by John F. Carr
“Understood, Cyborg Rank Köln. Your place on the Staff is considered to be invaluable.”
I am not to be compromised, then, Köln translated, and will be instated as First Soldier immediately upon resolution of the issue at hand.
“Good,” Köln replied. “As second in command I have recommended you to be in charge of securing and resettling all the female cattle from Firebase Two and the surrounding sectors. It is important you impress the ranks with your superior abilities in combat command.”
He switched to the Secure Tongue: Their support is crucial to any future actions. Are my words understood?
“I will not fail you, Cyborg Köln,” Zold answered. He saluted and left.
Köln did not even bother to watch him leave. It was immaterial to him whether Zold succeeded or not now that he was secure from whatever plot Zold was hatching. Either way, Zold, you will not live to see the coming Year-End. You will die by Diettinger’s hand or mine. You are too treacherous. Even worse, you are reckless.
II
From a distant escarpment a tamerlane called out. The horses and muskylopes whickered, hissed, and moaned.
Brigadier-General Cummings dismounted to gentle his horse. Colonel Leung did the same, even though he’d been swaying in the saddle all night.
“Is he calling his mate, or calling up all his friends for dinner?” Leung wondered out loud.
“We won’t be going his way,” Cummings said, as he unfolded the map. Even the so-called flatlands of Haven were in actuality ribbed with hills and rough terrain. The term flatland was a misnomer on Haven—even the Highland steppes were hilly and treacherous; it took an off-worlder like him to truly appreciate just how rough this territory was.
Cummings lit the shrouded candle-lantern he was using to save the flashlights for the medics. With one dark finger, he traced a route looping south and west around Redemption.
“That’s taking us awfully close to the Hamilton barony, General.”
“As I said before, I need to talk with Baron Hamilton. It may be my last chance for a long time, and we owe him.”
Colonel Leung nodded. He’d been a company commander when Baron Hamilton made his deal with Cummings, during the days when paper money had been devalued to less than the cost of its printing. Hamilton had traded gold and grain for working durasteel into suits of armor. The gold had gone to fill the Brigade’s paychests and the grain to fill its bellies.
In most cases when the government could no longer afford to pay even its troops, they turned to brigandage or became mercenaries. General Cummings, with Hamilton’s help, had kept the Haven Volunteers the militia they were commissioned to be. They had even managed to keep a semblance of order in the Shangri-La Valley—the rest of Haven had been on its own—until the Saurons had arrived and chaos became universal.
Now, everyone on Haven was on their own.
“I agree we owe him for keeping us alive, but that was over a decade ago,” Leung said. “Sure he’s helped us since, but what are we going to pay him with?”
“Not armor this time,” Cummings replied. The Militia had used their share of the armor fighting bandits before the Saurons came. After that, it was so much extra weight. The Saurons’ physical development let them carry personal weapons that ripped through even durasteel armor like so much fiberboard. Cummings would be surprised if there was a full set of armor in the whole strike force—certainly not after their scrambling retreat from Fort Kursk.
Albert Hamilton had done much more with his new-model knights. They’d made him a power in the Shangri-La Valley almost as effective as Enoch Redfield on the other side of the Miracle Mountains. Unlike Redfield, Hamilton was respected as well as feared. Even now the barony was as peaceful as anyone could hope for, this close to Sauron territory.
“I intend to pay him with information. Intelligence, and not just about the Saurons. Remember that scout we captured from the Redfield Rifles?” Cummings left unsaid that he also wanted to visit his daughter, his last remaining family. He needed to say good-bye to Ingrid, as this would likely be their final meeting. The odds on his survival grew shorter every day the Saurons hunted him down. They’d even conscripted his fellow Haveners by putting a thousand ounces of gold bounty on his head—literally, or so it was rumored. In these troubled times, rumors passed as well as truth.
Leung nodded. The ‘scout’ had been looking for ammunition dumps—for his leader’s forces, he said. But the militia recognized a paper he carried as a Sauron safe-conduct. Any ammunition dumps he found would be raided by the Saurons, the nearest village leveled, its inhabitants enslaved or killed—the whole ghastly tale they’d seen a dozen times and heard twenty more.
Some of the merciful troopers had wanted the man staked out for tamerlanes. Others had more drastic ideas, such as tying a bucket with a drillbit in it over his groin—upside down.
Cummings had nearly provoked a mutiny by simply shooting the man outright.
“You’re right, General Redfield’s always been one to play up to both sides, as long as they’ll leave him in power. Remember the deal he struck with King Steele the First and Last. Now if he thinks the Saurons are winning—”
“Our friends should know.”
Darkness was almost complete now, but fortunately the next stretch of the journey was over nearly open ground. They couldn’t make it all the way in and out of Hamilton territory during truenight, but they could get in and go to ground before dawn.
Enemy soldiers the Saurons might miss altogether, being so close to the holdings of a man who’d given them neither allegiance nor trouble. If the strike force was discovered and had to fight their last battle, the Hamiltons would have a plausible excuse for not knowing that the militia had been there.
The tamerlane called again, and this time several more replied. The pack was on the prowl, and Cummings posted an experienced hunter with a night-scoped rifle at either end of the column before they moved out.
III
Galen Diettinger wandered around their spacious Citadel living quarters, the former home of Fort Stony Point’s militia commander. I could have put four of my shipboard quarters in the Fomoria into this parlor alone, he thought. Althene had already done some decorating, putting up a solido of Galen’s former landholding on Sauron. Somehow she had also rounded up portraits of his parents, and hers too. For wall hangings, there were gorgeous tapestries, Haven-made; he suspected they were part of the loot from the Don Cossacks debacle.
Althene joined him from the kitchen where she had just finished the after-dinner cleanup.
“An aperitif?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Galen, I didn’t want to mention this over supper, but we’ve got a personnel problem.”
Inside Diettinger groaned; work followed him everywhere. As far as he was concerned, they had one major personnel problem—not enough Soldiers. If he was a praying man, he would have been down on his knees begging for more. Like most Saurons—or soldiers anywhere—he did believe in some sort of power greater than his own, even if it was not anthropomorphic.
He just hoped she was not going to bring up the Cyborg issue, again. “What is it, Althene?”
Althene’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not what you think. I’m not going to mention Cyborg Köln tonight.” Like most Haveners, the Saurons had already broken up the long Haven brightdays, dimdays and truenights into easily digestible shifts of eight hours, based on Earth standard time: calling them morning, afternoon and night, regardless of the position of Byers’ sun or Cat’s Eye.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied with audible relief.
Althene smiled, then turned serious. “It’s former Groundmaster Bohren. He’s not making a good transition to his new role as trooper.”
Diettinger nodded. He had suspected as much. He had punished Bohren for his actions and poor judgment during the Don Cossack raid. At the time, demoting him from over-assault leader to trooper had seemed fitting. Still, he could see that there mig
ht be a difficult transition period for the former groundmaster.
“What’s the problem?”
“Many of his fellow Soldiers are blaming Bohren for the defeat. He’s been in two fights in the last week.”
As his unofficial second in command, Althene had taken over personnel duties at the Citadel, which he had strongly encouraged. She was both respected and beloved by the troops. Even the Cyborgs gave her begrudging respect. It hadn’t taken her but a week and she had the office humming. Even with the additional work and responsibility, she still had time to delve into the history of Haven; plus collect all historical data and references aboard ship on Sauron for a definitive book to be titled Homeworld, a work that would be invaluable to future generations. A book might prove to be the most important contribution of the first generation of Sauron-based Haveners.
He quickly took stock of the situation. “We can always transfer Trooper Bohren to one of the outlying firebases, say Firebase Six over by Hell’s-A-Comin’. There he won’t be in contact with anyone who lost a friend or comrade.”
“I’d considered that, myself, Galen. I don’t think it will help. That will just transfer the problem from the Citadel to one of the firebases. Bohren was a top administrator and he believes his talents are being denied; he’s growing increasingly despondent. He also believes he let you and his fellow Soldiers down. He’s too valuable, especially considering our current shortage of qualified personnel, to let go to waste.”
“You think he might kill himself?” Diettinger asked in shock. Suicide was—next to cowardice—the most heinous act a Sauron could commit. Their national and racial character, having been forged in the inhospitable and dangerous environment of Sauron, viewed suicide as an unforgivable waste and transgression. On the other hand, when overwhelmed with personal crises, extreme boredom or dishonor, some Soldiers were known to run amuck. “Or avoir le cafard?”
Althene nodded. “One of the two. Judging by what I know about Valan Bohren, I believe taking his own life is the more likely.”
“That could be a disaster morale-wise,” Diettinger stated. “Abandoned here on this inhospitable moon, as we are, this might lead to a rash of copycat suicides.”
“I agree, or I wouldn’t have troubled you with this problem.”
If transferring Bohren wouldn’t solve the problem, he was at a loss as to where to go next. “Althene, you’ve given this some thought. Do you have any ideas on how to save Bohren from himself?”
She nodded. “I believe we need to move him into a non-military environment with a seemly prestigious rank. I think Bohren would make an ideal ambassador.”
Diettinger was taken aback. “Ambassador to what, or should I say to whom?”
“Galen, recently it’s come to my attention that some of the Havener states have been requesting closer relations with us. Take that Redfielder, President Edon Redfield. His holdings are on the other side of the Miracle Mountains, but he is a major power in that sector of Haven. From what some of the prisoners have reported, he’s a tinpot dictator, but that’s not our problem, since he’s willing to work for us in return for ‘official recognition’ and the opportunity to savage and prey upon his neighbors.”
“Aha. Do our work for us, in other words.”
“Yes, he’ll be quite the Quisling, for now. Our Quisling. Some of his men have already proved useful.”
“I can see the advantages of that relationship,” Diettinger said. One of their greatest obstacles to ruling Haven was trying to maintain dominance over an area that would be difficult with hundred times as many Soldiers. “We can even use Redfield as a cat’s-paw on occasion. We haven’t stationed anyone in that area of Haven, yet. Nor do we have troops that we can spare to oversee it.”
“I agree, husband. But we do have a gifted Soldier we can no longer depend upon.”
“So you have a use for him, after all?”
“Yes,” Althene replied. “I want you to make him Ambassador to the Redfield Satrapy. Provide him with a squad of Soldiers, picking those of marginal fertility and military value. Let Bohren use his abilities to our advantage and to keep a rein on Redfield’s ambitions.”
“A couple of bombs could do as well, my dear.”
“True, but this way we solve a major personnel problem and, furthermore, we can use President Redfield to our own purpose.”
Diettinger smiled. “Yes, that is the elegant solution. I’ll send for Bohren tomorrow morning and inform him of his promotion.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I
First Citizen Diettinger poured out two small glasses of Diego Brandy and pushed one across the low table at Breedmaster Caius. Ethanol and most other chemicals had minimal effects on Sauron physiology, compared with cattle, but he’d acquired a taste for brandy when posted on Diego in what now seemed like a lifetime ago. Briefly he wondered how their former Sauron Coalition allies now prospered under Imperial rule—certainly not as badly as Sauron herself, he’d wager.
“Breedmaster. You have your meeting, but please make it brief; I have much to do before the day is done.”
“Very well, First Citizen. I believe you are making a mistake concerning the Cyborgs.”
As far as Diettinger was concerned, they’d been over this ground too many times. Caius believed the Cyborgs, under the influence of Köln and Zold, would not be content until they’d overthrown Diettinger’s rule. While he believed that the Breedmaster overstated his case, he’d made certain preparations in case Caius was right. On the other hand, the Cyborgs were essential if his dream of turning Haven into another Homeworld were ever to come to fruition.
“In what respect, now?” Diettinger asked.
“They should be leading patrols to find and eliminate Cummings’ militia strike teams.”
“There’s no reason why they can’t go patrolling after the female cattle are safely at the Citadel.”
“That may take some time, First Rank, particularly if the Haveners attack the cattle parties.”
“All the more reason to have good Soldiers guarding them,” Diettinger replied.
“Good, yes, but our best?”
“Caius, you said yourself that breeding stock is what we most need to ensure the future of the Race. Therefore, protecting the breeding stock is an important mission. For such a critical mission, doesn’t one use the best grade of Soldiers?”
“True, First Citizen. However, in this case even our least able Soldiers, like that Tech Ranker Boyle, will be good enough. Also, they will not be mortally offended.”
“And the Cyborgs will be?”
“Köln certainly is. Nor is he alone. I would estimate that his faction includes half the Cyborgs, at least.”
Diettinger almost groaned aloud. He wanted sleep, in the bed he shared with Althene, the bed warmed by her presence even when she was not there, in a way he had never expected to experience. He did not want an old friend and trusted scientist telling him that he had tripped over his own feet.
“I am not going to change the orders now,” Diettinger said. “You remember the old maxim: ‘Order, counter-order, disorder.’ Haven and its cattle will give us enough disorder, without our creating our own.
“But I will order the troops at Firebase One to take over the escort of the cattle as far west as they can manage. That will free the Cyborgs for patrol actions earlier than planned. I had also intended to keep the patrols in camp until we had moved all the women; instead I can order some out at once, each with a Cyborg in command. They may be able to break up any enemy attacks before they are launched. Certainly they will give the Cyborgs their share of fighting.”
“And casualties.”
Something in the Breedmaster’s voice—“I thought we had enough Cyborg material to keep the breed going in fine style.”
“We do. And tissue specimens or sperm cannot intrigue or revolt.”
“But live Cyborgs can?”
The fact that Caius could meet his gaze at all was enough of an answer for that que
stion. However, Diettinger had a particular Cyborg in mind for this job. One who was too impetuous, by far.
II
A dark-haired, big, hard-featured head rose over the rim of the landing pad. Fourth Rank Boyle grunted in disgust, but advanced to greet Cyborg Sargun anyway.
Today was the high point of his military career; Boyle had just been appointed second in command of one of the patrols searching for Cummings’ strike force.
Roger suspected a good part of the reason for his promotion was the loss of most of the rankers making up the Comm ranks in the Headquarters fiasco. Now with Second Rank Davis back on active duty and several newly arrived Third rankers from the Citadel, First Citizen Diettinger had seen fit to send him on this mission with Cyborg Sargun. It was clear there was more to this patrol than the punishment of Brigadier Cummings and his militia.
He had another mission, one the First Citizen had given him in person this morning. “I would have promoted you to Third Rank, if you had more combat experience. You’ll have that after this mission.”
He handed Boyle a sealed envelope. “It has been brought to my attention there is some question regarding Cyborg Sargun’s loyalty to the present command system. He will still be senior commander of the patrol. However, should his leadership suffer during this expedition, I have sealed orders putting you in full command by my authority.”
That was all Diettinger would say on the subject, and those orders were sufficiently ambiguous to take the edge off his first command assignment. He knew, as everyone did, that there was an active faction, led by Cyborgs Köln and Zold, opposed to the manner in which former Vessel First Rank Galen Diettinger had taken command of the Sauron expedition after their arrival on Haven. Technically, Deathmaster Quilland or Cyborg Rank Köln should have commanded the Ground Force, and would have under normal conditions. Conditions on Haven—as Boyle and most of the Soldiers saw them—were neither normal or within the scope of Sauron military regulations.