The Battle of Sauron

by John F. Carr

  Köln looked at Council Member N’kobo, who acknowledged the glance. “Dictator,” the Sauron norm began, “Over the past four days I have reviewed the reports of several ship-to-ship engagements employing the assault tactics which you developed using EVA Commandos. I note that this tactic was especially effective in your recent engagement at Tanith, resulting in the capture of the INSS Canada. Your briefing states that this type of operation will be used again during the defense of Sauron.”

  N’kobo referred to a tactical innovation Diettinger had developed, as a means of countering the Empire’s equality in space combat, which inserted the Sauron superiority in ground combat into the naval equation. Sauron Commandos—all Cyborgs—in powered battle armor were loaded into modified torpedos which they could guide through a target vessel’s Langston Field, to debark on the enemy ship’s hull. From there, they would cut their way into the vessel and take the battle to the crew. It was based on the old Roman corvus tactic of dropping boarding ramps down between galleys, permitting the Romans—themselves never very good sailors—to pit their heavily-armored legionnaires against nearly naked enemy marines. It had allowed the Romans to change the name of ancient Earth’s inland ocean from Mares Tyrrhenian, Adriaticum, Aegyptus and more to simply Mare Nostrum—literally, “Our Sea.”

  “It is a major aspect of the overall plan, Council Member N’kobo,” Diettinger’s tone was utterly neutral.

  “I point out, Dictator, that the combat environment may preclude such a tactic. Surviving Imperial commanders may be ready for it, which would cause unacceptable casualties among our forces, denuding the number of troops available for ground defense should the Imperial attack succeed in landing troops on Sauron or Poictesme.”

  Diettinger’s tone remained unchanged, making his next words even worse, “They will attempt no such landings, Council Member N’kobo. The Empire will attempt to destroy the Sauron Home Fleet, then bombard the Homeworld itself from orbit.”

  “A siege, Dictator?” Another pro-Cyborg Council Member, Beaufort, interjected. “With so many subject systems in open revolt elsewhere, surely the Empire cannot hope to maintain a blockade here.”

  “Once again, you are not listening,” Diettinger’s tone had gone to steel. “The Imperials will bombard the Homeworld from orbit. Once they have orbital superiority, they will saturate the planetary environment with thermonuclear bombs, perhaps one or more of the prototype meson weapons our intelligence has told us they are developing. They will cease such bombardment only when there is nothing left alive on Sauron and they may continue to do so even afterward. In short, Council members, Sauron, once defeated, will be Earthed.”

  Köln’s elation was so great he actually almost smiled; Diettinger had taken the bait. He felt an odd bewilderment at finding pleasure in having second-guessed the Dictator. Cyborgs did not compare themselves to other humans, not even to other Cyborgs. The former comparison was inapplicable, the latter irrelevant. But Diettinger, as Köln had already decided, was a special case. Outsmarting him was a maneuver in which anyone could find cause for self-congratulation.

  Althene braced herself for the inevitable storm of protest; Diettinger’s pronouncement of Sauron’s doom was a heresy which even a Dictator dare not commit. It could not fail to outrage the Council. For his part, Diettinger seemed resigned to the argument which, as Dictator, he must win. Even so, Althene wondered if the Cyborgs’ planning expertise had the new Dictator already waiting outside the Council Chamber.

  Instead, N’kobo raised a hand in a reasonable gesture, stating, “Then surely, more such troops are required aboard the ships of the Home Fleet. Even the garrison patrol vessels could have some portion of their torpedo complements given over to the modified troop-carrying units. May I suggest doubling the complement you have apportioned to this aspect of the operation?”

  Beaufort jumped in, “Indeed, Dictator. And may I add, the resulting increase in organizational workload would best be served by appointing another sub-commander, solely for the administration of these forces. Someone with a proven expertise in planetside operations.”

  Althene tried to stave off disaster. “Dictator, Council members, we are fortunate in that the Fomoria’s own Deathmaster Quilland has an exceptional operational record in this field. May I suggest that he—”

  Diettinger cut her off. “Quilland has insufficient experience with this level of commitment.” He turned to look at Köln, and the Cyborg froze. “I hereby appoint Cyborg Rank Köln as the sub-commander for this phase of Sauron’s defense. He will coordinate EVA operations from the Fomoria. In addition, the complement of EVA Commandos aboard all vessels in the Fleet will be doubled, while that of Cyborgs serving in such capacity aboard capital ships is to be quadrupled.” Diettinger turned back to N’kobo. “An excellent suggestion, Council Member N’kobo. My thanks.”

  Köln sat watching Diettinger for some time as the meeting was concluded. Finally the Dictator looked at him, briefly, the ghost of a smile passing over his features.

  You devious bastard, Köln thought. Given the Cyborg devotion to perfect accuracy in matters of lineage, it was an inaccurate assessment; but Köln found himself at a loss to think of a better one, at the moment.

  II

  After a history of predominantly victorious aggression, the Saurons prepared for the defense of their Homeworld with little reflection on the circumstances which had taken their planet from the wellspring of conquest to last redoubt.

  It was now three weeks, four days and seven hours since any ship had entered the Sauron System. The hulk of the Wallenstein had been towed into orbit around Ostia; Special Operations units had spent three days aboard the wreck, then set it in a slowly decaying orbit that was even now bringing it into the gas giant’s upper atmosphere. Given the tremendous amount of background radiation emitted by Ostia, no one, who did not know there was a wreck there, would detect her unless specifically looking for one. It was doubtful that anyone would. So the Wallenstein waited, on-board computers her only crew for her last mission in service of the Homeworld. Above her, the fuel tanker shuttles ran on endlessly, back and forth.

  Technicians in the Asteroid Field System Defense Network reviewed and re-checked their new station-keeping programs. Vectoring jets on the slowly turning bodies of nickel-iron ore flared slightly, correcting, altering, correcting again as missile bays and beam weapon mounts were brought to bear on new convergence zones. As on the Wallenstein, no living Saurons were stationed on these platforms; the control computers buried deep within the asteroids would launch their missiles until their bays were empty, fire their beam weapons until their generators burned out and perform all other instructed functions until they themselves were destroyed.

  Aboard the Damaris, Vessel First Rank Mara Emory reviewed the command links between her ship and the rest of the vessels under her command. Task Force Damaris was stationed one billion kilometers from Sauron, on overwatch patrol for the Dropshot and St. Ekaterina Alderson Points. At ninety-three vessels, TF Damaris was the largest such force in the fleet, excepting only the patrol forces of non-jump capable ships, arrayed in their curious hourglass formation over Sauron’s poles.

  Emory did not allow herself to worry about the fact that TF Damaris was so far from any hope of reinforcement; it was not part of Diettinger’s plan that her command was to be sacrificed. So she didn’t bother to allow for the possibility of such waste. She ordered a slight adjustment to the deployment of picket ships guarding the tankers at the Task Force’s center and then, satisfied with her subordinate’s implementations of her orders, retired to her quarters for a brief nap of second stage sleep. She thought briefly about her escort at the gala, the night the Wallenstein had arrived—when the dead horse had come over the wall, so to speak… Then she went to sleep—she did not dream.

  Across the surface of Sauron itself, thousands of missile silos had been sunk into the ocean floors, beam arrays were set deep beneath the planet’s crust, ground troop concentrations were standing by
to obliterate any assault forces which might, somehow, get through; all looked skyward, and waited. Newly emplaced units that had been hurriedly deployed to the planetary poles were daily freed of snow and ice by crews who—though perhaps curious as to the reason for their deployment in areas never before regarded as necessary to fortify—were too well-disciplined to question orders which came directly from the legally appointed Dictator.

  III

  One and one half billion kilometers away, the Falkenberg Task Force under Hawksley kept station along with Banshee, Ire of Eire and three dozen more capital ships at the Wayforth Alderson Point. Beyond the fleet perimeter, Marius-class heavy fighters were escorting several minelayers, each of which deployed not only mines, but missile racks as well; light frameworks of torpedoes and sensor packages. Enemy ships exiting an Alderson Point were usually preceded by nukes; therefore, the missile launch racks were well outside such weapons’ blast radii.

  Captain Ian Hawksley looked out from the Falkenberg bridge with no sign of emotion. There was nothing like enough ships in the fleet to cover all the Jump Points of a system like Sauron.

  There was a time, Hawksley reflected, and not so long ago, when Sauron and the Coalition of Secession could have put over four thousand vessels into space. But that had been a great many comrades and one family ago.

  Now, deep within himself, grew a sickening dread that even if that many ships were available, they would not be enough; that Diettinger’s assessment of the Empire’s bloodlust was, if anything, conservative; thus, whatever route the Imperials chose to attack Sauron, they could not be stopped.

  Of course, he admitted, not stopping them is part of Diettinger’s plan.

  He remembered the meeting with the Sauron Dictator, remembered being acutely aware of the fact that he came from a world whose motto was “Sic Semper Tyrannis,” and remembered hoping that Diettinger’s astonishingly dangerous looking guards understood that these days, the world of Burgess directed its ill will at the Empire; not at whatever other tyrants happened to be supporting its own desire for independence.

  Hawksley’s escorts had brought him to the Strategic Operations room deep beneath the Sauron capitol, and having delivered him, they simply went away and sealed the door behind them.

  “Come in Captain Hawksley,” Diettinger had gestured to the large briefing table at the center of the room; it was only then that Hawksley realized he was alone with the man. His second impression of Diettinger was much like his first. The Sauron leader exuded an eerie confidence, one born of a supreme self-awareness, and something else…Hawksley realized Diettinger reminded him of nothing so much as the professional gamblers he had seen during his apprenticeship on Burgess cruise vessels.

  But if memory served him, he was sure he had never before in his life set eyes on a high-roller the likes of Galen Diettinger.

  “Before we begin, Captain Hawksley, I want you to know that I have inquired as to the details of your duel and resultant expulsion from the Imperial Court.”

  Hawksley said nothing for a long time, then, “I hope that the information you received was correct, sir.”

  “So do I.”

  Diettinger began tapping panels on the briefing table, calling up a two-dimensional map of the Sauron System. “For if they are, you did not simply kill a member of the Imperial Family in a duel.” Diettinger looked up. “You were manipulated into said duel by the eldest son of the Spartan Duke of New Gotham, who invoked his familial privilege of allowing his second to fight in his place.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  Diettinger nodded, still apparently absorbed in the briefing table display. “Upon which, you invoked your own rights as a Burgess peer to have the duel made public, broadcast on holo. The young Duke’s father insisted that his own son fight or drop the challenge, lest the family be embarrassed politically by its public use of a professional duelist as second.” Diettinger looked up, smiling briefly. “Whereupon you killed the Duke of Gotham’s heir. Quite bold. You might have lost, and think of the embarrassment to your family, then.”

  Hawksley almost smiled. “I never considered the possibility, sir.”

  “I’m sure you did not. Which brings me to the subject of this meeting, Captain Hawksley.” Diettinger entered a command which replaced the flat map he had been studying with a three dimensional image of Ostia, the Sauron System’s gas giant. “I have developed a mission profile for an operation which demands a commander and crew of great skill and flexibility. And, of course, confidence.”

  Hawksley smiled. “That would be us, Dictator.”

  Diettinger did not smile. “I do not have the luxury of indulging in theater, Captain Hawksley. You have not been summoned here to be given the opportunity to volunteer for this mission, but to receive your briefing. Falkenberg’s design and performance specifications and her crew’s unparalleled expertise in raiding tactics make your command the only reasonable choice for this operation.

  “I am, however, most impressed with your own personal character. You show every indication of being a man who is incapable of relenting when he has committed himself to a course of action, and that quality is more important to me than any statistical representations of your ship or crew.”

  “It depends on whether or not I believe the course of action to be right, sir.”

  Diettinger shrugged. “Of course. Let me then convince you of the ‘rightness’ of this phase of Sauron System’s defense.” The Dictator finished with a wry smile.

  Diettinger entered several keystrokes that set the holo-image of Ostia turning slowly, and as it did, dozens of blue-white dots became illuminated just beneath the surface of the gas giant’s image.

  “Mines?” Hawksley asked.

  Diettinger’s eyes flickered up. “Not exactly…”

  Three hours later, Hawksley left the briefing room. To his surprise, Vessel First Rank Mara Emory was waiting for him in the outer hall.

  “Hello, Mara,” Hawksley’s smile for her had none of its usual irony; in the past few weeks they had been ever more in each other’s company and each other’s beds, and Hawksley had the envious glances of dozens of other men and his own cracked ribs and bruises to prove it. Mara was beautiful, attentive, passionate…and a Sauron, after all.

  She frowned slightly as she took his arm and walked with him toward the shuttle wing of the complex. There was something in the privateer’s look, something that had perhaps been there since the day she had met him, yet had remained indefinable to her. She felt that she had missed some important decision that had long since been made in Ian Hawksley’s heart, and soon it would be put into effect.

  But not tonight.

  “I have missed you, Ian,” Mara said quietly. It would not do at all to discuss Hawksley’s meeting with Diettinger. The Dictator had neither time nor interest in paranoia and made no use of the apparatus of surveillance, but that apparatus remained intact nevertheless and imprudence was as unwise as ever.

  “I’ve missed you, too, my dear,” Hawksley answered.

  “I sent my Second Rank back to the Damaris aboard my shuttle. I assured him you could take me back in yours.”

  “And he did not seem at all surprised to hear it, I will wager.” Hawksley glanced about them as they passed through the security gate to the shuttle area. “You’re a wicked girl, Mara.”

  Mara laughed, shaking her head. “You Burgessers have the strangest reticence about sex, Ian. As bad as the Imperial Court, or so I’ve heard.” They stepped onto a small tram and were whisked away toward the bay holding Lady Fairfax, Hawksley’s personal shuttle. “You’re a wonderful lover and we care for each other very deeply. Letting people know about it is simply a social courtesy.”

  Hawksley gave her a look.

  Mara shrugged. “It’s true. It allows them to modify their own demands on our time to accommodate us. You wouldn’t expect an investment banker to be socially available during standard business hours, nor an avid tennis player when a busy court opens…what’s
funny?”

  Hawksley was rubbing his eyes as they stepped out onto Lady Fairfax’s loading dock. “Ah. Nothing, darlin.’ Nothing at all…”

  They stepped into the cabin of the shuttle, and Mara glanced around approvingly. “Burgess’ shipwrights design everything with so much more elegance than Saurons do.” She stretched out on a long couch and smiled up at him. “Comfort, too. Come here.”

  Hawksley stood next to Emory as the cabin door sealed behind him; Mara took his hand in hers.

  “Don’t you need to get back to the Damaris?” he asked.

  “Not immediately. Besides, your shuttle won’t have clearance to leave for hours, yet.”

  “I could request priority clearance—ouch!”

  He was on the couch and pinned in half a second.

  “One of these days, you’re going to forget your own strength and kill me,” he warned her with a smile.

  “I guess you’ll have to teach me to behave, then.”

  “Hmm. Not likely. First rule of mountain climbing: you must be stronger than the mountain.”

  She laughed, hugged him tighter.

  “Ow, ow, ow…”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s not too bad.”

  “How’s this?”

  “Better…”

  “And this?”

  “Ahh… much better…”

  Lady Fairfax missed two more launch clearance windows, and didn’t leave for four hours. She remained berthed at Damaris for six more after that.

  Chapter Twenty

  I

  Alone, sitting in the dark at his desk, Diettinger allowed himself a few moments of first stage sleep and pondered his meeting with Hawksley.