WarWorld: The Battle of Sauron

by John Carr

  Second Rank was doing something else with her terminal; the image of the Fomoria control station on its screen was replaced by one unfamiliar to Diettinger, then she turned it away from his view. He smiled at her sadly.

  “Second Rank, you are relieved from duty.” She smiled back at him, shrugged; a gesture that understood all the things that now would never be. “I am sorry, Althene.”

  Althene nodded. Engineering sat back. Too bad, he thought. The challenge of life on Haven would have been interesting. But duty to the Race came first.

  Stahler fought the controls to move the shuttle as quickly as possible; the craft was ungainly now and badly out of position. Diettinger had guessed the Haveners might take such an action, but of course he could not know which direction they would launch from, and the shuttle was on the wrong side of the Fomoria ‘s hulk.

  Fomoria had perhaps forty-five seconds left to impact; the missile would hit it in thirty. If it had any decent yield at all, the remains of the Sauron star-ship would be scattered over the entire Shangri-La Valley and worse, likely irradiated. The northern Valley was so metal-poor that control of the wreckage of the Fomoria would make the Saurons absolute rulers of it, the rest of the Valley, and eventually the entire moon. Diettinger had no choice but to sacrifice their lives for it.

  Fighter Rank Stahler’s concentration was locked on the view ahead of him; the approaching missile, the falling, precious Fomoria, his own craft’s relative position to both. He did not see the blinking red warning light on his control panel.

  EVADE EVADE EVADE ENEMY LOCK-ON EVADE EVADE EVADE

  The missile had closed to sufficiently short range that it no longer needed the camouflage of pretending to attack the Fomoria. Pre-programmed orders switched on in its brainchip as it activated its own targeting suite, locking onto the shuttle; the Fomoria was no longer its prey.

  Diettinger reached out for Althene’s hand; she had retained her portable computer and picked it up to place it aside. She looked at him for a moment, then smiled.

  “I’m sorry, too, Galen.” She threw a single switch on the terminal. The shuttle lurched yet again. The control array wrenched itself from Stahler’s hands and the small craft dropped into a vertical power dive. The Havener missile lost its target and activated its optional acquisition mechanism. Its true primary target gone, it switched back to the nearest heat source without a friendly transponder and flew on, detonating within the mass of the immolated Sauron starship Fomoria, thousands of feet above the Valley floor.

  “What happened? What in hell happened?” Quilland had lost all composure at the sight on his crew’s screens. The enemy missile was heading for the shuttle. The shuttle! Quilland thought in rage at these hideously crafty cattle. The next instant, the shuttle had vanished, while the missile continued on to detonate within the storm of flames surrounding the Fomoria.

  The ranker shook his head in confusion. “Hopeless, sir. It looks like something happened aboard the shuttle; she dove off the sensor screens like a falcon. I had to replay the data to tell even that much; I see her on sensors, now, but how could her pilot pull out of a dive like that?”

  Over the northernmost expanse of the Shangri-La, the Trueday morning sun was dimmed by the huge pall of the Fomoria’s destruction. What meager segments of the ship remained intact fell in blazing fragments to the ground with thunderous impacts. Quilland could see the shock waves rippling out from the impact points, feel the vibrations through the granite beneath his boots.

  He gave up trying to see where they all hit. It was hopeless. Nothing remained larger than a cargo container. Quilland sighed. Now his troops would be required to make recovery sojourns into the flatlands of the hostile Valley, exposed to the Haveners far more than he cared to think about. Dangerous, Quilland thought, but not impossible. He grunted. Be good for the Soldiers, no doubt, in the long run. Give them more chance to learn about these cattle than their previous pacification raids had allowed.

  Deathmaster Quilland gave a short, grim laugh. “Pacification,” he said out loud. The Sensor Ranker beside him looked up curiously.

  “We haven’t even come close to ‘pacifying’ these cattle,” the Deathmaster told the lower Ranker. His short laugh of a moment before became an open smile.” I doubt that we ever will.”

  Forty-Eight

  I

  Stahler, suddenly finding his controls responsive once more, recovered the shuttle with room to spare. The resulting sonic boom over the Citadel brought several messages of congratulations from the Soldiers stationed at the communications outpost there, once they were sure it was not an impact explosion.

  Diettinger inspected Althene closely. She returned his stare. Engineering was repositioning himself in his acceleration couch after tending to the body of Communications. Unprepared, the young Sauron had snapped his neck during the violent maneuver, dying instantly.

  “Thank you for relieving me of command, First Rank,” Althene was saying. Diettinger turned to her. “On active duty I would have been guilty of disobedience in using my terminal to override Stahler’s controls.”

  Diettinger stared. She had kept the lap terminal long after control of Fomoria had been lost; now Diettinger knew why. She had been infiltrating the control panel of the shuttle, anticipating Diettinger’s own plan to sacrifice the craft. The strange control panel he had seen on her terminal’s readout had been a duplicate of Stahler’s station forward.

  “You knew,” he said.

  Althene shrugged. “I guessed.” Their voices dropped as the speed of the shuttle decreased; Stahler was making his final approach for landing.

  “The cattle’s choice of our shuttle for a target over that of the Fomoria makes little sense to me,” Diettinger said. “The military value of the hulk is unmistakable.”

  “They weren’t thinking in military terms, Galen.” Althene spoke quietly, firmly. “They were making a statement, one with little strategic value, but of high importance in terms of morale.”

  “Clarify, O Muse,” Diettinger said, laughing in relief. Althene laughed back.

  “They must have guessed our commander would be aboard. They can’t eavesdrop on tight beam communications, but they’d be aware of them.”

  Diettinger laughed again. “You flatter me, Lady. I cannot believe the cattle would waste a nuclear weapon on me.”

  Althene smiled sadly. “I am an historian, First Rank,” she said formally. “And history shows that humanity will not always make the best choice in a seemingly hopeless situation. As often as not, they will make the most satisfying one. This time, they were the same. The cattle wanted to hurt us, even if they couldn’t beat us. The elimination of our entire command structure would have little impact on us under battlefield conditions; underofficers would advance to fill the void.” She shook her head again.

  “But this is not a command structure.”“ She took his hand. “It is a dynasty, now. And Haven cannot be a battlefield any longer. It must be our home.”

  Diettinger nodded. “Our strength was always our discipline,” he said quietly. “But it made us predictable.” He rubbed his eye patch as he spoke, suddenly weary. There was time, at last, to be tired. “No doubt it was why we lost the war.”

  Althene lowered her head in silence. There was nothing to say.

  “It may be the single distinction of our existence on this world,” Diettinger spoke again after a moment, “that we are never to really understand our enemies here; nor they us.” He turned back to the window.

  II

  John Hamilton awoke slowly to the soothing touch of a gentle hand on his forehead. He kept his eyes shut to prolong the pleasurable sensation, a subliminal remembrance of his long lost mother’s touch. He heard the whisper of cloth as the nurse sat down and his head followed the sound. He opened his eyes to see Ingrid Cummings’ blue eyes searching his face with concern.

  His heart skipped a beat. It was too late to close his eyes and pretend she wasn’t there. He tried to smile, but it felt all wrong.


  “Are you still in pain?” Ingrid asked.

  Her words brought his attention back to a persistent throbbing at the right side of his head. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak; he was afraid he would say the wrong thing again, and that she would leave. Maybe forever this time.

  “Doc Glazzer says that you took a large caliber bullet to the side of your head. It didn’t penetrate your helmet, but it bruised your skull and caused a concussion. That’s why you passed out.”

  “How long have I been like this?”

  “You’ve been unconscious for almost two days. We were all worried. Your Grandfather was here all day. I took night duty.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot.”

  Her face suddenly hardened, as though she suddenly remembered to whom she was talking to.”But don’t get in your mind that this has changed anything. I’m not one of the servant girls.”

  “Please! I know that. I’m sorry.”

  She rose up and turned toward the door.”Then don’t forget it. And…,” she turned back toward him.

  The overhead lighting caught her profile in sudden relief as she turned, and he felt as if he were seeing Ingrid for the first time. She was beautiful: high forehead, golden-hued brown hair, with a slightly turned-up nose that he would have loved to kiss. His chest felt as if it had taken a bullet! Now, maybe too late, he knew what love was. He thought of the hidden delights that were secreted behind her no nonsense skirt and blouse. His pulse began to race and he felt lightheaded.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice slightly trembling.

  “I’m planning on leaving as soon as I hear from my father. I know how uncomfortable it has been for the both of us the past week. As soon as an alternative safe house can be arranged, I will leave.”

  John wanted to protest, cry out, ”No!” But he couldn’t get the words past his tongue. She would never forgive him for that night of stolen pleasure. Now that he knew deep inside he loved her, he could not forgive himself. He nodded his agreement. Maybe it was better this way.

  She turned again and left his bedchamber turned hospital room. Her leaving left an emptiness in the room that matched the feeling of desolation in his heart.

  III

  General Cummings rose up from his desk, covered with maps and briefings, as Colonel Harrigan was ushered into the makeshift office inside an underground bunker, far from the overhead spy eyes of the Saurons. He clasped the Colonel’s hand. “Well, done. We gave the bastards a bit of their own medicine.”

  The tanned skin of Harrigan’s long face was drawn tight against the bones underneath. ”But we missed the target, General! What a waste. We’ll never get an opportunity like this again. A squad of men all gone for a dead starship.”

  “True. But there was something gained in the loss, as well. That ship would have constituted the biggest concentration of metals in the entire northern Shangri-La Valley. Its strategic and military value to the Saurons would have been considerable. Now it will take them years to pick up the pieces, even then they’ll only be getting the odds and sods. So perhaps we’ve put a crimp in their invasion plans today, after all.

  “As far as their commander is concerned, yes, he was the primary target. What I know about Galen Diettinger, and most of it from military records decades old, is that he is one of the most innovative Sauron commanders ever to helm a man-of-war, Sauron or otherwise. In a Race that breeds Soldiers for conformity and single-mindedness of purpose, he’s practically an anomaly. I wonder if that was why he was sent to this God-forsaken snowball.”

  “Maybe he was too creative, General. Punishment detail, cleaning up the dregs of the Empire.”

  “I hope not, because if that’s true, we’ll see more of these Super Soldiers, as the Cyborgs like to call themselves.”

  “Super Swine, you mean,” Harrigan said. “But this Diettinger is still in command.”

  “True, but we’ve singed his beard, so to speak. And, maybe, taught him some respect for Haven’s native sons in the process. I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to clip his wings, but that ship of theirs is gone for good. And that, Colonel, will help us in the long run.”

  Harrigan’s face loosened and he even displayed a crooked smile. “You think we taught them a lesson, General?”

  “I have to think that, Colonel. And I have to believe it’s just the first of many. It’s time we got to work on phase two of Operation Liberty.”

  “My men and I are at your disposal, General.”

  “Excellent. I suggest for the next phase we begin guerrilla operations right here,” Cummings paused to pick up his pipe and use the stem to point out the mountainous area around Fort Stony Point on the large geographical survey map that covered almost the entire back wall of his office.

  “But no one lives there.”

  “Ha! You’re wrong there, Colonel. I’ve had reconnaissance teams in the area ever since we realized that the Saurons intended to occupy and re-build the old Fort. From what my recon teams have been able to learn, the Saurons are involved in a massive reconstruction of the complex. Like ourselves, they well understand its strategic value; it’s the faucet that turns on and off the human flow in and out of the entire northern Shangri-La.

  “The moment I realized this attack was not the act of pirates, but a determined takeover of Haven, I considered fortifying and strengthening the Fort’s garrison. But, while it’s nearly invincible to raiders from the Valley and the surrounding hillsides, it is impossible to defend from above; at least, with our limited resources.”

  “Then we can’t take it back from the Saurons, General?”

  For the first time Cummings’ face lost its animation. He put the pipe stem in between his teeth and pulled out a lighter. After firing the bowl, Cummings said, “Not in our lifetime. But maybe by our children’s children’s.”

  Harrigan’s face fell, adding another decade to his dour countenance.

  “Don’t despair. We’re fighting this war for the future generations of Haven so that they will not have to endure the slavery and bondage of these inhuman spawn. Should they ever get reinforcements, that job will be impossible. But my suspicion is that this Diettinger is some sort of rogue, cut adrift from his fellows. He’s gone to ground to setup a petty kingdom of his own, and I’ll bet a year’s pay that there are no reinforcements from Sauron.”

  “You think the Sauron High Command would exile an entire battalion because they don’t trust its commander?”

  Cummings cocked an eyebrow and smiled at him through the clouds from his pipe. “Stranger things have happened in the annals of military history. Caesar Augustus started a war from Rome with the most important general of his day, Marc Antony - who was living in semi-exile in Egypt - for just the same reasons. It almost destroyed the Roman Empire. I could see a case where a High Command - why, perhaps even our own Imperial High Command - would find the loss of a single Battalion to be cheap at the price of getting a charismatic and dangerous leader out of the picture. Can’t you, Colonel Harrigan?”

  Harrigan felt a chill at Cumming’s gaze and the tone of his voice, and the realization came without warning: Or a charismatic General and his loyal command, he realized. Of course...

  Centuries after its establishment as the CoDominium’s finest place of exile, Haven was still serving as the best out of the way place in human-occupied space for putting humans - both norms and Sauron - in exile.

  Cummings’ voice pulled Harrigan out of his revelatory musings.

  “I’m sure the Cyborgs that run Sauron are no more happy about potential claimants than is our current Emperor - whoever he may be.”

  Harrigan cleared his throat, nodded. “Then I’m really pissed that we didn’t take out that bastard when we had the chance!”

  “That’s not our last nuke, Colonel. And, as I said, we will have other opportunities.”

  Harrigan watched the General for a long time.

  IV

  Outside and below the shuttle, Sauron troopers advanced in
march order to meet their commander, a ritual considered meaningless in a society based on duty and efficiency. But the bright flags of the flaming eye on its night-black field fluttered in the wind of the heights, the embroidered patches gleamed in the sun, and there were other priorities on the troops’ minds, now.

  Their king is safe, Diettinger realized with an ironic smile. Haven was already changing his people, as it had its own. But perhaps for the better, despite Althene’s warnings. Closely watched, firmly guided, the children of Sauron might yet spring forth from this place and set the universe to right.

  The cattle had acted in a way unanticipated by almost all the Soldiers. But his dream for the Race would go on, if with greater difficulty after the loss of the Fomoria, because one of his Soldiers had thought like the cattle.

  Cattle? He thought, as the shuttle bumped lightly on the cleared space in the large outer courtyard of the Citadel. The tower loomed high overhead. From its roof fluttered the red, white and black banner of the lidless, flaming eye.

  No, not really.

  Some, but by far, not all. Haven had been at war for a very long time, longer even than Sauron and the Empire. Haven’s people had fought first their world, then each other, with little experience wasted. Haven had only begun to tap that heritage when she had sent the first of her sons across space to fight on far-flung worlds for the glory of the Empire. There would be few but the best left among the peoples of Haven, now.

  “We may make Soldiers of these Haveners yet,” he told Althene with a sudden smile.

  They stood in the hatch, to the cheers of the assembled ranks below and around them, then they stepped down the ramp and at last felt beneath their boots the surface of the new homeworld.

  “As surely as we will make Haveners of ourselves.”

  Epilogue

  I

  Assault Leader Bohren watched from outside the command bunker as sentries halted the delegation from Evaskar well outside the perimeter of Firebase One. It was a ragtag outfit dressed in what passed among the locals as their finery. To Bohren they looked like a band of gypsies. It was hard to see any use for them, but the Deathmaster’s orders had been firm. “Inform these cattle of their new status. They are former bureaucrats, so they’ll have no loyalty to anything but themselves; still, they may turn out to be useful tools.”