by John F. Carr
A familiar double knock at the ironwood door broke him out of his depressing analysis. “Come in.”
It was Sergeant-Major Slater, his top noncom and the man who single-handedly kept the Volunteers in tiptop shape. He had been with the Brigadier since the day he’d been promoted and transferred to command the Seventy-seventh Imperial Marine Division.
“It’s your wife, sir. She won’t leave. We thought about carrying her off, but—”
“No, you did right, Sergeant-Major,” Cummings said, shaking his head woefully. Short of abduction, which would completely sever the last bonds between them forever, there was little he could do to force Laura to leave her home. He had tried every persuasion and blandishment known to man, and a few invented right on the spot, during his last visit.
The sad part was he understood her motives completely. Laura was nearing the end of her life and wanted to leave this world she hated in the only comfortable surroundings she knew. Certainly, she would hate the hustle-bustle and confines of Fort Kursk. He thought of having Helga try and talk her mother into staying with her and Ralph, but remembered the last time he’d asked his daughter to talk some sense into her mother. Helga had left in tears, after Laura had attempted character assassination upon her beloved husband.
Frankly, the Brigadier didn’t think much of Ralph Haverstok either; he’d never pass muster in the Brigade. But he was a good husband to Helga and father to their three children. Besides, their home in the Castell suburb of Trinity wasn’t much safer than where Laura was living now.
“Sir, I left Sergeant Constantine and a squad to secure the property.”
The Brigadier nodded. Sam Constantine was one of the top sergeants in the Brigade and would give his life to see that no harm came to the Brigadier’s wife.
“How many men?”
“A squad, sir. Enough to secure the perimeter. I left them with enough assault rifles and ammunition to hold off half of the Castell Guard.”
Cummings smiled. “They could, too.” The house had purposely been built on a steep rise and the walls were quarter-inch durasteel covered with ferro-concrete foam. Any force, short of a military company, who thought they could besiege that house was in for a rude surprise. Inside that fortress those eleven men were worth a hundred times their number.
“Well done, old friend.”
The Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable, but Cummings knew that deep inside he was touched.
A vigorous knock at the door interrupted him again.
The Sergeant-Major, his pistol flap unsnapped and hand on the grip, opened the door slowly.
“Major Hendricks to report to the Brigadier, Sergeant Major.”
Slater relaxed and let the Major into the office. Hendricks was a short, broad man built like a fireplug; yet he had surprising quickness, and many of those who had mistaken his girth for slowness had paid a costly price.
“Come in, Major.”
“Brigadier, I have some urgent dispatches.”
“Can you provide a verbal summation, Major?” He pointed to his desk, covered with stacks of documents and reports.
“Of course, sir. It’s the locals. Last night, Boss Rodriguez hijacked a barge of beer and took it into Docktown for a recruiting drive.”
“I know, I was briefed last night.” With a local power vacuum, since the Deputies were too busy with planetary affairs to manage the city, a number of local bossmen and racketeers had set up shop within Castell’s borders. Rodriguez was a new one, and more ruthless than most. Anton Leung thought he had the makings of another David Steele, given that he survived and consolidated his power for another five years. Actually, the Brigadier wished him success, since keeping eyes on one big boss was easier than keeping track and cleaning up after a dozen.
“Well, the party went on all night until they burned about half of Docktown down to the foundations. Then someone decided it was time to ‘liberate’ some of the loot from Bayside, which was only a few streets away.”
Bayside was home to most of those who had retained what wealth there was to be had in the capital these days. Several Deputies and their friends had houses there.
“The Castell City Fathers had been okay with the insurrection as long as the rioters burned their own homes. When it threatened the Deputies’ own property, they put half the police force and most of the Castell Guard into fighting the rioters.”
“Good, that will keep them from our gates.”
“True, Brigadier. But I just got a call from Deputy Speaker Sanderson and he wants you to use the Militia to stop the rioting. It seems that some of the rioters are as heavily armed as the guardsmen. Most of the police have already withdrawn.”
The Brigadier shook his head. “Of course, once again they want us to pull their chestnuts out of the fire.”
The Major looked confused.
“It’s an old Earth saying. Never seen a chestnut myself, but heard they’re some sort of edible tree seed. Old English lives on in Anglic and Americ. So what’s your recommendation, Major?”
The Major, who knew of the Brigadier’s fondness for tossing hot coals into the laps of subordinates, had obviously come prepared.
“Well, I think this so-called riot is too well organized to be the spontaneous outburst it’s supposed to appear to be. I believe that one of the big bossmen is using Rodriguez as a cat’s-paw to see just what he can get away with. Test the Guard and Constabulary at the same time; all for the price of a few thousand dead drunks and hard cases.
“If he’s successful, he might let it continue right into downtown Castell, or maybe aim it towards Melody. We could have a city-wide insurrection on our hands this time tomorrow.”
“Excellent briefing, Major. I agree with all of your basic assumptions. What do you suggest should be the Brigade’s response?”
“I think it would be both good local politics and a good lesson for the Bosses if we took two armored companies into Docktown and restored order. Curfew at dusk. Anyone outside after curfew will be shot without warning. All arms surrendered. All bars and taverns closed. The usual drill.”
“Well put, Major.” Cummings pulled out his keyboard, made a few quick strokes and a document appeared on the printer plate. “Here are your orders. You can take Companies Baker and Jury. It’s your baby, Major. Godspeed.”
“Thank you, sir.” He saluted, spun around and was out the door.
Sergeant-Major Slater smiled. “I can remember when that one didn’t know enough to get out of the rain.”
The Brigadier smiled back. “We’ve turned a lot of boys into good men over the years, Sergeant-Major. I believe he was one of yours.”
“For the first few years. You provided the polish, as I remember.”
The Brigadier paused to relight his pipe. He inhaled slowly, then let loose with a small cloud of smoke. “Maybe we’ve done some good here, after all. Sometimes I honestly don’t know. Things are so bad that it’s hard, until a riot like this starts, to imagine them getting much worse. Then suddenly they do and I don’t know if we’ve done our job. I don’t believe this is what Marshal Blaine had in mind when he gave me the job of keeping Haven a peaceful and loyal vassal to the Empire.”
Sergeant-Major Slater bestowed one of his rare smiles. “Sorry, Brigadier, but I believe this is exactly what the Marshal had in mind. He was a historian before the War.”
II
On the main continent of Haven, along the densely populated equatorial region of the Shangri-La Valley, the last remaining operational orbital surveillance monitoring station was entering its Trueday duty shift. Warren Delancey arrived at work with the pastry and hot morning tea typical of clerks throughout the universe.
An off-worlder might have noticed the starchiness of the pastry and the poor flavor of the tea, but Delancey had grown up in the years of Haven’s decline, before the Empire had finally left for good. Good tea was for him but a dim memory. And Haven had not seen off-worlders for a long time.
Delancey’s duties now consist
ed mostly of simple study. The last merchant ship to come through the system had been an independent trader five or six years ago, bearing a paltry few hundred tons of marginally useful items, whose captain and crew had admitted to coming to Haven only out of desperation. Delancey sighed.
No point dwelling on the past, he thought. And nothing to be gained. Today’s task at hand greeted him in the form of a hundred pages of manuscript.
“What’s this?” His assistant, a young student named Alec Farmen, idly (and rather rudely, Delancey thought) picked up the manuscript and began flipping through it.
“Orbital data program from the University. They want data on the degree of oscillation—”
“—oscillation in the storm ‘pupil’ of Cat’s Eye, right?” Alec finished Delancey’s sentence, dropped the manuscript in disgust and collapsed sprawling into a chair. “God, how can you stand it, Warren?”
Delancey scowled. He did not much care for being called by his first name by a fellow ten years his junior, but what could you expect from young people these days? Rude, undisciplined, sullen. Since the economy had collapsed, there wasn’t much in the way of jobs. Most youngsters went straight from their farms or the city into one bullyboy private army or another.
As for Alec Farmen, well, his usefulness was unquestioned. He could tinker about and fix nearly any piece of equipment they had here at the station, but God—he could be irritating. He stayed on at University only because he couldn’t abide even the poor discipline a paramilitary life might force on him in the service of one boss or another.
The University of Haven, Delancey thought. A center of learning; he almost snorted. Everyone knew the University had become a joke. The Chamber of Deputies only kept it open because it was a symbol of Haven’s unity. They didn’t provide much in the way of funds so the Board of Regents were nothing but a rubber stamp for the dictator, Enoch Redfield, who supported it as a source of technology. To Redfield, and others like him, technology meant weapons.
In the twelve years since David Steele’s rise to power, three things had been occurring on Haven: The Planetary Chamber of Deputies had never regained their rule over Haven, instead they barely held control of Castell City and the surrounding suburbs; rival city-states and countries tried to absorb or kill each other off, while Haven itself tried to kill everybody. The moon had never been hospitable, only tolerable. Now, with the high technology and industrial strength of the Empire fading rapidly from memory…
“…going on, I mean, how would we know?” Alec was speaking to him. Or, more accurately, at him.
“Eh? What did you say?” he asked.
The young man heaved the great, expansive sigh of all youth at the stupidity of those in charge. “I said, if the war had ended or was still going on, how would we know about it? I read the newspaper every day. I see the same pointless Tamerlane shit”—Delancey started at the vulgarity—“in the ‘News of the Empire’ section year after year. There’s nothing ‘new’ about any of it; it’s all recycled filler material. The Emperor’s third cousin’s seventh niece has married the same minor lord about fifteen times, now, by my count.”
Alec leaned toward Delancey. “I mean, when was the last time you actually read or even heard of a message packet from Coreward, eh, Warren?”
Delancey shook his head, more in exasperation than commiseration. Of course Haven had been abandoned by the Empire, but her people hadn’t yet given up hope that it was only a retreat, not a withdrawal. Alec’s generation was growing up with the stigma of that abandonment, knowing it for what it was.
“Alec, just do your job, all right? Just get to work, and…” at a loss for words, Delancey finally just grabbed the manuscript and thrust it at the younger man. “And do your job, yes?” he repeated.
Alec rose and stalked off, the pages of the manuscript fluttering in the speed of his departure.
Paper, Delancey thought. I remember when everything was on datapads. Paper was only found in books in museums… But batteries are scarce, and getting more so. While paper production is basically low-tech. We are already running out of spares for the shuttles…and when this thing comes tumbling down, we’ll lose our last link to the Empire…
Delancey turned back to his terminal. The equipment had been old twenty years ago, and now the data line at the bottom of the screen had actually burned into the panel.
Delancey shrugged. People got set in their ways. Why shouldn’t their machines? He suspected the data line had stopped working right years ago. Not that it had mattered. Nothing ever happened in the Haven System, anyway.
The screen display showed no readings within range of Haven’s remaining surveillance satellites. If there had been any activity, a section of the data line would have flashed amber and Delancey could have called up enhancement.
III
“Until off-world communication from Haven is neutralized, nothing is to be done or used that will identify us as Saurons.” Diettinger was briefing the Survey ranks in the wardroom. They would be charged with the initial reconnaissance of Haven, and their mission would carry several restrictions crucial to its success—and to the continued survival of the Sauron Race.
The Survey Rank replied, “This may be an unreasonable worry, First Rank. The closest Imperial planet by distance is more than forty light-years from Haven, and a dozen Alderson Jumps away. It’s unlikely that a message would arrive there in time to halt the invasion.”
“This is to be our new Homeworld,” Diettinger replied. “I don’t want any message—even if it takes a hundred years to arrive—to leave this system that might announce our survival to the Empire. Our physiognomy is unmistakably Sauron; there is little we can do about that, except for our troops to avoid visual observation until the landing is secured. By then, it won’t matter. Should any of the cattle”—it was the Sauron term for any noncombatant, not an insult—“or their military manage to send off a message announcing their plight, they must think they are being attacked by pirates or Outie raiders.”
Second Rank Adame added, “These days, with the Empire collapsing, no one will bother to respond to another intersystem dispute or pirate raid.”
Diettinger took a sip of water. There were only two thousand gallons left aboard and, with the ship’s recyclers offline, it was strictly rationed until more could be obtained during the Ayesha refueling station takeover. “You have the data I asked for, Second?”
Second Rank’s face showed frank disapproval. She was a Soldier, and while her training taught the wisdom of covert actions, this latest wrinkle did not sit well with her.
“Yes, First Rank. Pirates in these outlying sectors name their ships and outfit their ground forces after myths; an expression of the swaggering attitude prevalent among the criminal element in human norms. Of such fictions extant throughout this arm of the Empire, those of Earth origin are still the most widely known. There is an ironic appeal to the one I’ve chosen. It fits both our needs and character, and even contains a reference to our racial name; an interesting note, as the origin of the word ‘Sauron’ is largely unknown.”
Now it was Diettinger’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I just said there was to be no connection, Second Rank. Is this an act of rebellion against your new status as a noncombatant?”
The wardroom went still as Second Rank’s temper flared silently in her eyes. Before speaking, Althene calmed sufficiently to remove the edge from her voice.
“Respectfully, First Rank, it is not. The myth is taken from an obscure piece of adventure fiction from pre-CoDominium times. It possesses several almost complete artificial languages, one of which has many tonal qualities and guttural expressives designed to evoke specific racial responses in readers of standard Anglic. The language therefore is even useful as a code, since my records indicate that the work of fiction from which the whole myth derives has long since sunk into oblivion.”
Diettinger listened to Second Rank’s defense with some enjoyment. He had always thought her verbose for a Sauron. Seco
nd Rank’s need to justify her actions was, he suspected, what had kept her from First Rank status.
“Using the myth,” Second Rank continued more calmly, “requires the alteration of our uniforms to a small degree, as well as the configuration of our ground-attack fighters and the transponders on the Fomoria herself.”
“Acceptable. See that it’s done. First modify the fighter craft. I want very large markings of whatever style you’ve chosen. Use them in several low-level attacks to announce our presence to the locals. The temporary billets in the docking bay will have to be moved. Supply ranks are assigned that task.”
The Survey ranks acknowledged the orders and left to carry them out.
Diettinger considered a moment. “You have a recording of this ‘obscure work of fiction,’ Second Rank?” he asked.
“Fragments only, First Rank.”
“Let me see it.”
Second Rank produced the wafer. It was labeled on one side: DOMINANCE MYTHS/HUMAN NORMS/TERRENE. Most likely from one of the Breedmaster’s political research tracts, but possibly from Second Rank’s private collection; she was rumored to be something of an anthropologist as well as an historian.
The other side of the tape bore its title. Diettinger read it aloud.
“The Lord of the Rings…” he said. Perhaps Second Rank was right, he thought. There was a sort of power in those words, at that.
Chapter Eleven
I
The Fomoria refueled without incident at the automated refueling station tethered to Ayesha, one of the small moons orbiting Cat’s Eye. Meanwhile, her surviving orbital fighters were making low level runs to the surface of Haven, then back out to a close orbit. Their occasional strafing attacks on communication centers were accompanied by false signals to the “pirate fleet” standing off from Haven, supposedly in orbit around Cat’s Eye.
