War World III: Sauron Dominion

by Jerry Pournelle

  The last thing Breedmaster Brehman had expected was the enemy to fire on his ship, with its valuable cargo. But being a Sauron his adaptation to a new situation was virtually instantaneous. As soon as the first round hit he ordered his own Soldiers to supervise preparation of the launch.

  While the deck rocked and lurched under the first enemy broadside, Brehman gathered his drawings and the ship’s captain’s charts. Before the flagship had time to turn and return its own salvo, the ship was slammed with another broadside. The air was filled with sailors’ screams and the burp of the Sauron Gatling guns.

  Brehman was knocked off his feet for a moment when the ship foundered on a reef. He was halfway to the launch when another broadside shook the dying ship. Brehman had to dodge falling spars and rigging as the mainmast slowly began to topple.

  As his men lowered the boat into the water, Brehman could see the water bubble as sea dragons and river jacks feasted on those who fell or were knocked overboard. Just as the launch reached the water, a final broadside of pyrotechnic rounds crashed into the doomed ship.

  The charges exploded, spewing burning oil saturated with iron rust everywhere. The primitive thermite burned everything on the wooden ship it touched. Within moments the riggings began to fall to the deck like ghosts burning in the wind.

  Brehman heard screams and shouts as the sailors fled the flames only to discover there was no place to go. Fire was the nemesis of all ships; on Haven the sea offered no escape. Fire lit the ship like a torch.

  As the launch began to pull away from the doomed ship, sailors tried to jump aboard. “Fire at will!” ordered Brehman. If they could make it to shore, there would be fresh crews to be hired. He couldn’t take a chance of capsizing the launch or attracting the sea dragons.

  The sea dragons were six-limbed spiral sea creatures superficially not unlike the starfish of old Terra. However, the sea dragon had an armored exoskeleton, and at the end of each retractable limb it had claws that injected poisons to paralyze its victims. Full grown, it weighed about a ton, and was hideously dangerous when it weighed a tenth of that.

  Even the orcas left the shallow bays of the sea dragon alone.

  One sailor actually managed a leap into the boat only to have a Soldier toss him casually into the sea. The pirate captain pleaded with Brehman to spare his loyal servant. Brehman’s answer was a gunshot through the man’s forehead; his next shot took the captain’s life. A loyal servant deserved a painless death if he was not worth saving.

  Brehman considered his options as the launch began to work its way ashore. He had the drawings of the turbine, but not the engine itself or the men who designed it. He had the charts to get home, but not the ships to sail there. The task ahead was great, but if they survived, the Burning Eye would soon have a new weapon and a worthy adversary to use it against.

  “Our work! You destroyed everything we spent our lives to create!” Scott turned from the burning and floundering Sauron flagship to confront a distraught Patricia Lockman.

  “We could never have recovered the turbine from the Saurons.” Scott pointed to better than a dozen canvass-shrouded bodies on the Pearl’s deck. The screams of the wounded below decks still rent the air. “This was the cost to save the Sea Dragon’s prisoners. Would you rather have the Saurons sail off with it?”

  “No . . . but it took a generation to plan and build those turbines. It’s our legacy--”

  “No. It’s the minds that matter. We have the scholars who designed it and the engineers who built it here. The turbines can be built again.”

  “Are we to be slaves, then?”

  “No. Allies in the war against the Saurons. You will have places among us. Not as slaves, but as Citizens of the Triumvirate.”

  From “The Frontal Assault and Other Tactical Pathologies,” in The Way of the Soldier (traditionally attributed to First Lady/Second Citizen Althene Diettinger):

  The ancient Sauron role model Nietzsche said: “Beware if you fight dragons, lest you become one. And if you stare into the Abyss, the Abyss may open its eyes and stare back into you.”

  We have anticipated that as we struggle to subdue Haven, its peoples will learn as they fight, taking on as far as they are capable our methods, our philosophies of combat, even as many of our genes as they can garner. This is an integral part of our Plan, the Plan which will eventually bring forth the Haven Saurons and a reborn Homeworld.

  However, a long-term problem is that this process is potentially capable of functioning either way . . .

  CEREMONIES AT THE LAST BAR IN THE VILLAGE - John Hartnett

  Byers’ Sun was a distant dry teardrop sinking into the grassy brown hills at the western end of the Pale. A grove of Finnegan’s fig trees was silhouetted against the sinking orb. The older officer sat on the terrace on a gray birch chair, drinking warm coffee from a small cup. Chief Assault Leader Saval swallowed his drink slowly and let the cool rays of the setting sun wash the days from his face.

  The younger officer stepped through the dark archway and out onto the terrace. He stood against the wall with one boot on the empty chair. He wore field gray covered with a sheepskin cape.

  “I was told that I’d find you here,” said the young man.

  “And so I am. I am here often in the evenings. As you will be,” said Chief Assault Leader Saval. “Is this really the last bar in the village?” “Yes. The others are gone.”

  The waiter, a tribesman, probably a Turk, came. Chief Assault Leader Dagor ordered kimiz. “That’s a native drink, isn’t it?” asked Saval. “Yes. It’s quite strong, rich.”

  “I prefer coffee. It’s not as good as Angband Base, but they try. You’re here only one day, but already you drink like a native,” said the older man.

  Angband Base seemed a long way south of the cold steppe grasses.

  “You cannot conquer what you don’t understand.”

  “Do you think that was my downfall?”

  “No. There were other problems.”

  “You think I do not understand them.”

  “You don’t drink kimiz,” said the young man.

  “I think I understand.”

  “I think you don’t.”

  “My successes on this expedition have been noted.”

  “You can’t fight from reflex here. It needs cunning. You cannot win the steppes from a Citadel textbook.”

  “I am not a barbarian.”

  “Too civilized to win their respect, then?”

  “Yes. I am civilized.”

  The waiter came with cold kimiz. Chief Assault Leader Dagor stood, stepped to the edge of the old terrace, and cradled the fermented milk between his strong hands. He looked out at the village street. The low buildings were boarded. A Turkish laundry was still open at the end of the row. Soldiers’ uniforms filled the racks inside the laundry. The sun nearly set behind the trees.

  Twelve kilometers to the west, Dagor’s men filled the bush. Crouching. Hiding. Waiting for the word.

  “You don’t fight like a Soldier,” said Saval.

  Dagor brought his drink to his lips, then inhaled the rich fumes. He took a drink.

  “I’ve had my own successes.”

  “Ah, yes. Your special training.”

  “I fight. The enemy fights. I win.”

  “Is it winning to fight like a savage, yelping from the back of a muskylope?”

  “I adapt. As you should have.”

  “Will you fight like them? Like the clans?”

  “I will do whatever I have to.” Dagor blinked. “It is as honorable to win as to fight well.”

  “Do you think you can? Do you think you can keep order out here, or even turn the clans against the Bandari?”

  “I will do what’s necessary. It’ll be tough. Your men will have to be retrained. They won’t like me at first.”

  “I thought you would say that.”

  Chief Assault Leader Dagor sat in the empty chair. He fixed his bright eyes into the sad blue eyes of the older man. Even wi
thout Sauron enhancement, he thought he could read what was there.

  “Do you want a ceremony before you leave?” he asked Saval.

  “No.”

  The young man sat back in his chair, his jaw clenched. The scar under his left eye twitched, then calmed.

  “I thought you would want a ceremony,” said Dagor.

  “No.”

  “You needn’t be embarrassed. You had some successes.”

  Saval looked away, over the plains.

  “Half the expedition is gone, buried.”

  “Your concern is noted. You accomplished part of your mission. The ground was taken.”

  “Yes, taken. And filled with our bodies.”

  “Still, you can have a ceremony if you wish.”

  “No. It’s too much.”

  “I know how important it is to you. You may pass a sword to me if you wish. Sometimes it helps ... it helps the men. Formalizes things.”

  “No. They will understand.”

  “I’m surprised. I was told you’d want a ceremony.”

  “Perhaps we should have a ceremony. For the men.”

  Chief Assault Leader Saval finished his coffee. He thought of his camp out to the west. He thought of the neat rows of tents, the perfectly placed sentries. Why was it so much easier to lose good Troopers than to win respect from these tribes? Soon his men would batter their old commander around the campfires. They would play double-Jack and talk of how it was. Later they would see Dagor’s replacements approach. Dagor’s new men, some with Citadel water still wet behind their ears, would march in column into their new camp. March in to fill the gaps in the expeditionary force. Gaps caused by an unimaginative commander who refused to think like the cattle, to be like the cattle.

  Or perhaps not. Dagor was different. Like the clans who had to be taught to surrender. He accepted nothing as given. Did Dagor always expect difficulties?

  “You cannot leave without a ceremony,” the young man interrupted.

  “I know.”

  “Without your sword, the nomads will never respect me. They would fight me to the death.” “I was told.”

  “You need a ceremony. You have to pass me your sword. The word must reach the kabiles.” “It is foolishness.”

  “Without your sword, I’ll lose half the unit again. We must have a ceremony.”

  “I do not want a ceremony. I cannot return to Angband.”

  “Give it up, man! It’s no disgrace. You gave up your old post to lead this expedition. It’s the same thing. Pass the damn sword and forget about it.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No one’s going to rub your nose in it. If you don’t do it, if you sulk off back to Angband, or worse all the way to the Citadel, everyone will know what the cattle did to you. They’ll draw their own conclusions. You’ll never get another posting. If you leave with a ceremony, it’s just another change of command.”

  “I do not want a ceremony.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Dagor rose and paced back to the far end of the terrace. His sturdy boots echoed through the quiet evening’s glow. Truenight would arrive in several hours. With the night came the noises, the danger, the uncertainty. Soon Dagor’s men would teach their new comrades to hunt the plains at twilight when the cattle’s eyes failed them. They would teach the other men how to hug the cool night earth of Haven like a whore. They would show them how to glide along the floor of their world, drop death on the enemy, then leave Bandari tracks behind.

  “It could have been worse,” the young man said. “The men were well equipped. That always helps.”

  “Don’t, don’t patronize me.”

  “I wasn’t . . .”

  “There’s something else,” the old man offered. Dagor turned. He stepped toward Saval. “What is it?”

  The older man hesitated. “A girl. Badri.”

  “Ah. I heard about her.”

  “She was given in tribute, this season. She’s . . . exceptional. She has no one.”

  “No. I’m not like that.”

  “Someone told me the clans expect it.”

  “Yes, they do. But, no. I’m a Soldier.”

  “She won’t understand. Neither will they.”

  “I have a countryside to subdue.”

  “She cannot go back, or have I misunderstood?”

  “No. That’s right, but, no.”

  “She knows the land, knows the peoples and their ways.”

  “I have my own scouts, and the new ones I’ll train.”

  “When I go, she can’t come with me. I have other . . . commitments.”

  “She can’t stay here.”

  “She . . . she saved me.”

  “That’s different. What did she do?”

  “She is exceptional. She gives . . . confidence.”

  “I am already confident.’

  “She also gives compassion, understanding. Besides, you have no choice. I insist,” said Saval. “Insist.” Dagor shrugged.

  Chief Assault Leader Saval stood. He tugged at the corner of his Soldier’s uniform. He brought his hand to his belt. “I want her at the ceremony.

  “Ceremony?” The young officer cocked his head.

  Slowly and deliberately, “Not regulation. Tribesman. Pass the sword, pass the prize. They understand that, I think. Will you accept the pair?”

  Chief Assault Leader Dagor called out in Turkish. The waiter returned. Several of the clansmen around the laundry heard and took note of the young stranger on the terrace with the Sauron kummandan who was supposed to leave soon. They bowed just a little, keeping their eyes on the four men with weapons crouching around the last bar in the village. The men with weapons were dressed in capes like the stranger. They stood, slung their weapons on their shoulders, and came out into the open to join the two officers as they stepped off the terrace and headed to the west.

  One of the men with weapons brought a box to his mouth, touched a button, and spoke a single syllable. Elsewhere, Dagor’s men in the bush rose, slung their weapons, and organized a column to march into their new camp.

  From The Book of Ruth bat Boaz, traditional.

  (Preserved in oral form from approximately 2630. Translated into Bandarit and printed, c. 2800, Strang, Eden Valley. Anthologized in Sayings of the Judges, 2910, Ilona’sstaad, Eden Valley.):

  . . . Piet van Reenan was the wisest man I ever knew, and the saddest. In his last illness, he told me that the final irony of his life was that he, a historian--for that was how he thought of himself, not as a soldier or ruler--had outlived history. I asked him if our story would not be preserved for the generations yet to come; surely our wars and our wanderings, griefs and loves, the peace we made and the people we brought to being, all this would live? Yes, he said; but not as history, because history was the product of civilization. When the Saurons came, Haven stepped out of history, into the time of legends. It was as myths, archetypes, legends that we would be remembered, not as human beings. Our children and children’s children would live once more through the endless turnings of the great cycle of myths. . . .

  Traditionally recited at the Spring Festival before the Great Sacrifice to the Anima of the Founders

  JUCHI THE ACCURSED - Harry Turtledove

  Something moved, out on the steppe. The Sauron Soldier sentry came to watchful alertness, discarding like an unwanted cloak the boredom that is a sentry’s normal lot in time of peace. His fingers caressed the trigger of the Gatling gun that covered part of the approach to Shangri-La Valley.

  Even with his enhanced vision, the moving speck was only that, a speck. He used his left hand to raise binoculars to his eyes. The speck resolved itself into a pair of human figures, afoot. The sentry frowned, actively suspicious now. Haven’s nomads were universally mounted, on horses or camels if they had them, on native muskylopes if they did not. Dismounted nomad was a contradiction in terms.

  The two people slowly approached the entrance to the valle
y. One appeared to be leading the other. The sentry forgot them for the moment. By themselves, they had to be harmless. But if they were intended to distract him so raiders could attack the mouth of the cleft that led into the valley, they would fail. The Soldiers laughed at sneakier ploys than that.

  At last, reluctantly, the sentry decided there were only the two of them. One was a woman, still of childbearing years but no longer young. She was not visibly pregnant, either, so there went the most obvious reason for her coming to the valley. The other, the man she was leading, had gray hair and a white, wispy beard that blew in the cold breeze. He walked awkwardly; the sentry needed a moment more to realize he was blind. Not only did his eyes stay closed, the lids seemed sunken into their sockets, as if no eyeballs lay beneath them.

  For all his genetic modification, the sentry felt ice walk up his spine. The tale was from half a continent away, but it was not the sort that shrank in the telling; over a generation’s time it had come to Shangri-La Valley. Unlike most folk on Haven, Sauron Soldiers were not supposed to be superstitious. All the same, the sentry jerked his hand away from the Gatling as if it had suddenly become red-hot. That blind man had known worse than bullets. Shivering and doing his best to blame it on the weather, the sentry let the woman lead the man into the pass.

  Dirt and clumpy grass underfoot, by their irregular pressure against the soles of his boots and by the sound they made as he scuffed through them. More sounds came from either side: echoes from the nearby canyon walls. “Careful here,” his daughter said; her hand on his arm was his sole link to a world wider than what he could feel and hear. “The slope gets ever steeper. Don’t stumble.”