by John Carr
The sentries trained weapons on the cattle and from a quarter kilometer away he heard the Under Assault Leaders say, “Surrender all weapons and do exactly as we say, when we say, or you will die immediately.” A bit chatty, Bohren thought, but it got the point across.
The delegation, to give them benefit of the doubt that they were anything other than a lost circus troupe, dropped numerous primitive edged weapons and obsolete slug throwers. The resulting clatter was clearly audible.
“Do not test us,” the Under Assault Leader ordered, knocking one of the Haveners off his horse with a slap. “You will follow my vehicle. Any deviation will result in death.”
Bohren listened to the cattle bray; if they had any idea of just how good Sauron hearing was they would have stitched their mouths shut. But they were cattle, after all. It was almost amusing at how they connived among themselves, as if they could curry or buy favor from their new overlords. If they only knew, he mused. They are our tools now. Poor ones, perhaps, but ours nevertheless - and ours, alone.
Bohren returned to the command bunker before the delegation came into normal human sight. It was best if they believed him completely disinterested in their future welfare. It was very close to the truth. Nor did he like long negotiations, especially not with cattle.
The Groundmaster came out of the bunker when the lead Waltimire tank arrived. He examined the delegation with studied contempt, noting their pathetic attempts at finery.”Do you represent the city?”
“We do,” answered a high voiced man of Asian background. Bohren dismissed him as a eunuch.
“And we are here, good sir, to - ”
“Lady Althene Diettinger authorizes me to say that your city will now be known as Nurnen. All weapons must be surrendered, and a curfew is now in force, violators being subject to summary execution. City government shall be transferred to Sauron administration forthwith, and full cooperation is required. Any resistance will be met with our wrath. That is all.”
“But...why?” a woman delegate asked.
He turned and went back into the bunker. He listened with amusement as the departing delegates worried over the meaning of the new name of the town. No talk of resistance, only a kind of simian curiosity. Former Second Rank Althene was quite brilliant in her way; she had supplied the name as well as the plan. She truly was an excellent match for First Rank Diettinger.
II
John Hamilton saw a large dust plume rise over the upcoming slope. He reined his mount over to the side of the dirt road, next to a stand of oak, and slipped his carbine from the saddle holster, levering a shell into the chamber. His four Guardsmen dismounted, and followed suit.
John was relieved to be out of the constricting confines of Whitehall, at last, where he had been forced to live side by side with the woman he loved but could never possess. His head still ached from his concussion, but other than that he was as fit as ever - on the outside.
While his patrol was still within Hamilton territory, there had been more people on the road today than at any time since the troubles with Castell City. Many of the dispossessed had lost their homes when Wheelock’s raiders had sacked their towns and were headed to Greensward for protection and housing. Some were refugees from cities, like Tampa or Redemption, that had been bombed by the Saurons, while others were fleeing from bandits or worse, unleashed by the breakdown in what had passed for law and order in the Central Shangri-La Valley.
All were looking for refuge or housing. Most of them would be turned away. Other than machinists and trained craftsmen, his orders were to turn everyone away.
This band was probably friendlies. The border guard wouldn’t have let a large group pass without signaling Whitehall. Still, these were unusual times. It was possible that anyone sent from Whitehall to notify him might still be on the road or been taken prisoner.
When half-a-dozen all-terrain vehicles, bristling with rifle muzzles, topped the rise, John felt his pulse quicken and his trigger finger tighten. Then he recognized the markings of the Fighting First and raised a hand in greeting. It was hard to imagine any other outfit on Haven not under Sauron domination with that much ordinance and rolling stock.
“Hello, John,” a familiar figure called, as he drove the lead vehicle over to the side of the road, next to John’s horse. The stocky Militiaman stepped out of the vehicle and held his hand out for a handshake.
“Major Hendrix! What are you doing out here?”
“Reconnaissance and survey. General Cummings wants to know if there’s been any Sauron presence in this area.”
“Not yet. Their ship made a flyby just after the initial attack. Not many targets out here, and fortunately they overlooked Whitehall.”
“Good. Just what the General expected. This is a big Valley for just one ship.” Hendrix paused to take a drink out of his canteen,
“Then there is only one?”
“So far. We’ve lost all of our imaging equipment and we have no way of communicating offworld, but the level of Sauron activity is about right for a single battle cruiser. About the only good news that’s come out of this fiasco.”
“How’s the fort?”
“Fort Kursk was evacuated, with a token force left behind. The Saurons overran the defenders. They occupy it, for the moment. The General’s abandoned Fort Fornova, too, and is keeping on the move with the Falkenberg Irregulars, to keep the Saurons from discovering his position. He’s looking for a new staging area, far enough away from the Sauron landing site near Evaskar to go unnoticed, but close enough to do some harm.”
“What about the Fighting First?”
Hendrix smiled. “The Regiment is still dispersed or in hiding, waiting for the counter-offensive. After that we’ll need a bolt hole.”
“Whitehall would be perfect. To the Saurons it’s just another old stone fortress, so they’re not likely to come back anytime soon. We have enough troops to be useful.”
“That’s what I told the General before he left for Fort Fornova. He didn’t agree. It’s too far from Evaskar for his plans. He’s in command of the Falkenberg Irregulars for the moment; Colonel Harrigan was killed yesterday by Saurons in an ambush.
“I caught a ride out of Fort Kursk with a unit going to help in the evacuation of Redemption. We were too late. So I thought I might stop by for a chat with my old friends.
“It’s my opinion, and that of some of the other junior officers, that the Irregulars are going to have a full-time job just keeping out of the frying pan, that close to the Citadel - that’s what the Saurons are calling old Fort Stony Point. Whitehall would be an ideal headquarters for the Fighting First. Just because the Saurons have established their home base in the north doesn’t mean we should abandon the Central Valley. With your help, I’m sure we can convince the General.”
“Is the General planning on coming back?”
“Oh, yes. He’s got something up his sleeve, back at Fort Kursk. Nobody knows what. General Cummings gives out information on a need-to-know basis only. Keeps leaks to a minimum.”
John nodded, thinking to himself. If the General used Whitehall for the resistance, there wasn’t anything the Baron could do about his joining the Militia. Of course, that meant there could be problems if Ingrid talked to her father, but he couldn’t see her doing that. She was not the type to run to daddy.
“Anything wrong?”
“No, but the Baron might need some convincing. I think he wants to sit this one out.”
“Ha, fat chance. No one on Haven’s going to sit this one out. There are no neutral parties in this war.”
“I agree, Major, and pledge my support.”
“Excellent, Lord Hamilton. I’ll go on ahead and talk with the Baron. We can share a drink later at Whitehall.”
III
Deathmaster Quilland was pleased. The fortifications at the Citadel were proceeding tolerably well. They’d even had time to set up proper quarters for First Rank and Lady Althene, when they had arrived; thankfully, unscathed from the F
omoria disaster. The loss of so much valuable mass was not critical at the moment, but would slow down future efforts at expansion. Already, teams of Soldiers were scouring the countryside surveying recoverable pieces of the former starship.
One of the squads had accidentally stumbled on a party of Militia men that had evacuated the former Imperial garrison at Fort Fornova. If the documentation was correct, they had bagged and killed the commander of the Falkenberg Irregulars, a Colonel Nelson Harrigan. Too bad it hadn’t been the wily fox himself, General Gary Edmund Cummings, the commander of the First Haven Volunteers. That would have been a kill that would have brought a smile to even Cyborg Koln’s impassive countenance.
As the Deathmaster peered out his casemated lancet window, he could see a large, twisted hunk of metal on the bed of a large transport being driven through the Karakul Pass. It looked like a section piece from one of the Fomoria’s hanger bays. Behind it followed a horse-mounted band of merchants, wearing the festive rags that passed for garments in this sector of the Shangri-La Valley. He was pleased to see that the locals were returning to pre-invasion activities so quickly. It boded well for the local economy.
Evaskar had fallen with predictable ease, almost a textbook assault. The city had already been re-christened Nurnen, and all traces of the former name were being eradicated. The local cattle were cowed, and already scrambling to curry favor from their new masters. There were reports of small arms fire as the various political and ethnic factions competed among themselves for advantage. This was not discouraged as long as the fighting was kept off the streets and no Saurons were in the line of fire.
Let the cattle cull themselves, he thought with satisfaction. It will save the Race valuable ammunition and improve the breed overall.
Transports had already brought up representative breeding stock to the Citadel. Holding pens for thousands of fertile local women were already finished and filling up at Firebase One. The seeds had been planted for long-term occupation. Nurnen would prove a useful adjunct to the new Sauron capital.
Best of all, though, are these cattle. They had already mounted several effective, if limited, assaults on his outlying positions. Two Soldiers had been lost, and several weapons, in exchange for only a hundred and sixty-two enemy. Quilland knew that such a ratio meant these cattle showed promise. Haven indeed bred well.
Quilland favored the cattle with a thin smile. Perhaps his favorite example of their character had come only an hour ago. Assault Rank Bekker’s squad had almost been wiped out by his own command. The cattle had taken a Sauron radio from Dyksos’ unit and called in mortar fire from the Sauron RAM positions on the heights, into the Sauron team that was assaulting their own position!
When the deception had been realized, only barely in time, all the cattle had escaped. One of his Rankers had asked Quilland if the cattle here could possibly be that good.
It would appear so, Quilland thought.
IV
“For God’s sake, Baron! Let it go?”
Baron Hamilton of Greensward, smiled thinly and nodded at the younger man seated before him. “Yes. Let it go, Major. If it would help exterminate the Saurons, I would personally burn Whitehall to the ground. It wouldn’t though.” Nothing will, but I can’t say that to one of Gary’s officers.
Major Hendrix looked around the paneled study, with its high ceilings and ornate tapestries. Such elegance had always been rare on Haven. Now, after the widespread destruction brought by the Saurons, it was unique. “Saurons. Why us?”
“I’ve wondered that myself, Major. We’re at the arse-end of the Empire. Maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe the Saurons are losing the war, and this shipload of the bastards is trying to hide.”
“God, I hope so,” Hendrix said. “And the Fleet will be back. It will.”
“It might be a while.” And probably not, he thought to himself. Certainly not in your lifetime or your great-grand children’s. “Meanwhile we hang on, and ruining Whitehall won’t help.”
“I don’t want to ruin Whitehall, the General wants you to take our refugees. And maybe act as headquarters for the Irregulars. That would give us a strong presence in the Central Valley, far from the enemy’s stronghold.”
“Same thing, really. If we take in everyone you send, we won’t last a season. As an outpost, we’d surely attract Sauron notice. Better that a few survive, than none.”
“And what do you think you accomplish by the mere act of survival?”
Hamilton shrugged. “Possibly nothing. But I can try. I want to save Whitehall, because losing it won’t make any difference. If we survive the invasion we can rebuild. Major, if every one of those monsters drops dead tomorrow, we will still be generations away from civilization!”
“But the Empire - ”
“Major, I doubt the Empire will return. Ever. They abandoned us before the war heated up. Even if the war is over now - and we don’t know that - Sparta has its own rebuilding to do. They don’t care about us. Never did, really.”
“Then you won’t help us?”
“Major, I can’t help you, not with anything that will do you any good. House Hamilton can’t even meet obligations to our own. We’re turning out relatives of our own liegemen. Do you think I like that?”
“No, of course not - look, can you do anything? Anything at all?”
“I can take in your family. Yours and the rest of the General’s. No more. And I can send you a hundred volunteers, reasonably well-supplied and equipped.”
“No more than that - ”
“You can’t feed more than that,” Hamilton stated flatly.”‘Well-supplied’ means they aren’t starving. It doesn’t mean we can spare a month’s rations.”
“Damn it, that’s no help at all! Your grandson promised us more - ”
“John does not command here,” There. I’ve done it. Disavowed my grandson’s pledged word. And there may be hell to pay for it. Hamilton suppressed a smile as he watched Major Hendrix. It was all too easy to see what Hendrix was thinking. Hamilton’s Whitehall Guard was scattered, and Hendrix had his own platoon of escorts. And John had already promised. One bullet, and there would be a new and more tractable Baron at Whitehall. I think he may try it.
Hamilton whistled, a short trill tone. One of the elaborate panels opened to reveal three Guardsmen. The sergeant touched his cap in salute. Hamilton nodded in acknowledgment.
“Yes, Baron?” the Guards sergeant asked.
“Please send word to my grandson that I wish to see him.”
“Yes, sir.” The panel closed again.
Hamilton sighed in relief. Good. Hendrix didn’t have time to do anything he needed to apologize for. Maybe he wouldn’t have anyway. Maybe.
“If that’s all you will give me,” Hendrix said.
“All I can give you, Major,” Hamilton corrected.
“Can? I don’t agree, but I suppose I should take what I can get.” He hesitated. “Also, I will take you up on your offer - I will be sending you my family, Ruth and the two kids. The General, well... his wife and daughter, Helga, were in Castell during the first strike.”
“Please give the General my condolences. Your family is quite welcome.” The Baron paused to look the Hendrix straight in the eyes.”I will keep them as safe as I keep my own. And the General’s youngest daughter.”
He wasn’t sure he could protect Ingrid from his grandson, but he could guarantee they would never go un-chaperoned again.
“Thank you, sir. We...well, we have a plan.”
“I’d be amazed to find you didn’t. I hope it’s damned successful, and damned bloody. Go kill some Saurons for me,”
V
Cyborg Rank Koln stepped forward onto a strip of naked stone which jutted out from below the walls of the Citadel. Here, in this lonely, windswept, frigid place, he was suspended between two worlds. Behind and above him were the sweeping spires of the castle whose towers soared above the valley floor, in graceful arches which belied their strength, but spoke eloque
ntly of their purpose: Nothing moved between the valley and the steppe lands beyond, without the approval of those who held this fortress. And below, the debris-littered northeast expanse of the valley the natives called the Shangri-La, where the scattered fragments of the Fomoria still glowed with enough residual heat to be visible to the infra-red range of his genetically augmented vision. The pall of irradiated smoke above the Shangri-La Valley remained stubbornly anchored to wreckage against the wind, a last mark of the great ship’s passing. The cattle had struck a blow - futile, of course, but impressive nevertheless.
From even higher than the towers overhead, the sonic boom of First Rank Diettinger’s shuttle had fallen on Koln’s Cyborg ears to a faint sigh. Standing there on the brink of that precipice, at the terminator line separating the shadow of the mountains behind him from the sunlit valley before, Koln felt as divided as he looked. He was filled with a sense of impending conflict and yet, typically Sauron, even this was cleanly divided into two clear choices: to turn and re-enter the ranks of the society which must now be built? Or take a single, brief step out into that abyss that began ten centimeters from his boots and ended more than a thousand feet below. Cyborg Rank Koln sighed again, dispiritedly.
Alas, I would probably survive such a fall no worse than crippled. Koln’s jaw clenched at the thought of such an injury, for surely it was now beyond the capability of such meager resources as the Saurons had brought to Haven to repair him. And then he would truly be a slave of the Breedmasters, who would only be too happy to have at their disposal - literally - a Cyborg whose only value would be his seed.
