by John F. Carr
So the preparations for his first performance were complete. With none of the trepidation of a lesser actor, he took his first step onto the stage of state.
“This will be brief,” Diettinger informed the rankers gathered in the Citadel’s 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 constituent materials. Cyborg Rank Köln.”
“First—Citizen,” Köln replied.
Diettinger ignored Köln’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 the Deathmaster’s command to facilitate completion of ordered surveys in seventy-two standard hours.”
The Lady Althene, Diettinger’s former Vessel 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.
He appeared not to notice. “Groundmaster Bohren: status of Firebases One through Six.”
Bohren rose to his feet, nodded at a survey rating who cast a map of the Shangri-La Valley onto the wall behind the First Citizen. Bohren used his pointer to display Firebase One at the foot of the Karakul Pass. “Firebase One’s outlying fortifications are eighty percent complete. One company of Soldiers is billeted there. The closest town of any significant population, Evaskar, has been neutralized and we have established full command and control.”
“Well done,” Diettinger noted.
“Firebase Two, near the town Falkenberg—named after the Sauron role model John Christian Falkenberg—is next on our list. As per your orders, we are constructing the firebases in areas of concentrated opposition and possible resistance throughout the Shangri-La Valley. Firebase Four, northeast of Lermontovgrad and the Atlas Mountains, is forty percent complete. Firebase Five, outside Castell City and Fort Kursk, is eighty percent complete and will be finished within seventy-two hours. The other firebases, Three and Six, are low priority and will be addressed when the others are completely fortified.”
“Good work, Groundmaster. They’re going up faster than our initial projections.”
Bohren all but preened. “My staff and workers are highly motivated.”
Diettinger turned to Weapons, asking, “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 supraorbital operations. Six are repairable to full operational status, but parts will have to be fabricated. This will greatly depend on the condition of such local heavy industry and high technology fabrication facilities that have survived our initial attack.”
“Ordnance quantities?”
“Lavish, First Citizen. Enough for several dozen times as many spacecraft.”
Diettinger nodded. “Completely dismantle two shuttles and three fighters. 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 with ninety hours.”
Weapons nodded. Aboard the Fomoria, when the First Rank said “within,” it meant as immediately as Sauron skills could bring it about, and to notify him of any problems in meeting that goal immediately. It was a matter of personal pride that Weapons’ skills and those of his staff could satisfy their commander’s desires quickly. He had no intention of letting his record lapse in service to the First Citizen.
Weapons looked up to Diettinger. “Also, First Citizen…”
“Proceed.”
“Substantial numbers 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 local materials.”
“Very well.” Diettinger said. Turning to Quilland, he added, “Issue commendations for those patrols.”
Quilland acknowledged the compliment with a nod of the head. He said, “Request, First Citizen.” The Deathmaster held up 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 the loss of our capital ship in no way alters our combat capabilities.”
“Refused,” Diettinger stated. “Recovery of Fomoria debris and securing the immediate zone around the Citadel are more urgent 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 believed, 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, she decided. As First Lady, I will have to.
She looked up at her husband for a moment and decided the trade had been worth the price.
II
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. Althene—until three weeks ago his Second Rank, now the First Lady of the new Sauron chief of state—stood up and crossed the room to open one of the windows that looked down on the courtyard of the Citadel.
This morning, 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, she watched as medical ranks moved among the bodies of the Soldiers which lay in state in the courtyard, well preserved by Haven’s cold breath. They were marking any remaining usable organs for collection, to be excised and stored for future transplant use. Breedmaster Caius and his aides had already taken extensive genetic samplings for tissue cloning and embryonic production, what remained after the medical ranks were finished would pass on to the supply ranks, to be rendered into fertilizer for next spring’s plantings.
“A Sauron wastes nothing and wants for less,” Althene said out loud, repeating the adage from her childhood.
Diettinger half turned at the sound of her voice. “Hmm? What did you say?”
She closed the window and went to her husband. “Just an expression characteristic, I think, of our 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.”
He smiled. “Already growing bored with my piratical good looks?”
“Hardly,” she said with a smile, stepping into his arms. “But the First Citizen can’t have any weaknesses. Certainly nothing so noticeable— or 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 procedures.”
Diettinger put a hand around Althene’s head and tucked her under his chin. “I’ll talk to Caius about it in the morning. There’s still too much to do today.”
They stood together silently for a moment, until finally he spoke again, “You want to talk about the meet
ing?”
Althene moved away from him, composed and ready. “Indeed. You 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. “The other can wait for a minute. The Cyborg issue alone is enough to bring everything to ruin.”
Diettinger’s expression did not change, but she felt positive he was smiling inside. 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 break 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?” he asked quietly.
Althene realized she had allowed herself to become distracted. That would not do. “Galen, you have made it clear that the Cyborg ranks are valuable to the future of the 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 replied. He never took his eyes from hers as he answered; it was a gesture of respect, not a tactic of debate.
“Yes, but 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 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 our societal future.”
She leaned forward, taking his right hand in both of hers. “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 superior abilities is to undermine your own status in the minds of our people. That status is at this moment beginning to change, from Vessel First Rank of the Fomoria to First Citizen of Sauron civilization. The official change is complete, but the perceptual change in the minds of our people 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 is that the very fact of Cyborgs operating in high-profile activities at this stage in 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 strike against the shuttle; 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 Race. I assure you, Althene that had I entertained any notion of regarding human norms with contempt—which 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 among our people.”
She sat back down. “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 of. The Cyborg Super Soldiers utterly obviate that need. A Cyborg is, by definition, a superior being, beyond all conventional considerations of morality or obligation, and, thus, completely outside that chain of command and responsibility. Challenge the core of soldierly values with the presence of charismatic Super Soldiers and no Sauron 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 jagged mountains beyond. When he finally spoke, he did not turn around to face his wife, but continued gazing at the distant peaks. “And your other objection?”
She frowned. “Galen, please, you must see that your policy regarding the Cyborgs is dangerously permissive. You must find a way to deprive them of any influence in the society we are trying to create, or they will displace you. Instead of a new Sauron homeworld, we will instead 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 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 instead let out a short, even breath, saying, “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 put, indeed. Instead of valid counsel, it had come out sounding like petulant bitterness.
But Diettinger only nodded. “Perhaps. But the human norms will surely expect us to take such action after their missile attack on the Fomoria. The numbers do not favor us at this time. My first priority is to insure that the Citadel and the surrounding territory are secure. In addition, I don’t want to push these Haveners too far, too fast. They outnumber us by several orders of magnitude and we do not want to goad them into the suicidal fury that the Imperials displayed upon their attack on the Homeworld. I prefer they remain divided and disunited.
“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 by the window. “And, until I do understand them, I don’t want to do anything they are likely to expect.”
Both of them were silent for some time. Finally, Althene rose and moved next to him. “Put that way, I understand your decision,” she said. It was partly apology, part request that he return to the issue of the Cyborgs and explain his stand on them just as clearly. She felt that she had made a perfectly reasonable first gesture of rapprochement.
But he remained silent. She knew his moods; he did not seem angry, only thoughtful. She suddenly had an intuition that he was thinking about something totally removed from the subjects of Cyborgs and pacification raids—or even of her.
She changed tack. “I’m returning to our quarters, then.”
He only nodded.
“Are you coming?”
He turned and shook his head. “No. Go ahead, I’ll be along shortly.”
You are dismissed, Second Rank, she thought abruptly, and for a moment her years of service had overlain the thought, making it seem perfectly reasonabl
e and proper. She was no longer Vessel Second Rank of the Fomoria; she was Althene Diettinger, she was Galen’s wife and he had neither cause nor right to simply dismiss her. She knew herself well enough to dread her own outburst of righteous indignation, perhaps even outright rage—when provoked she had a terrible temper. But not today.
Instead, she nodded and turned to leave. To her surprise, she only felt sorry for her husband. In her heart she knew he would never speak to her with any conscious intent to hurt. For him to have done so, he must be dwelling on something troubling, indeed. When he wished to talk about it, she knew he would tell it to her.
Althene had been gone for less than a minute, when the opposite door of Diettinger’s office opened quietly. Not turning from the window, he shifted his eyes to look at the figure in the doorway.
“You heard, then?”
“Clearly.”
Diettinger raised his hands from the sill and folded his arms. “You will agree, then, that we have a great deal to discuss.” It was not a question. Even so, when no reply was forthcoming, he turned his head and looked at his silent companion.
The figure stepped from the shadowy doorway, closed and locked it, then moved quickly into the room and sat down at the conference table.
“I agree,” Cyborg Rank Köln said.
Chapter Five
I
Assault Leader Mav was that rarity among Saurons, a man with no discernible sense of humor. Mav took everything with deadly seriousness; one of the reasons, he was fond of telling his men, why he was not dead.
To which his men invariably replied, “How can you tell?”
At which point, Assault Leader Mav would run them through another training exercise designed to reduce Saurons to sweating masses of cramping, quivering muscles and bruised bones. Or, to put it another way, to kill anybody else.
But Mav only did that when he couldn’t exact his favorite revenge on his squad: Patrol duty. Today, Mav had gotten his first choice. Mav had volunteered his squad for a special pacification mission as conceived by the Survey ranks.