by John F. Carr
“Breedmaster, the Soldiers have been quite free with the breeders,” Zold answered. “Some appear to thrive on it. Other cattle use what strength they have left to kill themselves. Only this one had the treachery to take a Soldier’s life as well.”
“Treachery? I should be interested in knowing what loyalty you think the cattle betrayed.” Breedmaster Caius said, his thin face hovering on the edge of a smile.
An open smile would have maddened Zold to the point of violence, Breedmaster or no, and Caius seemed to realize it.
The Breedmaster shrugged. “Let this be the last Soldier who dies at the hands of desperate cattle.”
The Cyborg froze, his skin pulled tight over the bones of his face.
Caius frowned. “Before we argue this point, let us step apart from the others.”
The Breedmaster waited with the patience of the mountain’s own stones while Zold gave orders for recovering the bodies.
“How many of the females can be used up, to avenge Morly?” Caius asked.
“As many as—”
“None,” Caius said, cutting the Cyborg off.
The Soldiers stared at him, then looked to Zold.
“It seems the Breedmaster presumes on his authority.”
“My authority comes from the First Citizen, who is commander of the Sauron Race and of the Citadel alike.”
“Show it to me.” Zold’s voice cracked like a stone breaking apart in the cold of a Haven night. To end this charade was urgent. Calling the Breedmaster’s witless bluff seemed the best way, if not the one that preserved good relations with Caius.
Breedmaster Caius removed an envelope from his belt pouch. “Over-Assault Leader Helm already has a copy. So does the Citadel’s Deathmaster. Destroying this will do you little good.”
Zold opened the envelope and read the First Citizen’s letter with increasing dismay.
“He actually gave you authority superior to all Soldiers and Cyborgs, where the welfare of the cattle is involved?”
“If you cannot read plain Sauron, I will call a translator. But I had thought—”
The Cyborg resisted the urge to shred the letter, or dash it in the Breedmaster’s face. He even kept his hand from shaking as he returned the letter.
“It is as well you brought this, Breedmaster, or I would have had you arrested for mutiny. But I am going to appeal to Diettinger.”
“You can appeal to the First Citizen as much as you like,” Caius answered. This time he did smile. “You will get the same answer each time.”
“And I,” Caius added, turning to the Soldiers, “will give you the same order each time. Women will be assigned on the basis of our breeding program within the next few days. I begin to regret I did not come sooner. Breeding stock is not to be damaged, and anyone who does so will face disciplinary charges.”
Zold wished that the rocks at his feet would open up and swallow him. Or Caius. It hardly mattered.
He and his Cyborgs conspirators had thought carefully over what might most readily influence the Soldiers to their side. Free access to the women had won out.
Hundreds of Soldiers had enjoyed themselves to the full as the breeders poured into the Citadel. Only a handful of the women had died, no more than a hundred or so. Maybe twice as many would be permanently damaged, but there were thirty times that many women already, and Caius must have come with yet another caravan.
Now the First Citizen had placed a Breedmaster in a position to limit the Cyborg influence. What could they find now, as a substitute for the now-forbidden women?
Or was it time to gamble, that they’d already influenced the Soldiers enough and that their rage at being denied women would be enough to push them over the edge? They already had Cyborg Rank Köln’s support.
But the question remained.
“It is the First Citizen’s command that no woman be punished for this deed,” Zold said. “All hail, First Citizen Diettinger!”
Caius joined in the hail, but he was also looking at the Soldiers as he did so.
II
The observation post that reported the burning village to Brigadier Cummings was the highest post the Brigade currently had out. Two kilometers above the village’s mountain top, it was just below oxygen-starvation level for most Haveners. A private and two corporals of Sherpa descent, however, made light of the altitude. They plotted the smoke, noted its probable source and heliographed the message back to Cummings’ mobile HQ.
Cummings cursed, then decided not to waste the energy. Sauron atrocities were going to be part of life on Haven, and nothing short of a miracle—or the return of the Empire, which amounted to the same thing—was going to change that. His current problem was a new one. Or was it an opportunity?
He swore a solemn oath to himself, that this was the last time he would miss Anton Leung. But why, oh why, did he have to take a bullet in the head now—of all times. I need him here to help evaluate this message.
Colonel Robert Cahill, commanding Falkenberg’s Irregulars in the Atlas Mountains, had thought it important enough to send by short wave radio. So Cahill believed it; the question became: Can I believe Cahill? The message sounded to him like a pure and simple case of a wish-fulfillment fantasy.
Cummings knew Cahill as one of his regimental COs. Anton Leung had been in the same battalion with Cahill for six years.
Well, it was time to bite the bullet. Which may be more than an archaic phrase if we have too many more casualties before we restock on anesthetics. Fortunately, opium poppies grew like weeds in the lower elevations and there was always more.
“My compliments to Major Hamilton. Ask him to come to my quarters.”
If Major Hamilton hadn’t been actually listening at the tent door, he must have been expecting the messenger. He poked his head in thirty seconds later; Cummings thrust the message at him.
Hamilton’s eyebrows rose. “Evaluation, sir?”
“Yes.”
Hamilton studied the map. “Sir, if there’s a real dust-up at the Citadel, it has to be in opposition to the one they call Vessel First Rank Diettinger. If I remember my grandfather’s lectures correctly, a Sauron Vessel Commander is like our ship’s captain—he’s only in command while in space. Among Sauron ground forces, I believe, there’s a Groundmaster and a Deathmaster: The Groundmaster is in charge of executing orders and commanding units while the Deathmaster is in strategic control of the campaign. Am I right so far?”
“Good analysis. Continue.” Considering his grandfather’s naval service, Cummings wasn’t surprised to learn that Hamilton knew more about naval affairs than he did about the army’s lot.
“Yes sir. My guess would be that either the Groundmaster or the Deathmaster has disagreed with Diettinger over some matter of policy and has decided to restore command to its rightful order. Depending upon how many Soldiers are involved, this could be the answer to our prayers. If one side decides it can’t win without allies—”
“Saurons would never ally themselves with ‘cattle.’”
“Wouldn’t they, Brigadier? If it was their one hope of victory? After all, the Saurons had no problem allying themselves with humans in the Sauron Coalition of Secession.”
“Hmm. It wouldn’t even have to be a real alliance,” Cummings’ pointed out. “The cattle would be back in their pens the moment they weren’t needed.”
“Yes, but think of what they might do while the Saurons needed them, sir?”
“That calls for some deep thinking.”
Cummings stepped up to the map. “Are we still reporting caravans headed for the Citadel?”
Hamilton tapped the map in two places. “There and there, although the first report’s three days old. The other message came in by tight-beam this morning.”
“Never mind. Try to get a message into one of the caravans as well as to Colonel Cahill. In the event of a civil war among the Saurons, everyone is to try and escape.”
“Sir, escape?”
“Yes. The only way they’ll
be safe is to get out of the Saurons’ reach while they’re busy with each other. Also, if the Saurons seriously try chasing them, they’ll be scattered all over hell’s hectares before the Saurons realize it’s a lost cause to try and chase them all down.”
“And we’ll hit them while they’re dispersed.” Hamilton had good teeth, and they helped make his grin all the more diabolical.
“Exactly.” Cummings measured distances on the map. “There’s no way we can get to the Citadel in time—even if we were to risk going motorized—to aid the attack, or civil war or whatever is going on there. Cahill will have to do that. But we may be able to get a battalion nearby in time to cover the escapees’ tracks.”
“I hope to God we do, sir.”
“Good boots and hot meals will do more than god right now. Make certain everybody has both.”
“Yes, sir. Ah—what about the Sauron patrol, that burned Rock Crest?”
The General took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco. After he got it fired up, he said, “If we take First Battalion into the Valley, Major, that means we’ll only have Second Battalion to cover this entire range. Third Battalion is still based outside New Survey, where the Miracles turn into the Devil’s Heater; they can follow us into the Valley as a reserve.”
“But Second Battalion is way under strength; they took the worst of it the first time we evacuated Fort Kursk. They’re little more than a garrison unit now. And, with the heavy losses they’ve just taken, they won’t have the men to fight the Saurons—”
“If I want to be told the obvious, I don’t need a major to do it. Are you bucking for corporal?”
“No, sir.” Hamilton pulled three sheets of paper out of his pocket. “I did a little plotting with a calculator and map. Some of the locals threw in their knowledge, too. You’ll see that the four villages the Saurons burned are all on a route toward the northern exit of the Shangri-La Valley.”
“The Citadel, hmm. So you think they’re trying to get away, not find us?”
“If they weren’t, they will be now,” Hamilton said. “I bet this rebellion isn’t news to them. While they’re leaving, I believe they’re trying to do as much damage as they can, both physically and psychologically.”
Cummings paused to knock the dottle out of his pipe against the heel of his hand. “So.”
“Sir, I thought we’d hand this plot I’ve made over to the locals, sir. They don’t have our communications, so they can’t deploy their forces as fast. But they’ve got just as many people; they’re mad as hell, and they know the ground. If they also know where the Saurons are likely to show up next—”
This time Hamilton’s grin looked smug rather than diabolical.
Cummings nodded. It made sense. So much sense that if Hamilton pulled something like this two or three more times, Cummings could send his grandfather back a real soldier.
III
Breedmaster Caius came storming into the Command Post, demanding to see the First Citizen. Although physically frail, when compared to the typical Soldier, no one could deny the force of his personality and indomitable will.
He approached the Assault Leader who manned the front desk. “I need to see the First Citizen, immediately.”
The Assault Leader nodded. “I will inform the First Citizen of your arrival.”
Anyone else, other than Lady Althene, would have gotten the royal runaround, but Caius was one of Diettinger’s few intimates as well as the unofficial high priest of the Colony. While only a few Saurons put their faith into God and the afterlife, most firmly believed in genetics and the future possibilities of their own line.
After a brief exchange on his desk phone, the Assault Leader led him into the First Citizen’s office.
The First Citizen, who was seated behind his desk working on his datapad, said, “Welcome, Breedmaster. I do wonder what was so urgent that you had to arrive without a previous appointment?”
Has he gone deaf, dumb and blind? Caius wondered. “I just received word that you are leaving the Citadel to make on the spot inspections of our outposts and firebases.”
Diettinger nodded. “That is correct.”
Caius was unable to keep the exasperation he felt out of his voice. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on at the Citadel for the past week?” he demanded.
“I am well aware that there are certain groups within our Colony who are not pleased with the direction in which we are leading them.”
“Did you say, ‘not pleased,’ First Citizen? There are people willing to kill those who oppose them, and even bring down the Colony over this issue, predominantly the Cyborg faction led by Cyborg Second Rank Zold.”
“I am aware that Cyborg Rank Zold disagrees with many of our policies, particularly the fact that the Cyborg ranks are not in charge of the Colony. I have taken steps to deal with any contingencies that may arise from their dissatisfaction.”
“You call leaving the Citadel at the height of this crisis a step to deal with this possible rebellion?”
“Breedmaster, I have long been aware of Cyborg dissatisfaction, long before the Battle of Sauron and our leave-taking. Upon our arrival at Sauron, I quickly discovered that the Cyborg ranks had, in violation of all previous laws and precedents, established themselves as members of the Sauron High Command. In effect, they were already ruling the Homeworld—in all but name. On the other hand, I view the Cyborgs as essential for our success here on Haven and critical for the future of this Colony. To that end, I have taken a hands-off policy in regards to their dissent.”
Caius shook his head. “What happens when their dissent erupts into bloodshed, First Citizen? What then?”
“That possibility is on a need to know basis.”
Caius, who as Breedmaster, was used to being given all information, restricted or not, had to choke back his first words. “Are you afraid, after all my years of loyal support, that I might betray you or unwittingly reveal secret information?”
“No, old comrade. At the moment, the situation here at the Citadel is very fluid and I would not want to worry an old friend over the many varied probabilities that lie before our Colony. In fact, it might be a good idea if you joined me and Lady Althene on our inspection tour.”
It doesn’t sound like Galen is anymore sure of the outcome of this issue than I am. Maybe it would be prudent to accompany him and Althene. “I think it might be a good idea, as well,” Caius replied. If this uprising is successful, he is going to need me more than ever.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I
Cyborg Rank Zold pressed himself against the cold stone floor of the tunnel. He expected no danger from the shaped charge itself, but beyond the door were the cattle pens. Suddenly freed, the cattle might be hard to control.
Three Cyborgs vanished into the cattle pens, while behind Zold two Soldiers rolled up the first cartload of weapons. Most of the Soldiers in the Citadel had not committed themselves, but a few squads had already turned. Zold expected the rest to follow when the Command Post fell. With First Citizen Diettinger off on an inspection round of the firebases, the conspirators had realized there would never be a better time for their revolt.
The Soldiers were beginning to rip open crates with their bare hands when his commlink beeped.
Zold decided to answer it. It was about time for the communications center to be under Cyborg control.
“Zold here. Ruler?”
“Overlord.” That was the recognition code. Now: “Triumph Green?”
“Yes, but—”
“What do you mean, but?”
“Over-Assault Leader Dalmar sealed off the Command Post. We did not want to blast our way in without orders.”
“Block all exits but one, and guard that.” Blasting would surely be the end of Dalmar, which Zold didn’t mind. It would also be the end of too much irreplaceable equipment, which he did mind.
“At your command, Rank Zold. We have no reports from the outposts. We also have one sighting of fighting i
n the vicinity of Outpost Seven.”
“Keep trying to reach the outposts.” The outposts were intended to report any enemy attacks, repel a light one, and channel a major one into fields of fire laid down by the Citadel’s fixed defenses.
Tonight they were supposed to be in Cyborg hands as quickly as possible. With the First Citizen off on an inspection tour, the time for action had arrived. Zold’s big problem was he didn’t have enough Cyborgs to carry out all his operations; there were only fourteen of them here, four of whom he couldn’t trust, at the Citadel. The rest were at Firebase One, out on patrol, or at one of the outlying firebases.
He had to trust Soldiers to take the outposts, so the new masters could keep out reinforcements—or send out armed cattle against them, using the outpost weapons in support. Well, battles seldom went according to plan for more than five minutes, and the attack hour had only been twenty minutes ago. Zold refused to worry until he had more information.
A shuffling and muttering grew beyond the open door. The female cattle began filing out, mostly young women with a few adolescent girls among them. Most had just arrived and not been processed; they were filthy, many of them bruised, most of them gaunt, but they stood as straight as they could.
Zold cupped his hands, as they filed out, so his orders could be heard through the pens. “Haveners. A new day has dawned for your world. The misguided rule of First Citizen Diettinger is at an end. Help us bring that new day, by fighting beside us.”
He flung his hand out at the opened crates of weapons.
The females’ eyes shifted. Zold regretted that there weren’t more male cattle, who would do better with the heavier weapons. Still there were few heavy weapons among the crated loot, and in many lands on Haven women were as deft with weapons as men. Besides, a female body could stop a bullet as well as a male one; every bullet spent on cattle was one less for a Cyborg or loyal Soldier.
The females took what sounded like a collective deep breath. Then they rushed forward to the crates. Zold stepped back as he saw them swarm around the cart, grabbing at muzzles, butts, slings, whatever came to hand. They pushed and shoved at each other, cursed, occasionally clawed.