Diettinger shrugged. “It’s necessary that they be elsewhere.”
Walking alone through the quiet corridors of the structure the Saurons had christened the Citadel, Cyborg Rank Koln made many seemingly aimless turns, taking himself down several meandering passageways with no apparent destination. Frequently, he passed great open halls, blasted out of the rock by the former inhabitants, which were now being converted to storage areas, production or processing centers, even living quarters; a few such caverns opened out onto the side of the mountains, and these were being converted to hangar decks for the remaining Sauron aircraft and the new vehicles recently seized from the Haveners.
In these large chambers, Soldiers moved about with the same sense of purpose they had shown weeks earlier as they gutted the Fomoria of valuable equipment before sending the ship on her last voyage.
Fleetingly, Koln corrected himself: Dol Guldur. More and more of the troops were referring to the Fomoria by that name, lately; as if they had forgotten their true origins already.
Well. That’s part of what this is all about, isn’t it?
Koln entered one of the hangars and went directly to the opening; frigid mountain winds scoured the area, whipping ice crystals about his feet and legs. He of course took no notice.
“Cyborg Koln,” the voice came from the rim of the cave just outside the opening. Koln stepped forward, knowing that anyone who addressed him without adding the designator “rank” was the sort with whom he would want to speak. He was not disappointed. Standing a few feet from the hangar bay’s arch was Cyborg Sargun, a long-time supporter--some might say sycophant--of Koln’s views regarding Cyborg mastery of the Sauron race. Koln joined Sargun and the two Cyborgs greeted one another in their identical voices.
A few Sauron-norms moved past them, shivering in the cold; up here, even Saurons could be miserable. Only another Cyborg would have perceived Sargun’s grimace of contempt, and Koln did. “You don’t approve of shivering, Sargun?” Koln observed quietly.
“I regard it as a sign of weakness.”
“Quite the contrary. Mammals--and any other creatures which can--shiver to generate body heat. It is in fact a very desirable survival trait.” Koln allowed a brief, severe spasm to ripple through his frame; it did nothing to alter his stature or balance, however. “You really should try it.”
“I am not cold enough to be distressed, Cyborg Koln. Not yet. When I am, I will pursue less demeaning methods of warming myself.”
Koln’s eyes slid sideways to meet Sargun’s gaze. “Such as building a fire, perhaps?”
“You understand me perfectly, I think.”
Koln shrugged, and made a broad, encompassing gesture. “What would you use for fuel in a place like this?”
Sargun turned back to look down on the valley. Out to the horizon, great palls of smoke from vast fires could still be seen. Only the nearest were pieces of the Fomoria; the rest were Haven’s valley cities. Most had burned out, but many still smoldered, or had started up once more in the weeks since the invasion. “There is always something which needs burning, Cyborg Koln,” Sargun declared.
Koln said: “Yes. Cyborg Arndt is currently commanding the Pathfinders. You will relieve him for the next round of salvage patrols. Inform him that this is on my authority, and do not clear the re-assignment with the Breedmasters. Let Cyborg Arndt tell them of the order after you have already left.”
“A fait accompli, then?” Sargun’s tone clearly indicated his contempt for such indirect methods.
Koln turned to look at him, scrutinizing the other Cyborg’s features with an attention that verged on the discomfitting. Finally he turned away abruptly. “I have learned that a large concentration of debris from the Fomoria may have been deposited outside of the Shangri-La Valley, in the steppes to the north. You will take the Pathfinders outside of the valley to investigate this. Pay very close attention to the attitudes of the other Cyborgs with the unit and report to me immediately on your return.” Without further ado, Koln turned away and walked back into the hangar, where he was soon lost from sight amid the mass of Soldiers moving to and fro within.
Sargun waited a few moments longer, looking out on the valley. Rumor had it that a raid was to be carried out on the steppes, and soon; a raid in which Cyborg participation had been specifically prohibited. Sargun was no fool, but he was not entirely sure he fully understood Koln’s purpose in placing him in this position. Still, he prided himself on his ability to watch, and learn.
After a while, when he was sure no one was watching, Sargun even shivered experimentally. Skin muscles, long gone from human norms, had been reactivated in the Cyborg DNA code, and the effect was to abruptly raise his body temperature several degrees, bringing an almost soporific sensation of pleasurable warmth. Sargun’s mouth twisted in a sneer even a human norm could have seen.
“Pah.” He almost spat. Comfort was for the weak.
“Village” was perhaps not the right term for the nomadic community Sergei Kamov’s people had established since being driven out onto the steppes in the years of Haven’s post-Imperial decline, ten years before the Saurons came. Still, though they moved in the nomadic cycles of their Earthly ancestors, they were more like a village than a tribe. A small community, the men of age met to vote on issues that affected the group as a whole. No one man was allowed to become too powerful, though the influence of individuals waxed and waned along with their popularity and prosperity. Sergei had been in the middle ground of the council members, a moderate voice seriously courted only when a swing vote was needed.
Now, however, his position was very definitely unenviable. A lost horse and saddle made for a very severe dent in a cossack’s prosperity, and incurring the wrath of the Sauron invaders--took an even heavier toll on one’s popularity. But being escorted into camp by outsiders-- armed men in camouflage paint, soldiers from the very Shangri-La Valley communities that had dispossessed his people--that put Sergei--and his family--in a very bad light, indeed.
“And why should we let ourselves get involved with the people of the interior?” Oleg Yarmoloff paced about the circle of men in the great yurt of the tribe, addressing each of his fellows as he passed before them. “We are here on these steppes, living as our forebears lived, because we were not welcome in their Shangri-La Valley. We and others like us--the Dinneh, the Tartary nomads, the White Horsemen, even the Chin--” he paused to spit into the fire at the mention of their hated foe, “have survived, despite the valley city-states having driven us into this wilderness of thin air and poor land.”
Yarmoloff ended his circuit standing before Sergei Kamov. “Now the peoples of the valley have been struck down--no small judgment, if you ask me,” Yarmoloff delivered this over his shoulder, to murmurs of general agreement. “And in bringing one of our own back to us, they think this entitles them to draft us into one of their armies.” The murmurs grew into scattered angry rumblings as Yarmoloff peaked. “Like the ancient tsars; they do not consider us fit to live in their presence until the wolves are at their gates; then we are welcome--as soldiers to shed blood for those who would not have us as neighbors!”
For a moment, Colonel Edon Kettler thought the shouting would subside only after the lynching of him and the four other men in his contact team, but the nine men of the village council finally managed to restore some measure of order, allowing him to speak. “As I said, that’s no part of the deal. I don’t represent any one city-state or nation of Haven. There are none such any longer. We’re talking about fair trade here, for an end we both want: The destruction of the Saurons.”
One of the older councilmen, a hard-faced veteran named Korolyev, leaned forward: “Why should we wish the destruction of these Sauron? We have no cities for them to bomb; no industry for them to steal, no technology they need fear.” Kettler realized that Korolyev was not confronting him; the old man’s question was straightforward and guileless.
He and Cummings had known that these people would be the toughest, which
was why Kettler had been determined to go to them first. The steppes cossacks allied to the cause would be very persuasive in rallying other outlanders to the banner. “They mean to rule here, gospodin Korolyev,” Kettler answered as directly. “And Saurons will not tolerate anyone on a world they rule who is not submissive to their will.”
One of Yarmoloff s cronies in the assemblage, a hard-eyed customer named Kuprin, pounced on this: “And so? All men must have masters, nyet? It is the way of things. You yourself say there are no more cities, and we have seen with our own eyes smoke higher than the walls of the Atlas mountain range, from the fires still burning within the valley. These Saurons have a starship and weapons and they have power. If we must have a master, better them than this Cummings, who fights from hiding like a highwayman.”
Kettler shot a glare at the sergeant of his escort. He and his men had been hand-picked to keep Kettler alive during these negotiations, but they had fought under Cummings for a very long time, and each of them owed their lives and the lives of their kin to the General a dozen times over.
Kettler thought about the villager, Kamov, whom they’d met on the way into the camp. Chased by Saurons, claiming to have killed two; a nice guy, as far as Edon could see, and it was just too bad that he was probably throwing him to the wolves with his next remark.
“They might accept your servitude, gospodin Kuprin,” Kettler presented the insult with fine diplomatic civility, “were it not for the fact that your stated willingness to be a slave has already been contradicted by the actions of gospodin Kamov, here.”
Sergei Kamov kept his eyes on the floor, but his chest tightened beneath a steel band. Since returning to the camp of his people with this Kettler and his men, he had been waiting for the moment when the council would simply order them all killed. And, he thought, that moment is perhaps now arrived.
Kettler went on: “The Saurons have only the people they brought with them on their ship, and gospodin Kamov has killed two of them. Within the valley, they have obliterated entire villages in retribution for such an act. All males are summarily executed, all females transferred to their Citadel, and by the Saurons’ own proclaimed policy of eugenics, there is no doubt as to what the purpose of such captives must be. This is the price of the lives of their soldiers. Do you expect they will do less to your own people, because you are here on the steppes?”
Kettler looked around the room as he spoke, trying to stay with terms these cossacks understood.
“The Saurons must breed a new generation of soldiers to completely conquer Haven, and it is only now, before they can establish such a program, that they will be vulnerable to organized resistance such as we propose. Every Sauron we kill today is a hundred Sauron soldiers our grandchildren need not face; a hundred soldiers who will not be demanding your wives and daughters in retribution for every act of resistance by men like gospodin Kamov.”
“Give them Kamov!” Yarmoloff snarled, “. . . and his daughter, too, if they want women!” At which Sergei’s oldest son Nikolai was off the floor, his sabre half out of its scabbard, before Sergei pushed him back down amid the shouting.
“Sure, of course!” Kettler shouted. “That’s the answer! Give them Kamov today. And tomorrow, maybe they’ll take gospodin Korolyev, or Kuprin; and how long will it be before they want you, Yarmoloff?”
Yarmoloff whirled on Kettler. “If they come, they come. If we die, we die. But we die our way, on our terms.”
There was no cheering at that, and Kettler knew that Yarmoloff had dropped the ball. Kettler waited out the silence, then spoke: “Better, I think, that if they come, they die. Does anyone here agree with me?”
The council heaved a collective sigh, and began conferring in hushed voices.
Finally, the nine members seemed to reach an agreement, and Korolyev addressed Kettler. “You suggest then, providing advisors to us, for fighting the Saurons. What sort of advice do you propose?”
Kettler somehow restrained himself from giving Yarmoloff the finger in triumph. Instead, he cleared his throat, and told them what he expected the Saurons to do, and how they might be ready for it, with the help of the resistance movement being organized by General Cummings.
After a while, as the council and the other men of the village warmed to the plans, Kettler tried to send a look of apology to Kamov, but the older man met his gaze without any expression whatsoever.
Can’t say as I blame you, Kamov, Kettler thought. But I had to use you to shame them; I had to take the risk to keep Yarmoloff from winning and maybe having you killed anyway.
Kettler reflected that Kamov probably understood, but it didn’t matter whether he did or not. If he had guessed right--that the Saurons would track Kamov back to his people, and what they would do once they found them-- they were probably all going to die, anyway.
Sergei Kamov gave a final cinch to his new saddle, listening for the horse’s grunt as she let out a breath and settled into the feel of the harness. Anya was a sturdy, intelligent mare, not so hardy as Mischa, to be sure, but perhaps a bit smarter for all that. Oleg Sedov had joked that maybe she was smart enough to keep Sergei out of trouble, since he didn’t seem to be able to do so himself.
Sergei grimaced in remembrance of the laughter of the other men in Sedov’s tack shop when he had said he needed to trade for a saddle to replace his own lost gear.
He could tell that Sedov had been close to demanding Kamov’s finest remaining stallion as payment, but had obviously reconsidered at the last moment. Such a rapacious act would have served notice to the whole community that Sedov was getting greedy, and there was always someone else among their people--even several some-ones--who would be happy to see him lose his dominance of the harness trade.
Still, the saddle-maker had gotten the better of the deal; Sergei had another mare due to foal in the spring, and the newborn horse was promised to Sedov as payment. There was nothing to be done; horses Kamov had, but good saddles could not be just picked up anywhere on the steppes.
Sergei shook his head in resignation. He had lost more than a mount in losing Mischa; he had lost face among the other men of his village. And, of course, he had lost a friend.
The vote to move the village had been unanimous, despite the fact that the grazing land they now occupied had only just been settled on a fortnight earlier. The women would make their lives hell, the men knew. Here they had found pasture for the horses, a fair-sized stream for fishing, even a small copse of trees in a hollow that would provide shelter against the winds that howled off the North Sea and down across the steppes. In short, it was as close to a perfect spot for wintering in as could be found, and Sergei’s run-in with the Saurons had now denied it to them.
The motion to drive him out of the community and turn him over to the Saurons had failed to reach a vote, but only just. Privately, Kamov was sure Sedov had argued so strongly against it just to be sure he would get paid for the saddle.
The issue of Colonel Kettler and his proposal had not helped matters, either. Nor had Kamov forgotten the gamble the fellow had taken with both their lives.
He heard footsteps, and looked up to see his daughter Natalya crossing the yard from the door flap of their yurt.
And not just our lives, Kamov thought.
Despite her light step, the ground thumped beneath Natalya’s feet like a drum. The water table was very low here on the steppe, and the higher permafrost formed a resonating shell in the fall and winter. Sergei did not know it, but there were more similarities than differences between Haven’s steppes and the Siberia of his heritage.
“So, where are your brothers?”
Natalya nodded back over her right shoulder. “Lavrenti’s hitching up the team; he’s almost done.” She reached up to push a wind-blown drape of golden hair off her forehead. “Nikolai helped him with most of it, and then he took the rest of our horses to the big herd; he should be coming back now.”
Sergei nodded. “Ah, that’s good.” He looked up at his daughter; fourteen
years old and tall for her age, Natalya Kamova had never passed through the awkward adolescent stage that was a father’s last glimpse of his daughter’s childhood. Natalya was going straight from the beauty of a child to the beauty of a woman; she would be married within two years--four at the most, he knew--and then there would be another man and another family on whom Sergei could count for the protection of his daughter.
That was just a fact of life on Haven, one that part of him prayed for and another part cursed, because however much his daughter’s husband might cherish her, he might condemn her to death on their wedding night. For on this feebly-lit moon with the baleful Cat’s Eye gas giant looming overhead for most of the year, men and women could build fires against the bitter cold, they could band together against the beasts of the hills and the evil of their fellow human beings, but the air was simply too thin, and every mother faced that insidious enemy alone. Valeria had given him two fine sons a year apart. The births had been as easy as could be hoped for on Haven, but four years later Natalya had come, and Valeria had nearly died. Though his baby daughter was his pride and joy, Sergei had decided he was no longer willing to risk his wife’s life for any more children.
There had still been doctors then, doctors who would treat the steppes people for barter. But most were far away, remaining relatively safe behind the Atlas Mountains and within the Shangri-La Valley, and Sergei did not want to risk he and Valeria getting used to the little pills they could barter for, only to one day find them used up and no doctor about. Sergei had heard of a doctor in the Valley who could still perform a certain surgery on men, and because he valued the life and safety of his wife more than he did flaunting his virility in the face of Haven’s killing thin air, Sergei had gone to see the doctor, four days’ ride away.
It was two days after the surgery before he could stand without pain, and almost another week before he could even think about riding a horse without becoming ill. He returned sixteen days after he had left, to find it had all been for nothing; Chin raiders had struck while he was gone, Valeria had been run through by a lance, and the only mercy had been that she was dead before the Chins had raped her.
War World IV: Invasion Page 8