War World III: Sauron Dominion

by Jerry Pournelle

  It’s not that bad actually,” Daerick lied. “At least it wakes me up. So, do you have a name for this brew?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Considering the original stock of the beans and their new home, I would say ‘Acropolis Blue Mountain.’ What do you think?”

  “Sure, sounds good.”

  Johann smiled. “You don’t have to pretend to like it for my sake. Some of the others have been itching to try it. See you later.” Johann left to share Haven’s first pot of native coffee with neighbors and enjoy his moment in the sun. . . .

  . . . Twenty years later and Daerick still remembered. By a combination of lineage and a good track record, he had become leader of the colony.

  His brother was the undisputed expert on agriculture, having studied the books and practiced their knowledge. He had produced increased yields and a number of grain and tuber hybrids.

  But the Blue Mountain coffee was always his favorite work. Through sweat and patience, Johann had produced no fewer than seventy-five bushes. Coffee, in small amounts, had become a staple drink, rather than something consumed only on special occasions.

  The time had come, according to Dr. Gettman’s original genetics plan, to find some new blood. Some new genetic material had to be brought in to the Acropolitan gene pool. The genetic diversity of the original settlers had been played out to the fullest. Further generations would only increase the risk of recessives leaking out.

  After five generations of isolation on Acropolis, someone would have to go out and meet the natives.

  Martin Krusenstein, descendant of one of the Imperial ship Fledermaus’s enlisted technicians, was the closest thing Acropolis had to an ordained Methodist minister. But like so many ministers and priests in frontier settlements throughout the galaxy, the Reverend Krusenstein had another, more secular occupation. He was the colony’s blacksmith.

  After leading the congregation of his small chapel in prayer for the ten-man expedition to be sent out, Krusenstein met with the expedition members themselves. He had forged each a sword, a large knife, and a number of arrowheads for hunting.

  “We’ve asked the Lord to watch over you,” he said, “but you’ll have to take care of your equipment yourselves. Everything I’ve given you is high carbon steel. If you get blood on it, your own or ... or something else’s, like an animal, clean it off as soon as you can or the surface will pit. Too much pitting will ruin the blade and that will really irritate me.

  “This stuff represents just about the last of the ship’s bar stock, and as you know, we haven’t found any workable iron ore, so try to bring everything back if you can.

  “And, gentlemen,” he looked at each man in turn, “bring yourselves back, too. God bless you.”

  The men left to make their final preparations as Krusenstein closed the church doors, then returned to his foundry, making what implements he could with the lighter metals mined on the eastern face of Acropolis.

  The next morning, the citizens of Acropolis who could spare the time turned out to see the men off. With muskylopes carrying their supplies of food and water, the men left. Armed with their swords, two of the remaining rifles and a haltingly practiced old Finnish language, they descended the mountain and headed north toward a vague outline on a map called Novy Finlandia.

  Oleg Klobregnii felt his heart pounding at the news his wife brought into the tent. The advance party had found a group of men and surprised them. The strangers were armed with steel swords and rifles! Their countenance was described as one of angular features and sharply defined muscles. This could have only one meaning.

  Saurons!

  One of the scouts entered the tent just then. “Sir, we encountered--”

  “I know. Tell me what happened, quickly.”

  “Sir, they entered a clearing before we did, so we saw them first. They were pretty small for Saurons, but they looked the same so we took aim and shot. We dropped two of them before they even knew what was happening. They had rifle weapons and kept us away.”

  “Away from what?”

  The young scout seemed nervous. “Sir, Ragnar was injured. We couldn’t get to him. They had us pinned down--”

  “Where is Ragnar?”

  “They . . . they captured him. We tried, sir, we--”

  Klobregnii placed a hand on the scout’s shoulder. The young man flinched slightly.

  “It’s all right, lad,” Klobregnii said. “Is that the first time you’ve faced gunfire?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I remember I was older than you when I hid from a rifle that spat many rounds at once. Only fools and madmen are brave in the face of that. Is there anything more?”

  “Yes, sir. There is.” The man ran out of the tent, then returned a moment later, carrying a long bundle. “When they took Ragnar and the two we snot, they left this.”

  Klobregnii sat on a chair and unwrapped the layers of cloth to reveal one of the Acropolitan’s steel swords. The blade had a number of day-old fingerprints on it which Klobregnii couldn’t quite rub away with the cloth. It was otherwise polished smooth.

  Something about it didn’t make sense. A Sauron group should have wiped out his scouting party, especially after losing two of their own, instead of apparently fleeing.

  Klobregnii dismissed the young scout and called softly to his wife. “Lissa, please come here.”

  After first entering the tent, Lissa had gone to the back to put their two young daughters to bed. At the sound of her husband’s voice she stepped back into the light.

  It had been many days since their five hundred-plus member band had fled Novy Finlandia, burning their fields and homes and heading south rather than submit to the growing Sauron dominion to the north.

  Not since that first night had she seen the look on her husband’s face that she saw now.

  “There are Saurons several days to the south.” He stood up to hold her. “They have our son.”

  “A prisoner? What?” Daerick Kattinger got up and followed the messenger out of the stone and wood house to the commotion outside. The crowd parted to let him through.

  Lookouts on the north side of the mountain had reported a return of the ten much sooner than expected, but they could not see that the one riding a muskylope had his hands bound at the wrist.

  “All right,” said Daerick, shouldering through the onlookers to the nervous-looking stranger on the muskylope. “Let’s see him.”

  The man under Daerick’s scrutiny was young, early twenties. He stared back with apprehension and loathing. And something else, an edge of curiosity.

  ‘What happened?” Daerick asked of Otto Hermann, the expedition leader.

  “They attacked us in a meadow two days march north, sir. We lost Heinrich, and Willem was hit in the shoulder.”

  Heinrich was Frau Gartner’s second oldest son. Daerick was glad she wasn’t here to get the news firsthand.

  “All right,” he said. “Take this young fellow and Willem to the Gettman’s.”

  Like so many colonists, Marcus and Olga Gettman followed their forbears in a family trade. Along with their medicinal duties, the Gettmans were the current ministers of the colony’s breeding program originally set in motion by Dr. Liza Gettman of the Fledermaus.

  The wound in the Novy Finlandian’s leg had been given a field dressing but it would need better care and soon. Daerick sniffed the air slightly. “He’ll need a bath and some clothes. Then you and the others should get some rest.”

  A few minutes later, Daerick knocked on his brother’s door. “Why don’t you have supper with us, Johann? I’ll need your linguistic services, for our special guest tonight.’

  An old, worn book on Haven’s more common languages had been the colony’s only tool for communication with the locals. The Fathers’ plan had been for the fourth generation to begin studying the language of the nearer tribes to the north.

  Johann had done as well as one could at learning the Finnish-Russian of the north, without having natives to practice wi
th. It had only been his responsibilities in the fields and greenhouses that kept him from the first expedition. It was something for which Johann was secretly glad.

  Oleg Klobregnii did not like the sounds coming from the large tent in the center of the camp. Voices laden with fear and anger argued with increasing volume.

  It went silent when Klobregnii entered. The eyes of the men told which of the opposing sides each was on.

  Varushin Byorin had been Klobregnii’s friend for many years. He was the first to break the silence. “Oleg, we must return to Novy Finlandia.”

  “Why?” But Klobregnii already knew the answer.

  “I think you know why. Some of us believe it is better to be a live dog than a dead lion.”

  “Those were not your words when we left, Varushin.”

  “We were not surrounded by Saurons then!” Byorin shouted.

  “I do not know that we are surrounded by them.”

  “Then you are a fool, Oleg Pyotrovich,” Byorin said sitting back down.

  Klobregnii clenched fists, then relaxed them instantly. “Tell me, then,” he said, “why did they flee after our scouts hit two of them? Why did they not fight when they had superior numbers and guns? And why did they leave a precious steel sword behind?”

  “A precious sword that you have been hoarding,

  Yes! Klobregnii s voice rose slightly. And I will continue to hoard it until I have buried it in the chest of whoever is holding my son.”

  “Your son, Oleg Klobregnii,” said Byorin. “What about our sons? They are here, with us, and we don’t want them to die.”

  Klobregnii realized that Byorin and some of the others had already made their choice. His next words he must aim at those who still had doubts. “And what about your daughters, hmm? With the fields burned, what will be your medium of exchange to trade for your lives and a few scraps to eat?”

  None of the others, not even Byorin, could meet Klobregnii’s stare. His words, like arrows, had struck home too solidly.

  “I don’t want to hear your answer tonight,” he said. “At first Eyelight we will strike southeast, around the flat mountain instead of toward it. I’ll know if you are with me then.”

  With the first faint light from the not-quite-brown-dwarf star known as Cat’s Eye, some three hundred Novy Finlandians with their animals and goods began to move southeast, toward the sea. The rest turned and headed back the way they had come. By the end of the day some eighty more had broken off from Klobregnii’s group.

  For a full day, after the last of those who broke off and ran did so, the caravan headed seaward. Then, at a signal from Klobregnii, they turned ninety degrees to the right.

  Hilde Munsen swore as she accidentally cut her thumb with the whittling knife the Rev. Krusenstein had given her. She had been carving a small model of the Fledermaus from a sapling when a motion at the corner of her eye distracted her enough to break concentration. She sucked the drop of blood from the tiny cut and began to forget it instantly. Her thumb already had several such cuts and would acquire more as her hobby developed.

  Standing lookout watch at the mountain’s edge was not the busiest of Acropolis’s chores. It gave Munsen time for carving and the view was--

  Something moved! Carving and small cuts were forgotten in favor of the carefully padded binoculars on a tether.

  There, at the base of the foothills to the north, was a dotted black line that hadn’t been there before. A look through the glasses revealed that while some of the dots in the line had four legs, others had two.

  Munsen quickly mounted what would have been a bicycle, except that it didn’t move. Instead, it turned a flywheel which in turn spun a small generator. Munsen didn’t understand much about electricity, but she did know that she had to keep pedaling or the message she tapped on the wire key would not go through.

  “No, it’s not a war party. It’s my people,” Johann translated Ragnar’s comment. He d become rather good at the language, now that he had someone to practice with. It had not been easy, at first, but Johann had at last convinced Ragnar that there were no Saurons on Acropolis. Barriers fell more swiftly when Johann saw Ragnar react with delight at having another cup of his Blue Mountain coffee.

  I hope, Daerick thought to himself, it will be that easy with their leader.

  At the foot of the mountain, Daerick stood with a party of one hundred men. Across the glen he could see the new arrivals milling. At last a group of perhaps twenty separated itself and advanced across the clearing.

  Daerick motioned to the five men with rifles to join himself, Johann, and Ragnar, who stood with the aid of a crutch.

  At two hundred and fifty meters distance the riflemen stopped. “We have them in range, sir,” one said to Daerick.

  “Keep walking,” he answered.

  Klobregnii watched with interest as the men with guns tried to stop outside the range of his bowmen. He shook his head with wonder as he saw their leader motion them forward again, well into arrow range. What land of Sauron would do that?

  The two groups stood about thirty meters apart when Klobregnii shifted his attention from the rifles to the three men in the lead. One of them was--

  “Ragnar!”

  Ragnar Klobregnii hobbled over to his father. Their embrace lasted nearly a minute. “Are you all right, Ragnar?”

  “Yes, father. Look, they made this crutch and salves for my leg--”

  Klobregnii was momentarily shocked. No Sauron had ever, as long as Klobregnii could remember, spared precious medicine for people they called “cattle.” “All right, son,” he said. “Go to your mother.”

  A lone woman had left the caravan and was racing across the glen.

  Ragnar turned back to his father. “These people, father, they say their ancestors came from one of the other worlds. They have a wonderful drink. They have rich food, they--’

  “I understand, son.”

  “Father, they never once called me ‘cattle.’ “ For a moment Klobregnii was still. “Good, son. Now go.”

  He turned and walked slowly toward the men staring across the short distance at him.

  Daerick began to walk as well. “Stay here,” he said, “You too, Johann.”

  At a distance of five feet, the two leaders stopped.

  Daerick could not believe the size of the individual before him. The man was a full head taller than Daerick, who was not short by any standard. The shoulders were broad, the hands huge and calloused from years of hard work. But under the large, blond brows were bright green eyes that fairly glittered with intelligence.

  Klobregnii scrutinized the man before him. He could easily see the muscle tone of the arms and estimated similar tone and strength throughout. This was the man whose warriors had wounded and captured his son.

  Slowly, Klobregnii began to reach into his cloak. Blue eyes held his gaze as the man spoke in a low voice, using a language Klobregnii couldn’t understand.

  “Men, keep the guns down.”

  Daerick’s heart raced as the man in front of him drew his hand from the cloak. There was a quick flash of sunlight on metal-- And Oleg Klobregnii handed the steel sword to Daerick Kattinger.

  After the caravan reached the top of the mountain, a feat more easily accomplished by the burdened muskylopes than the Novy Finlandians, a formal meeting was held between the leaders, to be followed by a feast.

  Daerick had never felt more alone than he did when drawing up a proposal for a treaty with the Novy Finlandian exiles.

  At last he finished and was about to call his brother to tell him and try to apologize. He knew Johann would hate him for what he was about to do. If only there was a way to keep--

  But there was! Yes, thought Daerick, it could work. And Johann would probably agree.

  “What we ask, with greatest respect,” Daerick said across the table, using the formalized speech the Fathers had said to be used for negotiating, “is for our sons and daughters to marry with your sons and daughters.” He paused, partly for e
ffect, partly to catch his breath. “If they’ll have each other.

  After Johann translated, the Novy Finlandians talked among themselves for a moment.

  Klobregnii s translated reply was short, “Why?”

  Daerick could see that the big Finn knew why, just by the amused smile on his face. But again, the Fathers had warned of this sort of thing in formal talks. There was nothing for it but to answer the question. “As a farmer and herdsman, you know of the need for large numbers to keep the animals healthy. So it is with men. Neither of us have those numbers separately, but together we do.”

  Klobregnii understood Daerick’s reasoning before it was spoken. He only wanted to see if the man was honest, which he was.

  Klobregnii looked around at the faces on his side of the table. “It is done. Provided, of course,”--this time it was his turn to pause--”that they’ll have each other.”

  A number of other items were discussed. Daerick’s greatest fear was that the Novy Finlandians would continue migrating and possibly come into contact with others and thereby allow word to reach the Saurons about Acropolis.

  But they agreed to stay. The thus far untilled foothills of the northwestern side of the mountain would be theirs. And the mountain itself was more than large enough for everyone.

  They would trade knowledge and skills in farming, breeding, and harvesting. In mining, metallurgy, and foundry as well as medicine and dental care, such as anyone had.

  Two items remained for discussion.

  First, the new arrivals would be shown how to increase the range of their bows by stringing them through a series of compound pulleys. This, in addition to being given two of the remaining five rifles and forty percent of the ammunition, perhaps some three hundred rounds.

  This last removed any remaining doubt as to the Acropolitans’s integrity. No Sauron, no matter how kind-hearted, ever gave a weapon to a native Havener. It simply did not happen.