From even higher than the towers overhead, the sonic boom of First Rank Diettinger’s shuttle fell on the Cyborg’s ears to no response but a faint sigh. Standing there on the brink of that precipice, at the terminator line separating the shadow of the mountains behind him from the sunlit valley before, Koln felt as divided as he looked. He was filled with a sense of impending conflict and yet, typically Sauron, even this was clearly divided into two clear choices: To turn, and re-enter the ranks of the society which must now be built? Or take a single, brief step out into that abyss that began ten centimeters from his boots and ended more than a thousand feet below? Cyborg Rank Koln sighed again, dispiritedly.
Alas, I would probably survive such a fall no worse than crippled. Koln’s jaw clenched at the thought of such an injury, for surely it was now beyond the capability of such meager resources as the Saurons had brought to Haven to repair him. And then he would truly be a slave of the Breedmasters, who would be only too happy to have at their disposal--literally--a Cyborg whose only value was his seed.
Turning sharply enough to swing half his bulk out over that vertiginous gulf, Koln left the precipice and returned to meet the First Rank’s shuttle. And although he was still six levels below the Citadel’s landing pad, he could hear the cheers of greeting from the Soldiers above.
Climbing the steep paths cut decades before into the stone of the mountainside, Koln reflected that while he had turned away from one brink, it would not be long before he must come to another; and the step he took then would have far greater consequences than the death of one lone Cyborg.
Galen Diettinger sat before the assembled staff of his last naval command, the Fomoria--re-named the “Dol Guldur” as a ruse de guerre to initially persuade the Haveners that they were being attacked by pirates. Now the name seemed to be a sort of jest among the younger crewmembers; one which showed no sign of losing its appeal.
Around the table were an even dozen section heads of all the most important functions aboard a combat starship. Overnight, they had been transformed into governmental ministers. Yesterday they had been smoothly integrated members of a military chain of command, today they were counselors. They had not yet begun to explore their new capabilities of limited disobedience. But he knew they would, in time.
Nor had Diettinger avoided a metamorphosis of his own. His place at the head of the table was now the seat of the First Citizen of the Sauron State of Haven. The collar tabs that had borne the insignia of a First Rank-- the stark, white bar on a black field--had been replaced with the single round gem studs that symbolized the ruler of all the Sauron people. Or at least all those known to remain alive, anyway.
The subtle changes in his uniform had been carefully engineered by his wife. Despite unanimous acceptance of his new status as First Citizen by the survivors of the Fomoria, the First Lady had left nothing to chance. A trained historian and behavioralist, Althene had been careful to combine elements of his new appearance which proclaimed his civilian authority while reminding all who saw him of its recent military roots; to the Sauron mind, its only possible justification.
Althene had not been able to find diamonds of the proper size for his collar tabs, but a Third Ranker had returned from a patrol with a captured set of Haven shimmerstones, and she had suggested that they might serve as well. Having enjoyed something of a vogue centuries before in the CoDominium era and the Early Empire, the stones were in fact far more valuable than mere diamonds. Better still, they were unique to Haven, and as such, Diettinger had decided that they were far more appropriate to their function than diamonds would have been.
All that remained of his link with the Fomoria was the “vessel” badge that had defined just what he had been First Rank of; a gun-metal pin over his left breast depicting a Sauron starship in profile over a five-pointed star. Scarcely two inches across, the pin was a subtle but striking reminder of his origins.
So the preparations for his first performance were complete. With none of the trepidation of a lesser actor, Diettinger took his first step onto the stage of state.
“This will be brief,” Diettinger informed the officer ranks gathered in the newly-constructed conference room. “Deathmaster Quilland; the wreckage of the Fomoria constitutes a tremendous quantity of metal. Detail survey teams to ascertain the extent of radiation damage to its component materials. Cyborg Rank Koln.”
“First--Citizen.”
Diettinger ignored Koln’s nearly imperceptible pause. “Radiation levels of the wreckage must be assumed dangerous to Sauron norms. Coordinate with Breedmaster Caius and detach sufficient Cyborg Pathfinder troops to Deathmaster Quilland’s command to allow completion of ordered surveys in seventy-two standard hours.”
The Lady Althene, Diettinger’s former Second Rank aboard the Fomoria and now his wife here on Haven, scarcely contained her surprise. She flashed a glance at her husband that promised this matter would be discussed further, in private, and at length. Diettinger appeared not to notice.
“Weapons; status of aerospace equipment?”
“Twenty-three operational vehicles, First Citizen; nine shuttles and fourteen atmospheric fighters. Three shuttles are no longer capable of interplanetary operations, one has damaged engines, operating at eighty percent efficiency. Nine fighters have lost assured vacuum integrity and are not presently approved for supra-orbital operations. Six are repairable to full operational status, but parts will have to be fabricated. This may prove impossible, and will depend greatly on the condition of such local heavy industrial and high technology fabrication facilities as have survived our invasion.”
“Ordnance quantities?”
“Lavish, First Citizen. Enough for several dozen times as many spacecraft.”
Diettinger nodded. “Completely dismantle two shuttles and three fighters and cannibalize them for parts. Store any surplus; where practical, use such items as masters when fabricating replacements. Have the remaining eighteen vehicles at full operational status within seventy-two hours.”
Weapons nodded. Aboard the Fomoria, when the First Rank had said “within,” it meant as immediately as Sauron skills could bring it about, and to notify him as quickly. It was a matter of personal pride that Weapons’ skills and those of his staff could bring about such things very immediately indeed, and he had no intention of letting such a record lapse in service to the First Citizen. Weapons looked up at Diettinger. “Also, First Citizen--”
“Proceed.”
“Substantial amounts of indigenous aircraft have been captured intact by Deathmaster Quilland’s patrols. We have many pilot-rated Soldiers who trained on similar aircraft; such equipment would increase our air capability substantially, in addition to being much easier to maintain and repair with available local materials.”
“Very well.” Diettinger turned to Quilland. “Also, issue commendations for those patrols, Deathmaster.”
Quilland acknowledged the compliment, then spoke: “Request, First Citizen.” Quilland was holding a datapad, the screen of which showed several maps with enhanced outlines.
“Speak.”
“Pacification raids into the surrounding hillsides would impress upon the cattle that loss of our capital ship in no way alters our combat capabilities.”
“Refused. Recovery of the Fomoria debris and securing the immediate zone around the Citadel are more important at present. Such raids will be postponed until Weapons Rank has fully restored our air strike capability.”
Althene had to restrain herself at that; this was not the time or place to confront her husband. The First Lady was counselor to the First Citizen, no more. She certainly could not challenge him in front of his staff. But to give the cattle any breathing space at this juncture was, she felt, the height of folly.
Still, she said nothing. But she allowed herself a rueful little inward smile. As Second Rank, I could have brought up the subject now, in the meeting. But I can wait, the former Second Rank thought. As First Lady, I will have to.
She loo
ked at her husband for a moment, and decided the trade had been worth it.
As the last member of his staff left the room, Diettinger stood and circled the table, unfastening the collar of his tunic as he reached his wife’s chair. He kissed Althene---until three weeks ago his Second Rank, now the First Lady of the new Sauron chief of state--and watched her stand and cross the room to open one of the windows that looked down on the courtyard of the Citadel.
Earlier, immediately after the brief ceremony formalizing Diettinger’s ascension to First Citizen, she had stood beside her husband and presided over memorial services for the Sauron dead, those fallen during the fortnight-long invasion of Haven and the seizure of the approaches to its Shangri La Valley. Like all humans, Saurons too required the rites of passage that allowed them to bury their dead so that they might return their full attention to the concerns of the living. From the window, Althene watched as Medical Ranks moved among the bodies of the Soldiers which lay in state in the courtyard, marking any remaining usable organs for collection, to be excised and stored for future transplant use. When they had finished, Breedmaster Caius and his aides took extensive genetic samplings for tissue cloning and embryonic production; what remained after that would pass on to the
Supply Ranks, to be rendered into fertilizer for the cultivations being planned for the spring.
“A Sauron wastes nothing and wants for less.” She repeated the adage from her childhood, and Diettinger half turned at the sound of her voice.
“Hm? Why did you say that?”
Althene closed the window and went to her husband. “Just an expression; characteristic, I think, of the Race.” She lifted her hand and traced with her finger the patch covering the empty wound beneath Diettinger’s left eyebrow. “We should be sure to instruct them to save an eye for you.”
Diettinger smiled. “Already growing bored with my piratical good looks?”
“Hardly,” she smiled, stepping into his arms. “But the First Citizen can’t have any weaknesses. Certainly nothing so strikingly noticeable--nor even so dashing--as an eye patch.” She frowned, troubled by a new thought. “And there’s no telling how much longer we’ll have the technological capability for such surgery.”
Diettinger put a hand in Althene’s hair and tucked her head under his chin. “I’ll talk to Caius about it in the morning. There’s still much to do today.”
They stood together silently for a moment, until finally Diettinger spoke again: “You want to talk about the meeting.”
Althene stepped away from him, composed and ready. “Indeed. You have made two decisions which I regard as grievous errors.”
“The Cyborgs, of course,” Diettinger acknowledged, “And the other?”
Althene sat down, resting her elbows on the high arms of her chair and lacing her fingertips together before her. “The other can wait for the moment. The Cyborg issue alone is enough to bring everything to ruin.”
Diettinger’s expression did not change, but Althene felt positive he was smiling. He had always had an ironic, even mocking sense of humor. Among Saurons, he would have been considered flippant had his combat record not been so formidable.
But since the Fall of Sauron--Oh, how those words sound in my heart, she thought. They capitalize themselves, making me feel we are still falling--but since that day, Galen’s humor has been on the wane. Some remains; only now I fear it is changing into something grim, something bitter. Perhaps even hopeless.
“Well?” Diettinger asked quietly, and Althene realized she had allowed herself to become distracted. That would not do. “Galen, you have made it clear that the Cyborgs are valuable to the future of the Sauron race. Surely you also realize that they constitute a dangerous challenge to your authority as First Citizen.”
“Which authority has already been formally established.” He never took his eyes away from hers as he answered; it was a gesture of respect, not a tactic of debate.
“Yet you endanger it by your actions as soon as you receive it. At this point, the stabilization of your status as First Citizen of this fledgling Sauron state is of far greater importance to the future of the race than maintaining a breeding stable of Cyborg Super Soldiers. You represent a link to our societal past. In time, the acceptance of your status as First Citizen and your establishment of a dynasty will provide us with both direction and focus for a societal future.” She leaned forward, taking his right hand in both of her own.
“Galen; Saurons are soldiers. We even call ourselves that, as often as not interchangeably with the name ‘Sauron’. And soldiers--any soldiers--require order in their day-to-day lives. The most innovative and self-reliant of them still needs the assurance that they operate within a chain of command and responsibility. Otherwise they cease to be soldiers, becoming instead merely people with guns. People with guns do not follow orders; they follow demagogues.
“And, quite simply, there have never been demagogues such as the Cyborgs have the potential to become. To allow them any sort of activity which will draw attention to their abilities is to undermine your own status in the minds of our people. That status is at this moment beginning to change, from First Rank of the Fomoria to First Citizen of the remainder of Sauron civilization. The official change is complete, but the perceptual change in the minds of our population here is still going on; it cannot be forced by action on your part, lest you invalidate the process. First Ranks are assigned by the High Command, but First Citizens are chosen by the people.”
Diettinger rose and poured himself a glass of water; at the Citadel’s room temperature, it was barely liquid. “Your point being, then, that the Cyborgs face no constraints against simply declaring one of their own First Citizen.”
Althene shook her head. “My point being that the very fact of Cyborgs operating in high-profile activities at this stage of the transition of power obviates the need for a First Citizen at all.”
Diettinger actually blinked. “Clarify.”
“To the average Sauron, Cyborgs have come to represent the ultimate expression of human evolution. Stronger, smarter, faster than we Saurons, who are ourselves stronger, smarter and faster than any other species of human. These ‘super soldiers’ are to us as we are to the human norms, whom none of us can help but regard with some measure of contempt.”
Half-smiling, Diettinger raised his eyebrows and gestured to his patch. “Need I remind you that this was the work of a human norm? As was the surprise of their nuclear weapon strike against the Fomoria; an attack which was aimed, according to all the best evidence, against me personally, as was the eventual defeat and destruction of Sauron and virtually the entire Sauron race. I assure you, Althene, that had I ever entertained any notion of regarding human norms with contempt-- and I never did--I would be highly unlikely to do so again.”
Althene softened. “Ah, but need I remind you, Galen, that you are unique?”
She sat back. “To those Saurons raised to equate the superiority of the Cyborgs with the genetic triumph of the Race, a First Citizen who is himself ‘merely’ a Soldier is a figurehead, at best. At worst, he is an obstruction to the future the Cyborgs represent.
“I spoke earlier of the chain of command and responsibility, of which every soldier needs to feel a part. The Cyborg Super Soldiers utterly invalidate that need; a Cyborg is, by definition, a superior being, beyond all conventional considerations of morality or obligation, and thus, utterly outside that chain of command and responsibility. Challenge that core of soldierly values with the presence of charismatic Super Soldiers, and no Sauron here on Haven--no Sauron anywhere--could hope to survive the conflicts which must arise from such a challenge.”
Diettinger turned away, and spent a long moment looking out the window at the spectacular view of the mountains beyond. When he finally spoke, he did not turn back to Althene, but continued looking out toward the distant peaks. “And your other objection?”
Althene frowned. “Galen, please; you must see that your policy regarding the Cyborgs is dan
gerously permissive. You must find a way to utterly deprive them of any influence in the society we are trying to create, or they will displace you . . . and instead of a new Sauron homeworld, we will have only a squabbling mass of feudal hierarchies, each Cyborg a warlord with as many Soldiers as will follow his banner. We would even be vulnerable to the cattle--”
Diettinger turned back to face her. “Yes. Thank you, Althene;” he said dryly, “I am able to grasp the concept. Your second objection?”
Althene paused, prepared to push her luck. But she finally just let out a short, even breath, and said: “Refusing Deathmaster Quilland permission to mount full-scale pacification raids against the cattle is foolish.”
She almost bit her lip; that had been very poorly done, indeed. Instead of a valid counsel, it had come out sounding like petulant bitterness.
But Diettinger only nodded. “Perhaps. But they will surely expect us to take such action after their missile attack on the Fomoria, and the numbers simply don’t favor us at this time. I want to be sure the Citadel and the surrounding areas are secure, and I don’t want to push these Haveners too far, too fast. I don’t hold them in contempt, nor am I afraid of them. But the truth is, I don’t feel I understand them yet, and I am sure that neither does Deathmaster Quilland.”
He rose and went to stand at the window. “And until I do understand them, at least a little better, I don’t want to do anything they are likely to expect.”
Both of them were silent for a long time. Finally Althene rose and moved next to him. “Put that way, I understand your decision,” she said. It was part apology, part request that he return to the issue of the Cyborgs and explain his stand on them as clearly, and Althene felt that she had made a perfectly reasonable first gesture of rapprochement.
War World IV: Invasion Page 6