Thinking things sometimes made them true. It was better not to know than to think the un-thinkable.
John had tried to do the ‘right’ thing, ever since he had realized a talent for money exchanging; he’d even given up most of his bad habits. Tried to live a more moderate life. Not that he didn’t, on occasion, sneak out at night to the White Tamerlame for spirits and occasional female companionship. He wasn’t dead, but he’d certainly given up his gambling and horse racing.
Usually, though, he spent his nights alone, too tired to do anything but press his face to the pillow. Managing a large estate, or barony (the return to quaint Medievalism still rankled after all, wasn’t this the Twenty-Seventh Century?) was bloody hard work. However, his grandfather had been right about the de-civilization of Haven. Automobiles were becoming so rare that the family’s traditional semi-annual drive to Cardiff in the Baron’s old Fleet-wood brought the kids out in droves.
How far is down? Shamans dressed in feathers, shaking rattles and casting spells. When does it bottom out? The latest reports from General Cummings told of a Castell City fulminating with riots and beggars on every corner. And only God knew what life on the northern steppes was like -
“Hello, John. Find anything interesting?” asked a pleasant female voice he recognized as belonging to Ingrid Cummings. Ingrid was General Cummings’ daughter; she had come to Whitehall earlier this year after the first big food riots, when two of the petrocarb plants broke down. The Baron had told him that the General had tried to get his wife to come along, too, but she refused to leave their home in Castell. John found it hard to fault her, since even a boring provincial capital city was better than a boring estate east of nowhere.
He shook his head in the negative in response to her question. Ingrid was always asking questions, probing intentions, feelings; just the sort of things he believed were best left alone. The fact that she’d caught him in a rare moment of introspection only made him feel guilty, as if he’d been caught with another woman. Which was ridiculous, since they had no ties of any sort. Ingrid was too old for him.
Well, actually, she was just a year or two older than himself. And even pretty in an acceptable sort of way, if she would only use some makeup.. .And her eyes were attractive, especially when she flared up, which seemed to be just about every time they met. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to offend her this time.
“Your grandfather sent me to fetch you. It’s almost dinner time.”
“Thanks,” he replied. He knew the Baron entertained the notion of a dynastic joining of the two families. Was it possible she resented his meddling as much as he did? - no, not likely. Although, she did not seem like the matrimonial web-spinning type he had avoided for decades.
Not that her desires or his own would thwart the Baron’s plans. An heir was necessary if the Hamilton line was to continue. His sister Matilda already had three children, so the barony would continue, but not under the name Hamilton. To the Baron, the issue was settled; John must get married and have children. The Baron would not die happily until he was certain that the new lord would carry the Hamilton name.
Another weight to carry.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve got the troubles of the Empire on your shoulders. Relax. It’s a beautiful evening. Cat’s Eye is about to set.”
He watched as the sky-filling orange gas giant around which Haven was but a revolving moon began to merge into the horizon. Byers’ Star was still up and the evening was turning into Dimday. “Haven’s a harsh world, but it has its beauty, too.”
Ingrid cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a poetic side.”
John shook his head. “Sheer exhaustion must be the explanation. Why, the glow of Cat’s Eye even gives your complexion a buttery hue.”
She folded her arms across her breasts, which he couldn’t help noticing. What he could see of them, through her usual heavy sweater, looked like ripe tigermelons.
“Your sweet talk won’t work on us city girls. Save it for the wenches at the White Tamerlame.”
He flinched. How did she know about that? Damnable woman! “At least they know how to appreciate a man.” The late summer spell was suddenly broken. What had he been thinking of? Had he actually considered...? No, couldn’t have. Exhaustion, that was the only explanation.
“Some figure of a man you cut,” Ingrid finished, giving his mid-section a pointed stare and shaking her head in disapproval.”Hope you don’t expect to fit in your armor at the next Muster. I’m going to the dining room. Come if you will, or don’t. It matters little to me.”
John looked down at his paunch, and quickly looked away again. It wasn’t his fault his metabolism had slowed down. Maybe some practice time in the tiltyard would melt some of it off. He watched the sway of Ingrid’s retreating backside for a moment, shook his head in dismay, and began to follow quickly.
He suddenly realized he was starving; maybe tomorrow he’d have a talk with the cook about working out a diet. It wouldn’t be wise to rush into anything.
III
There were no distinctions of services among Soldiers, only of caste and rank, so the Deathmasters and Breedmasters were directly subservient to Diettinger, as First Ranker.
Perhaps even more so than when I was Dictator, he mused. That must have seemed quite ludicrous to many of my old staff, for awhile, there. No doubt they prefer having things back to normal...
“Normal” he smiled, almost saying the word aloud. His staff had never been allowed any doubt whatsoever about the chain of command, and the tone of this conference, Diettinger knew, would be maintained along those lines. The Survey officer was presenting as much information as she had on the system they had reached.
“The world is called ‘Cat’s Eye;’ the single habitable moon is Haven. Rotational period for the moon is 87 hours standard, with a longer relative ‘day’ owing to the considerable illumination provided by the gas giant. Drier than we might like, with only a sixty-percent hydrographic index...” The voice of the Survey officer droned on through the communications panel in the wardroom, but the impassive faces of the listeners belied their keen interest.
They were learning about their next conquest, after all, and as military men, and especially as Soldiers, they would need every bit of information available to them.
What they have not yet realized, Diettinger thought, is that Haven is to be far more than just another conquest. That realization will come soon enough.
Survey ended her report, and Diettinger threw the switch that secured the wardroom from further communications.
“Breedmaster Caius,’ Diettinger addressed the Soldier charged with the standards of racial and genetic purity among the detachment under his command. “How many female Soldiers aboard, including those in the EVA Commandos we took aboard back on Sauron?”
“One hundred seventy-three.”
Diettinger considered the answer a moment, then continued. “All such personnel are to be removed from active combat duty and other responsibilities as of the end of this meeting. Also to be removed from the duty roster are those Soldiers aboard, now serving in any capacity, with a Genetic Preference Rating of A-5 and above, as well as those personnel with Fertility Ratings of three or higher.”
The physical abilities of the elite EVA Commandos aboard would make that order cut sharply into available forces, but if Breedmaster Caius had an opinion, he kept it to himself. Diettinger’s order was acknowledged with a brief nod.
“Deathmaster Quilland.” Diettinger looked farther down the wardroom table, but not to the other end, not quite yet. He wanted the figure seated there to hear all the groundwork before the full plan was revealed. “As senior Staff Rank aboard, you, the Ground Force commanders, and the other Deathmaster Ranks are to review all planetary data as Survey Ranks acquire it. In forty hours, present me with your recommendation of areas planetside that our available forces can secure and hold aga
inst counterattacks from such opposition as we might expect to encounter from the locals.”
If Breedmaster Caius had reserved his opinion, the Deathmaster did not. Fond of nurturing his caste’s reputation for ruthlessness, he broke into a wintry smile at the thought of local resistance having any effect whatsoever against a force of Sauron Supply Clerk Rank Cadets. But elite Commandos? The concept hardly warranted consideration.
“Acknowledged, First Rank.”
Despite Imperial propaganda to the contrary, Saurons were not automata, and Diettinger was pleased to see his orders puzzling some of his officers. But now, the hard part. Diettinger looked to the end of the table. Seated and at ease, the figure there still looked tense as spring steel. Since a substantial portion of his anatomy was not dissimilar to that material, that was hardly surprising.
“Cyborg Rank Koln.” Diettinger addressed the figure, deliberately adding the obsolete distinction of “Rank.” To be a Cyborg was by definition to be a superior being, and many in Sauron society had allowed this attitude to subvert the military chain of command. If Diettinger’s scheme was to have any hope of success, he would have to arrest - and overturn - that subversion.
“Acknowledged.” The voice that answered was rich, warm and deep, resonant with humanity - and seemed identical to that of every other Cyborg Super Soldier. It never failed to awe Diettinger at the power that was - had been - Sauron’s, the power to shape the very stuff of life itself.
“You and the other Cyborg Ranks will aid the Deathmasters in the details of said planning. You will not participate in combat operations.”
Cyborg Koln’s shoulder shifted as he sighed briefly. It made a faint sound as sections of augments met within the genetically toughened flesh. “May I ask why?”
Of all the castes in Sauron society, only the Cyborgs were permitted the luxury of such a question. The very capacity to ask had been trained out of most others.
“You and all other Cyborg Ranks are to present yourselves to Breedmaster Caius for propagation research.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on Diettinger’s right as Caius realized both the extent of this task and its implications.
“Acknowledged,” Cyborg Koln said after a brief pause. Diettinger sensed that he had not resolved the issue but had at least bought himself some time. He nodded once, then addressed the table again.
“There is no Sauron Unified State any longer. No Sauron Trade Bloc, no Sauron-dominated Coalition of Secession.” He activated the display screen, and the image of the sundered Homeworld glared darkly from it.
“There is, in fact, no Sauron.”
The recording played out. The silence was absolute. “Whatever is left of the Homeworld and Sauron System’s planets are by now occupied by the forces of the Empire. The war is lost. But the Race must not die.”
Diettinger’s emphasis on the last words would have been expressive among other human species; among Saurons it was almost melodramatic. But it had the desired effect on those listening. They could guess what was coming, and they were eager to hear more.
“The Haven System is isolated, four Alderson Jumps from the nearest inhabitable world. Trade charts of this area have not been updated in over seventy-five years. Records indicated that not so much as a regiment of Imperial Marines have been in this system in ten years. Fate,” he smiled; none of them believed in fate in quite the way he did, “has brought us here to stay. This must now be home.”
He began to outline his plan.
Thirty-Four
I
General Gary Cummings sat hunched over a pile of computer printouts, surveillance and intelligence reports, from Operatives throughout the Shangri-La Valley and outside. Other than the piles of paper, the General’s office was Spartan; the only decoration on his desk was a large acrylic cube containing a gauss pistol that he’d pried from the hand of a dead Sauron Soldier he had killed on Lavaca.
Up close one could see where the dying Sauron had left his finger marks, not prints, pressed right into the steel grip. It was his constant reminder never to underestimate the Sauron enemy.
On the wall directly behind the General’s desk were two flags - the Empire’s, with the gold Imperial Eagle and a circle of stars, and the yellow banner of the Haven Volunteers. He purposely kept all insignia of any planetary government off the walls, especially that of the Haven World Government, the Cat’s Eye emblem on a black background surrounded by twelve stars. These silver stars represented the twelve city-states and towns that King Steele had conquered and added to the country - as it was now called - of Castell.
The Imperial flag was there to remind visitors of the Regiment’s true allegiance, that as a unit of the Haven Imperial Marine Reserve, the Brigade’s loyalty was to the Empire of Man; not to any of Haven’s ragtag governments, no matter how lofty their title or ambitions.
The report that held his attention was an intelligence memo on the breakdown of the primary petrocarb plant in Lermontovgrad. A disaster that left the Valley’s second largest city with only two food plants, and meant that they would have no surplus to sell to Castell this winter. And winter would be on them soon. The late-summer chill was already in the air. Cummings shivered, and not just from the cold.
The dunderheads that ran Castell were so worried about passing planetary declarations - which no one outside of Castell gave a muskylope stool about - that they had neglected their own city and economy. Well, not for the first time. However, this spring they had sent out the Castell Guard to quell the local countryside. Other than the occasional rape and farm burning, all this had accomplished was to send about a quarter of the area’s farmers into exile.
Aware of what that would mean this winter, Cummings had discreetly sent out his agents to purchase most of the early summer harvest with actual gold and silver coin, specie the farmers much preferred to the government’s worthless paper. The Brigade’s granaries at the fort were bursting; they would have more than enough food to get them through the long winter.
The same could not be said for Castell. For a city of a million-and-a-half people, they only had one remaining working petrocarb factory which was guarded night and day. God only knew what the City Fathers would do when that too broke down. Still, one food plant alone wouldn’t guarantee enough nourishment for more than a quarter of the city’s population. They would buy up a good amount of the fall harvest, but there would still be a large deficit. Haven’s winters were long, cold and unforgiving.
A familiar double knock at the ironwood door broke him out of his depressing analysis. “Come in.”
It was Sergeant Major Slater, his top noncom and the man who single-handedly kept the Volunteers in tiptop shape. He had been with the General since the day he’d been promoted and transferred to command the 77th Imperial Marine Division.
“It’s your wife, sir. She won’t leave. We thought about carrying her off, but - ”
“No, you did right, Sergeant Major,” Cummings said, shaking his head woefully. Short of abduction, which would completely sever the last bonds between them forever, there was little he could do to force Laura to leave her home. He had tried every persuasion and blandishment known to man, and a few invented right on the spot, during his last visit.
The sad part was he understood her motives completely. Laura was nearing the end of her life and wanted to leave this world she hated in the only comfortable surroundings she knew. Certainly, she would hate the hustle-bustle and confines of Fort Kursk. He thought of having Helga try and talk her mother into staying with her and Ralph, but remembered the last time he’d asked his daughter to talk some sense into her mother. Hegla had left in tears, after Laura had attempted character assassination upon her beloved husband.
Frankly, the General didn’t think much of Ralph Haverstok either; he’d never pass muster in the Brigade. But he was a good husband to Helga and father to their three children. Besides, their home in the Castell suburb of Trinity wasn’t much safer than where Laura was living now.
“Sir, I left Sergeant Sam Constantine and a squad to secure the property.”
The General nodded. Sam Constantine was one of the top sergeants in the Brigade and would give his life to see that no harm came to the General’s wife.
“How many men?”
“Ten, sir. Enough to secure the perimeter. I left them with enough assault rifles and ammunition to hold off half of the Castell Guard.”
Cummings smiled. “They could, too.” The house had purposely been built on a steep rise and the walls were quarter-inch durasteel covered with ferro-concrete foam. Any force, short of a military company, who thought they could besiege that house was in for a rude surprise. Inside that fortress those eleven men were worth a hundred times their number.
“Well done, old friend.”
The Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable, but Cummings knew that deep inside he was touched.
A vigorous knock at the door interrupted him again.
The Sergeant Major, his pistol flap unsnapped and hand on the grip, opened the door slowly.
“Major Hendrix to report to the General, Sergeant Major.”
Slater relaxed and let the Major into the office. Hendrix was a short, broad man built like a fireplug; yet, he had surprising quickness, and many of those who had mistaken his girth for slowness had paid a costly price.
“Come in, Major.”
“Yes, General. I have some urgent dispatches.”
“Can you make a verbal summation, Major?” He pointed to his desk, covered with stacks of documents and reports.
“Of course, sir. It’s the locals. Last night, Boss Rodriguez hijacked a barge of beer and took it into Docktown for a recruiting drive.”
“I know, I was briefed last night.” With a local power vacuum, since the Deputies were too busy with planetary affairs to manage the city, a number of local bossmen and racketeers had set-up shop within Castell’s borders, Rodriguez was a new one, and more ruthless than most. Anton Leung thought he had the makings of another David Steele, given that he could survive and consolidated his power for another five years. Actually, the General wished him success, as keeping eyes on one big boss was easier than following, and cleaning up after a dozen.
