The Battle of Sauron

by John F. Carr

  “Lucan, then, commanding the Wallenstein,” Ulm suggested. “A near-perfect operational record in his successful prosecution of twenty-eight fleet engagements and forty-three raid operations without a single casualty among his crew.”

  “Irrelevant. Casualties are inevitable, eventually. His performance is the result of superior skill in planning, not necessarily in execution,” Köln reminded them.

  “Speak plainly, Köln,” Ulm said; “Has your extended observation of Diettinger aboard the Fomoria inclined you to suggest his appointment as a supreme commander over all forces, beyond that of Fleet First Rank?”

  Köln decided to commit his reserve. “Such an appointment to the office of Supreme Commander will not occur.”

  Manche watched him carefully. “Why?”

  “The raid by the three Imperial Canopus-class ships could only have been a scouting mission. Whether it came from Tanith or elsewhere is irrelevant. If Tanith, it means the Imperials are desperate to see what reserves we have remaining available to commit there. If elsewhere, it means they plan a stronger operation here in the Sauron System. In either case, the destruction of these vessels means that more will certainly follow. Human norm patterns indicate they will next send a significantly larger force, although not necessarily one that is decisively so.”

  “Your point?”

  “Fully support Diettinger as Fleet First Rank. The next Imperial sortie will occur while he is assembling the Sparta invasion fleet. As Fleet First Rank, he will be in command of all in-system assets, which he will be forced to commit to destroy the Imperial intruders; all the Imperial intruders, since none can be allowed to escape which may carry warning to the Imperial capital.”

  “You propose to edify Diettinger’s status before he leads the invasion as well as during?” Ulm accused mockingly.

  “On the surface of any world, Sauron soldiers are unbeatable. In space, dependent as we are on materiel no more advanced than that of the Empire, only Sauron norm reflexes and higher G-force tolerance confer any advantage. Both such characteristics can be—are—countered by Imperial equipment quantity and a five-hundred-year head start in tactics. Although Diettinger’s fleet will not be defeated in Sauron space, the action against Sparta will include long-term ground engagements during the subjugation of the Imperial capital.”

  “Sparta should be Earthed,” Ulm said tacitly. The last Wars of Nationalism between political entities on humanity’s home planet had coined the phrase “Earthed.” It was a popular euphemism for rendering a planetary surface permanently uninhabitable by the prodigious use of cobalt-encased thermonuclear bombs.

  “The Sauron norms feel that Sparta must be occupied as a decisive psychological blow to any lingering Empire-loyalist sentiments.” Manche reminded them. It was a concept no Cyborg fully appreciated; to defeat an enemy, you destroyed him. No ‘psychology’ survived once the head of the enemy that held it was removed from his shoulders. “They will insist on the ground action and occupation.”

  “And concomitant loss of Sauron life.” Ulm pointed out. Sauron blood was precious to all Saurons, even the Cyborgs; especially the Cyborgs, who saw themselves as guardians of the eventual uplifting of all Sauron norm progeny to Cyborg level.

  “This can be turned to our advantage,” Köln continued. “By having our operatives emphasize Diettinger’s expertise in naval matters, his capability as a ground force commander becomes occluded. The High Command can then be influenced to appoint a Ground Force First Rank for the invasion proper; logically—because of the fierce resistance which can be expected from the Imperials in defense of their capital—this should be a Cyborg.”

  “If you were made commander of the Cyborg forces aboard Diettinger’s new flagship, you would be the logical choice,” Saentz said. “But such an appointment would generate opposition from those factions still not convinced of the logic of Cyborg authority.”

  “Support Diettinger as Fleet First Rank,” Ulm suggested. “Fomoria will be his flagship for the invasion; all current staff remain in place. Köln can be made Ground Force First Rank as a logical extension of his duties.”

  “The shipboard Deathmaster holds authority over planetary invasion actions,” Manche reminded them. “And from his record, Deathmaster Quilland is no less qualified for that position than Diettinger is for his.”

  “We cannot expect to accomplish everything by subterfuge,” Köln pressed the point. “We have seats on the High Command Council, we have influence with the other members of the council; this influence should be brought to bear. Appeal to their psychology. Remind them of the contributions of the Cyborgs to this victory, demand a place for the Cyborgs in the forefront of the final battle and impress upon them the need to show the Sauron population that we, the future of all Saurons, were instrumental in securing that future for them.”

  The other three practically stared at him. Cyborgs were not ambitious. Their psyches embodied the Sauron ideal of the First Principle that demanded of every Sauron, norm or Cyborg: Subjugate the ego to the battle plan. Still, each wondered briefly if Köln did not desire the rank of First Citizen more for himself than for the future of all Saurons. But such a thought was inherently illogical, and each of the three dismissed it immediately.

  Their agreement was therefore unanimous.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I

  Diettinger was reading readiness reports when Second Rank brought him news of the arrival of the first elements of his new command.

  “Heralds from the carriers Bucephalus, Pegasus and Traveller report their mother ships two days behind them. The Sauron cruisers Nike, Sagittarius and Raptor emerged at the Holcroft Jump Point several hours ago. The Heavy Cruisers Assyria and Hokkaido have just entered orbit. Of the Alliance ships, the outworlder battlecruiser Falkenberg and two New Ireland light cruisers, Banshee and Ire of Eire will be in orbit within the next two hours—First Rank.”

  Diettinger was grinning. “I suppose every navy has a ship called the Falkenberg,” he explained. “But ‘Ire of Eire’? They really named a ship that?” Diettinger actually chuckled, and the lines on his face disappeared for a moment. “Well, as long as it can fight,” he muttered. “That brings our total fleet strength in-system to thirty-seven capital ships, forty with those three carriers.”

  Second Rank frowned. “Forty-one, First Rank. Including the Fomoria.”

  Diettinger only nodded. “Signal the commanders of the Alliance ships that I will meet personally with them in six hours. Send our own shuttle to collect all of them. If they protest their own importance, explain the need to keep in-system traffic to a minimum. Give them no cause for complaint.”

  “This Falkenberg’s captain has a reputation for professionalism, First Rank,” Althene assured him, “and the New Ireland captains tend to show impatience only when being restrained from engaging Imperial ships.”

  Diettinger gave a short, mirthless laugh. “So long as we don’t have a repeat of the Quantrill incident.”

  Quantrill was a commerce raider from the Secession Alliance world of Burgess. It had arrived last week with three Imperial merchant ships under prize crews, which ships were declared to be “gifts” to the people of Sauron System. Whereupon, her captain had demanded immediate berthing and an audience with the Sauron High Command Council, almost certainly to request command of the Alliance elements of the fleet. When such permission was regretfully denied, the Quantrill’s captain peremptorily dispatched the prize ships with orders to head home to Burgess, and sullenly declared pressing need of his vessel in defense of Burgess interests elsewhere.

  Diettinger had demanded that the Quantrill and its prize ships be seized and the Quantrill herself interned, rather than allow any ship to leave Sauron System after seeing the fleet being assembled there.

  In the diplomatic disaster that followed, all three merchant ships were scuttled by their prize crews and the Quantrill herself was crippled beyond use, her vainglorious captain killed on his bridge and her crew imprisone
d incommunicado on one of Sauron’s penal asteroids.

  Diettinger had explained to High Command that the incident would only be an embarrassment if Burgess found out about it, and they certainly would not hear of it from him. Or, he added, from anyone else who had to leave Sauron System to tell them. Still, Diettinger had fully expected to be relieved of his command, until the Cyborg members of High Command voiced their approval of his action. It was exactly what he would expect from Cyborgs and, for once, he was glad they had a voice on the council.

  The final surprise had come two days later, when Captain Hawksley, commander of the Falkenberg, had publicly praised Diettinger’s handling of the incident. At first, Diettinger had found the impertinence of the man amusing. But as time had passed, he realized that the Burgess captain’s public statement of support had helped bring several vacillating commanders back into line, strengthening the resolve of the independent forces allied with Sauron for this last battle.

  Ultimately, Diettinger had decided this Hawksley might be the sort of person he was seeking for a particular purpose, and he planned to meet with him later in the week to discuss that very thing.

  II

  “What of the Claimant fleet from Aquitaine system, Second Rank?”

  “Nine capital ships and twenty support vessels, First Rank.”

  Diettinger stared at her. “Is that confirmed?”

  “No, First Rank,” Althene’s tone made it clear what she thought of such boasts. “So far Aquitaine has sent only one fast courier with the information on the composition of its fleet. The Claimant Viceroy of the Imperial sector which is administered from Aquitaine has sent word that all the ships in his task force are undergoing ‘last-minute upgrades with advanced weaponry from Aquitaine’s secret weapon-research facilities.’ That’s a quote.”

  “Has the word ‘claimant’ ever been so aptly used, Second Rank?” Diettinger asked rhetorically. “Let’s not count Aquitaine’s ships until they show up, shall we?”

  “Of course, First Rank.” After a brief silence, Althene added, “May I congratulate you, First Rank, on your promotion to Fleet First Rank? I wish to express my personal belief, as well as that of my fellow officers on your staff, that the honor is well-deserved.”

  Diettinger was looking at some point suspended in the air before him. “Thank you, Second Rank.” He turned to look up at her, and Althene was struck by something in his face. It was not an expression; rather, it was almost a glow to his skin, a shining of the eyes. There is a word for that look, she thought, and although she felt sure that she knew what that word was, before she could remember it, Diettinger said, “I know of no finer crew in the fleet.”

  Saurons did not praise lightly; excellence in performance was an expression of devotion to duty, and such devotion was expected, a cornerstone of Sauron society. Whatever the name for what she had seen in Diettinger’s face, it was forgotten in her own flush of pride. She had long since admitted to herself that she was in love with Galen Diettinger; now she knew that she would die for him as well.

  Diettinger thought a moment, then said, “What data have we regarding the commander of the Falkenberg?”

  “A detailed performance record, First Rank.”

  “Put it through to my quarters.”

  “At once, First Rank,” she lowered her head and left.

  After his Second Rank had left, Diettinger took a datachit from his desk. It could not be loaded in the Fomoria’s computer, not yet. To do so risked its being found, and its being found risked…

  Diettinger smiled, cheerlessly.

  Everything, he thought. Literally, everything.

  III

  Over two standard months had passed since Fomoria had returned to Sauron System, and Diettinger’s construction of a viable fleet had been little short of miraculous—even by Sauron standards of efficiency. Most of that fleet was comprised of transports for the legions of troops which would follow the main fleet into Sparta’s system after the fleet battle had been won, legions which would land upon the Empire’s capital world and win mastery of the stars for Sauron…and her allies, of course. All those worlds that had come to believe they could govern themselves more effectively than could an Empire whose only interest in them had come to be in their tax revenue.

  The bulk of the ships which would win the war were due back from Tanith any day. In fact, they were overdue, but no one in the High Command was concerned; rather the reverse. Every day which passed beyond the expected triumphal return brought a new round of confident affirmations that the destruction being visited upon the Imperial naval forces was that much greater. Phrases like “Good hunting,” “Target shooting” and “Object lesson” began making the rounds, as each person who commented on the still-absent First Fleet strove to find ever more positive interpretations for the delay.

  To ease some of the tension, and to allow the various Alliance commanders to meet one another and their Sauron counterparts, a gala had been arranged for commanders and senior staff. The event was being held in the main observation room of one of Sauron’s orbital space docks, one of the smaller installations left over from the days when Sauron could be visited by Imperial ships that did not carry triple-strength Langston Fields, firing nuclear torpedoes.

  Ironically, the event was catered by a firm from Aquitaine, which represented that political entity’s sole representation at the gala.

  The overhead observation dome was an illusion. It was certainly a dome and was indeed meant for observation, but the enhanced panorama of stars above and the arc of the Homeworld at the lower edge were projected by the same technology that made the Tactical Display on Fomoria’s bridge the best view on the ship. Here, however, no targeting enhancements were displayed—nor any other military data. From Orbital Station Four, the view was only for relaxation. The fact that it was projected onto the inside of armored walls a meter-and-a-half thick could, for the evening, be forgotten.

  By any standard, the gala could be judged a success. The mix of sexes was exactly equal, thanks to judicious balancing of invitations. Unlike many of their allies and all of the most loyal Imperial societies, Saurons made few sexual distinctions in their military, so the attractive brunette an Alliance captain might ask to dance could as easily be a Vessel First Rank as a Socio-Ops advisor. And whatever else could be said about them, even the Empire could not claim that Saurons were an ugly breed of humans; rather, the reverse held true.

  The evening therefore allowed dozens of individuals who had been cooped up for weeks aboard starships to relax, mingle and wonder what was holding up the real party; the one that would come the day after Sparta’s capitulation.

  If anyone was impatient, it was only because everyone was eager for that final drive on Sparta, and that drive could not begin without the return of the hundreds of victorious ships from Tanith. The captain of the Aquitaine courier (the Aquitaine fleet still had not arrived) winked and opined that the notorious Vessel—now Fleet—First Rank Galen Diettinger probably had more than enough ships right now to go in and take Sparta and every world in between.

  Diettinger smiled. “Aquitaine is on the way to Sparta, isn’t it?” he asked politely.

  Second Rank Adame grinned in return, as the Aquitaine captain began coughing and excused himself, saying his drink had gone down the wrong way.

  The New Ireland senior captain, Brian Connolly of the Banshee, cocked his head and favored Diettinger with a crooked smile. “That was a wicked thing to say, Your Grace.” The New Irelanders referred to all Fleet Commanders by aristocratic honorifics. They seemed to delight in their ability to use the phrase without sounding in the least deferential, and although Diettinger didn’t care for the title, he could afford some concessions to diplomacy.

  “My apologies, Captain Connolly. I confess my tolerance for fence-sitters is wearing thin.”

  “Hear, hear.” James Shannon lifted his glass. Again. “It’s my patience that’s thinning, Your Grace, that and my lads’ on the Ire. I hope we’ll not
hold back waiting for Aquitaine once your First Fleet returns from Tanith. The Ire will be ready to make Jump one minute after the first Sauron ship gets home.”

  Althene smiled at the affected accent and inflection of the New Irelanders. As man had spread out from Earth onto the colonized worlds that had started as the CoDominium and grown into the Empire, it had become a matter of racial and national pride to retain as much as could be remembered of the old, Earthly ways. She had heard that the lilting, musical patois of the New Irelanders’ Anglic was in perfect counterpoint to the rough highland brogue affected by New Scotland, a world as fiercely loyal to the Empire as New Ireland was devoted to her own independence. Animosity between the populations of the two planets was so great that it was a wonder either had ships to spare for the war efforts of their respective allies. But ships by the dozen and troops by the thousands had gone forth into battle from New Ireland and New Scotland since the beginning of the war. And in their dozens, and in their thousands, they had died.

  “Never doubt it, Your Grace,” Connolly added, and seeing the effect New Ireland speech patterns had on Diettinger’s extremely attractive Second Rank, turned to Shannon, “Sure now, Jamie, and if piss an’ vinegar were thrust and torpedoes, ye’d be in Sparta a month gone by, and that’s the truth.”

  Shannon turned an eye toward Althene and smiled wisely. No hope there, Brian, he thought to himself. This one’s taken and taken again. But I wonder if that dark-eyed lovely approaching us now—the one who conns the Damaris—is too awfully married?

  Diettinger, oblivious, turned to greet the new arrival and her escort. Emory was on the arm of a human norm nearly as tall as Diettinger himself. But whereas Diettinger was fair, solidly built, with flashes of humor that came frequently to his eyes, this man was darker, thinner, almost grim. Something about him made Althene uneasy, but not uncomfortable. His hair was nondescript; light brown or dirty blond, his eyes an equally indeterminate green-brown. He wore an unfamiliar uniform, severe in cut, sparing in decoration, almost Sauron. High black boots, dark blue-grey tunic and trousers, black epaulets, a single gunmetal star on each shoulder and one on each side of his black collar. A black sleeve-cuff on the left wrist of his tunic bore an ornate silver script which read: “Falkenberg.”