He couldn’t make it out through the thinning orange fog and stood frozen for a moment wondering what or how the man was moving in gas strong enough to bring down a charging bull.
Then he shook his head, realizing it didn’t matter. All that mattered was stopping that man. He turned to the swivel gun, saw that it was primed, gazed down its sights and fired. The twenty millimeter round smacked into the giant and sent him flying off his feet. Then for a second it looked as though he was going to use the mast to pull himself upright, but the giant shuddered and stopped moving.
Scott released a deep breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. They’re not human, he thought. Nobody should be able to even move a muscle after a twenty millimeter hit. It was at that moment Scott realized they were fighting the ancient invaders, the sons of giants.
His people had long known the story of the Saurons, the warriors from the stars; they still sang the old ballads and when sufficiently drunk searched the night sky for their ships in the University towers late at night. Fortunately, they had never met--the Citadel, the legendary capital of the Saurons, was half a continent away--until now. Now, when Duty was fighting a Sauron pirate ship.
“Captain, we are fighting Saurons!” Scott shouted without thinking.
A noticeable chill swept the crew like a wave rippling after Scott’s voice; Saurons, the bogeymen of parents’ warnings and children’s late-night yarns. The captain’s voice, as steady as the Duty’s course, rang out, “Very well.”
Mindful of the ship’s morale and how important it could be in the fight ahead, Scott regretted blurting out his thoughts. But there was no time to think about that now; another lesson learned.
The Duty came in awkwardly, and it took grappling lines to bring the two ships together. The Marines went across first, wearing lacquered filter masks, although the burnweed gas was now mostly blown away by the strong breeze. Sporadic fights occurred whenever the Marines discovered a Sauron, who even in near-death spasms fought like five men.
Lieutenant Tryker and Scott went aboard with their sailors to back up the Marines. Armed with swords and revolvers, they dispatched the surviving corsairs who’d survived the gas long enough to cough up their lungs on the deck.
“Be careful,” said Lieutenant Tryker. “The lower decks should be mostly intact. Be on the lookout for more Saurons.”
Some of the older men cursed, others drew back from the hatch.
Leading the six survivors of his gunny crew, Scott approached the hatch under the cover of Marine rifles. A harsh growl brought his attention to the rear. He spun around, drawing his sword, to find a giant mastiff charging down upon him. While several rifles fired without stopping the charging mastiff, a Sauron burst out of the hatch and gutted a sailor with a boafhook.
Lieutenant Harper’s constant drilling and training took over, as Scott went into an automatic crouch and brought his sword to bear. Wishing he had a trident instead, Scott leveled his sword at where he expected the mastiff s jaws to strike.
The giant dog leaped and Scott felt bone splinter as his sword pierced the mastiffs mouth. The beast died, but not before its momentum wrenched the sword out of his hand and its body slammed into Scott, knocking his head against the mast.
All Scott remembered of the next several minutes was the vague impression of shots fired and mortal cries. When at last he tried to rise a petty officer leaned over and hauled him upright while anxiously informing him that the captain was about to board. Scott could hardly stand upright in the roll of the ship; his mind thick with concussion and the soles of his shoes slick with the blood that washed out over the deck.
While Lieutenant Harper informed the captain that the Shining Pearl was secured for Their Majesties, Scott caught his breath and tried to locate the missing members of his gunny crew.
With the last of the Saurons dispatched, they searched the rest of the schooner and opened the holds to inventory. Her cargo: grain (and plenty of it), cooking wood, a store of wine, and about thirty women. Their expressions ran the gamut from fear and rage to apathy. None seemed hopeful.
The captain turned to Scott, who, having somewhat recovered, had thrown himself into the work. “Well done, Midshipman Brindle, especially for the burn-weed.” The captain paused for a moment, looking bleakly over the aft rail.
“Lieutenant Tryker is dead.”
Scott shook his head in dismay. “I didn’t know . . .”
“He distinguished himself and his family with honor. As did all my officers in this engagement; alas, I am short of officers due to this unprecedented resistance. As of now you are promoted to the rank of ensign. You will act as executive officer of the prize Shining Pearl.
“Mr. Campbell will skipper the prize. Your first task, Ensign, is to interview the prisoners. Report to me at the evening meal of your progress.
“Mr. Brindle, will you take these responsibilities?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Breedmaster Brehman had always disliked the sea, but after last night’s storm he hated it. His small fleet of hired ships was scattered and his prize ships lost. The only ships remaining were the two he needed most, the brig Hunting’s Tomb and his flagship, the newly named Proteus. The brig held the captured professors, and in the flagship’s hold was the prize he had sailed almost halfway around the planet for.
It was hard to believe now that Saurons had once conquered a wet realm like this on the Home World. Unfortunately, the records of those days were long lost.
Brehman was known for traveling far for what he sought. Each time a Sauron center reported a new civilization or the legends of a university or library, the Breedmaster marched off to find it, categorize it, and take its knowledge, books, scholars, and women back to the Citadel.
Few of the Soldiers other than the upper Ranks and other Breedmasters, understood why. Those few realized just how far Sauron technology had fallen since the arrival of the Fomoria and the Invasion. The constant warfare among Sauron and Haveners had resulted in many Soldiers and far too few engineers and teachers. The few remaining computers were scattered throughout Sauron bases or cannibalized to keep the others working. All computer time, except for that needed by the Breedmasters and the First Soldier, was dedicated to defense and battle-threat estimations.
The Saurons needed those few Haven scientists who had survived the dark ages and what few tools remained. Almost as important was the need for intelligent female breeding stock. The stress of everyday life on Haven was such that Haveners were bred for military and survival skills rather than intellectual abilities.
During every generation since the Invasion the Saurons had lost a sliver of their technical edge. Brehman’s dream was to resurrect the weapon makers of the Home World.
Now he had found a nucleus for that dream: the steam turbines in his hold and the men who had built them. All that was left was to collect his ships and get out of these waters. He would have liked to disembark and return by land, but the mass of the steam turbines precluded this. Ahead his party faced a long journey, including the rounding of Firga’s Point, then across the Harph, the southern ocean, and across the Main Continent to the southernmost Sauron base, Champion.
He wrapped his cloak tight against the icy winds as he watched an orca surface and blow steam into the frigid air. Brehman recalled how the killer whales worked together like wolves in a pack. Despite the orcas’ intelligence, strength, and killer instinct, they were vulnerable as individuals. As a pack there was nothing that could stand up to them, not even here in Haven’s deadly seas. He saluted them as he would any Sauron brother and turned back to his rankers. . . .
The Pearl was badly damaged from the battle. Not only were sails in tatters from the storm, but the burnweed destroyed them wherever it had come in contact with the sails’ fabric. Nor had the Duty’s grapeshot done them any good. He already had his small crew repairing both sails and rigging, as well as some of the damage done to the hull. Any Royal Navy man could sew sailcloth or reeve a rope; most
had learned it from their fishermen fathers before enlisting. The few boards that Duty could spare were already being put to good purpose by the ship’s carpenter and his assistant.
The sounds of sawing and hammering and the creaking of rigging as it was repaired was like music to his ears. Despite the sense of loss he felt toward his former friends and crewmates, the Pearl was his to command. And he couldn’t deny the exhilaration that brought to him.
A squeal from one of the female prisoners brought him back to more mundane concerns. It was already clear that most of them saw the Scandians as little better than their former Sauron captors.
“Miss Lockman,” he said in his most commanding tone, “please cooperate with the surgeon. You will not be molested.”
“Why are we being examined like this? With no privacy, nor any concern for modesty. Are we cattle to be sold at the next harbor? Or do you plan to use us for breeding as the Saurons had planned?”
“The Shining Pearl is now Their Majesties’ ship and she is to be conducted as a man-of-war. The decks still contain patches of burnweed and are not safe until completely cleared. The physical examinations are to make certain that none of you have any diseases that could be passed on to our crewmen.
“Of course, you won’t be sold as slaves! You are now provisional subjects of Their Majesties’ Triumvirate and will be introduced by the Huguenotic Order. They will assist you in acclimating into our civilization--now that your own island has been burned of human habitation.”
Less afraid but far from mollified, she continued to press: “What kind of life will that be for a woman?”
“I’m sure most of you will find husbands,” Scott answered in a matter-of-fact tone, to hide his own growing interest in the beautiful and brave young lady.
She looked as if she’d just bit into something sour. “What if I told you I was educated as an engineer?”
“Most surprising, Miss Lockman. Those few women scholars in the Triumvirate are in the monastic orders and content themselves with the classics.” Scott saw a flush of anger creep across her cheeks. It did not make her less attractive.
“What if I told you I helped build the steam turbines?”
Scott felt his jaw drop, and closed it with a click. His limited experience in engineering classes had taught him the importance of the turbine and even the basic principles behind it. Its military and economic value were obvious, but the Triumvirate’s engineers had never been able to manufacture one; the precision machining was beyond the Kingdom’s reach. The steam piston was extensively used on shore and aboard larger ships, but such devices could not be made small enough for use aboard frigates.
Collecting his wits, Scott asked, “Where is it now?”
“On the Sauron flagship.”
“Where are the other engineers?”
“Does this mean you believe me?” she asked.
“Yes. Your people at Stanjord were extremely capable gadgeteers. Where are the male engineers?”
“You people are overbearing sexist bigots!”
Scott felt his own face flush. He realized that once again he’d asked the wrong question; yet it was difficult to accept that this young girl could achieve success where the Triumvirate’s best men had failed. Why he himself had failed the mathematical section of the engineering school’s entrance examination! Time for another approach.
“Miss Lockman, you’ve lost your home, family, and friends to the Saurons. We all sympathize with your plight. We want to help you: Wouldn’t your people rather be under our guidance than the Sauron heel?”
Scott could see her intransigence begin to soften, but he was too inexperienced to know how to exploit it. Nor did he know what to present as evidence of the Kingdom’s good intentions aside from hospitality.
But shouldn’t that be enough? Damn her beautiful eyes!
When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to answer he decided on a tactical withdrawal. Turning to the orderly, he said, “Tell the coxswain to prepare a boat to ferry Miss Lockman and me to the Duty.” Turning back to his lovely passenger who persisted in thinking of herself as a prisoner, he muttered, “Excuse me,” and fled.
While waiting for the ship’s boat, Scott reviewed the crew’s progress in refitting the Pearl. The job was going well, but much work remained. Some of the sails were being replaced and the decks were covered with canvas and spare materials. The women who had inhaled trace amounts of the burnweed were resting on the quarterdeck.
Scott shook off a feeling that he was personally responsible for their fate. True, had they known the nature of the Pearl’s cargo they would never have used the gas--but they had not known, and his men had been dying all around him.
Unfortunately, some of them would not survive the voyage back to New Wales. There was no known cure for blister pneumonia.
After relaying to Lieutenant Campbell what he had learned, Scott sent for Miss Lockman and they were rowed to the frigate.
Several things had convinced Scott that these people were capable of building a turbine. Their teeth were surprisingly well maintained and their clothes were not hand spun. All of them wore manufactured clothes, and not just the upperclass ladies either. Lieutenant Tryker had shown him an account gathered from far traders sailing these waters that reported Stanjordian machined items were generally at least as good as those from New Wales.
He also noted that a few of the women, including Miss Lockman, had the hands of skilled laborers, hardened from tool use, not chapped from household chores or gnarled from fieldwork.
It was also obvious that Miss Lockman was not used to the sea. She had apparently adapted to life aboard the Pearl, but the swoop of the small boat undid her, and she was soon bent over the side paying tribute to the sea gods. Well, the ride was rough; the storm from the first watch was threatening to return. Fortunately, the coxswain and his men did their usual quick job of the crossing, and within minutes he was hoisted up into the Duty’s quarterdeck and speaking to the captain.
As soon as Lloyd understood what Scott was saying, he invited him to his cabin, leaving Miss Lockman to the delighted care of the quarterdeck officers.
“So the Stanjordians made a steam turbine, which the Saurons captured along with the engineers who designed and built it,” said Captain Lloyd. “Saurons in our waters--who would have believed it? No one’s seen a Sauron in the Triumvirate since the Invasion. And now you say the Saurons are headed back to their base.”
“Aye, sir,” Scott replied. “Miss Lockman told me the Saurons put the turbine on their flagship and the engineers and professors on a ship I suspect to be a brig by her description.”
“How certain are you that this machine is truly a turbine?” the captain asked with a penetrating stare.
“I questioned Miss Lockman on the turbine based on my knowledge of the steam cycle. It quickly became a lecture in which I was the student.”
‘Then you believe this engine to be valuable enough for me to chase a small fleet into enemy waters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’re quite correct. And where do you think these ships are headed?”
“There s really only one place, given their heading.”
“Right again, Ensign.”
The captain sent Coxswain Jorwin to inform the Commodore of his plans and to ask for ships to meet Duty at Shark’s Teeth Bay. The pirates traditionally used the island’s fortress and shallow bay to slip away from deeper draft ships.
The captain quickly had them under full sail. Scott noted that even with the schooner’s sails repaired, with which she should easily have been able to show a frigate her heels, the Shining Pearl was no faster than the Duty.
Foul bottom, he thought, looking over the rail. Sure enough, a skirt of weed below the waterline. How could the crew of a fighting vessel bear to have their ship so crippled? It made Scott queasy to look at it.
The prize crew of the Pearl soon relaxed back into cruising watches, each man on duty for six hours, on collatera
l duties for the next six-hours and then sleeping through the third watch. It was a schedule they had followed most of their adult lives. It let every man obtain eight hours’ sleep per Terran day and allowed the ship to have two thirds of her crew ready at any given time. Not only did the watch system mesh well with the variable Haven days and nights, but ships were able to keep their men fit by feeding them at the beginning or end of every watch.
“The pirates never kept the Pearl so clean,” Patricia Lockman said to Scott, who had joined her for the midday meal. She looked down at the bowl an able seaman handed her. “Nor did they serve as much variety in their meals, either.”
Scott laughed. “A busy crew is a happy crew. We feed them with all the variety we can--not for their enjoyment, though never underestimate morale--but to avoid scurvy and other diseases that would keep them from serving Their Majesties’ needs.”
“I might have known it wasn’t for their enjoyment,” Patricia said. “Do you shoot them if they break a leg?” she added dryly.
“Of course not--” he began, then flushed. “Excuse me. It’s my watch in ten minutes. Thank you for sharing your meal with me.”
Scott’s watch went quietly and he was able to spot the dorsal fins of a pair of orcas riding the ship’s bow wake. He was always surprised at how the whales welcomed human companionship. He wondered if it was because they recognized that both species were far from home on a world where survival was more an opportunity than a certainty.
The Scandian legends said that the nine daughters of AEgir had spawned orcas to be man’s brothers in the sea. The Imperial Encyclopedia had a reference about their having been brought, along with thousands of other sea creatures, from Terra by a biologist. The orcas, along with squids and eels, were among the minority of those who survived the battle against Haven’s indigenous sea life and frigid waters.
Religious taboos among the Scandia prevented them from killing the orcas for oil. Instead they turned to the south and traded with the Yakuts for blubber from the snow lions.
War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 14
