Authority spoke rapidly. The chevronned Sauron rummaged in a carrier locker, and produced a small box edged with knife blade terminals. He gave it to the commander, who passed it to Berkis. “Is this what you seek, little beast?”
She took it, astonished at his compliance. “It could be, lord. Permission to open it?”
He dipped unconcernedly into the bowl. “Do as you wish.”
She prised open the pack: a row of gimp coils lay inside.
“Jesus!” swore Klimkans. “And we hauled that damn truck for thirty versts!”
Working quickly, she transferred a coil to the carrier’s powerpack, then buttoned everything up. She motioned the nearest trooper. “Try it please, lord!”
The soldier looked for permission, before climbing into the driver’s seat. He flipped switches. A hum of power filled the yurt. He moved a lever. The carrier trundled along the carpet.
Berkis flushed at the applause.
“Well done, little beast,” growled the Sauron commander. “You have remitted yourself and the surly beast from servitude. Our equipment is no longer your burden.” He contemplated her, his meal forgotten. “I could use a technician with your talent. Will you work for me?”
Berkis caught her breath. Was he serious? No Orfanian could ever agree to serve in a Sauron unit. She lowered her eyes. “If the lord will forgive me . . .”
Authority actually laughed! “Understood, little beast. You are not disposed to volunteer.” He turned to Ozols. “Did you tell me that vegetables were expensive?”
The Pirmais shifted uneasily. Another motiveless question! When would this nuisance be satisfied? “I may have mentioned the matter, lord,” he admitted.
“Expensive in cash?”
Ozols scented a trap. “Er--yes, lord,” he quavered.
The Sauron showed magnificent teeth. “And your vitamin substitutes are bought in Castell City. Tell me, devious beast--where do nomads obtain such appetizing food?”
Ozols gulped. He had lied about the vegetables to authenticate a supposedly Tartar meal. He dared not reveal that the stew had been prepared by a team of top chefs. That Udenspils stores teemed with home grown produce. Ozols clutched his head. It was that bloody bridge all over again! Icedge would have to take the blame.
“Lord,” he said. “To the north, there is a hypermarket where one may buy imported delicacies.”
Sauron eyebrows rose. A boreal hypermarket was evidently a novelty to the superman. He frowned. “This market is distant?”
Ozols shrugged. “Getting there takes about sixty hours, lord.”
“Riding the four legged cattle?”
Ozols swallowed. “Yes, lord.”
“And how quickly do the fourlegs travel?”
“We reckon six or seven versts an hour, lord.”
“And your hours are the same length as those in Castell City?”
“The horologists insist on it, lord.”
The Sauron was in no mood for humor. “The fourlegs cover six or seven versts every hour?”
“They walk in their sleep, lord.”
“And the length of a verst?”
Ozols shrugged. “A verst is about a kilometer, lord.” The Sauron calculated. “Then it is some four hundred kilometers to this hypermarket? “If you say so, lord.”
The Sauron commander glowered. “Did you not hear me say so?”
Ozols squirmed. “Figure of speech, lord.”
The Sauron scowled at him. “Seek precision, beast! Communication is difficult enough without needless obliquity.”
“Yes, lord.” Jekabs Ozols swallowed some needless indignation.
The Sauron stood up. “In which direction is this hypermarket?”
The Pirmais rose too. “Due west, lord. Keep the mountains on your left and you can’t miss it.” He paused. Best supply a reason for the warmth of the sea, too, or this bugger would start looking for power plants again. “The market is in a settlement called Icedge, lord. It’s built on a bay which does not freeze. We believe the sea is warmed by vulcanism.”
The Sauron swallowed the fiction without a blink. “Does the river flow into this benevolent bay?”
Blast that bloody river! It was like an arrow always pointing to Refuge. Ozols cleared his throat. “The river disappears into a mountain gorge, lord.”
Sauron eyebrows went up. “And thence?”
The Pirmais shrugged. “I couldn’t say, lord. We steppe dwellers dislike poking our noses into enclosed spaces.”
The Sauron sniffed in disdain for claustrophobia. The concept of a heated sea seemed to intrigue him. He donned his helmet. “I thank you for your hospitality, beast. First Rank insists that I check all population centers. I will look into this place called Icedge.”
Tongue firmly in cheek, the Pirmais bowed. “Will you not stay to enjoy our hospitality, lord? We had hoped to display our dancing girls for your entertainment.”
“Capering cattle hold no attraction for me or my men,” snapped the commander. He spoke into his helmet. As if worked by a switch, the platoon came to its feet.
And good riddance, reflected Pirmais Ozols, watching them prepare to go. They didn’t deserve to see Victorija and her ladies flaunting their underwear. He bowed. “We wish you a safe journey, lord.”
“What could harm us?” smiled the Sauron. “Have we not subjugated your planet? Be glad we let you live in it.”
He made a sign. The platoon faced left. At another signal they marched off, followed by the equipment carrier. As he passed Corporal Berkis, the Sauron commander bent to whisper in her ear.
Jekabs Ozols kicked a cushion clear across the tent. “Thank Hecate that farce is over!”
Teodors Zeltins unbuckled his sword belt, and let it fall. “Congratulations on a magnificent performance, sir. You surely saved our valley from the Saurons.”
Ozols dabbed his forehead with a crocheted exhibit from Udenspils folk museum. “You think so, Teodors? I know my tongue is stuck in my cheek. I haven’t told so many lies since my wife suspected that my friendship with the Budina was less than platonic.”
Zeltins grinned. “They were very convincing lies, sir. Thank goodness the Saurons do not share your good lady’s suspicious nature.”
Andrei Galdins doffed a Tartar helmet. “I take it we can we all go home now, sir?”
The fake cham yawned. “That’s not a bad idea, Andrei. The prospect of sleeping in a comfortable bed allures me.”
Janis Klimkans coughed respectfully. “I wouldn’t get too hooked on the idea, sir.”
Jekabs Ozols paused, arms outstretched. “And why not, Captain?”
Klimkans swallowed. “Those Saurons will be back.”
Ozols blanched. “Who says so?”
Klimkans smirked at Berkis. “Tell the Pirmais what that boss man said to you on the way out.”
She paled. “He said he hoped to change my mind about joining his platoon . . . when he returns!”
Jekabs Ozols stood petrified.
Berkis peeped timidly at the First Citizen. “I didn’t promise him anything, sir.”
The Pirmais clapped a hand to his brow. “Will I never be rid of the monster! Did he say when he’d be back?”
Berkis trembled. “No, sir.”
Klimkans’ arm crept around the corporal. There was no need for the Commissar to pick on Berkis.
General Teodors Zeltins recovered his sword belt from the carpet. “We mustn’t risk him finding the yurt dismantled, sir.” He buckled the belt around his waist. “Perhaps it would be advisable to resume our Tartar roles?”
The Pirmais poised, legs astraddle, hands on hips. “Are you advising me to stay here until that bloody Sauron returns?”
Zeltins elevated innocent eyebrows. “It might be expedient, sir.”
“I must agree with the general,” murmured Deputy Galdins, getting an oar in. “For the security of Refuge, we ought to maintain our cover as Tartars.”
The Pirmais vented his resentment on another cushion. “So I
am to rusticate here until that pest deigns to show his face again?”
General Zeltins covered a grin with his hand. “I’m afraid so, sir.” He glanced at the trembling Berkis. “There might be another solution, Pirmais.”
Jekabs Ozols eyed this slippery general with suspicion. “Which is . . . ?”
“Send the corporal after the Saurons. Let her join them. Then there’d be no need for them to return to see if she’s changed her mind.”
Ozols chewed his underlip, pondering.
Klimkans watched, incredulous. Surely the Pirmais wouldn’t be tempted by such a calculating ploy!
“And if she refuses?” Ozols challenged.
Zeltins scowled. “She will not be permitted to refuse.”
Linda Berkis’ world dissolved in confusion. The Pirmais and General Zeltins debating her future as if she were a chattel! She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound emerged.
Klimkans blurted, “Sir, you can’t do this to the corporal!”
Ozols’ eyes grew opaque. “Can I not, Captain? When did I forfeit the ability?”
Klimkans set his jaw. He and Berkis had hauled that faulty Sauron equipment wagon for thirty versts, over rough ground, bodies numb with cold, sweat freezing on their eyebrows. And this plump parasite was prepared to hand her over to the Saurons in the hope of evading a few hours’ discomfort. Captain Janis Klimkans began to boil. “Sir,” he warned, “if Corporal Berkis joins the Saurons, she may be forced to transfer her allegiance.”
The Pirmais’ eyebrows went up. “Does that matter?”
“She could tell them about Refuge.”
Ozols’ eyes bulged. He spluttered. “She--she wouldn’t dare!”
Klimkans coughed diplomatically. “She might have no choice, sir. We don’t know what methods the Saurons use to extract information.”
Ozols swung on Zeltins. “Is Captain Klimkans correct?”
The general’s blood was already chilling. Had he slipped up? The Pirmais could be ruthless with people who made mistakes. He coughed. “Captain Klimkans may possibly have a point, sir. The Saurons might decide to torture her--since she is no more than an animal to them.”
The Pirmais’ lip curled. “Then your solution is flawed?”
General Zeltins flinched. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily, sir.” His straightened his Tartar costume. “But we must get the corporal out of the way. That Sauron fellow will be looking for her.”
“So where do you suggest we send her, Teodors?”
Klimkans had an inspiration. He risked interrupting the Pirmais again. “Our chamsuits ought to be brought back, sir. We hid them near the old fuser ruins.”
Jekabs Ozols stiffened. “You have been leaving my expensive chameleon suits around? At three thousand crowns apiece?”
“I don’t imagine the rock rats will steal them,” muttered Klimkans.
Jekabs Ozols’ piggy eyes glinted. “You must retrieve them, Captain. The treasury cannot afford to abandon six thousand crowns to rock rats.”
Klimkans swallowed a smile. “Shall I take Corporal Berkis with me--to keep her out of the way?”
Ozols lowered opaque eyelids. “Perhaps you should. You may need her help to locate those suits.” The Pirmais tugged at his lip, cogitating. Klimkans held his breath. Important matters were plainly being considered. “It will be a long walk,” resumed the Pirmais. “And chilly without your chamsuits. We suggest you take Generals Zeltins and Galdins along. They will retain their Tartar cover ... for the security of Refuge.” The Pirmais smiled.
Janis Klimkans saw two high ranking jaws sag. A Pirmais upset was a Pirmais implacable.
“They will be able to advise on any problem you encounter,” added Ozols. “They are good at that.”
Klimkans saluted. “I’ll see about lights, sir. It will be difficult following the trail in the dark.”
“Do that,” agreed Jekabs Ozols. “We wouldn’t like to think of anybody stumbling around blindly.”
The Pirmais smirked at his deputies.
General Zeltins glowered at General Galdins.
General Galdins avoided General Zeltins’ eyes.
Captain Klimkans smiled at Corporal Berkis.
Corporal Berkis stared at her captain with unalloyed admiration.
Anton Quilland frowned.
From Deathmaster of Troops aboard the Fomoria, Quilland had become the de facto Commander in Chief of all Sauron Soldiers on Haven. But the span of time to reach this position . . . years, years. Thirty of them since the Fomoria--Diettinger’s ship, by God, and damn the day they had changed her name to that ridiculous Dol Guldur!-- since the Fomoria had first come to Haven. He looked across the room to a holoplate of First Citizen Galen Diettinger on the wall, flanked by a pair of banners that bore the flaming eye insignia of the Saurons on Haven.
Quilland considered that, for all the woes facing the Saurons these days, things at least were more like those heady, early years. The Pacification; the establishment of the Tribute systems; Diettinger’s Great Gate and the first true allies it brought the Saurons from among the violent, disparate peoples of Haven: A tribe so abused by their fellow Haveners that Diettinger had easily convinced them of the wisdom of joining their fortunes to those of the Saurons, who now held the pass between the Shangri-La and the Steppelands.
It was a long road that had brought them here, and like all long roads, loneliest the nearer its end. There was a knock on his door and his aide entered to announce that Breedmaster Caius was waiting in his anteroom to see him.
Quilland was pleased; he and Caius had never been close, but they were ka-ch’k; “old comrades” in the Battle Tongue. They had been through times together that were already legends among the young Blooders heading out on their first patrols.
Over the years, the Breedmasters passed on their knowledge of Sauron progeniture to increasing numbers of students. As their ranks grew, they had grown in influence, and now, with the new generations of Saurons finally maturing, they had all the power of genetic Inquisitors. All Saurons respected them, many revered them, but few liked them. Breedmasters presided over every birth like evil fairies, bearing the genetic judgments that were their responsibility and greatest power. Breedmasters decided at birth if a Sauron child was left with its parents or cast out--literally--from the Citadel.
None of them pretended to enjoy their status as occasional murderers of children, any more than Saurons in combat enjoyed killing; it was simply their responsibility. All Saurons knew their place in their society, so no blame was levied against fellow Soldiers carrying out their duties to that society. No blame--but no parent, Sauron or human norm, could help but treat the Breedmasters with dread. About their children, Saurons were as human as any human norm.
But Caius and Quilland, at least, were friends, ka-ch’k from the First Days, as Sauron historians were already calling them. As if the Sauron homeworld and its war against the Empire--which brought us all here--had never been, Quilland thought.
“What brings you here, Breedmaster?”
“I have a report regarding Daborah.”
Quilland was silent for a moment. “Daborah” was the code name for a project Caius and he had worried about from its inception: The return of selected female Soldiers to active combat duty.
“Speak.” Quilland spoke in a low voice. It was not a command; more a supplication.
“There have been complications,” Caius said.
“Unexpected?”
“Only in degree. A Soldier from Angband Base waits in my quarters with news of an unauthorized raid against the town near Angband; the natives call it Tallinn.”
Quilland lifted an eyebrow. “This man is your spy?”
Caius nodded. “A perennial Fifth Ranker; a plodder. Perfect for such observations as were required.”
Quilland reflected the areas where Project Daborah was being tested; all were very far indeed from The Citadel, and purposely so. The dispersal was intended to limit the chances of any disaster spreading to the
main Sauron outposts in the central Shangri-La; a wise precaution, as it now seemed.
“Angband is six thousand kilometers from here; how soon can he make his report to us?”
“Immediately, Deathmaster; he is here.”
Quilland was rarely surprised; rarer still did he show it. “He came here?”
“Two days ago, he stole a rotor-wing from Angband and flew all night to the eastern Shangri-La transportation hub at Firebase Twelve. From there he stowed away aboard a tribute lifter.”
“Why didn’t he simply demand transport in your name?”
“He was accompanied by a human norm. A female.”
“What? In God’s name, why?”
“He brought her as a witness.”
Quilland remained silent for a long time. “It’s that bad?”
“It could hardly be worse.”
“Send for him.”
Caius produced a small rod from his tunic and spoke into it softly. Minutes later, the aide ushered in a Sauron Fifth Ranker and a human norm woman; elderly, with eyes that had seen their share of hardship, but unbowed. Good, solid peasant stock, Quilland thought to himself. Only a few centuries ago she’d have fit right in among the colonists of Sauron itself.
That raised a disturbing implication in the back of his mind; one he didn’t care to dwell on.
“Do you speak Americ?”
“Some.” The woman spoke in a voice low with barely checked terror; still, her eyes were clear, defiant. Quilland gestured to his aide, who produced a chair for the human norm female.
Cattle, he thinks of her, Quilland thought. It was a failing the Saurons were only now beginning to train out of their young Soldiers; no one who’d ever seen a stampede treated real cattle with contempt.
“Are you hungry?” Quilland asked, attempting to put her at ease.
“Always.” There was in her bearing before she spoke a hint of contempt for the question.
Good, Quilland thought. Brave. Another gesture sent his aide off to fetch her food and drink. “I want you to tell me, in your own words, what happened to your village of Tallinn.”
War World IV: Invasion Page 25