WarWorld: The Battle of Sauron

by John Carr

Diettinger was conferring with Weapons on the bridge as the Fomoria cleared the station on five maneuvering engines. Engineering had done his best, but the sixth engine had, indeed, been beyond repair.

  “Charges status?” Diettinger asked quietly.

  “Telemetry indicates full functions all, First Rank.”

  The station dwindled rapidly as Fomoria pulled away at increasing speed. Finally, it was lost from sight against the immensity of Cat’s Eye’s dark spot, the ’pupil’ of the gas giant.

  Diettinger waited a moment longer. With his next order, their fate would be sealed, for the Fomoria had taken on only half-tanks for her final operation. With the station destroyed, their bridges would be burned behind them. Steeped as Diettinger was in martial history, the parallels to the Sauron Role Model of the Ancient, Julius Caesar, were not lost to him.

  “Activate.”

  Weapons obeyed instantly. With the press of a key, Cat’s Eye’s pupil developed a brilliant white cataract, fading in an instant as the refueling station was consumed.

  “Very good.” Diettinger said simply, turned and went back to the Chair. He began to notice the excitement he felt before any battle. There were only human norms on Haven, to be sure; not even Imperial Marines. Not much, really, as opponents went. But Survey had told him that the world was so inhospitable that, with the loss of what little technological base existed there, the moon itself would prove as worthy an adversary as any Soldier could hope for.

  “On to Haven, Second Rank.” Diettinger spoke matter-of-factly, subduing the fact that maneuvering the Fomoria into position for the strike would be Second Rank’s last official duty as a Soldier. Diettinger had already extended the deadline for her relief, but soon it would be unavoidable. She was far too valuable as breeding stock to risk in future ops. She had to accept it, but she didn’t have to like it, nor did he. Although he wasn’t quite sure why.

  III

  Warren Delancey leaned forward and tapped his screen. His data line was flickering again. That was twice in the past hour. Not that it mattered; he was due to be relieved in another three hours. The University’s patron, Enoch Redfield, took a dim view of technicians who were on duty when equipment failed, for whatever reason. And God knew, there were plenty of engineers and technicians begging in the streets of Castell and Lermontovgrad who would be more than happy to trade places with him.

  There it was again. The band flickered amber, green, red and then back to its usual blue. Quite distracting. Delancey supposed he had better do something about it, after all. The old computers weren’t much, but they were a damn sight better than almost anything else on Haven,

  Delancey thought he had just about traced the problem to its source when Alec breezed into the room behind him.

  “How’s it working?”

  Delancey looked up distracted.”Hmm? How’s what?”

  Alec pointed to the terminal, grinning.

  “I found a couple of bad boards in the system a few hours ago. I’ve been setting new ones from stores. Is your screen any better?”

  For a moment, Delancey was almost touched by the younger man’s solicitude; it was evident by his tone and manner that Alec was attempting an act of rapprochement, something he’d seemed incapable of formerly. But turning back to the screen, Delancey s low opinion of the youth returned.

  “Evidently not. Look at that.” Delancey jabbed an accusing finger at the screen. The data line was bright orange. The words flashing on it in brighter yellow read:

  UNIDENTIFIED WARSHIP IN SYSTEM. ENHANCEMENT? Y/N

  Alec frowned. He was obviously torn between wanting to believe the detection and admitting he had erred in his tests on the new boards he’d installed. “Well, couldn’t it really be...?”

  Delancey’s smirk of disapproval killed the question on the young man’s lips.

  “At least with the bad boards, something worked. Now I can’t even recall the storm oscillation data. You must have lost the fix on the transceiver at the refueling station.” Delancey’s voice had taken on a patronizing, accusatory tone. If Alec had lost the transceiver, that would likely be the end of the boy. Only one vessel was left that was able to reach the station. The shuttle was kept in neutral territory, and while nominally ‘owned’ by the University, in reality it was commonly owned by all the fractured power groups on Haven, including the Haven Militia. That meant no one used it much. No one, especially, was going to be happy about using it to fix some University student’s blunder.

  “You’ll be lucky if they don’t just launch you into orbit.” Delancey muttered as Alec left the room. Or launch both of us, for that matter.

  Delancey decided to call his relief and tell him not to bother coming in; the fewer people who knew about this the better. Maybe Alec could get things back to normal before anybody found out about it.

  IV

  The tallest of the four Deputies, Speaker Martin Sanders, stood up and began to pace. All four were dressed in dark blue cloaks and tunics that had been the height of Spartan fashion a decade before the 77th Imperial Marines had left, over seventeen years ago.

  Deputy Sanders cut an impressive figure and he knew it; he was long and lean, tanned a dark mahogany by the wind and sun. His flowing silver hair formed a promenade over the prow of his forehead. Every impatient movement said: I am a man of substance, a man of power, a man not to be kept waiting.

  What Sanderson really needs, thought General Cummings, are lights, an audience, and a holocamera; not this empty staff room, stripped of its furnishings and designed to house the headquarters of an Imperial Marine Division. Empty now except for the four Deputies, himself and his adjutant, Colonel Anton Leung.

  “Need I remind you General, that as Commander-in-Chief of the Haven Militia you are legally answerable to the highest planetary authority. Furthermore, it is your duty to maintain civil authority and order. As Speaker of the Haven Planetary Chamber of Deputies, I order you to put an end to these raids perpetrated by the so-called “free citizens” of Rhinegold. Our caravans can no longer travel in safety; thus, food stocks in the capital are running dangerously low.”

  Now we get to the chase. Already forgotten was the Brigades’ squashing of the insurrection that had started in Docktown and threatened to engulf the entire City in open warfare. It was about what he’d expected.

  As far as the Rhinishers were concerned, former King Steele would have sent an army over to Rhinegold and demanded tribute; in fact, he had, on more than one occasion. Upon Steele’s death Rhinegold had declared their complete independence from Castell City - and its rump planetary government along with it.

  In the four years since Steele had been deposed - that is, hanged from a lamppost like one of his infamous antecedents back on Old Terra - trade had begun to shrink drastically, almost as much as piracy, hijacking, banditry and other forms of lawlessness had increased. The Chamber of Deputies’ solution: jaw it to death. Maybe it would go away. Maybe it would get worse. Meanwhile, there was a world to run Ha!

  The Haven Volunteers had worked to keep an uneasy peace between the City and the towns, but did not have the manpower to police every road and byway. Especially when so much of the Militia’s energies were spent in securing their own foodstuffs, weapons, ammunition, clothing, and other necessities.

  “Confound it, General! Something must be done, or thousands are going to starve this coming winter.”

  Cummings might have been more sympathetic if he hadn’t seen this coming years ago and warned the Chamber of Deputies to create a city militia, instead of a tin badge Praetorian Guards unit, the Castell Guardsmen. Already people by the hundreds were dying in the countryside as antiquated food factories broke down; the secret of their repair becoming lost as Haven slowly spiraled down into de-civilization.

  Cummings and his overwhelmed Brigade were the last protectors of civilization on Haven; a force he wasn’t about to squander to salve the consciences of politicians, jackals who had refused to discipline themselves and their followers int
o taking the necessary steps to stave off chaos and famine.

  General Cummings stood up from behind his desk so that he and Deputy Sanderson were eye to eye. Behind him as a backdrop was the seal of the Empire of Man, the Imperial Eagle with twin lightning bolts in its claws.

  “Deputy Sanderson, I understand and - as a human being like yourself - deplore the actions of the growing criminal class; however, I owe my allegiance to the Emperor, and in His absence, to the people of Haven. It is not in their best interests to squander my few remaining military assets defending a paralyzed government against a foe you helped create by your own inaction and refusal to form a real city militia. Therefore, I deny your request for military assistance.”

  Sanderson began to puff up as though he were about to attempt to blow away Cummings’ arguments with sheer oratory, when flashing fingers of red light began to strobe through the room and klaxons howled.

  The General, with Colonel Leung in tow, pushed through the Castell delegation and out of the room.

  Behind him, he heard Sanderson sputter, “It’s the Empire’s and the Militia’s duty to protect its citizens from outlaws. We demand that you do your - ”

  In the corridor outside, the howl grew almost unbearable, drowning out the Deputy’s words. Cummings and his aide took the emergency elevator down into the fortress’ command center in the heart of the mountain. Deep underground there was safety against even nuclear weapons, devices which no one other than the Militia - despite Enoch Redfield’s propaganda - had in their possession. By Imperial law, even these were forbidden. The general had conveniently lost some from the Regimental inventory while arranging the 77th’s evacuation: something to be said for being top rank. He was the only one who knew how many.

  It was conceivable that some starving physicists might have aided one of the minor powers - the New Communist Soviet, perhaps, or someone else - rediscover the atomic bomb. With all the available texts - he knew with sudden certainty - it was a distinct possibility. Although, one that he had hoped never to face in his lifetime. Civilization on Haven was already spiraling towards darkness. Even one nuclear attack, if placed strategically, could start a domino effect that would destroy everything which remained of Imperial culture and civilization.

  Thirty-Six

  I

  “The designation of the Fomoria now reads as the ’Dol Guldur’, First Rank. Markings match those applied to the outer skin of the supraorbital and atmospheric fighters as well as Full Battlesuits. All uniforms now bear the patch with the insignia and trappings described in my report.”

  Second Rank next showed Diettinger vids of the units mentioned. In particular, the flarings, added to the Battlesuits, rendered them unrecognizable as Sauron issue. The plain grey uniform tunics of the Rankers and those of the troopers now carried extraneous decorations to aid in the deception. All bore the insignia Second Rank had provided - a lidless eye, wreathed in flames.

  Diettinger smiled thinly at the identical insignia he now wore over his own left breast pocket. “Suitably sinister,” he said. “Very good work, Second.”

  Second inclined her head at the compliment. Such praise was rare in Sauron society, and Diettinger’s carried more warmth than he had intended.

  “I read those fragments, by the way, Second.” Diettinger changed the subject.”I fail to appreciate the irony in some mythical dark god of terror and oppression bearing the same name as our people.”

  Second Rank frowned. “That was not the irony I was referring to, First Rank.”

  “Indeed? Clarify.”

  “It isn’t that the myth matches us; it’s the other way around. The Fomoria was named for a race of mythical demonic conquerors from the seas of Old Earth, who engaged in a war of extermination against the land peoples of an island kingdom. Like the myth in those fragments, their leader was...” Second Rank stopped, swallowed.

  “Go on.” Diettinger requested.

  “Was represented by the symbolism of an eye. In the fragments, it is a single, flaming red orb. In the myth of the Fomorians...” Second Rank seemed to be gathering her will for the next part of her explanation.

  “In the myth of the Fomorians, their leader was a peerless warrior, a fearsome, brilliant giant, Balor of the One Eye. His eye was pried open by warriors on the battlefield, and its power was such as to destroy all those who came under its gaze.”

  Diettinger was openly grinning, now. “What a delightful fairy-story, Second,” he said.”And did they win?”

  Second Rank shook her head. “No sir. They did not.”

  Diettinger’s grin went to a half-smile, the lines in his cheek deepening under the patch that covered his empty left eye-socket. He nodded, making his point: “That’s because it was only a story, Second.”

  II

  Marinus Leino’s squadron had formed up in minutes, and rapidly climbed to a cruising altitude of two kilometers. Their operational ceiling was much higher, but Leino wanted to save oxygen for high altitude reconnaissance at the rendezvous point. Haven’s air was thin enough as it was; at high altitudes it was almost non-existent; the oxygen would be a precious commodity throughout the mission.

  Engines hardly louder than the hum of the guy wires in the slipstream, the five biplanes were at the western Great Forest in minutes, then turned north to follow the foothills to the Forest Border District, the newly demilitarized zone between the Redfield Satrapy, the Anglia Satrap and Uossi Suomi.

  Leino regarded the approach to the border with a grim shake of his head. Every year his equipment and recruits got better, but there were fewer of both. Every year, the Redfield Satrapy seemed to double its own available forces and their inferior equipment.

  Inferior, but far more easily maintained. And there were many more of them, here and across the Miracle Mountains. Leino wondered how many times in human history the best had been overwhelmed by the numerically superior mediocre? Best not to think about it, he decided. His ship’s chronometer told him they should be within radio range of the Redfield squadron by now.

  “Signal, signal,” he spoke, holding his throat microphone.”This is Uossi Suomi Recon Number Seven, Leino commanding.” It was also Uossi Suomi Everything Else, Number Seven; he didn’t think the Redfielders were fooled into believing Uossi Suomi had ships to spare for specialized duty. But he repeated the identification and proceeded to hail the as-yet-unseen Redfield squadron. “Approaching rendezvous point for joint operations. Redfield Satrapy aircraft squadrons, do you read?”

  The answer came back after a few seconds.”Affirmative, Finlandia Recon, this is Redfield Interceptor Squadron Viggen, Viggen commanding.”

  For a moment, Leino was impressed; only the very best pilots had their squadrons named after them. This Viggen fellow must be quite the golden boy of the Redfield Satrapy Air Force.

  He hadn’t missed the insult, though. Redfielders, in particular, delighted in referring to Uossi Suomi as Novy Finlandia - a taunt almost guaranteed to end in blood.

  “You are twelve degrees south-southwest of our position, time-to-contact, seven minutes at your top speed, over.”

  Leino grinned. They would have to let him know that they were aware of his own aircraft’s speed and range capabilities. Still, for Redfield toadies, they were being positively civil.

  “Confirmed, Viggen,” he answered. “Seen any spooks today?”

  Leino’s attempt to lighten the mood was apparently unappreciated.

  “We will hold at thirty-five hundred meters until we have you in visual, Recon. Viggen out.”

  Leino passed the information on to his squadron, closed the circuit, and sighed. Those damn Redfielders had no sense of humor.

  III

  In his cabin Vessel First Rank Galen Diettinger watched the information on the screen before him as it scrolled past at speeds too great for human norm eyes to register. Second Rank’s final plan for the orbital bombardment had required no revision. The ground assault plans drawn up by Deathmaster Quilland had been only slightly modifie
d; certain aspects contained elements of that predictability to which Saurons were prone, owing to their innate sense of superiority over the human norms they so stubbornly continued to refer to as cattle.’ This, despite Sauron’s utter defeat at the hands of those cattle who comprised the human norm Empire of Man.

  Diettinger sighed and sat back as the screen flow halted, then produced a single line of addenda:

  OPERATIONAL REVIEW COMPLETE. REPEAT?

  Unmoving, Diettinger continued to watch the screen. After the greatest defeat of the Sauron race, he stood on the verge of its last victory, one which would preserve that Race’s dream of human self-determination, and perhaps one day restore the Sauron people to their proper place among humanity as guardians of that dream, guides toward that destiny. That the invasion of the moon called Haven would indeed be a victory, he had no doubt. Diettinger commanded the Fomoria, a Sauron heavy cruiser, the most versatile design in the Sauron fleet, and its crew complement included, among others, the 101st Provisional Battalion of the 25th Regiment of the Third Fleet.

  Now, of course, he reflected, it is the Sauron Fleet.

  But in fact, it was no longer even that. The coming action was more forced-colonization than conquest; its purpose to establish a safe world for the remnants of the Sauron people: seven thousand, four hundred and fifty-one Sauron Soldiers, including Command, Cyborgs, Soldiers, and crew. The entire Sauron Race.

  And so, Diettinger thought as he looked about his cabin, the Talon-class heavy cruiser Fomoria is no more. She and her crew would pose as pirates, raiders from beyond the Imperial periphery. Their telemetry was now of a large warship, an old Striker-class relic called the Dol Guldur, still of Sauron manufacture, but virtually ubiquitous throughout known space. The majority of the Soldiers aboard had already taken favorably to the new name, just as they had so easily adapted to the rakish cut of their new “pirate” uniforms.