by John Carr
“Exactly. It’s go-for-broke time. Besides, we’re not going to use the entire Regiment, just a battalion. We’ll use the attack to withdraw the rest of the regiment into the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. Here we’re just sitting ducks; it’s only a matter of time before the Saurons take Fornova. In the mountains we can conduct guerrilla operations and build-up our support among the mountain peoples.”
“But what will taking out Diettinger accomplish?”
“Maybe a little, maybe a lot. It won’t end the war, but it just might start another one. With Diettinger gone, there won’t be anything to keep the Cyborgs from taking over.”
“And that’s good news?”
“Actually, yes. Cyborgs are great soldiers, the best ever seen. But the invasion is over - for now. If the Saurons plan to establish a colony here, as the landing of their battle cruiser indicates, then it will be up to the Cyborgs to set-up and maintain that colony. I’m betting they’ll do a lot worse job of it than Galen Diettinger. A lot worse!”
“I hope so, General. Because the success or failure of that attack will determine the future of this Regiment.”
II
The Breedmaster looked up from his data terminal as First Rank Diettinger entered. He almost seemed to be smiling. Diettinger was sure it was a trick of the light; Caius was virtually humorless.
“First Rank,” Caius acknowledged. “I was about to contact you myself. Cross-fertilization tests on captured cattle gave the expected results. Full compatibility.”
Diettinger grunted in relief. “Any progress on the Cyborg issue?” he asked.
Despite the difficulties they posed to his continued leadership, the survival of the Super Soldiers was crucial to his long-range plans for the Race. The Empire that had destroyed Sauron was dying - he knew that for certain. The first race to emerge from the Interregnum with technological and military superiority would dominate human occupied space for the next thousand years. The Cyborgs could be the critical factor.
But Caius shook his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid. Cyborgs were typically altered within their gestation capsules, all through their development, with the chemical, physical and biological augmentations that make them what they are. That technology is of course lost to us now. However, there is hope.”
Caius called up a list of information on his screen.
“That hope arises from the fact that the word ’Cyborg’ is almost a misnomer. The Cyborg’s abilities, as opposed to those of the failed experiments conducted hundreds of years ago by the Imperials, come not from artificial constructs implanted within their bodies, but from synthesized, purpose-built genetic material, which the fetus assimilates as it develops. Much like the ‘royal jelly’ process that creates fertile queens out of sterile workers.”
“Terran bees,” Caius explained.
Diettinger nodded his understanding of the reference. Born and schooled before the war, his education was more well-rounded than that of most Saurons, but every Sauron knew about social insects.
“This synthesized DNA was fashioned in toto by our scientists, but its necessary similarity to normal Sauron genetic structure allows for the occasional ability of Cyborgs to breed true, even down to the concentration of polarized metallic lattices in their skeletal structures.” Caius turned to Diettinger, and this time, he did smile.”End of genetic biology lesson, except for one thing: For at least the first few generations, the female mates of the Cyborgs must be of the highest physical and genetic qualifications, to allow any chance of survival for the offspring of such unions, to say nothing of the mothers.”
“Then,” Diettinger said slowly, “every attempt will have to be made to protect the Cyborgs and afford their assigned mates the utmost care. They will be mated only with Sauron females, I presume?”
“That would allow the greatest chance for success.”
“Make the necessary arrangements.” Removing the Cyborgs from combat duty would go a long way toward finishing them off as competitors for social dominance in the new order. But the loss of Sauron females as mates for the crew was a problem. Quite a few had already established liaisons with one another.
No matter. The Race came first; Diettinger really had no choice. He took a stimulant and hurried down the corridor for his meeting with Engineering.
The engine bay was a cacophony of noise that set his teeth on edge as Ranks worked at gutting the Fomoria for her precious high technology. Around him the walls were bare metal in most places; the Jump engines had already been disassembled and removed, as had the non-functioning maneuver engine. Soon the walls themselves would be attacked by the engineering crew, hacking away at the Fomoria like leafcutter ants. Someone was speaking to him, and he turned.
“What is it, Engineering?” he shouted over the surrounding din.
“First Rank.”
“Status.”
Engineering appeared to study him closely before he began speaking. “Of the three remaining orbital fighter craft, one has been disassembled planet-side and is en route to the new citadel. Thus far, seven hundred and seventy tonnes of metal have been down shipped to Firebase One.”
“Time frame?”
“A two-and-one-half-hour round trip, First Rank, allowing for loading, off-loading, and refueling.”
That was too much time. Diettinger had overestimated the load-bearing capacity.
“My apologies, Engineering, but I will have to redirect your crews. Begin loading personnel and technical equipment immediately. High grade metals will be moved to the center of the ship; we’ll have to risk them making it intact through the drop.”
Engineering did not look too hopeful, but acknowledged the order. Then he added, “Permission to speak, First Rank.”
“Granted.”
“You require rest, sir. The sooner the better. The fate of the remainder of the Race is in your hands. We depend on your judgment and acuity for our survival.” Engineering’s voice dropped slightly. “Also, the Cyborg Ranks are still a threat to your authority. They will not hesitate to exploit any sign of weakness on your part.”
The concern in his fellow Soldier’s voice was not lost on Diettinger. “At once, Engineering. And thank you.” Although how he was going to get any rest, having just taken a stimulant, was beyond him.
Engineering nodded.”These new orders will keep the engineering section occupied for another seven hours, and if I may extend my conscription privileges, I can keep the rest of the on-board crew busy for at least twice that long. Rest easy.” He left to reassign the crew as Diettinger headed for his cabin.
Once there, First Rank removed his uniform and showered, his first in Haven water. Hygiene was important to Soldiers, and the water brought up from the Haven had boosted morale considerably. Overcrowding was gone, too, since most of the crew and Soldiers were now planetside.
And the insides were being ripped out of the Fomoria, Diettinger thought. He could not go on referring to his ship as the Dol Guldur. That was a game for the younger men in the crew. For him, the ship - his ship - was becoming a hollow place. The soul was going out of her.
And, he thought, her commander’s fatigue had him lapsing into maudlin images. He pulled off his eye patch and massaged the smooth, numb flesh beneath it. Sauron physicians could have replaced the organ easily. But regeneration therapy would have required his removal from active duty for at least a month, and there had been no time. The war had come to Sauron too soon.
Diettinger stretched himself out on his bed and began to use his training to counteract the effect of the stimulant he had imprudently taken. Saurons slept in three levels of increasing rejuvenative power and correspondingly reduced outside awareness. He was determined to get to the third level. He knew he needed it.
At first, his concern for his crew seemed determined to hold his rest at the second stage, but eventually he managed to shrug off enough of the effects of the stimulant to reach full recuperative sleep. This state left a Soldier completely defenseless, and was only used whe
n in a secure area. Thus Diettinger had no way of knowing when Second Rank entered his cabin.
The now-demoted Second Rank of the Fomoria waited in the doorway a moment, then closed and locked it behind her. She could see that Diettinger’s defensive senses had not awakened him at her entry. Third-level sleep, she decided after observing him a moment longer. Good.
She sat down at the desk in a corner of the room and waited.
III
John Hamilton moved through his duties like an automaton for the next few weeks, and volunteered for every patrol duty that took him away from Whitehall. He ate in the field or kitchen at every meal. As a result, almost five T-weeks passed before he unexpectedly met Ingrid Cummings face to face in a castle hallway.
“Lord Hamilton,” Ingrid said, her voice stiff. Her face was frozen, devoid of emotion. Her complexion was as pale as the first snow outside, and he couldn’t help but notice that she looked more beautiful than ever.
“About our night together - ”
“What night?” she asked in a voice cold enough to frost a Tamerlane’s fringe.
“I wanted to apologize - “
“You fool,” she hissed.
John drew back as though physically struck. He’d tasted steel with less bite.”I’m sorry.”
“What kind of man are you? Or are you a man?”
Her claws drew blood. John was at a complete loss for words.
“Just leave me alone,” Ingrid said, through clenched teeth. He noticed her deep blue eyes were wet.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You! How could you hurt me? What a fool I am.”
“I never meant - ”
“You never mean anything, will never mean anything...or amount to anything. I was vulnerable, you took advantage. I should have known better.”
“It was not that way, really. There was more to it than just...you know what I mean?’
“Is that why you slipped into the night like a thief, never to return? If not why haven’t I heard from you since?”
“I’m sorry, I just - ”
“ - didn’t mean a word of what you said. I was warned; I should have known better.”
His mind was blank. John didn’t remember saying a thing, although he did remember drinking deeply on numerous occasions from a flask. He also remembered the silken softness of - Enough of that! What trouble has my tongue got me into this time? My God, did I actually make some formal proposal?
“You can wipe that stricken look off your face, John Hamilton. You didn’t make any foolish promises you wouldn’t keep anyway.”
“You impugn my honor, Madam.”
The force of her blow knocked him reeling. “You know no honor, only false bravado and enough sweet lies to win a woman’s favor. Get out of my sight, before I rip that lying tongue right out of your mouth.”
She spun around and ran out of the hallway. Before the night they had spent in each other’s arms, he would have cursed her and her breed soundly and went off to a night of sound slumber. Now, he found his thoughts were as inflamed as his burning face. Was it possible he actually had feelings for Ingrid Cummings?
No, impossible, he decided. Her lost virtue and his part in its loss was what he decried. He was certain that he could never redeem himself in her eyes, but he needed to do something to redeem himself in his own. Raymond, my dear departed brother, why did you leave me with all of this? Whitehall is your patrimony. I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it. Any of it!
IV
“Fomoria, this is Groundmaster Helm. Shuttle now departing.”
As in any such operation, in any military, this man’s actual rank was immaterial; while he was the designated Groundmaster, he exercised the power of life and death over anything that moved within his domain, from the lowest ranker to Diettinger himself.
The landing zone was at the northeastern limit of the Valley, directly at the base of the Karakul Pass in whose upper reaches sat the newly christened Citadel. An early attack against the landing zone had been mounted by the cattle and they had suffered disastrous losses. They had scattered and fled, the nearby city stormed and taken. The cattle had not made the same mistake again, and were quiet for the moment.
After First Rank had consulted with Deathmaster Quilland and Breedmaster Caius, he had decided to make the Citadel their permanent encampment, and patrols had begun collecting local beasts of burden. These were used to immediately begin the transshipment of material up into the Pass. All technical gear had particular priority: Eugenics equipment first, data processing and communications gear second, energy supply stations third, and so on.
Groundmaster Helm nevertheless felt the most crucial machinery was being neglected and assigned extra men to its security. Fifty Soldiers stood guard over the vast array of heavy machining and engineering equipment. Helm knew the Saurons were here to stay, and even the best-cared-for weapons broke down eventually. With these tools they could manufacture spare parts for all but the most advanced energy weapons in their arsenal. Helm was not about to let anything happen to them.
Unlike virtually every other Sauron in the force, Helm had not embraced the myth they had used as a ruse in their invasion. When Diettinger had rescinded the order to use the code name Dol Guldur, Helm had gratefully reverted to calling the ship by her true name. He didn’t care for myths. And he cared even less for the way most of the younger Soldiers had taken to swaggering in a manner worthy of the pirates some of the cattle probably still believed them to be. Helm thought it bad discipline to allow such behavior in time of war. Had anyone but Diettinger been in charge, he might actually have wondered if the Cyborgs might not be their best chance for salvation. However, Diettinger was in charge, and that meant Helm could sleep easy. His faith in the First Rank was as firm as his faith in himself as a Ground-master; these mountains would crumble sooner.
The last lights of the shuttle disappeared, and Helm immediately dispatched the last team of bearers to begin driving the load animals - muskylopes, the locals called them - up the Pass to the Citadel.
Cat’s Eye was dipping below the horizon; the wind came up as Haven’s Truenight began, and even Sauron ears began stinging in the biting chill.
Helm consulted his implanted chronometer, now modified to the Haven time cycles for this time of year and area.
“In five hours the sun comes back up,” he told his relief. “Fomoria will be brought down within an hour after that. This whole zone is to be cleared and all equipment and personnel secured at Firebase One or in the Citadel before drop time.”
“Acknowledged.” The relief Groundmaster glanced over the area, taking in the sprawling vista of men, women, and machines, draft animals, electric carts, troopers’ kits, crates, and weapons. A non-Sauron would yet have remarked at how orderly everything was; not a scrap of trash anywhere, not a single piece of gear out of place. The relief was confident the time limit would be easily met.
So was Groundmaster Helm. He handed his terminal pad over to the other Soldier. “Ranker Houten, you are Groundmaster in Command. See you in two.”
Helm saluted and left for the command tent at the edge of the landing zone. It was a measure of his concern that the tent was next to the manufacturing equipment cache.
Stepping through the seal, Helm went over the records of the last shuttle lift, confirmed his notations, and opened the beam to the Fomoria above.
“Dol Guldur here, Groundmaster,” It amused Communications ranker Boyle to bait the officer with the now widely used name of the ship. Helms’ distaste for the overall masquerade was well-known. “One moment, please. First Rank is in his cabin. I’ll wake him.”
Diettinger came on line a moment later. He appeared displeased with something, but nothing in the First Rank’s tone indicated problems for Helm.
“The Citadel staging area is being cleared of the last of the cargo, First Rank. The landing zone will be ready for Fomoria on schedule.”
“Acknowledged, Groundmaster. Check back with me
for final clearances. Diettinger out.”
Helm sat at the darkened screen for a moment. He was sure he had glimpsed Second Rank seated at the table in First Rank’s cabin. Helm shrugged. Not my concern, he decided.
Forty-Five
I
Albert Hamilton put two glasses of rare imported Scotch whisky - Glenmorangie, from the last of three bottles bought from an Imperial trader twenty-one years ago - onto the nightstand. According to the merchant, these had been distilled on New Scotland. It had the fire and smoothness of good whisky so he suspected it was true. He hadn’t been on that rocky mudball in over forty years, when he’d met his departed wife Mary. If it hadn’t been for this god-blasted war, he would have made a pilgrimage to New Scotland and spent his last years in solitude and remembrance.
The Baron felt the chill of Truenight steal through the castle’s stone walls and his smoking jacket to settle into his aged bones. He massaged the aching rheumatism in his left knee, the residue of a wartime bullet, then tottered over to put a few more coals on the brazier. Four hours sleep a night was just not enough. No help for it, though; there was so much to do and so little help.
Raymond, my lost grandson, this was all done for you. Will the war ever end so you can return home?
He heard McGee’s hesitant knock on his bedchamber door. “Come in, Sergeant-Major,” he said.
The old soldier, who had been ten years older than the Baron when he had first served in the Imperial Marines under his command as orderly on New Washington, limped into the room. His thornwood cane was much in use and even his twisted beard hairs were as white as hoarfrost.
They clasped hands, like old comrades, then the Baron motioned for him to sit in one of two leather easy chairs that faced the charcoal brazier inside the fireplace.
“Mind if I put on some more coals, M’Lord?”
