by John F. Carr
“The report said the Assault Leader had seen at least several thousand pass his post, about one-third armed.”
Quilland looked at the area map. “Any sign of resistance cooperation?”
“They’ve been putting out more patrols than usual. That could be coincidence, reinforcements or a security leak.”
“Let’s assume the worst, Over-Assault Leader. Can you hold the outpost line against both a major resistance assault and a cattle breakout?”
The Over-Assault Leader said, “No.”
“All right,” the Deathmaster said, nodding. “Warn the outposts about the breakout. They are not to engage the escaping cattle if they get that far.”
“What about my technicians?”
“Any cattle, even if they can build fusion reactors with plastic boxes and straws, are more expendable than Soldiers. Besides, we’re not through fighting the Cyborgs, in case you’d forgotten.”
“I hadn’t, Deathmaster,” Varner said. Frustration twisted his face.
Quilland smiled. “Cheer up. At least your techs are likely to be too busy escaping to bother telling the Cyborgs about the backup comm system.”
II
Cyborg Rank Zold not only hadn’t been told about the backup communications system: He hadn’t been told about a great many other things, including rather basic facts like where the other Cyborgs in the Citadel were.
He knew that seven were with him. There should not have been that many, but as he had climbed he had met his people in ones and twos. They all reported that they’d been forced from their posts after determined attacks by Soldiers who’d refused all appeals to join in overthrowing Diettinger.
Have we made a terrible miscalculation of First Rank Köln’s support? No, they just hadn’t communicated their message correctly.
Some of them had taken wounds in attacks by armed cattle, in flank or rear. It appeared that the cattle had broken into at least one weapons room and armed themselves with standard Sauron weapons.
Cyborgs and friendlies still held the main communications center, but that didn’t appear to be doing much good. Somehow that slime-spawned Varner—or was the Deathmaster in charge?—was coordinating his superior strength. Lack of coordination had been Zold’s main hope of defeating that strength.
The communications squad also reported that one hour ago they’d heard firing from the direction of the Command Post. The squad holding the one exit hadn’t reported since.
Zold reached for a telephone. If his people had a foothold in the outposts, there was still a chance of victory.
He dialed Outpost C, then gave the codes. A moment’s silence, then:
“You still around, you traitors? This is Assault Leader Worley, commanding the outposts. Just a friendly suggestion—surrender now. Maybe Quilland will let you—”
“Quilland?”
“Yeah, vat slime. See what the Deathmaster has in store—”
“You—”
“Name calling won’t get you anywhere, Zold. We’ve got a couple of your people here, unconscious but alive. Cyborg superiority—a myth! Right now, you make me mad and I might wake them up. Then I could leave them out for the cattle—”
Zold slammed the receiver down so violently that it shattered. He looked at the scattered fragments, wanting to stamp them into the floor.
Instead of relieving emotions he had been taught never to have, Zold signaled to his people.
“The outposts have not fallen. That means we’re trapped here in the Citadel if we lose. Unless we have a basis for negotiations... Yeah, I know how to get that!”
“The women?” Laxsor asked.
“Yes, the Sauron females. Even if Lady Althene doesn’t have a death grip on Diettinger’s tool, Breedmaster Caius would never let him sacrifice those women. They are too valuable—the only source of fresh Sauron ova. Now that they’ve been taken off active duty, they should be a vulnerable target. With them in our hands—”
“Literally, Zold?” someone asked.
“Not unless we need to make an example,” Zold answered “If we do—”
Laxsor shuddered. Clearly Zold is mad—killing the Race’s last females will doom us all, Soldiers and Cyborgs. I have made a terrible error… If I try to stop him, he’ll have me killed. Don’t any of the other Cyborgs sense his disorder? If not, then we all deserve whatever punishment the First Citizen demands.
Zold left it at that. He intended to make enough examples to keep all his people happy and the women very unhappy, indeed. But he wasn’t going to admit it right now. Sex was a sufficiently powerful drive to affect even a Cyborg’s concentration, and they would need every bit of concentration they could muster if they were going to storm the women’s quarters.
Eidetic memories cut briefing times; Zold could be sure every Cyborg knew the way to their objective. However, even Cyborgs could forget to check their ammunition supply, weapons or armor, so Zold held a brief inspection.
Then he led off, taking point and walking slowly. This was partly caution and partly discomfort. That redhead’s bullet had gouged out more flesh than he’d suspected; his body was repairing the damage already, but not as fast as if he’d been able to rest.
Chapter Thirty-One
I
Fourth Rank Roger Boyle watched the tilt-rotor whirl out of the dust and head northeast toward the Karakul Pass. For a moment he had a most un-Soldierly feeling of wishing he were aboard. Although, he wasn’t sure just what he’d be returning to.
The pilot had unloaded their supplies and picked up their wounded, but brought only six reinforcements instead of the full squad Roger had asked for.
The pilot’s answer when questioned, had been cryptic indeed, “Trouble at the Citadel.”
What kind of trouble he wouldn’t say, only that there wouldn’t be any more reinforcements until it was over.
Had the cattle mounted a serious attack on the Citadel? Who could be leading them? Was it Brigadier Cummings?
I thought I was hot on Cummings’ trail—or is he hot on mine?
Boyle somehow doubted that the trouble at the Citadel came from the outside. The pilot wouldn’t have been so close-mouthed if it did. Nor would the Citadel itself. Radio reception the past few days had been rancid even by Haven’s standards, but Boyle was sure he would have heard something.
If the trouble was internal, on the other hand, radio silence would be the first thing imposed—possibly by one side or the other seizing the comm center.
Boyle allowed himself a second un-Soldierly thought: that it might have been better if the Cyborgs had come to Haven as germ plasm. Germ plasm couldn’t fight as well as live Cyborgs, but it couldn’t intrigue either.
II
Rifle fire crackled from the empty village Sargun was searching. Fourth Rank Boyle quickly led his reinforced squad through the village gate in search of the volatile Cyborg. He found Sargun with three Soldiers standing in front of a stone hut.
Sargun whirled and fired right over Boyle’s head. Bullets sprayed stone dust and chips all over his back. If the Cyborg had aimed a little lower, it would have been Boyle’s blood and brains spraying over the wall of the village hut.
“Target!” He had to ask three times before Sargun answered. Then the Cyborg had to speak twice to get through the ringing in Boyle’s ears. Most of the Soldiers had backed out of the range of Sargun’s rifle.
It wasn’t just the near miss from friendly fire, the altitude, the thin air or that ringing in his ears. It was the strain of watching Sargun totter toward the edge of madness, until it appeared he would topple over and finally leave Boyle free to command the survivors.
Somehow though, the Cyborg always managed to pull himself back just in time. Just in time to make relieving him of command more dangerous than leaving him alone. If it went on much longer, neither one of them would be fit for command.
“Look!” Sargun shouted again, waving an arm at something behind Boyle. He dropped to his hands, whirled around, and came up with his as
sault rifle in his hands. He saw nothing but Rock Crest’s one stone-paved street.
“She must have gone to cover,” Sargun said. He pointed to the two houses on either side of the street. “Search them.”
The squad broke up and vanished into the houses.
“She?” Roger asked.
“An old woman, with a knife in her hand. One of those Tartar daggers, I believe.”
A woman screamed—not old, from the amount of noise she was making. Two Soldiers hustled her out of the house to the left. She was young, dark-skinned but very thin, almost to the point of emaciation. A third Soldier carried her baby. It was pale, blotchy, and whined pitifully.
“Woman, where are the rest of the villagers?” Sargun asked. Apart from the opening word, he sounded almost polite. But Roger saw him rubbing the bandage covering his wounded scalp and battered skull. When it started hurting more than usual, Sargun drifted to the edge of madness.
“All gone,” the woman replied. “All gone farther into the mountains. Word came this morning. You were coming. They left.”
She spoke Anglic with an accent Boyle couldn’t identify.
“Where?” Sargun asked again.
“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me where.” Tears began to fall. “Had to stay behind; my baby’s sick. Can’t be moved.”
“Where?” Sargun’s politeness was all gone.
“I don’t know. In the name of God—”
“What about Brigadier Cummings? Do you know where he is?”
“Cummings—who’s he?” Her voice took a hysterical note. “I’d tell you—”
“And I tell you, female.” Sargun shook his massive head. “No, I’ll show you.”
Before the woman could react, he’d snatched the baby from her arms and flung it against the nearest wall, where it made a horrible splat.
Boyle felt sick to his stomach. Like most Soldiers, he did not approve of atrocities or torture, especially against females be they human norms or Saurons.
“SEE!” Sargun shouted. “Now you can go join your friends, if you tell us where they are.”
The woman now seemed incapable of speech. Sargun grabbed her by the hair and twisted. She flailed about with fingers raking the air like talons.
The Cyborg motioned the squad forward.
Boyle took advantage of Sargun’s attention being elsewhere to join the point of the squad. The woman was sobbing and screaming. Torturing cattle was not his idea of sport. Moving quickly cost him a minute to catch his breath. He had his squad search the stone huts, but other than a few dead dogs they were vacant of life.
The woman’s screams grew increasingly louder, but didn’t stop for a long time. By the time Sargun realized that she was telling the truth, the damage had been done. There was nothing to do with the woman but what they’d done in other villages: Put her head on a pole outside the village gate as a warning to the other villagers.
As for the village—
“Burn it,” Sargun ordered.
“Burn?” Boyle asked. He wanted to flinch from Sargun’s glare, but he’d done enough flinching for the day, listening to the woman’s cries.
“There is bound to be something in each house that will burn. Pile it all together and start the fire. Now get to work.”
Sargun, unfortunately, was right. The stone houses themselves would survive, but they would be smoke-blackened shells when the villagers returned.
The wind was up, but the smoke cloud from Rock Crest still rose two kilometers into the umber sky before it dispersed. Boyle wondered how far away it could be seen. As he looked over the stunted saber trees and wireweed brambles, about the only plants that survived at this height, he suspected it depended upon the height of the observer. He hoped there were not too many Haveners around to see the smoke; the patrol already had more enemies than it needed in this barren range.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I
The backup communications system was static-ridden, but Over-Assault Leader Varner had learned to tune out the static. He’d even learned to wait patiently for up to three minutes of silence, which was more than the Deathmaster could manage. By the time Varner had finished listening, Quilland had begun fidgeting. The Over-Assault Leader allowed Quilland another moment’s frustration, then grinned.
“Zold and a couple of squads are on their way to the women’s chambers,” Varner said. “At least that’s the best extrapolation I can make from their apparent route.”
“Send reinforcements at once,” Quilland barked.
“Deathmaster, Sauron women don’t lose their military abilities once they’ve been removed from active duty. Also, they’re armed.”
Quilland made a grating noise in his throat. After all, it would be the Deathmaster who would have to report to First Rank and Breedmaster Caius if anything went wrong.
Over-Assault Leader Varner decided that obedience in this case made more sense than argument, to say nothing of being relieved of command. He studied the Citadel display; it let him see the status of his forces at a glance.
“Zold’s force is the last significant Cyborg unit still on the move. I can pull some Soldiers of blocking positions and move them to the women’s quarters.”
“Ten do it.” Quilland actually appeared nervous.
It occurred to Varner that Breedmaster Caius might well render them incapable of breeding if a significant number of women died at the hands of these insane Cyborgs.
It took no more than ten minutes to pull Soldiers from six posts and head them for the women’s chambers. By the time the last squad acknowledged its orders, the outposts were shouting for help, or at least advice. He watched as the techs fed in data and the display turned it into a picture.
“The cattle are clear of the main gate and on their way to the outer outpost line,” he reported. “The outside resistance appears to be massing just outside of small-arms range of the outposts.”
“Massing?” Quilland asked.
“Two battalions at least,” the Over-Assault Leader stated. “We had no evidence of a major attack.”
“Cummings!” Quilland uttered the name like a curse. “I’m beginning to suspect there’s a lot going on around here we know nothing about.”
Varner who was back on the commlink held up his hand for silence. “One of our scouts has reported several battalions on the move, carrying the banner of the Haven Volunteer’s, Falkenberg Irregulars. You’re right, Cummings is here.”
“How can he be? Twelve hours ago Cummings himself was spotted in a raid on Patrol Five, in the Miracle Mountains. Not even Cummings can be in two places at once!”
“What if he has a jet copter?” Varner asked.
“Survey has not spotted any air traffic; if they had, we would be the first to know. They picked up that motorized unit of Cummings’ two days ago outside Redemption, but Hawk Blue put paid to that operation.”
“Right,” Varner said. “This is the first we have seen of the Falkenberg Irregulars since we took Fort Fornova. Deathmaster, do you think they might have been in hiding since the Landing?”
“Must have,” Deathmaster Quilland responded. “Maybe they are the units that escaped from Fort Fornova. Regardless, we have another problem to deal with here.”
Over-Assault Leader Varner hesitated. “Well…if you’re willing to take some chances, I think we can hit them a really solid punch.” He went on to explain about ammunition expenditure, the resistance of the outpost structures and a few other factors.
Quilland nodded thoughtfully. “I agree. This can be an opportunity to hammer the Havener opposition. This mutiny has brought the resistance running to the Citadel like land gators to a fresh kill. We may never have such an opportunity again. Besides, we can’t afford to chase anybody up hill and down valley until we have cleaned up after the Cyborgs. So the more damage we can do here, the better.”
The Deathmaster looked at the display. “One condition, Varner. I want the Cyborgs in communications gassed out. Now.”
&n
bsp; “Lethal?”
“Absolutely, not. The First Citizen would have my head—our heads.”
“Our leader makes a mistake—”
“Enough, old comrade,” Quilland interrupted. “Remember the old axiom: What’s said can’t be unsaid. Have we not had enough treason here for one lifetime?”
Varner nodded in agreement, even though he was convinced they were missing out on an opportunity to settle Cyborg loyalties and aspirations once and for all. But no matter what he thought, he could not shake the chill at the base of his spine. The Cyborgs would not be easy to stop.
II
Cyborg Rank Zold saw two women barricaded behind the piled-up furniture at the entrance to the Sauron female chambers. It was hard to tell if they were armed with anything more than grim looks. He raised a hand, palm outspread. “Soldiers, we come in peace. Let us in and no harm will come.”
One of the women muttered an obscenity. Another flung a smoke grenade. All visibility in the corridor was wiped out within seconds.
“Attack!” Zold shouted. The women’s tactical thinking was hardly above that of the redheaded breeder. They could not see through the smoke nearly as well as Cyborgs, who could close and grapple with the barricade and its defenders in the murk. Zold’s blood surged at the thought of finally getting his hands on an enemy and using his strength to shred that enemy’s body.
The smoke didn’t keep the Cyborgs from rushing forward, but it did keep them from seeing the women duck, and from seeing the two claymore mines hidden under the barricade. When the claymores went off, they shot-gunned a thousand pellets down the corridor.
Sauron armor and physiology could only take so much damage. Zold reeled, holding on to the wall for support, feeling blood oozing from a dozen wounds and from both ears and an eye socket.
Laxsor reached for his leader, to hold him on his feet with one arm, while he used the other to shoot Zold in the face.
Zold looked at him questioningly, as blood spurted from the gaping wound in his cheek.