by John F. Carr
Against regulations, his parents had also left the floater and were helping to lift the still-shuddering carcass of the dead Grizzly off their son. His mother grasped his shoulders and tried to pull him out from beneath the animal, and while the strength in a Sauron mother’s grasp nearly matched the tenderness, she succeeded only in tearing the fabric of his clothing.
“He’s still pinned,” she told the Proctors calmly.
While his mother supported him, the two Proctors and his father pushed the Grizzly completely to one side, revealing Diettinger’s legs. Both of the young Firstholder’s feet were literally pinned to the ground by another of Sauron’s charming variations on natural selection: blackgrass, a carnivorous colony plant which grew in a lattice structure several centimeters or so below the ground surface, with spines which shot up from beneath the sod to impale small prey—and did a very good job of ensnaring men’s feet and ankles, as well.
“Had I tried to move,” Diettinger explained as one of the Proctors knelt to cut his boots free of the blackgrass, “at best, I would have fallen. I calculated that only standing my ground would give me any chance to live.”
“Good choice,” the Proctor said, starting on his other boot. “Sauron Grizzlies are too heavy to set off Blackgrass and too strong to be fazed by it, anyway. Sometimes,” he nodded toward Diettinger’s kill, “the smartest ones learn to herd or lure their more stupid prey into patches of it for that very reason.”
Diettinger saw the look in the Proctor’s eye as the man sheathed his knife and stood. He had failed to fully research all his possible Wild Zone encounters, concentrating only on the most obviously dangerous. He had survived in spite of his oversight, and that was an important part of the ritual too, but most importantly, he had learned his lesson. He would never again confront an adversary without knowing the enemy’s measure in full.
He stood up and looked at his father. “I must admit that I did not expect the harpoon to fail.”
“It didn’t,” his mother said. She had gone to inspect the harpoon’s tip, jutting from the rear of the Grizzly’s skull. “The force of the Grizzly’s impact was so great that it crushed the detonator.” She gently tossed the warhead to the far side of the clearing and, drawing her sidearm, shot it. The impact detonated the charge, leaving a meter wide crater.
When she rejoined his father at his side, both smiled, embraced their son; their eyes shining with relief—and pride.
“Whatever the reason, Heir Diettinger,” one of the Proctors told him at his Evaluation, “You stood your ground. Impressive, young man. Your inheritance is approved.”
Diettinger did not attempt to suppress his smile of satisfaction. He had been sixteen years old for less than twelve hours.
Probably not the first time a lack of options has led to an erroneous impression, Diettinger reflected, smiling at the reminiscence. He was in a rest state which Saurons called “first stage sleep,” similar to a human norm doze, but allowing far more perception of outside stimuli.
II
Three days after his return from the Wild Zone, Diettinger was in his room at home working. Scores of documents required his review and signature as part of his new legal status as Heir to his parents’ estate, and he was dealing with them as thoroughly as he did with every other responsibility.
He heard his mother’s footsteps on the stairs, heard her turn toward his door. He put down the sampling stylus with which he had been drawing his own blood and tissue micro-samples for the latest stack of documents.
Wiping his hands with a disinfectant cloth, he stood and inclined his head as she entered.
“Good afternoon, Galen,” she regarded the papers briefly, then returned her attention to her son’s face, the even grey eyes mirroring her own in both hue and affection. “We have official visitors.”
“I heard, mother. Forgive my distraction for not coming down earlier—” Diettinger stopped. Something about his mother’s bearing put him on his guard. “Is something wrong?”
She moved to sit in the reading chair by his window. “Galen, as Firstholders, we enjoy privileges not normally afforded to the bulk of Sauron society, of which our material advantages are, perhaps, the least important.”
“Of course.”
“One such privilege which I have personally held most dear is our latitude in choosing a spouse.”
Diettinger smiled. Life for humanity everywhere was dangerous and hard, and nowhere was that more true than on Sauron. The difference was that Saurons—despite a level of technology as high as any in the Empire, which might serve to inure them to such danger—never allowed themselves to forget it. Mortality among the earliest colonists had created the Sauron paramilitary social system, which had brought with it several social mores peculiar to this fourth world of Landyn’s Star.
Chief among these was conscriptive marriage. The legal marriage age for persons on Sauron was fifteen for males, thirteen for females. Even given Sauron’s longer year—relative to the Imperial standard of Sparta’s three hundred, sixty-two days—Sauron citizens married very young. More to the point, they began their families a decade sooner on average than in any other planetary society of the Empire. Nor was it coincidence that active military duty for all Saurons, male and female began at age eighteen. The timing was designed to allow an average of 2.5 children to each Sauron couple. Such was the importance afforded to the birth rate that males and females, who had not found acceptable mates by the first year after reaching legal age, were assigned them from the same Breedmaster data base that approved the more “romantic” matches arrived at by young couples or, more commonly, their families.
At sixteen, Diettinger’s grace period was now over, but he was a Firstholder, which meant that he was not subject to Breedmaster assignment so long as his parents had arranged for a suitable alternative. Knowing his mother as he did, he had no doubt whatsoever that she had.
Diettinger smiled, taking a seat on the corner of his bed, facing her. “No less than I, mother; especially regarding my responsibilities of late. I apologize if my concentration on my studies has caused you undue concern, but frankly I relied on you and father to handle the matter for me.”
Julia Diettinger regarded her son with a bemused wonder; she had not failed to note the tone of gentle rebuke in his voice, even though she knew he was completely unconscious of it himself.
Julia knew there was no possibility that Galen’s reliance on his parents stemmed from either lack of interest or sloth on his part. Galen simply had absolute faith in those of his subordinates whom he came to rely on for anything, as he had come to know that his parents would attend to details of his life for which he had no energy to spare. His opinion of his parents as subordinates in no way indicated any lack of respect for them, or regard or love. In a culture of soldiers, her son was simply a born leader, and born leaders had no time to accommodate the luxuries of rituals attending the passage of authority from one generation to the next: they simply led.
“As in fact we have, Galen. Please prepare yourself for dinner and come downstairs as soon as you are finished, to greet our guests.”
There was only so much subordination Julia Diettinger was prepared to embrace, even to a born leader, when that leader happened to be her son.
Diettinger had no cause to be displeased with his parent’s prospective choices for his wife. All were Firstholders, all matched his own genetic codes perfectly and all, as he was fond of pointing out to his father, were more than attractive enough. Saurons as a people tended to conform to an overall Imperial standard of beauty, but they themselves were rarely influenced by such superficialities. Saurons believed that a person must be judged, literally, by what was inside them; and what was truly inside were their genes.
In a week, Diettinger himself had winnowed the field down to four prospective candidates, all of impeccable breeding, intelligence and career prospects of their own, to say nothing of personal wealth. When he announced his choice to his mother, she smiled at her husban
d.
Diettinger frowned. “Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“Your mother and I predicted you would choose her,” his father answered. “Heiress Diana Kirk will be a welcome addition to our family.”
Diettinger smiled warily, “I am curious: why did you assume I would choose Heiress Kirk?” he asked.
“She is the most attractive of four otherwise-equal candidates, Galen,” his mother answered. “‘The eye wants something, too’.”
Diettinger studied his parents for a moment; it had always been obvious to him that they loved one another very much. His own love for them was, at times, almost distracting in its intensity.
Almost.
But Diettinger also knew his parents to be ferociously rational people, and it was a wonder to him that after sixteen years, they still could misjudge him so completely.
He reached forward and picked up the dossier on Firstholder Heiress Diana Kirk; all relevant data was there. As Sauron society revolved around breeding, the periods of Diana’s ovulation were a matter of public record, for review by anyone considering her as a prospective mate, as was all information regarding Firstholder Heir Galen Diettinger’s own fertility.
He glanced at the dates, his mind running ahead, always to the next step, the next task, the long view…
Diana’s family will be informed of the choice this afternoon. The union will be recorded by tomorrow, the family celebrations concluded by the weekend in two days from now… Diana and I will take up residence in the Heir’s House the following week, consummating our union that night.
Exactly as he had calculated: the first night of their honeymoon would coincide with the start of Diana’s peak fertility for this cycle. The next three days of sexual activity would virtually guarantee a new birth within the year. None of the other prospects possessed ovulation cycles so fortuitously timed. And he knew it was important that he give his parents grandchildren—soon.
Because war is coming, he thought. No one will admit it, not yet. Because it will be civil war against the Empire. Sauron’s rulers will soon insist that we must be free, and the Empire will never allow that. We are too wealthy, too powerful. Our limited autonomy is a thorn in their side as it is. They do not dare let Sauron become a fully independent political entity. Even the Imperial Senate will not admit that civil war is inevitable, that cracks in the monolithic Empire of Man could possibly exist. But it is so obvious. At least to me.
He smiled at his parents. With luck, all the wedding activity would be concluded before he was called up for mobilization. But who could say what the Empire would do? Or the Sauron’s own High Command, for that matter?
For now, he decided, let my parents enjoy their romantic notions.
Diettinger had no doubt that he would, in time, come to love Diana as his father loved his own mother. But like anything which was both inevitable and yet removed in time from his immediate concerns, he could spare no more attention for the wedding than it required. When it happened, it would happen; if it did not, it would not. Either way, he would prepare for the situation fully, without an erg of wasted energy, and deal with it when necessary, and not a moment before.
He had too much to prepare for right now. For when the war did come, Galen Diettinger intended to be a Vessel Third Rank at the very least, and he would bend every effort to gaining his own command without delay. There were serious weaknesses in Sauron naval theory; he knew that if they were not redressed, they would doom Sauron in any conflict with the Imperial war machine, every element of which revolved about a naval tradition that was centuries old, and which Sauron simply could not—
“Galen,” his mother was almost cross sounding, but her laugh was beneath her tone. “I know that Miss Kirk is lovely, but surely you can spare a moment from your anticipatory daydreaming to tell us whom you would like to invite as guests to the ceremony?”
He blinked, smiling at his parents. “Of course, mother,” he said. “You know how important it is to me.”
Chapter Thirteen
I
Diettinger was leaning over in the cramped fighter seat, his face pressed against the cool surface of the aircraft canopy. Turning from his blind side allowed him to look out the starboard window and see the Amberlea airport wheeling beneath the craft’s wing as the pilot lined up for her final approach.
He had cadged a ride in a twin-seat supra-orbital fighter, identical to those carried in the Fomoria’s launch bays. The whine of its lift thrusters drowned out the quiet thump of touchdown.
The ground crew had his hatch opened immediately: he thanked his ‘driver’ as he threw one leg over the side, slid down the ladder and handed off his loaned helmet. He turned to face two rankers of the Airport Security Staff; one watched him while the other consulted a datapad. Empowered to arrest anyone, they were outside the normal chain of command. Neither saluted.
“Vessel First Rank Galen Diettinger,” the one without the datapad addressed him. “You are in Amberlea without travel authorization.”
“Correct.”
The one with the datapad looked up; the other one blinked. Both were startled by Diettinger’s obvious lack of concern. No Sauron simply walked away from Security Officers. Sauron society was ordered, rational and proper. Structure had made them what they were today, yet Diettinger seemed to be immune to the natural order of how things were done. Both Security Rankers matched stride with Diettinger as he walked past them.
“You do not have official clearance to leave Amberlea,” the first one tried a new tack.
“Also correct.” Diettinger pushed open the doors to the terminal and looked around the room; two rankers in Naval Security uniforms saw him, rose from their seats and began to approach.
The Security Staff Ranker played his trump. “No officer of Vessel Command Rank is permitted internal travel without clearance.”
Diettinger nodded. “Right again.” The Naval Rankers reached them as the Security Ranker, at last comfortable with the direction the conversation was going and with the presence of naval support, concluded: “I must therefore detain you until this matter is resolved.”
Diettinger smiled, but shook his head. “Uh, no. And you were doing so well.”
“Good morning, Fleet First Rank,” one of the naval officers greeted him, saluting. “Local time is 0300 hours.”
“I trust you had a good flight,” the other said, as she leaned forward to place a new insignia on his collar.
“Under the circumstances.” Diettinger answered, adjusting his collar as they headed for the exit. “Report.”
Diettinger nodded occasionally as he was updated on various matters during the walk to his ground transport. He did not look back at the bewildered airport security rankers as he left. But he did think about them.
Unable to adapt to the situation, unable to shift parameters to understand why he ignored them, they were trapped. Their witnessing of Diettinger’s on-site elevation to a rank which authorized his actions negated their interest in him as suddenly as switching off a light. The memory of those two anonymous Security Rankers would haunt him for decades. Had they been told to march in a circle, he had no doubt they would have continued to do so until they died.
II
Two hours later Diettinger, showered and in a fresh uniform, stepped from the ground car onto the gravel path that led to the front door of his home. The driver took the car back to the front gate and waited. Diettinger walked up the front steps alone.
Firstholder homes, the residences of the original landowning families of the planet Sauron, had all started large; building materials were free, labor was cheap, and indigenous predators meant that staff and additional family members could not be left defenseless in outbuildings. Saurons had learned that safety lies in numbers, and they eventually legislated birth rates to guarantee it.
The flagstones were five-meter wide slabs of maroon slate from Sauron’s Vineland Heights; one of dozens of prized stones from the Homeworld’s original boomtown days as
a mining colony. Fifty of them led in twelve-centimeter rises to the triangular portico flanked by eight columns of Sauron Stygian Marble. Every surface bore the work of master sculptors in frieze or bas-relief. Sauron art had begun in the Homeworld’s quarries, where the colonists and their descendants had brought forth beauty from the unyielding stone and rich ores. Inlays of gold, platinum and precious glowsilver vied with master carvings in every sort of stone available.
Through the entryway, Diettinger could see into the atrium, classical in origin, timeless in design, functional in purpose. Long after water purifiers had made it’s impluvium unnecessary as a back-up water supply, the Diettinger family’s atrium remained as a garden of water-flowers, lovingly—or at least, loyally—tended by successive matrons of the family, generation after generation.
Set into the arch of Sauron Blue Granite was a plaque, cut from the hull shielding of the first colony ship to reach Sauron, the ancient CoDominium Corporate Transport Minnesota. Diettinger’s fingers traced the painstakingly even lettering in Anglic and Latin, carved into the shielding by fine-cut mining laser in a rough, robust hand:
This homestead
is the work and legacy
of Brennus Diettinger.
Sic Itur Ad Astra.
The inscription always made him smile. Thus one goes to the stars. “And a fine way, it was,” Diettinger whispered to himself. Or perhaps to Brennus.
He stepped into the atrium and looked up through its open roof at the stars; they were fading in the approaching dawn, but he could still make out the constellations he’d learned in his youth. For years, either or both of his parents would come out here and find him asleep beside his telescope, the glow of a datapad screen lighting his face.
To the right was the window of his old room. Through it he would climb and, once out here, he would study astronomy and military science, principles of Newton, Einstein and Alderson set cheek-by-jowl with those of Sun-Tzu, Clausewitz and Challinor.