by John Carr
First Rank Diettinger was concerned at the ease with which the crew accepted the Fomoria’s new name, not to mention the open delight they had for the new uniforms. As Soldiers, they were expected to follow orders unquestioningly, and Diettinger had, indeed, ordered them to refer to the ship as the Dol Guldur and themselves as pirates, to help them fully embrace the deception required of them. Still, he sometimes felt that the appeal of the whole thing was spinning out of control.
He returned his attention to the holographic projection of Haven, on which Weapons was indicating various target zones.
“Haven’s cold climate and thin atmosphere have concentrated virtually all of her population in the equatorial region. Within that region, only the lowest altitude zones - valleys and coastal areas - have enough air for comfort.” Contempt crept into Weapons’ voice as he spoke. “The typical cattle aversion to hardship has lined them up in perfect targeting position, sir.”
Diettinger nodded. He studied the holographic display. Across its surface were scattered points of light in white, yellow and red. Concentrations of industry, energy generation, and communications, in relative order, as determined by the Survey Ranks. There were pitifully few of any of them. Diettinger indicated one particularly large cluster on the major landmass.
“Survey is confident that this concentration in - what is this valley called?”
“Shangri-La, First Rank.” Second Rank provided the name with a hint of irony.
“Shangri-La Valley. This concentration poses no real threat? No planetary defense position of any sort, nothing they might have kept secret all these years?” Diettinger wondered if he might be unduly concerned about such matters. However, he had only to consider the consequences of failure to realize that the phrase “unduly concerned” was, in this instance, a contradiction in terms.
“Highly unlikely, sir,” Weapons said. ”The Haven Militia, which according to Records is called the Haven Volunteers, have taken residence in two forts abandoned by the Seventy-Seventh Imperial Marines. Both are presently under air attack to neutralize them. Haven, being so far from the Imperial Core, evidently never did have any real planetary defenses; and if the evacuation proceeded along established Imperial procedure, the 77th left little in the way of ordinance or heavy weapons.
“As a result, the Haveners don’t seem to know the meaning of security; their comm broadcasts tell us the disposition of their fractured governmental militias down to the ammunition allocation in local police forces - and there are very few of those.” Weapons was obviously scornful of the attitude these cattle applied to their own security, but still pleased at how easy it made his job.
“Good. Then the target priorities remain the same.” Diettinger held his right hand an inch off the table, placing a finger against the metal surface as he enumerated each item. “All satellites of out-system communications capability have been eliminated. Anything we might find useful, such as weather or surveillance satellites, are to be left alone. Destroy all planetary emplacements capable of off-world or out-system communications.
“This mission is made easier by the fact that Haven evidently relied very heavily on such things as the transceiver equipment we saw at the automated refueling station. We won’t depend on it, however. Any such additional ground targets are to be nuked.”
“What about the former Imperial fortresses?” Weapons asked.
“Incapacitate, but do not destroy. They will come in useful later during the consolidation.”
Second Rank nodded thoughtfully. She too, apparently, took the long view on this operation.
Good, Diettinger thought, after all, this is our new home. He paused for a moment. “Will doubling up on these targets leave us any nuclear weapons in stores?”
Weapons nodded. “Plenty, First Rank. We will use high-radiation-yield neutron bombs wherever practical. We had little chance to use our stocks of such weapons against the Imperials.”
“Good. Then also modify some for enhanced electromagnetic pulse. Use your own judgment as to how many, but guarantee me no coordinated broadcast communications on Haven for at least one hundred hours. And none whatsoever to be beamed off-planet.”
Weapons acknowledged the order as Diettinger finished the target list; energy generation centers were next, industrial centers last. Without power, the industrial targets would be useless anyway, until the Saurons appropriated them. And the Soldiers would be bringing their own energy generation equipment to Haven.
Cutting off all communication from Haven was critical to Diettinger’s long-range plans. In the Haven System they were helped by a number of strong magnetic belts that orbited Haven’s primary, Cat’s Eye, and her other moons. Ordinary radio and short-wave transmissions were dissipated by magnetic forces long before they left the system.
And any signal that did leave the system intact would crawl along at the speed of light and take decades or centuries to reach Imperial ears. But the Empire might take centuries to collapse to the point where it no longer posed a threat to the Race. And Diettinger had no doubt that the discovery of a remnant of Sauron, however pitiful, would bring as many Imperial ships as could still Jump for the last battle of extermination. This time, there would be no escape.
He turned to Second Rank.”You established the flight plan for this next orbital run, Second?”
She paused, watching him with a level gaze. “Yes, First Rank. All the information and target dispositions have been entered into the flight program. Navigation can activate it from his station. I have constructed the program with enough detail to let even a cadet use it.”
Her bitterness was unmistakable, inexcusable, and, Diettinger realized, impossible to alleviate. If they were to survive as a Race, as an ideal, it would depend on the success of his plans from this day on.
And the greatest part of those plans lay in breeding.
“Thank you, Second Rank. Well done.” Again Diettinger could not hold back the warmth in his praise of Second Rank. He knew how she felt at being relieved of her duties, and he honestly regretted losing her. He marveled that he had kept an officer of her qualifications at all, in the last dark years of the war.
Sadly, though, he realized his sympathy was not enough. Nothing ever could be. Diettinger thought it ironic that, as Soldiers, the living embodiment of the term, Saurons had always been taught to willingly make any sacrifice required of them. But how did you ask them to sacrifice being Soldiers?
Diettinger answered his own question. You didn’t ask, he knew. Soldiers never asked, never were asked, anything. Soldiers gave - and took - orders.
“Report to Breedmaster Caius in Bay Seven,” Diettinger made the order brief. Second Rank saluted and left the wardroom without a word.
The silence returned, Diettinger noticed. Saurons were not a gregarious people, but the tension over the operations of the next few hours had brought them all to even deeper levels of concentration on the tasks at hand. Diettinger went to the bridge, where Navigation told him the planned trajectory had been established.
“Status on scout fighters?”
“Reconnaissance shows no concerted military effort planetside. Individual city-states appear to be alerted to the fighters, but show no sign that they know about our position, or even that we’re here. We’ve been getting bandits and missile barrages from both forts, but nothing heavy. Their best weapons are obsolete gunboat-fighters and missiles the Empire abandoned last century.”
Diettinger shook his head. The Fomoria - that is, the Dol Guldur - must be visible to anybody with a decent telescope by now. He sighed. This really is going to be depressingly easy, he thought.
“Weapons. Give the fighters another fifteen minutes, then recall them. Prepare for final orbital strike. Secure for planetary assault.”
“Acknowledged, First Rank.”
Thirty-Nine
I
Leino saw the Redfielders first, six ugly wood and low-reflection canvas triplanes in formation above his own ships.
�
�Leino here. Redfielders, please acknowledge.”
“We have you, Novy Finlandia. No contacts, here. Base informs us our ground observers spotted two, repeat, two Extra-Atmospheric fighter craft this vicinity. More in Valley, vicinity of Castell and Tampa. Ex-At fighters did some damage to local ground targets, not serious. Any luck with your group?”
“Negative, Redfielders. No contacts our altitude. You have oxygen aboard?”
“Of course.”
Leino sighed. Just trying to be polite, he thought, something the Redfielders certainly weren’t making any attempt to do. One more reference to ‘Novy Finlandia’ and he would clear his guns - accidentally, of course...
“Let’s split-up into two-plane groups. One of yours, one of mine; our craft have a slightly higher ceiling than yours. My man goes top cover over your man, both get as high as possible. We can rotate the pairs as their O2 gets low.”
The Redfielder did not answer immediately. Perhaps he was offended by Leino’s reference to the superior ceiling of his own ships; with fighter craft, altitude was everything. Touchy people.
“Good show, Leino,” the Redfielder came back coolly. Leino was mildly surprised at the compliment. “But our craft uses less fuel than yours, and have much greater range. Your man should take a quick jump to altitude, straight up to maximum, straight down; ours can circle below and wait for him.”
Leino caught the humor in the Redfielder’s voice and barely suppressed an outright laugh of his own. Despite the obvious merits of the Redfielder’s modification to his own plan, the temptation between two fighter pilots to out-boast one another was irresistible.
“Acknowledged, Viggen. This round to you.”
“Thank you, Leino. Standing by for your orders.”
Leino did laugh, then. Orders said there would be no combat between their forces, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still find some way to duel.
II
Delancey’s relief had been only too glad to accept a day off from orbital surveillance. Delancey himself hoped that Alec could fix whatever he had done wrong before anybody in the Redfield forces called them on it. Some officer named Kettler, of the Redfield Satrapy Air Force, had in the last hour already left three cryptic and ever-more threatening demands to return his calls, and Delancey felt his planned excuse of poor landlines garbling the connection would ultimately do little to save his neck.
The data line stubbornly resisted every effort to change it from amber to anything else.
Worse still, it was now flashing a secondary red line on the left and another on the right.
ALERT: SUBORBITALS ALERT: UNIDENTIFIED
DETECTED IN WARSHIP HAS ENTERED
ATMOSPHERE CLOSE ORBIT
ENHANCE? Y1/N1 ENHANCE? Y2/N2
UNIDENTIFIED WARSHIP IN SYSTEM. ENHANCEMENT? Y/N
Delancey hissed in irritation and began pounding keys. What the hell has that fool been doing? Playing wargames with the master program again? He spun hard about in his chair, his elbow striking his forgotten teacup and spilling the icy brew across his lap and onto the floor.
“Alec!” he shouted down the hall.”Damnit to hell, boy! Do you want to get us both shot? What the devil are you doing back there?”
There was no answer. In a moment, Delancey heard Alec’s footsteps as he raced up the corridor toward him. The younger man burst into the room, grabbing the doorframe to stop himself. The look on his face sent Delancey cold. Alec seemed to be terrified and elated at the same time.
Is he using drugs? the older man wondered. Is that why befouled up things so badly?
“Warren...” Alec, for the first time, was at a loss for words.”It’s real!”
“What?” Delancey asked in a small voice. He knew very well what, but he couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it.
“The ship. It’s out there, whatever it is. Unauthorized; no reports from the refueling station. I’ve checked and re-checked everything a dozen times over. I did everything right. It’s the old boards that were bad. There really is a ship out there. A warship, Delancey! An Imperial warship!”
He ran past Delancey to the screen and began hammering at the keys with trembling hands.
“Enhancement, hell, yes, I want enhancement!” Alec muttered. Delancey, overwhelmed by the younger man’s energy, began to get excited, too. But he was older than Alec; in his excitement was also fear. Warship, the computer screen had read...
They tensely watched the screen as the computer began accessing its outdated files for something which looked like the vessel the satellite had spotted. In a few nanoseconds, it had acquired enough of a suitable list of comparable data to be reasonably sure of its assessment.
ENHANCEMENT COMPLETE:
WARSHIP IS SAURON HEAVY-CRUISER, TALON-CLASS
NOW ORBITING IN CONTRA-ROTATIONAL BOMBARDMENT PATH
DEFAULTING TO EMERGENCY NAVAL ALERT CHANNEL VIA ’CAT’S EYE’ REFUELING STATION RELAY ARRAY.
EMERGENCY NAVAL ALERT CHANNEL INOPERATIVE. RELAY ARRAY NOT RESPONDING. PRESUMED DESTROYED.
Delancey s first thought was incongruous relief that it had not been his or Alec’s fault that the station transceiver signal had been lost. It took a moment before he forced the words out.
“We’ve got to tell someone, Alec.”
Alec stepped slowly back from the terminal, sat down in the chair beside Delancey. “Who?” he asked finally. “Who do we tell? Against Saurons?” He ended in a ragged shout.
“Pirates; perhaps they’re pirates...”
“Sure, and they destroyed the only refueling station within four systems? It has to be Saurons.”
Delancey looked around him at the large, empty room, most of its computers long gone. Also gone were the Imperial orbital defense techs who had once watched over Haven. All that remained was dust, neglect, and the ghosts of machines long since cannibalized for circuits, wiring, and finally the very metal of their bones. A great, hollow, drafty place with a puddle of cold tea on the floor. Abandoned. Forgotten.
Thrown to the wolves, he thought in sudden bitterness.
“Who could do anything about it?” Alec whispered. ”Saurons...”
After another moment of stunned inactivity, Delancey realized he was shaking. But not in fear, not anymore. In anger. He yanked the radiotelephone from its console and began pushing buttons in a grim rhythm.
Orbiter Prime’s path over the equator guaranteed line-of-sight contact with the Shangri-La Valley and the outlying territories, when in phase. It was approaching the eastern Shangri-La now, and the monitoring facility where he and Alec were stationed was about to lock onto its signal. Still out of phase with Fort Kursk, but well within reach of the Satrapy. Which might prove for the best.
“Hello, Defense Operations? I want to speak with the Redfield Air Command, please. There’s a Colonel Kettler there, somewhere. Get him!”
II
John Hamilton sat uncomfortably in the hard, straight-back chair in the study. He was still uneasy about acting as Lord of the Manor, and even more uncomfortable about the bad news he was going to have to give to this poor refugee and his family. The Baron was in a tête-à-tête at Bridgeford Manor with Lord and Lady Kendricks and a dozen other large landowners; it would be a few days before he was back at Whitehall.
The shabbily dressed man, accompanied by two armed guards, approached the desk with eyes down, doing everything but tugging his forelock in supplication. “Sorry to disturb your Lordship, but my brother-in-law, Robin Caldwell, is a vassal here. My family and I are fleeing from Redemption, where the Lord Mayor has disbanded the City Assembly and declared himself Lord High Mayor and Exchequer.”
John sat up a little straighter; it appeared Mr. Caldwell had more than a passing acquaintance with a book or two. They already had more men working the land than they needed, and no end of Petitioners, but there was always room for skilled teachers and tradesmen. “Mr. Caldwell, what was your occupation back in Redemption?”
“Sir, I am a shoemaker.”
“You worked in a shoe factory?”
“No, sir. Before the Troubles I worked in a shoe factory. But as your Lordship knows, most of the factories have broken down or are working short hours because of all the brownouts. So I went back to the old craft’ and started making my own boots. That’s all I’ve been doing for the past ten years. I was earning a good living doing it, too, sir. Until the Lord High Mayor doubled the City Revenues - now I can’t even afford to buy proper leather. I damn well - excuse me, My Lord - refuse to make inferior boots.”
John nodded, thinking to himself. We’ve got one good cobbler, but he’s overworked, even with two apprentices. He was sure the Baron would approve Caldwell’s application for employment.’
John scribbled a note. “Give this note to our Steward, David Kanter. He will assign you and your family temporary quarters. Do you have samples of your work with you?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like to see them? I have several pairs of my boots in our cart.”
“Not now. You’ll need to petition the Baron for a Residence Petition when he returns. Bring your samples with you when your audience is approved.”
“Thank you, thank you, Your Lordship.”
Truly it is a Time of Troubles, John Hamilton thought, when good craftsmen have to flee their homes because of high taxes and no representation. The Baron was right, when he said that the dark ages were coming.
“Next Petitioner,” he said to the guards. Before they could leave, David Kanter rushed in, holding his chest as if it were about to explode. Kanter was a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, but knew more about the estate than the management computer ever did, even before it broke down.
“What is it, David?”
“Emergency call,” he huffed.
“Catch your breath.”