by John F. Carr
Hamilton nodded. “I bet you do, but we can’t give you much. I can send you fifty volunteers, reasonably well supplied and equipped.”
“No more than that?”
“You can’t feed more than that,” Hamilton stated flatly. “‘Well supplied’ means they aren’t starving. It doesn’t mean we can spare a month’s rations.”
“Damn it, that’s no help at all! Your grandson promised us more—”
“John does not command here.” There. I’ve done it. Disavowed my grandson’s pledged word. And there may be hell to pay for it.
The Baron suppressed a smile as he watched Major Hendricks. It was all too easy to read Hendricks with the way his face was contorting. Hamilton’s Whitehall Guard was scattered, and Hendricks had his own platoon of escorts. And John had already promised. One bullet, and there would be a new and more tractable Baron at Whitehall. I think he may try it.
Hamilton whistled, a short trill tone. One of the elaborate panels opened to reveal three Guardsmen. The sergeant touched his cap in salute. Hamilton nodded acknowledgment.
“Yes, Baron?” the Guard’s sergeant asked.
“Please send word to my grandson that I wish to see him.”
“Yes, sir.” The panel closed again.
Hamilton sighed in relief. Good. Hendricks didn’t have time to do anything he needs to apologize for. Maybe he wouldn’t have anyway. Maybe.
“If that’s all you will give me,” Hendricks said, resignation written all over his face.
“All I can give you, Major,” Hamilton corrected.
“Can? I don’t agree, but I suppose I should take what I can get.” The Major hesitated. “Also, I will take you up on your offer—I would like to send you my family, Ruth and the two kids, for safekeeping. The Brigadier, well…only Ingrid’s left….”
“Please give the Brigadier Cummings my condolences. Your family is quite welcome.” The Baron paused to look the Major straight in the eyes. “I will keep them as safe as I keep my own. As I have done with the Brigadier’s youngest daughter.”
He wasn’t sure he could protect Ingrid from his grandson, but he could guarantee they would never go unchaperoned again.
“Thank you, sir. We…well, we have a plan.”
“I’d be amazed to find you didn’t. I hope it’s damned successful, and damned bloody. Go kill some Saurons for me.”
Chapter Eight
I
Communications Fifth Rank Roger Boyle was beginning to enjoy his spacious accommodations in the Citadel. He had his own private room and ten times the space he’d had aboard the Fomoria. Nor was his job as stressful. Although, thanks to Haven’s proximity to Cat’s Eye, atmospheric conditions for radio transmission and reception were spotty; therefore, for urgent communications they used laser line-of-sight to one of the geosynchronous satellites which the Fomoria had launched before her demise. Of course, the mountains that reared up on either side of the Karakul Pass didn’t help reception at all.
Boyle had even met a girl. She was a Survey tech, and also a Fifth Ranker. He had talked to her a few times aboard the Fomoria, but at that time they both had been distracted by all the chaos of the battles that preceded and concluded the destruction of the Homeworld. She had beautiful brown eyes and the perfect face, at least, in his mind. The last time they had talked she had been very upset; she’d just gotten her transfer to the Breedmaster’s crèche.
If he understood the rumors, it appeared that all Sauron females—with the exception of First Lady Althene—would be mated to the Cyborg Ranks. The other Soldiers he had discussed this with had not developed any feelings for the former shipboard women and were more interested in visiting the mating cubicles with the tribute women. He’d visited them once, but was hardly satisfied by the brief coupling with a distraught and drugged Haven female.
He was at his desk in the communication room in the Citadel when Communications Second Rank Brecht waved him over to this station.
“Yes, Second Rank. What is it?”
“I’ve just received word from Deathmaster Quilland that they have now got Firebase Five almost complete. I’m sending you and three other Rankers there to oversee communications.”
The firebases were fortifications that were designed by Engineering ranks specifically for each world, although there was a general design. Like the CoDominium Marine forts, Sauron firebases were rectangular forts with walls made of available materials, preferably stone, and a trench running around the entire affair. The walls had towers at each corner and a large block house in the center with a number of smaller buildings, barracks, supply depots, etc.
Boyle nodded. Firebase Five was close to Castell City and was the most important, next to Firebase One, of the newly built forts. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve done a good job here, Fifth Rank. Plus, the First Citizen put in a good word about your efforts aboard the Fomoria.” He passed over a patch and chevron indicating Fourth Rank status. “Deathmaster Quilland put in your promotion yesterday.”
“When am I scheduled to leave, sir?” Boyle said, struggling to keep the joy he felt carefully hidden inside.
“There will be a transport copter leaving this evening.”
II
“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, a decade before the Saurons arrived. 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, although the influence of individuals waxed and waned along with their popularity and prosperity. Sergei had been in the middle ground of council members, a moderate voice only seriously courted when a swing vote was needed.
Now, however, his position was definitely unviable. A lost horse and saddle made a serious dent in a Cossack’s prosperity. 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 men from the Valley?” Oleg Yarmoloff asked, as he 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 forbearers lived, because we were not welcome in the Shangri-La Valley.”
Sergei noted that he made no reference to the scams and con games the tribe had played on outsiders, eventually leading to expulsion or incarceration. Sonia Pugachev had scammed the Mayor of Falkenberg’s mother out of several thousand marks before being caught; it was the last straw. The tribe had chosen exile and been happy to be left off so easy, how soon they forgot why.
“We and others like us—the Dinneh, the Tartary nomads, the ha-Bandari, the White Horsemen, even the Chin”—Yarmoloff paused to spit into the fire at the mere mention of their hated foe—“have survived, despite the Valley city-states having driven us into this wilderness of thin air, freezing cold and hardscrabble land.”
Yarmoloff ended his circuit standing before Sergei Kamov. “Now, the people of the Valley have been struck down—no small judgment, if you ask me,” he said, 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!”
Chapter Nine
I
For a moment, Colonel Edon Kettler thought the shouting would only subside after the attempted lynching of
him and the other four men in his contact team. He was beginning to regret saving Kamov’s life. We need to get this done, or get moving before the Saurons track us down. He understood that the killing of two Soldiers had been met with fury and a call to action in the Citadel. He cursed Colonel Harrington who had refused to properly garrison Fort Stony Point. The Colonel had called it an anachronism, worthwhile only to keep track of the various nomads as they came into the Shangri-La Valley for birthing and trade.
Slowly the nine men of the village council finally managed to restore some measure of order, allowing him to speak. “As I said, that’s not part of the deal. I don’t represent any one nation or city-state of Haven. There are none such anymore. 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 Saurons? 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 Brigadier Cummings had known that these Cossacks would be the toughest bunch to convert into allies, which was why Kettler had been determined to go to them first. Having the steppes Cossacks allied to the cause would be a very persuasive point in rallying other outlanders to the banner. “The Saurons mean to rule here, Gospodin Korolyev,” Kettler answered as directly and straightforward. “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. We have seen with our own eyes smoke columns, taller than 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 a strong one than this Cummings who fights from hiding like a common highwayman.”
Kettler shot a glare at the sergeant in command of his escort. He and his men had been hand-picked by Cummings to keep him alive during these negotiations. However, they had fought under the Brigadier for a very long time, and each of them owed their lives and the lives of their kin to Cummings a dozen times over. The last thing they needed was one of the militiamen taking offense and starting a donnybrook. No one appeared overtly upset. Remember, he told himself, these are professionals handpicked by Brigadier Cummings himself.
Kettler thought about the villager, Kamov, whom they’d met on the way into camp. Chased by Saurons, claiming to have killed two, which on the surface was hard to believe—but useful. Poor bastard, he thought, Kamov doesn’t know it, but—true or not—I’m going to have to throw him under the bus.
“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 Colonel Kettler, he had been waiting for the moment when the council would simply order them all killed. And, he decided, that moment has perhaps now arrived.
Kettler continued speaking: “The Saurons have only the people they brought with them on their starship, and Gospodin Kamov has killed two of them. Within the Shangri-La Valley, they have obliterated entire villages in retribution for such an act. All males are summarily executed, all females taken captive and transferred to their Citadel; and, by the Saurons’ own proclaimed policy of breeding captive females, there is no doubt as to what the purpose of such captives must be. This is the price of the life of just one 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 speak using terms these Don Cossacks understood.
“The Saurons must breed a new generation of Soldiers, as you would breed your own horses. Their goal is to conquer all of Haven, from the valleys to the steppes. It is only now, while they are establishing their breeding 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 such as Gospodin Kamov.”
“Give them Kamov!” Yarmoloff snarled. “And his daughter, too, if they want women.”
At which point, Sergei’s oldest son Nikolai was off the floor, his sabre half out of its scabbard, before Sergei pushed him back down to the rug floor 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. How long will it be before they want you, Yarmoloff?”
Yarmoloff’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened in anger. “If they come, they come. If we die, we die. But we die our way, on our own terms.”
There was no cheering at that, and Kettler knew that Yarmoloff had dropped the ball. Kettler waited out the kumis-driven arguments, 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 the outsiders. “You suggest then, providing advisors to us for fighting the Saurons. What about weapons for us to use? And 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 prepare, with the help of the resistance movement being organized by Brigadier 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. But I had to use you to shame the council; I had to take the risk to keep Yarmoloff from winning and maybe having you killed anyway.
Kettler figured that Kamov probably understood, but it didn’t matter whether he did or not. If Kettler had guessed right—that the Saurons would track Sergei back to his people, and what they would do once they found them—they were probably all going to die anyway.
II
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’s coat was all white, which was an advantage when it snowed. She was a sturdy and 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.
He grimaced in remembrance of the laughter of the other men in Sedov’s tack shop when he’d 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 entire community that Sedov was getting greedy. There was always someone else among their people—even several someones—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 been forced to promise the next foal from his prize mare as payment. There was nothing to be done; horses Kamov had, but good saddles could not be picked up just anywhere on the steppes.
He shook his head in resignation. He had lost more than a mount when he lost Mischa; he had lost face among the men of the 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 upon a fortnight earlier. The women would make their lives a hell, the men knew. Here they had found pasture for their 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 the tribe.
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 militiaman 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, he 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, 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?”
She nodded back over her shoulder. “Lavrenti’s hitching up the team. He’s almost done.” She reached up to push a wind-blown drape of wheat-colored hair off her forehead. “Nikolai helped him with most of it, and then took the rest of our horses to the big herd. He should be returning soon.”
Sergei nodded. “Ah, that’s good.” He studied his daughter; fourteen years old and tall for her age. Natalya Kamov had never passed through the awkward adolescent stage that was a father’s last glimpse of his daughter’s childhood. She was going straight from the beauty of a child to the beauty of a woman; she would be married within two years—four at most, he knew—and then there would be another man. And another family Sergei could count on for the protection of his daughter.