Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  It was all General Keene could do to keep from shaking his head in disgust. He didn’t even want to think of how quickly and decisively the Brigadier could deal with this ragtag Royal Army of Steele’s. A moment later, his attention was jerked from his own woes as he saw a sight that had never been seen on Haven before, a charging mass of armored knights right out of the storybooks of Earthly legend.

  Chapter Six

  As the blast of the second salvo died away, the man lurched to his feet. John Hamilton heard the whine of the electric winch opening the gates. The gate crept open halfway, then jammed.

  That was enough to show Hamilton a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Walls and columns of greasy black smoke, patches of red-orange flame, dead men and, even worse, the ones running around like human torches.

  Before Hamilton could be sick, he was helped up onto his horse and swept through the gate. After that he was too busy keeping up and staying upright in his saddle, with all the jostling of horses, to think of much else. He was an officer, after all, and not just any officer but the Baron’s grandson and heir. If he just behaved like a feudal warrior often enough, maybe everyone would believe he was one.

  John nearly lost both his nerve and his lunch as they began to squish across bodies and pieces of bodies, not to mention a few that moved when his horse stepped on them. Before he could react, though, he found himself facing a living man, on his feet and running at him pistol in hand. The assault rifle rose almost as if it had a will of its own and the man went down.

  A wall of thick gray smoke ribbed with black loomed ahead; John held his breath and charged through, hoping he wasn’t riding into a fire set by one of the incendiary warheads. He burst out the other side to see a solid mass of shaken and trembling men holding up their hands. Twenty armored figures faced them, weapons leveled. One began firing into the crowd before Hamilton ran up and knocked him down with the butt of his own rifle. Something had to be done, and quickly, or there would be a massacre that would taint everyone here today.

  “Surround the prisoners. Disarm them, and shoot anyone who tries to escape.” His voice seemed to carry the conviction that he knew what he was doing; the Whitehall men started herding the prisoners into a circle. Another score of armored men rode out of the smoke; Hamilton sent them off to secure any useable vehicles.

  By the time he heard engines coming to life he’d made a rough count of the prisoners. Between those in sight and those reported by other messengers, they ran well over two thousand. That was a problem he hadn’t expected. What are we going to with a mob like this? They didn’t have any place to house them, or enough food to feed them.

  Five more defenders tramped up; to Hamilton’s relief one of them was Master-at-Arms Cromwell. Now he understood one of the reasons for sergeants, to keep officers from having to stand around obviously not knowing what to do next. He gave Cromwell orders for getting the prisoners to whatever safety this battlefield offered, then went back through the gates to find his grandfather.

  The Baron was standing in the middle of the courtyard when John came through the gates. The next moment he was at his grandson’s side.

  “Are you all right, John?”

  “I’m fine, Grandfather. But I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Were our casualties heavy?”

  “Just a handful, and only two dead I’ve heard of. The missiles took most of the fight out of them, that is, those who knew how or what to fight. I never saw such a pathetic bunch of townies and down-and-outers. It would take years to turn that rabble into a real army. According to one of the prisoners, the only reason they didn’t hightail it after the first bombardment was their fear of getting shot in the back by Steele’s bodyguard.”

  The Baron nodded. “I didn’t expect much more than a rabble. Next time they’ll be better trained and prepared.”

  John winced, hoping this loss would take the fight out of them. He wasn’t looking forward to a rematch, especially one where they didn’t have surprise on their side.

  “The problem is we’ve got two thousand prisoners out there!”

  The Baron rubbed his hands together. “Good, good. That’s even better than I’d hoped for.”

  “What do you mean better? Where are we going to keep them? How are we going to feed them? If we can’t—”

  “Slow down, John. We need those men as badly as they need us, only they don’t know it yet.”

  “What?!”

  “John, how many able-bodied men do we have at Whitehall?”

  “Maybe three hundred, minus the casualties.” On one side of the courtyard he saw his sister bandaging some of the men-at-arms.

  “Right. Most of them are soldiers; they will be our knights. Where do you think we’ll get our peasants? Remember, a lord has to be self-sufficient. That means a labor force to turn this place back into a working farm. The estates of our friends and allies, too.”

  John laughed. “I should have known you’d have it all figured out, Grandfather. But there’s going to be more fighting before we can put crops in the ground.”

  “I know. I’m going to offer the prisoners an opportunity to take an oath. After putting in a few weeks building the new outer wall, I don’t think many will turn us down. It’s a long walk back to Castell, through hostile territory. All those farmers and villagers Steele terrorized on the ride here will be wanting payback. Those who do leave won’t be able to go along on the raid. They’ll miss the chance for women and booty—”

  “What raid? Women? Where?”

  “The cars and trucks that still run are going right back to Castell, carrying our soldiers. I think those clowns in the city need a few lessons on how to conduct a raid.”

  It made sense once John thought it over. A few raids on the outskirts of Castell City, and David Steele would be too busy defending his capital city to think of stealing anybody’s gold and silver. Either that or he’d be booted off his gimcrack “throne” for failing to defend his people. And since he’d probably lost a good percentage of his trustworthy officers in the attempt on Whitehall…

  “Grandfather, I almost feel sorry for David Steele. He should have remembered something when he decided to fight you.”

  “What, John?”

  “‘Don’t start anything you can’t finish.’”

  Part Two

  THE COMING OF THE EYE

  Chapter Seven

  HAVEN 2640 A.D.

  At the point in the Byers System where the physics of Albert Einstein ended and the physics of revisionist Dan Alderson began, a tramline existed, along which ships with the Alderson Drive could leap with very little effort from star to star.

  That Point now shifted, its substance altered slightly, and the near emptiness of space was filled with several hundred thousand cubic tons displacement of starship.

  Strapped into an acceleration couch on the bridge was Vessel First Rank Galen Diettinger of the Sauron Fleet heavy cruiser Fomoria. He stirred slightly in the command seat, waiting for the lag effect of the latest Alderson Jump to wear off. As his vision cleared, Diettinger realized he could make out some of the details of the bridge surrounding him. Fire had blackened much of the room, while smoke still drifted lazily in the red glow of the combat lights.

  Somehow, they had made it. In Diettinger’s mind was an image of the Homeworld as they had jumped. Firestorms and mushroom clouds pockmarked the land. Even the seas churned as the Imperial warships sought out the undersea cities. A great red gash ran along the equatorial continent as the Imperial assaults split the planet’s crust, while in the sky above the bright lights of the Homeland’s hopelessly outnumbered fleet pulsed as each ship died. All but one.

  Diettinger stood, stretched, and stepped down on wobbling legs to stand behind Second Rank.

  It was quickly ascertained that a supernova explosion had caused a failure in the random Jump procedure that he’d used to set the course during their journey to the Wayforth Alderson tramline. Second Rank had speculated: “Theorists at the univers
ity speculate that a supernova explosion would produce extreme amounts of Alderson force, causing temporary super-long tramlines to form.” She further theorized that the Alderson disruption must have affected every Alderson tramline within the Empire of Man, meaning that—for now—the Fomoria had successfully evaded their Imperial pursuers.

  Whatever the cause, the result was that they had landed in an unknown system hundreds of light-years away from the Comstock Alderson Point they had been aiming for. He ordered: “Summon Weapons and Engineering to the bridge; wardroom meeting of all command ranks in ten minutes.”

  Second Rank Althene began calling the various personnel at their jump stations.

  “Positional fix,” he said to the Navigation officer beyond Second Rank’s duty station. Navigation shook his head.

  “Nothing yet, Dicta—Sorry, nothing yet, First Rank. Very low energy emission signals from the system overall. Looks like a real backwater.”

  Diettinger frowned. Good, and not good. A place to repair and refit the Fomoria would have been ideal, but would likely be heavily defended as well. And they had no strength to secure such. Next best thing would have been an area in which they could hide, and this system seemed to fill the bill nicely. But after their escape from three squadrons of Imperial heavy fighters, that would mean two pieces of extreme good fortune in a very short time.

  Diettinger might believe in luck, but he did not trust that much of it at one time.

  The hatch behind him opened, and Engineering stepped through. The Weapons officer accompanying him was bleeding from an arm wound—not serious. Few injuries that did not kill a Sauron outright were.

  “Position identified, sir.” Navigation announced.

  “Speak.”

  “The Haven System is unusual in every way. Haven, the moon of the gas giant, is the only settled body. Byers IV—generally known as the Cat’s Eye—is located far outside the normal habitable zone for a G2 star; but being approximately one-point-three Jupiter masses, the gas giant provides sufficient radiant energy to keep much of Haven marginally tolerable.

  “The moon is an old CoDominium relocation colony, Imperial since the Earth Exodus. We’re really on the fringes, sir. Files show no Imperial presence in this area of the Sector for almost a decade. The last Imperial Governor and his staff left in 2623.”

  Diettinger nodded. Turning to the Weapons officer, he asked, “Status?”

  “Point defense systems at thirty-percent. Main armament intact, auto-mechanisms down. Repair estimate of thirty hours with materials and crew on hand.”

  Diettinger almost smiled. He did not expect interstellar fighter craft on a world abandoned by the Imperials. The Alderson malfunction had carried them far away from the front lines. So point defense didn’t really matter. But the main armament could shoot, if not yet aim. He had expected the news from Weapons to be far more depressing. On that account, Engineering did not disappoint him.

  “Jump-Core failure. Total. Maneuvering fuel down to twenty-percent from a hull breach, four maneuvering engines down, one beyond repair.” That left Fomoria with two currently operational, out of six. “Internal systems now running on cells. Cells damaged. Forty-percent destroyed, twenty-percent damaged, forty-percent operative. Langston Field generator irreparably damaged during last Jump.”

  “You have discretion on manpower and materials necessary for repairs,” Diettinger told Engineering. The loss of the Langston Field meant that any ship-to-ship action would be fatal. It also eliminated the possibility of erecting the Field on Haven. While the last Jump had gotten them outside the Empire’s authority, it had also destroyed their defensive capability. They were now fully committed to resettling in the Haven System—no matter what.

  He turned to Weapons. “Dismantle half of the remaining point defense systems and pack them for transport. All repair is to be directed toward returning the main armament to ready status. Rig all ordnance for planetary bombardment. Calibrate beam stations for precision surface interaction ops.”

  Weapons barely raised an eyebrow as he saluted and turned to follow Engineering out the hatch.

  Diettinger turned back to Second Rank. She was frowning in obvious puzzlement.

  “Wide scan status, Second.”

  “No interplanetary traffic or communications, First Rank. An automated refueling station in orbit around an inner gas giant. Source of all non-automated signals and emissions is the same gas giant’s moon.”

  Diettinger scowled. That makes three pieces of luck, he thought. Well, perhaps he was garnering some of the lost good fortune from all the billions of members of the Race they’d left for dead, on and above Sauron. The scowl became a rueful smile. Now he was really becoming superstitious.

  He consulted the chronometer implanted in his skull: two minutes to the wardroom meeting. Diettinger turned back to Second Rank.

  “When Engineering has maneuver up and running, make for the automated refueling station. Approach from Haven’s blind side. Avoid at all costs any detection or other satellites. Inform me when we’re on final approach to the station.”

  Chapter Eight

  I

  John Hamilton knocked on the heavy ironwood door. Why doesn’t anyone tell me what’s going on around here? he asked himself for about the fiftieth time. According to the latest kitchen rumors, Ingrid Cummings was on her way to Whitehall. Not if I have anything to do about it.

  “Come in,” his grandfather’s voice called out. It was a gravelly voice used to command. John couldn’t help but jerk to attention.

  “It’s me, Grandfather,” John said.

  His grandfather was seated at his work desk, a former oak partners desk that some long-deceased lawyer had brought to Haven in a fit of optimism. For as much as it weighed, he could have brought in a small auto-car instead.

  “I heard that Ingrid Cummings was coming to visit—”

  The Baron shook his head. “Too many busybodies in this castle. Yes, Ingrid’s coming to stay with us.”

  “For how long?” he interjected, unable to hear the old man out.

  The Baron banged his hand on the oak desk hard enough to bring one of the retainers into the chamber.

  “Is everything okay, Your Lordship?”

  “Yes, Duncan. You can leave.”

  “Thank you, Your Lordship,” the servant replied.

  John was still amazed at how quickly the staff had taken to their new roles and life in the refurbished castle. It’s like they shuck off another century every time I turn around.

  “The Brigadier asked me if Ingrid could stay for a while as a personal favor. It’s not safe for a young woman these days in Castell City; you know that? If you don’t, you should.”

  The Baron wasn’t usually this waspish. Things must be going to hell faster than I thought, John surmised. “I know that the constables are having trouble maintaining order there.”

  “According to Gary, it’s worse than that. He’s getting ready to pull out the Volunteers; he says it’s not safe for them anymore. The gangs and criminals have taken over the city. The Brigadier doesn’t have enough men to restore order, nor does he want to. ‘Soldiers make bad cops,’ was his last word on the subject.”

  The Baron snorted. “What’s Haven coming to when her soldiers are no longer safe on the streets of the capital.”

  John started to open his mouth.

  “Don’t answer, it’s a rhetorical question.”

  “But why send her here?”

  “Because I told him that if he ever needed a refuge for his family, we’d take care of them here in Greensward. We owe him a lot; without his help we’d have been at the mercy of that band of marauders who were raiding the countryside last fall.”

  John nodded, remembering the caravan of ramshackle cars and trucks that had made their way into the province; it was similar to King David’s attack twelve years ago. The raiders had hit several small farms before the Baron found out about them. When he did, he’d sent their liegemen (too few to call an army) t
o fight them with some of the neighbors. The raiders hadn’t expected to find an armed opponent and were quickly dispatched. The armored cars had taken quite a toll of their vehicles, less than a dozen of them had escaped. The rest had been killed; those that had been captured had been hanged from the nearest trees as warnings. He still had to stifle a gag as he recalled the scores of hanging men, their faces a livid purple, some with distended tongues…the stench was ghastly.

  II

  Brigadier Gary Edmund Cummings, commander of the Haven Volunteers, stared out of the Turbocopter’s cockpit and down at Castell City. The city’s linear streets were almost empty of motorized traffic with the exception of an occasional white motorcar. For the most part, only horse-drawn wagons, carts, coaches, bicycles and pedcabs traveled the thoroughfares of the capital. All motorized vehicles were under government control and ownership. Traffic was light, especially for the major arteries of a planetary capital—no matter how humble. Except for an occasional smoke plume from some factory, he might have been back on Earth in the Eighteenth Century.

  Cummings’ thoughts drifted back to when he’d first landed at Splash Island—eighteen years ago—to organize the evacuation of the Seventy-seventh Division of the Imperial Marines. In those days Castell City had been a bustling metropolis; nothing, of course, compared to major cities on Sparta, or even Churchill, but respectable. The streets were full of motorized vehicles, private cars and trucks, all the modern conveniences of a major city.

  Castell was a city in rapid decline; there was no denying it. Imperial Plaza was still the hub of the city, with streets radiating out in strict geometric precision. The former Imperial Viceroy’s Palace was a mound of blackened rubble—another relic of the War of Liberation, along with hundreds of other ruins that had once been factories, buildings and apartment blocks.