by John F. Carr
Creature. That’s what I call him now. To think I was raised to think of the Cyborgs as the future form of the Race.
Then Boyle had to duck, dodge, and weave as Sargun counterattacked. Any of the blows would have disabled him, leaving him dead from a second blow. He was too busy to strike back, but not too busy to notice that Sargun was much slower than a Cyborg ought to be.
The two fighters swung around in a five-meter circle, now one uphill, now the other. Both were cautious about closing now: Sargun because he knew he could take punishment but not deal it out, Boyle because he knew he couldn’t really do either. The Cyborg still had twice his strength, if not twice his speed.
Not twice his intelligence, either. If he had, he’d have drawn his sidearm and used it already. Mutiny was an open-and-shut case for lethal force. If Sargun was sticking to bare hands, it was either overconfidence or diplomacy, and if the creature had a diplomatic bone in his augmented body—well, he had never seen it.
Boyle’s feet shot out from under him as a patch of scree shifted. He fell rolling downhill, saw Sargun thundering downhill after him, and twisted on his buttocks to bring his feet up.
Sargun came too fast to stop, and met Boyle’s feet with his abdomen. Breath wsshhhed out of him. He sprang up, gripped the Cyborg’s arms, then flipped his feet up into the creature’s belly and flung himself backward.
He crashed to the ground, but Sargun went flying over his opponent and crashed headfirst to the ground. Boyle had a tense moment wondering if he’d lost his gamble, because he’d knocked all the wind out of himself. If Sargun could still so much as crawl—
He managed to rise up on his hands and knees, and crawl downhill to where Sargun lay. The Cyborg’s skull was a good deal flatter on one side than it had been. Also, his head was twisted at an impossible angle to his shoulders.
Even with such injuries, Roger could still feel a slight pulse. The idea of giving him the final stroke barehanded revolted him; the idea of leaving even a Cyborg for the Haveners to torture revolted him even more.
He’d just finished strangling Sargun into final death, when he sensed a figure above him. It was a Soldier—the launcher loader. Roger remembered his obedience, but also that he had been one of Sargun’s loyalists.
I’ve done my best to get the patrol home. If someone wants to shoot me now—
He thought of pulling out the First Citizen’s letter. That might keep him from being shot tonight. But it was still a long way to the Citadel, plenty of time for “accidents.”
Also, Boyle realized that invoking orders from on high would cost him some of his Soldiers’ respect. He needed that to get them home, almost as much as he needed a safe way back.
The Soldier cleared his throat. “We’re out of rockets. Want we should join the firing line?”
Boyle stared. They had taken twenty rounds uphill, no thirty. Had they all been shot off in a couple of minutes?
“Fourth Rank, you and the Cyborg were…ah, settling your differences…for a good ten minutes.”
That explains why I feel as if I’d fallen off a cliff. It doesn’t explain the tactical situation.
“Have the cattle counterattacked?” he asked.
“No, Fourth Rank. We saw a bit of firing, toward the other end of the ridge. Looks like the Soldiers in the valley went up there and made things look like a pincers movement.”
Roger limped to where he could look along the ridge. All the firing that wasn’t from his position was at the far end of the ridge. Between the two bands of Saurons, the crest lay dark, silent, maybe even empty.
The Soldier helped Boyle limp a little farther to the radio. Patrol Leader Lutz came on almost immediately.
“Squad two went up the far end of the ridge with the second grenade launcher and some of those flash grenades we captured, a couple of villages back. Tried to make the cattle think we had men to spare for enveloping them.”
“That was a monstrous risk!”
“Worked out all right, didn’t it, Fourth Rank? They were too nervous up on the ridge to send a patrol down to count noses in the valley. I think most of them just buggered off. I’ve sent a patrol up to be sure.”
Roger went cold. “Who’s holding the valley?”
“Me.”
Roger closed his eyes, tried to compose a scathing rebuke, then realized he had no grounds. What did unorthodox tactics compare with killing his legal superior?
Had the killing really been necessary? If the cattle were so ready to live down to their name and shy away at phantoms, might not Sargun’s assault have succeeded?
Might have. It also might have led to the disaster he had feared.
There could be no sure answers, in this or anything else about war— and few answers anywhere else. Boyle resolved to remember that. He might have many years of service to the Race before him. The less time spent worrying about what could not be helped, the better.
“Report!” he ordered. He thought he was shouting, but he had to call three times before everyone heard. He realized that his throat was too dry to do more than croak like a marshmouth.
“Soldiers. We’ve got the pass clear for a time. Let’s take advantage of it.”
“And Cyborg Sargun?” asked one of the riflemen.
Roger looked defiantly at his command. This is the perfect time for one of Sargun’s supporters to shoot me, if they want revenge.
“Cyborg Sargun died in combat with the enemy. He was severely wounded and flung himself down a cliff to avoid burdening us. All honor to his memory.”
Or at least all honor to what he did when he was a good soldier.
“All hail, Sargun!” the rifleman cried, and everyone took it up. Even Boyle joined in, until his dry throat gave him a coughing fit.
A soldier pressed a canteen on him. “Drink up, sir. We can re-water at a little spring I noticed on the way up.”
“Thanks. Since you know where the spring is, you take point.”
“At your command, Fourth Rank.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I
First Citizen Galen Diettinger stood on the left tower of the Citadel’s main gate. Four sentries and five bodyguards found it easy to ignore his presence. If they took their eyes off the surrounding mountainside for a microsecond, they would not soon forget Diettinger’s words.
A familiar step sounded on the stair. First Rank turned to see the Lady Althene’s head rise out of the stairwell. He stretched out a hand to hers.
“Greetings, my lady. All is well in the women’s quarters.”
“Yes, although they complain of being cooped up. This altercation with the Cyborgs has left them more restless than before. They were not raised to be breeders.”
“So you reminded former Over-Assault Leader Helm. I will have a talk with Breedmaster Caius about finding some kind of alternate service they can fulfill that will keep them more active. We owe them that much, at the very least.”
“Thank you, husband. We have lost too much of ourselves in this senseless revolt. We must preserve what we have left of Homeworld and the Race.”
Diettinger took a deep breath of fresh air. “Agreed. This is a fine world for our new home. It has bred a most impressive strain of cattle. When combined and recombined with our Sauron strain, the result should be a most remarkable hybrid. Remarkable indeed.”
“Now all we have to do, husband, is convince the Haveners of that.”
“They will come to learn, Althene. If we can tame the Cyborgs—and Cyborg Rank Köln has promised us his total cooperation—we should have no trouble taming wild cattle—even Haven cattle.”
“I hope you are right. And not just for us.” Diettinger’s look was question enough.
“Yes. I have had weekly examinations since our marriage with the Breedmaster.”
“So soon...I had no idea!”
“Caius knows you well, husband. Our people need a symbol of our determination to look to the future. Caius says that a child of ours will be such a symbol.”
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Diettinger was too stunned to do anything but nod.
This wasn’t the first thing Lady Althene had cooked up behind his back, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. Well, when one turned the Second Soldier into the First Lady in order to found a dynasty, one shouldn’t be surprised when she took to the job with her usual speed and determination.
The morning air suddenly seemed even more invigorating, and Diettinger took another deep breath. Yes, a child—their child—would be just the symbol the people needed. Now all that was left was a hundred battles and skirmishes against the cattle. Maybe someday there would be a true merging of Havener and Sauron, but he would have to leave that symbol to some future First Citizen.
II
Fourth Rank Roger Boyle wasn’t taking point this morning. He felt so invigorated with the uncommonly clear weather and the low-altitude oxygen supply that he kept wanting to take off and run.
A patrol with two stretcher cases and four walking wounded could not keep up with a running point.
So he ran the kinks and bruises out of his legs by zigzagging back and forth at the rear of the column. The Under-Patrol Leader on point was the first to spot the Soldier patrol. Boyle sprinted up to the head of the column as the APC stooped and a Patrol Leader climbed out.
Boyle hailed him and identified himself and his patrol. The Patrol Leader was too good a Soldier to gape, but his face certainly worked for a moment.
“We thought you were all lost. The cattle claimed the destruction of a Sauron patrol in the Burnt Rock Pass.”
“We maintained radio silence after we crossed the face. I thought that it would be better if the cattle thought we were dead.”
“Yes, Fourth Rank, it may have saved your lives. Cummings, or several companies of his men, was reported to have been scouting this area. If he had thought the resistance had let you escape, he would have been on them like a tamerlane on a muskylope.”
Roger looked at the APC. “Improvised” was a kind word for it; it was a local all-terrain six-wheeler with appliqué armor and a ring mounting on the roof that looked as if it had been forged in the dark and welded on by a drunk.
The Patrol Leader was studying the patrol. “Where is Cyborg Sargun? All Cyborgs have been ordered to report to the Citadel at once.”
“What for?”
“Didn’t you hear about the Revolt?”
“I heard rumors, but no details. That is why we walked out; Firebase Three cut off our air support.”
“Let me fill you in, Fourth Rank.”
The other Soldiers of the patrol gathered around and listened to a brief, and—Boyle suspected—garbled account of the Cyborg revolt. Cyborg Zold was dead, Köln loyal, many human breeders were dead and some escaped, but one of Cummings’ regiments had been brought to battle and in the end nearly destroyed.
When the Patrol Leader was finished, Boyle nodded. “That explains why we fought only local units the last half of the patrol. I suppose we owe the rebel Cyborgs a sort of arse-foremost vote of thanks. But thinking they could rule Haven…?” He shook his head.
“That’s what comes of getting a superiority complex in your genes, instead of working for one,” the Patrol Leader concluded. “By the way, what happened to Sargun?”
Boyle couldn’t risk turning his back on the Patrol Leader to judge the reactions of his Soldiers. With the Cyborgs clearly disgraced, if not in more serious trouble, nothing would happen to him if he told the truth. Nothing official, that was.
But there was the respect of the Soldiers he had led through the mountains. Consistency might get him in some trouble with the authorities; anything else would lose him hard earned respect from some fine Soldiers.
“Cyborg Sargun was killed in action at Burnt Rock Pass. He was mortally wounded, and threw himself off a cliff rather than burden us or risk torture.”
“Humph. There’s courage in the breed, I’ll admit. Just don’t spread that story around, though. This is not the time to get Soldiers thinking of Cyborgs as martyrs.”
Boyle wanted to laugh but coughed instead. Another side of command they didn’t teach in school: information as a weapon. Hold it back or spread it out, you needed to give as much thought to information as you did to ammunition.
The Patrol Leader was going on, about plans to regularly assign women to Soldiers for breeding. Roger listened with half his attention, the rest was on his Soldiers.
The ones who had the habit of smiling mostly were, except for the wounded or exhausted. The rest—well, their approval was hard to judge. But their body language said a good deal, and most of that was: “Well done, Fourth Rank Boyle.”
Boyle turned back to the Patrol Leader, who was now rambling on about the delights of a harem. He didn’t much care whether the breeding program gave him one woman or fifty.
He did care a great deal, about whether he could find words to teach this campaign’s lessons to the sons those women would bear him.
The End