by John F. Carr
By the time he stopped running, it was deep into truenight and he was near death. Still, he had reached the pickets of the camp made by his people on the plains of the Northern Steppes.
He had traveled less than a hundred meters when a tripwire caught his ankles, pitching him face forward onto the gritty Haven soil. Before he could roll over, a soft-soled boot was placed against the back of his neck and next to it he felt the pressure of a rifle barrel.
Sergei closed his eyes, thought of his family and prayed.
“Now, where would you be going in such a quick hurry?” the voice behind the gun barrel asked in clipped Imperial Anglic.
Sergei began to breathe again.
III
All the available Sauron commanders, including Cyborg Köln, the unofficial head of the Death’s-heads, were seated in the command room. It had been three standard days since the last full staff meeting, but Diettinger could have waited a great deal longer for this news. He listened to Deathmaster Quilland’s report without comment. In a way, he was almost relieved.
Had Assault Leader Mav survived—and had we Soldiers to spare—I would have ordered his execution. The reinforcing squad had combed the area for signs of the ambushing force, finding only one dead horse and four cartridge casings.
Order Mav’s execution? More likely, I’d have killed him myself. Letting a single horse nomad kill two Saurons from ambush! What in the world had that fool been doing, exposing his squad on a rock face like that?
“First Citizen?”
Diettinger returned his gaze to Quilland. The Deathmaster nearly flinched. “First Citizen, having confirmed the presence of a single Havener nomad, Under-Assault Leader Ogme took another squad out this morning and conducted an extensive reconnaissance of the surrounding areas. The nomad was met by a foot patrol of six human norms. The party then proceeded north by northwest into the steppes. Under-Assault leader Ogme believes he has found the tribe of horse nomads this fellow came from.”
“Why is a tribe of steppe nomads sending out foot patrols, Deathmaster?”
Quilland shook his head. “Unknown, First Citizen. Under-Assault Leader Ogme believes this patrol might have been one of the roving squads reported active in this part of mountains.”
Diettinger was silent for a minute. While all organized Haven military operations had ended with the invasion, lately there had been increasing guerrilla activity far too well organized to be simple resistance cells. A large cache of weapons had apparently been spirited away into the Shangri-La’s trackless mountains, and was systematically finding its way into the hands of human norm tribesmen, where it could—and frequently did—wreak havoc on the occasional Sauron patrol caught unawares. He took the long view of his people’s existence on Haven and saw any alliance between horse-mounted nomads and any other surviving, efficient and well-armed Havener units too dangerous to tolerate.
“Estimated strength of these horse nomads?” Diettinger asked.
“Two hundred, First Citizen. Twice that many females and children. Four times as many mounts; all of those being horses. None of the indigenous muskylopes or moorses, a long-legged, antlered quadruped imported from Comstock, used by so many other nomadic groups we’ve encountered.”
Diettinger considered that. From what the Survey ranks had been able to learn that made these people extremely wealthy, by the standards of Haven nomads. And Haveners who could live on the steppes and retain such wealth were extremely dangerous, by any standards. “Livestock?”
“None, according to Ogme.”
“Interesting,” the First Citizen said. A strong band. Able to seize or demand in tribute the best mounts as well as food animals and having no apparent need for self-sufficiency. Which meant a strong band, indeed, if they could take whatever they needed from their fellow Haveners. “Structures?”
“None, in the conventional sense,” Quilland answered. “Some two-dozen large mobile tents; I believe they are called ‘yurts.’”
Diettinger turned to Weapons. “Airpower status?”
“Two elements of atmospheric strike fighters are now operational. Fifty-six ground attack configuration rotor-wing aircraft have been acquitted from indigenous military units. We do have pilots qualified to operate such vehicles.”
Diettinger nodded, once. “Sufficient. Weapons, coordinate with Deathmaster Quilland to determine the location of these nomads. Capture as many of their women, children and animals as possible, and bring back as many male prisoners as practical. Kill the rest.”
Breedmaster Caius looked pleased at the order. The implanting of indigenous women with fertilized Sauron ova brought to Haven aboard the Fomoria had fallen behind schedule. Caius wasn’t sure how long his Breedmasters would have operating birthing facilities. Sooner or later, technology on Haven was going to level off.
“First Citizen.” Cyborg Rank Köln had precisely the same voice as did all the other Cyborgs—or at least it sounded that way to non-cyborgs. Rich and deep, it was an orator’s voice, or perhaps an opera baritone’s. It had been literally designed to command attention; few Saurons—and no human norms—were immune to its influence.
Diettinger was quite aware of the implied challenge to his authority by the simple fact of Köln addressing him unbidden and dealt with it accordingly. “Speak,” he said after a long interval.
“I point out that had the Cyborgs been conducting this reconnaissance, or had even one Cyborg been participating, such an ambush would not have been possible.” Only a Cyborg could have made a reprimand of the First Citizen sound like a status report.
“I am aware of the efficacy of Cyborg senses,” Diettinger said, with a tone that seemed to have dropped the room temperature another ten degrees.
Which rather puts you in your place, Althene thought with some surprise, as she saw everyone at the table except Köln stiffen slightly. Deathmaster Quilland caught her eye and gave her an approving nod.
Althene knew that against the Empire, Quilland had been only too glad to have Cyborgs ready to commit to action. However, he was staunchly opposed, as she was, to having them in charge of Sauron society Diettinger was attempting to establish on Haven. Quilland had privately admitted to her that, in his opinion, the Cyborgs were out of touch with the realities facing that society.
“Be that as it may,” Köln continued. “The Pathfinder Cyborgs are already in the field. On salvage duty.” Even Köln’s soft Cyborg inflections could not mask the irony in his tone. “They can be recalled from this and remanded to those units of Deathmaster Quilland which will conduct this operation. In addition, I suggest—again—the full release of Cyborgs from the authority of Breedmaster Caius until all Havener nuclear weapon stockpiles have been found and seized and the military situation thus stabilized.”
Which will be in a thousand years, if ever, Althene thought. But no matter, she knew her husband and, by his wording, Köln had denied his own request.
“Regrettably, Cyborg Rank Köln,” Diettinger pronounced. “It is the very instability of the military situation which precludes the investment of Cyborg assets.”
Althene blinked in surprise, permitting herself an unprofessional reaction. “Assets” is putting it rather forcefully, indeed.
“There are too few Cyborgs for the colony to risk losing any,” Diettinger concluded. “At least until Breedmaster Caius and his staff have determined the prospects for continuation of the genotype. Weapons ranks now have sufficient anti-missile stations to defend our colony against any more such attacks as brought down the Fomoria. Our roving patrols will keep the surrounding mountainsides clear of other sappers. The Cyborg ranks are to continue their salvage operations, but Cyborg Rank Köln you may rotate the personnel as you wish, subject to Breedmaster Caius’ approval.”
Well, he’s said it, Althene thought. He used the word colony; by definition a political institution, and thus requiring, and subject to, political—not military—authority.
Though, in fact, in Sauron society the two differed very l
ittle from one another, the status of combat-dedicated citizens like the Cyborgs was clearly subservient in a political environment, however potent their reputation among the citizens of that environment might be.
It’s a step in the right direction, at least, she thought with real relief. And Galen’s decision to allow Quilland to deal decisively with the nomads was more good news. Still, Köln’s presence troubled her. She had the feeling that something unknown to her had just passed between Galen and the commander of the Cyborgs, that perhaps more battle lines had been drawn than was obvious.
Diettinger concluded the meeting an hour later, without any further comments from Cyborg Rank Köln. After the others had left, Althene watched her husband enter notes on his datapad, fold the cover down and only then look up at her.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
Althene inclined her head a fraction. “Although, allowing the Cyborgs to rotate duties…”
Diettinger waved a hand in dismissal. “They can’t be completely idle. In a sufficiently extreme emergency, they would have to be committed to battle. They must maintain some level of activity to keep in fighting trim.”
“Yes, I’m glad, however, that you refused to allow them to participate in the pacification of those horse nomads.”
Diettinger shrugged. “It’s necessary that they be elsewhere.”
Chapter Seven
I
Walking alone through the corridors of the structure they had christened the Citadel, Cyborg Rank Köln made many seemingly aimless turns, taking himself down several meandering passageways with no apparent destination. According to Survey, Fort Stony Point had been built during the CoDominium era, some six hundred years ago. From the sheer size and number of rooms and passageways carved into the mountainside, it appeared that each succeeding generation had added new chambers and passages to the fort. It was an impressive work for human norms, he decided, and a fitting home for their new masters.
Frequently he passed great open halls, blasted out of the rock by 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 mountain and these were being converted to hangar decks for the remaining Sauron aircraft and the new ones recently seized from the indigenes.
In some of 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, Köln corrected himself: Dol Guldur. More and more of the troops were referring to the Fomoria by that name, lately; almost as if they’d already forgotten their true origins.
Well, that’s part of what this is all about, isn’t it.
Köln entered one of the hangers 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 Köln,” the voice came from the rim of the cave, just outside the opening. Köln 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 Köln’s views regarding Cyborg mastery of the Race. Köln joined Sargun and the two Cyborgs greeted one another in almost 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 Köln did. “You do not approve of shivering, Sargun?” Köln observed quietly.
“I regard it as a sign of weakness.”
“Quite the contrary,” Köln stated. “Mammals—and any other creatures which can—shiver to generate body heat. It is in fact a very desirable survival trait.” Köln 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 Köln. Not yet. When I am, I will pursue less demeaning methods of warming myself.”
Köln’s eyes slid sideways to meet Sargun’s gaze. “Such as building a fire, perhaps?”
“You understand me perfectly, I think.”
Köln shrugged, and made a broad, encompassing gesture. “What would you use for fuel in a place like this?”
Sargun turned back to look down upon the valley stretching out past the gap. On the horizon, great palls of smoke from a vast fire could still be seen. Only the nearest were pieces of the Fomoria; the rest were Haven’s valley cities and towns. Most had burned out, but many still smoldered, or had started up once again in the weeks following the invasion. “There is always something which needs burning, Cyborg Rank Köln,” Sargun declared.
Köln made a slight inclination of his head. “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. Do not clear the reassignment 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 disdain for such indirect methods.
Köln turned and peered at him, scrutinizing the other Cyborg’s features with an attention that verged on the discomforting. Finally, he turned away abruptly. “I have learned that a large concentration of debris from the Fomoria may have been dropped outside of the Shangri-La Valley, in the steppes to the north. You will take the Pathfinders outside 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, Köln turned away and walked back into the hanger where he was soon lost from sight amid the multitude of Soldiers moving to and fro within.
Sargun waited a few moments later, looking out on the valley. Rumor had it that a raid was to be carried out on the steppes; a raid in which Cyborg participation had been specifically prohibited. Sargun was no fool, but he was not entirely sure he fully understood Köln’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 shivered experimentally. Skin muscles, long gone, from human norms, had been reactivated in the cyborg DNA code; 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 made out.
“Pah.” He almost spat. Comfort was for the weak.
II
“For God’s sake, Baron! Let it go?”
Baron Hamilton of Greensward, smiled thinly and nodded at the younger man seated before him. “Yes. Let it go, Major. If it would help exterminate the Saurons, I would personally burn Whitehall to the ground. It wouldn’t though.” Nothing will, but I can’t say that to one of Gary’s officers.
Major Hendricks looked around the paneled study, with its high ceilings and ornate tapestries. Such elegance had always been rare on Haven. Now, after the widespread destruction brought by the Saurons, it was unique. “Saurons! Why us?”
“I’ve wondered that myself, Major. We’re at the arse-end of the Empire. Maybe that has something to do with it. Maybe the Saurons are losing the war and this shipload of bastards is trying to hide.”
“God, I hope so,” Hendricks said. “And the Fleet will be back. It will.”
“It might be a while. “ And probably not, he thought to himself. Certainly not in your lifetime or your great-grandchildren’s. “Meanwhile we hang on, and ruining Whitehall won’t help.”
“I don’t want to ruin Whitehall, Baron, the Brigadier wants you to take our refugees. And maybe act as headquarters for the Fighting First. That would give us a strong presence in the Central Valley, far from the enemy’s stronghold.”
“
Same thing, really. If we take in everyone you send, we won’t last a season. As an outpost, we’d surely attract Sauron notice. Better that a few survive, than none.”
“And what do you think you accomplish by the mere act of survival?”
Hamilton shrugged. “Possibly nothing. But I can try. I want to save Whitehall, because losing it won’t make any difference. If we survive the invasion we can rebuild. Major, if every one of those monsters drops dead tomorrow, we will still be generations away from civilization!”
“But the Empire—”
“Major, I doubt the Empire will return: Ever. They abandoned us before the war heated up. Even if the war is over now—and we don’t know that—Sparta has its own rebuilding to do. They don’t care about us. Never did, really.”
“Then you won’t help us?”
“Major, I can’t help you, not with anything that will do you any good. House Hamilton can’t even meet obligations to our own. We’re turning out relatives of our own liegemen. Do you think I like that?”
“No, of course not—look, can you do anything? Anything at all?”
“I can take in your family. Yours and the rest of the Brigadier’s—”
The Major shook his head. “I guess you didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
“The Brigadier’s wife, daughter and son-in-law all died when the Saurons nuked Castell City.”
The Baron made a whooshing sound as he drew his breath in. Poor Gary! How can I tell Ingrid that her mother, sister and nephews are all dead. It’s a damnable duty, but who else could or would?
“Your Lordship, we need all the help we can get.”