by John Carr
“Excellent, Engineering. You will allow Second Rank - ” Diettinger caught himself, then continued, “I beg pardon. You will allow the Lady Althene the honor of guiding the Fomoria to her last berth.”
Engineering bowed and presented the portable to his former superior officer. Althene accepted it with a murmur of thanks and a look of pure gratitude at: Diettinger.
“Make your goodbyes, then,” Diettinger said quietly, scanning the naked, featureless bay surrounding them. Every piece of equipment and removable metal had been shipped down to the surface; now, even the air was getting stale, life support equipment having left two hours ago on the shuttle’s last cargo run. Breedmaster Caius had insisted it would be necessary for decent hospital facilities and breedchambers.
Outwardly an unemotional people, the Saurons were no less prone to pathos than anyone else; they simply resolved such emotions more quickly. Single file, they followed Fighter Rank Stahler up the ramp into the cramped shuttle, found seats and strapped themselves in.
Althene activated the terminal immediately upon securing herself into the acceleration couch. Diettinger, seated beside her, watched as the screen revolved itself into a miniature duplicate of the Second Rank command station on the Fomoria’s bridge.
In minutes, the Fomoria was “dry,” her remaining internal atmosphere vented into space. With internal power down, Engineering threw the emergency switch that blew open the now-powerless shuttle bay hangar doors. As the great triangular slabs drifted aside, the moon Haven was directly visible for the first time. Beyond the horizon of the new homeworld hung the colossal mass of the parent planet.
“Cat’s Eye,” Diettinger said aloud. The gas giant’s storm center was aligned almost perfectly with Haven’s horizon and the Fomoria s orbital path.
The Cat’s Eye was looming over the equatorial horizon of Haven, an aroused god peering over an azure fence, its gaze boring directly into the hanger bay of the Fomoria.
“’... and the warriors of the Tuatha Da Danaan halted their charge, for there before them the Fomorians had brought forth onto the field of battle their mightiest Champion, who was Balor of the One Eye.’“ Althene was looking out at the spectacle, quoting from another myth cycle she had drawn from the history of old Terra.
“‘And lo, the warriors of the Fomorian host brought forth great bars of bronze, for the touch of iron was anathema to them; and with these bars they prized open the orb of Balor, and from it issued forth the Death, and the army of the Tuatha Da Danaan withered as autumn leaves cast into a forge...’“
Diettinger had never seen a deciduous tree; for a moment, he wondered idly what ‘autumn leaves’ were. No matter, he decided. He had the feeling he would soon know both the meaning of the phrase and the reality for which it served as metaphor. In many ways, he thought, the battle has only just begun.
The shuttle exited the Fomoria’s hold and took up chase position three kilometers from the great, gutted starship. Studying the data on her screen intently, Althene appeared to see something she had been waiting for. “Drop window approaching, First Rank.”
Diettinger smiled. Once a Soldier, always a Soldier, he thought.”Take her in, Second Rank.”
This time no one reacted to his use of his new mate’s former active duty rank; Diettinger’s consort was being given the honor of piloting the Fomoria on her last flight. It was fitting Althene should fly it with her full rank restored.
Diettinger watched the fire in his new wife’s eyes. Sauron’s deathstroke had come with the impact of a hundred Imperial vessels streaming into her atmosphere, raining destruction from on high; Haven was an Imperial world, and now we send a Sauron vessel crashing into her. But to build, not destroy. I wonder, does Althene feel some small measure of revenge at the thought of turning the tables, here? As I do...?
From their position to the right and rear of the Fomoria, the passengers of the shuttle watched as the great ship’s maneuvering engines glowed feebly.
“The Fomoria will drop aft foremost.” Althene reviewed the drop plans to Diettinger, more in affirmation of her upcoming duties than in any need to instruct the First Rank. “That lets the mass in the engine section absorb most of the punishment and heat from atmospheric entry, as well as deflecting the ionization effect away from the bulk of the vessel trailing. The denser materials of the engines will also burn away more slowly, prolonging the protection of the forward sections.”
Diettinger nodded, his mind already elsewhere. The Fomoria would create a huge ionization field as it entered Haven’s atmosphere. He turned to Engineering.
“How much difficulty will we have contacting the surface after Fomoria begins entry?”
Engineering considered a moment, frowning.
“As close as we will be to the effect, First Rank, we will be effectively cut off. If you have anything you want to say to the ground forces, you’d best do it now.”
Anticipating this need, Communications had kept a tight beam link with the communications station at the Citadel. Wordlessly, Communications passed Diettinger a handset.
“Diettinger here.”
“Ground Force Commander Quilland standing by, First Rank.”
“Drop is initiated, Deathmaster Quilland. Status?”
“Ground Forces are stationed in the foothills and along the valley floor around the drop zone perimeter. No cattle activity for the past three days. There was a skirmish two days ago with forces from some northern valley fiefdom; very good, very well-led, but they evidently realized the futility of a protracted conflict with our forces.” Despite the wording of his report, the Deathmaster’s voice carried no tone of arrogance.
Diettinger was still uneasy. He felt he had prepared for every eventuality, but his training reminded him that the commander who could do that had yet to be born, as Lucan of the Wallenstein had learned at the end.
“Double the watchfulness of the perimeter troops, Deathmaster. The cattle did not have much to resist with, but they gave all they had. Some units have fought to the last man. Such people do not accept defeat readily.”
“Acknowledged, First Rank. Permission to speak.”
“Granted.”
“The entire Ground Force wishes you and the Lady Althene good health and a Long Line.”
Sentimentality like this was inevitable from a swashbuckler like Quilland, but Diettinger was pleased, nevertheless. It let him know the troops were firmly behind him, despite the sometimes overawing influence of the Cyborgs planetside.
“We thank you, Deathmaster Quilland.” Althene smiled briefly, her attention still riveted to the control terminal balanced in her lap.
“We will see you at the Citadel, First Rank.”
“Until then. Diettinger out.”
Forty-Seven
I
“Fomoria entering atmosphere, First Rank,” Althene spoke without looking up. “Three minutes to first braking fire.”
Diettinger looked out the port beside him for a glimpse at his old command. The ship was falling toward Haven like a short sword dropped pommel-first. The aft engine section and the extended drives and launch bays, the ‘hilt,’ were blackening with the gathering heat; seconds later, the anti-corrosive coating vaporized, and the metal beneath began to glow red.
Fighter Rank Stahler paced the big ship down, keeping the shuttle at a safe distance yet easily in range of Althene’s remote control terminal.
“First braking fire.”
The glow from the heating tail of the Fomoria was dimmed by the glare of her engines firing. With no oxygen stores aboard her, tons of her remaining fuel were consumed inefficiently as the intakes gathered meager quantities of oxygen from Haven’s thin upper atmosphere.
“Slowing appreciably, First Rank. Fomoria now entering stratosphere.” Althene looked up from her terminal to Engineering. “I had some trouble with my signals for a moment.”
“It’s partly range, partly the ionization effect; communications to and from Fomoria will be increasingly difficult,
then impossible. All the braking telemetry will have to be finished before that happens.’’
“Boosting the signal won’t help?” she asked.
Engineering shook his head. “Like trying to shine a dim light through a steel wall, Second Rank. Sorry.”
Lady Althene shrugged, returned to her terminal with a frown, and began calling up more data. In a moment she looked up again at Engineering. “Can we risk leaving fuel in the Fomoria’s tanks until after the ionization effect has dissipated?”
Engineering looked at Diettinger, then back to Althene. “I would estimate a sixty-percent chance such fuel would be ignited by the heat. The Fomoria would likely disintegrate.”
Althene looked at Diettinger.”Too high a risk.”
He nodded. “Survey tells us Haven is drastically poor in metals in this area. The hulk of the Fomoria will be our single greatest asset in the years to come. We can’t be roaming this continent picking up the pieces. Do your best, Second Rank.”
Althene gave her agreement. “Signal’s very erratic. I’m initiating full and final braking fire.”
As the atmosphere of Haven began to surround the shuttle, the world outside the ports was lightening. Away and below them, the Fomoria was fast disappearing in a colossal cone of orange-white flame, super-heated gases produced by the ship’s sublimating metal skin being consumed in her entry into the atmosphere.
Althene pressed a switch, and the cone erupted downwards as the last of the Fomoria s fuel went, along with much of her maneuver engines. For a moment, the great hulk became visible amid the flames as its descent slowed almost to a stop. Then it began to fall again into its own mass of smoke and debris. Seconds later, it left the cloud and began falling Havenward once more.
There was enough atmosphere around the shuttle now that they could hear the roar and feel the shock waves of the Fomoria’s drop, and Fighter Rank Stahler pulled away slightly, expertly compensating for the buffeting.
For a moment, Diettinger wanted to ask if the Fomoria might hit the Citadel itself, but there was really no point in worrying about that. If it happened, they might just as well spiral the shuttle into the ground after it. And, if that happened, it truly would be the end of the Sauron Race. Diettinger turned back to the portal, but the Fomoria was fading from view in the high cloud cover over Haven’s Shangri-La Valley. Stahler was diving the shuttle to catch up with it.
Soon, now, Diettinger thought.
II
Lieutenant Vohlt jerked awake at the touch on his shoulder. Only his training had kept him from crying out in his sleep. Gods, what a dream! he thought.
Behind him, Pederson hobbled over from the small stove. His toes had gone black with frostbite in the last two days of waiting, and all their food was gone. If the Saurons didn’t make their move soon, Vohlt and his men would die in vain. They were too exhausted, too low on supplies, to make the journey back down the mountain.
Bleary-eyed, he looked up at the man who had awakened him, Turlock, older than Vohlt by a season, younger by two wars.
“There’s something coming in, sir. I think the pirates are making their drop.”
“They’re not pirates,” Vohlt grumbled, as he rose up on ominously numb feet. “They’re Saur - ”
The sight in the sky over the northern Valley shocked him into silence. The high clouds were roiling back in the turbulence of the fireball dropping through them. It seemed to be directly overhead, and primal instinct churned Vohlt’s insides as he watched what was beginning to look like a burning city falling directly onto him.
Vohlt needed something to do, he realized, before he panicked. He knew, logically, that the ship was not targeted to hit anywhere near him.
He also knew, logically, that there had been no reason for the Saurons to come to Haven in the first place.
“Is the launcher ready?” he asked, forcing his gaze downward and reaching for the image intensifier gear.
“Yes, sir. Powering up now. Be ready in another few seconds; didn’t want to chance the Saurons detecting emissions from the generator.”
Vohlt switched the power back onto his field glasses and looked back up at the descending starship. He would never see it’s like again. The dateline at the base of the viewfield faded in and out as he put the added strain on its charge of a time-to-impact equation. Three minutes, sixteen seconds flashed along the dataline, then the entire image went blank.
“Well, that’s it for these,” Vohlt said in resignation, handing the glasses over to Turlock, who put them to his eyes in a perfunctory gesture, scanning the Valley floor from his standing view.
Vohlt walked stiffly to the launcher crew, glad that the weapon they were giving their lives to use was not prone to human weakness.
“What was that?” Deathmaster Quilland had been looking off to the sides of the Valley at the steep foothills surrounding the Citadel, when something glimmered in the morning sun. Just a brief flash, indistinguishable to lesser than Sauron vision.
“I didn’t see it, sir,” his aide replied.
“Looked like a reflection; metal, or perhaps optics. Scan that zone” - he indicated the relative position on the map before him - ”for any emissions; electrical, nuclear, infrared.” Something is very wrong, Quilland felt. “Hurry.”
Pederson’s feet were beyond hope, but his hands and brain worked well enough. He adjusted the targeting equipment and nodded to Vohlt.
“Acquisition?” Vohlt asked, tension winning over fatigue in his tone. Pederson nodded.
“Heat signature alone from that sum’bitch is enough to go by. Trying to keep our energy signature low, but I’ve got it just about locked.”
Vohlt checked his watch. He could hear the distant roar of the falling Sauron spacecraft in the not-distant-enough distance. One minute, twenty-three seconds to go.
“Get your final lock-on. Use as much juice as you need to paint it with everything you’ve got.”
“I have an odd reading, Engineering,” Althene spoke aloud. Fighter Rank Stahler was working to keep control of the shuttle against the air turbulence caused by the Fomoria; Diettinger’s eyes were locked on the great craft herself. Engineering leaned over to check Althene’s terminal.
“Looks like a radar emission. Too regular to be entry phenomena, too weak to be anything but a reflection.”
Engineering looked up; Diettinger had turned at the word “radar,” and their eyes met.
“The cattle must be targeting the Fomoria with something,” Engineering said. Althene’s head went up in shock, but the look on Diettinger’s face was unfathomable. The First Rank nodded and turned back to the window.
“Enemy targeting sensors, Deathmaster, emissions at level nine and locking on target.” The astonishment was impossible for the ranker to keep from his voice. Quilland’s jaws clamped as he grabbed the communications microphone.
“Suppressive fire, immediate, these coordinates,” Quilland spoke rapidly in the monosyllabic Battle Tongue of the Saurons; simultaneously, he pressed the switch that fed the coordinates of the emissions trace to the launcher crews waiting along the rim of the Valley wall.
In seconds, targeting lasers converged on the small space in the rocks Quilland had spotted only by blind luck earlier.
Vohlt saw the small pinpoints of reflected green light on the stones around him and instantly recognized them for what they were.
“Got it, Pederson?”
Pederson nodded. Vohlt looked over the rim of their rock shield and saw tiny white puffs of smoke all along the Valley walls. The Saurons were launching their suppressive strikes on his position. He and his men had seconds to live.
“Okay, men, this is it. Drop the other shoe, Pederson.”
Captain Vohlt took the small canteen with the last of Colonel Harrigan’s rum from its resting place on the rocks and drank it down.
“Guess wrong, you bastards,” he said quietly, as the roar of the missile engine behind him drowned out the high-pitched whine of the approaching Sauron tactica
ls.
The air superheated with the passage of the missile they had so laboriously dragged up into position, and for a moment, Vohlt and his crew were warm again, one last time. Seconds later, the Sauron artillery rounds detonated, on target.
“Direct hit, Deathmaster.” The ranker’s voice was quiet, still tense; a great cloud of dust hung over the position the cattle had launched from. A moment later the Engineering ranker added, “Sir, too late. Sensors show the enemy missile still active.”
But Quilland did not need sensors to see the bright needle of light exiting the cloud just made by his suppressive strikes; a silvery arc rising smoothly upwards toward the Fomoria and the shuttle, rushing to meet them.
His gaze shot to the readout. Saurons depended little on computers for rapid calculations, and his own mind extrapolated the data it presented. He swore aloud.
The Sauron Race, he felt, was doomed.
“The cattle have charged us, First Rank,” Stahler spoke over the cabin intercom to Diettinger in the control compartment.
“Interdict their missile.” The wealth of raw materials in the hulk of the Fomoria is indispensable, Diettinger reasoned. We are not.
The shuttle gave a sickening lurch as Stahler maneuvered to interpose it between the hulk of the Fomoria and the approaching missile. Engineering’s lap terminal and various other items flew against the wall as the small craft fought the G-forces of the violent maneuver. Diettinger looked away from the view of Haven and at Althene.
“I anticipated this, I’m afraid,” he shouted to her over the roar of the shuttle’s passage, ”We cannot allow the cattle to destroy the Fomoria” he told her. “Nor to irradiate it with a high-yield weapon, preventing our people’s use of it.” He looked at Althene tenderly, his mate. All too briefly that, he thought.
