by John F. Carr
“Dictator,” Hawksley had said when it was over, “Do you know very much about ancient history?”
“Some. My Second Rank is really quite an expert on the subject, actually. Why do you ask?”
“There was a general on Earth—Tabletop-lineage, but we won’t hold that against him—named Grant during the Civil War—”
“Which Civil War?”
Hawksley had looked up. “The Civil War, Dictator. For anyone with Burgess blood, there has only ever been one. Another reason for our ongoing feud with anyone from Tabletop, by the way. In any case, one of his officers, upon hearing the battle commands for the day, voiced the opinion that, if he ‘understood his order aright’, it could mean the sacrifice of every man under his command.”
“I know this story,” Diettinger told him.
“Then you know the general’s reply.”
Diettinger had nodded. “Yes, Captain Hawksley. I do.”
Hawksley had smiled, that look of fatalistic amusement had crossed his face again, and he had taken his leave.
Now Diettinger was thinking of the hundreds of thousands of men and women under his command, each of whom bore orders not so dissimilar from Hawksley, nor from those issued by General Ulysses S. Grant, dead and buried almost eight hundred years before.
And here, today, almost eight hundred years later, Diettinger’s own reply was no different than Grant’s: I am glad, sir, that you understand my order aright…
Hawksley sighed, looking around the bridge. His crew was as silent as he, all of them bent to the tasks at hand.
It was not a bad plan, Hawksley knew. It had even succeeded in generating a spark of enthusiasm in him, and that had only happened one other time in the last five years, since—well, since the Battle of Holcroft. Diettinger’s plan was intuitive, flexible, and best of all, if it worked it would claim the lives of tens of thousands of Imperials.
Coming back to himself, Hawksley loosened his grip on the armrest of his acceleration couch and thought about the only other thing that had sparked any joy in him during this last long half-decade.
“Navigator.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Station fix, please, relative to the Damaris.”
“Station fix, aye. Seventeen billion kilometers to starboard of Damaris, our heading zero-niner-seven degrees, plus twenty-seven thousand kilometers.”
Further away than I thought, Hawksley thought. He looked out again, his gaze drawn to a line of flickering blue light: the maneuvering drive exhausts of fuel tankers strung out between Sauron and Ostia in a continuous line.
Closer, soon, perhaps.
By dictatorial edict, no ships were allowed within five hundred thousand kilometers of any Alderson Point. A small Coalition corvette had tested this injunction a few days previously and had blown up—lost with all hands.
Speculation soon spread throughout the Fleet that some new form of mine had been deployed, one which would destroy or at least cripple any Imperials as they entered Sauron space. No attempt was made to allay these rumors among the Coalition ships, but it had been Vessel Second Rank Althene Adame herself, conning the Fomoria during one of Diettinger’s rare rest periods, who had given the order to destroy the corvette.
During communications system upgrades by Sauron Technical Rankers, every Coalition vessel had been secretly fitted with a special device. The larger part of this device would transmit a signal to the Sauron flagship if the vessel carrying it was preparing to engage its Jump drives. If such signal was not approved by the Fomoria—and none would be—the much smaller part activated a scuttle command to the ship’s computer. Althene knew that the corvette had been attempting to desert and that simply would not do at all.
II
Cyborg Rank Köln had taken his last meeting with the other Cyborgs of the High Command Council. He was now immersed in work of such magnitude and complexity that even his capacity for concentration was taxed. Diettinger’s EVA commando tactic had been an important innovation in the war; even so, it had benefited from various improvements in certain aspects of its application, improvements which Köln had devised. The Dictator had been impressed and Köln’s alterations had been implemented throughout the Fleet. Despite himself, Köln had found it impossible to suppress a sense of pleasure at Diettinger’s approval and addressed this very dangerous symptom in a communiqué.
Diettinger is an excellent commander, (Köln had sent the hardcopy message to Ulm, Saentz and Manche with a courier) as well as possessing the gift of inspiring fervent loyalty from even the most rational of Soldiers. Whatever his genetic deficiencies, this fact should not be ignored since it represents a definite asset for this phase of the defense of the Homeworld, and a dangerous liability for our eventual overt dominance of Sauron society. Upon successful resolution of the coming engagement, popular support for Diettinger will be at its peak and his voluntary relinquishment of the emergency office of Dictator will then allow him to be legally appointed First Citizen. It would not be in our interests to subvert such legal procedures at that time, so our first priority following cessation of hostilities with the Empire must be Diettinger’s execution via some plausible accident. Despite the paucity of vessels remaining in the fleet, I strongly recommend that such accident be the loss of Fomoria, with all hands, as this will also eliminate Diettinger’s closest acquaintances and supporters who comprise the bulk of his command staff.
Köln did not bother to consider the possibility that Sauron might not survive such an invasion, as the Empire was expected to mount, without being wholly dominated by that Empire thereafter. In his opinion, such a society would not be worth living in, even if it were prepared to let him do so.
Which, he knew, it was not.
III
The predominant emotion of any intelligent being before going into battle is fear and Saurons were no exception. Superb training and a justifiable sense of superiority tempered their apprehension, but it had long ago been deemed counter-productive to breed it out of them completely.
Nevertheless, Communications Fifth Rank Boyle was in too good of a mood to allow for much in the way of dread. His formal posting to the Fomoria had been authorized that morning and he had immediately informed his biological parents, as well as the other members of his state-administered crèche. Family life had altered greatly down the years since Diettinger’s parents had sent him off to the academy. Boyle’s line had not a hundredth of Diettinger’s own provenance as a Firstholder heir. Even so, he had received over two dozen messages of congratulations and pride in his achievement. The Fomoria was a prestigious berth, and what his familial relations might—by comparison with Diettinger’s—lack in intimacy was more than compensated for by their enthusiasm.
Fifth Rank Boyle had long since resigned himself to the status of Fifth Ranker. It was no dishonor, simply the reality of his genes. An act of heroism or some procedural innovation on his part would surely raise his rank, but he would always be stigmatized by his Genetic Preference Rating and Fertility codes. His services as a parent were by no means discouraged, but the Sauron gene pool would have to dwindle substantially before they would ever be in any great demand.
Boyle stiffened in his chair. That last thought had reminded him of something he’d forgotten to do.
One of Boyle’s genetic drawbacks was a memory which the Breedmasters had declared “less than acceptable” for higher command responsibilities. To overcome his problems with retention and organization, Boyle lived and died by the notes in his datapad daily planner which he consulted now.
When he had come aboard Fomoria with other survivors from the destroyed Leviathan during the battle at Tanith, it had been in the company of several Occupation Breedmasters and their stock of fertilized Sauron ova. This material had originally been destined for the wombs of Tanith’s human-norm females, once that planet had been captured. With Leviathan’s destruction, her part in that aspect of the battle plan had been canceled.
But all those ova are still in t
he Fomoria’s holds, Boyle realized. He had meant to have the materials down-shipped to Sauron, but could not remember if he’d done so.
He keyed up the date and “to-do” list. There it was: Materials Log: 70 units/OBs/Bay Seven, Section A-19.
OBs were the Occupation Breedmasters, units were the number of suitcase-sized containers which held their caste’s peculiar weapons for the subjugation of conquered worlds. The location note showed them secured deep within the best shielded area of the ship’s stores.
Boyle flagged the entry with a note to inform Diettinger, or Second Rank Adame, of the situation in the morning report.
The First Rank will find some place to put them…
In his cabin, Fleet First Rank Galen Diettinger, legally appointed Dictator of Sauron, lay on his bed beneath a dim light and turned a small packet end over end in his hands. It was a holo of his parents on their last anniversary which had arrived by special courier that morning. A claw from his trophy Grizzly was in a small packet with the image and a note which read, in his mother’s handwriting: My son, we have always been proud of you. And in his father’s: Good Luck.
His father, he knew, did not believe in luck. Few Saurons did. And his parents’ use of the past tense told him that when the first bombs fell on Sauron, the last Diettingers that had remained on the Homeworld would not hear them.
His home, built by Brennus Diettinger so long ago, would be quiet now, the rooms of the estate dark. His stolid Sauron Grizzly would still be standing watch over the polished brass telescope. When the first thermonuclear flash of heat and light coursed up the valley, it would pass through his mother’s Family Garden, up the wide back steps, through the stout halls of Sauron marble. The grizzly would disappear in an irradiated flurry of fur and scales, armature, bone and smoke, while the telescope would first quiver and then fluoresce in a shimmer of vaporizing metal. The doors would go next, the light and heat being absorbed by their black sheen in one radiant instant, to consume them in the next.
The blast wave would follow. Brennus Diettinger—for all his visionary nature—there was nothing he had ever experienced, or even imagined, that would have prepared him for building against this nuclear scourge. The hill would be scoured clean of home, headstones, trees, grass, soil, stripped down to bedrock; everything disappearing in seconds…and that would be all.
As Dictator, of course, Diettinger could have had his parents brought aboard the Fomoria.
But to what purpose? There is no assurance that we will not be the first ship destroyed in the coming battle. No assurance that my battle plan will succeed or, if it does not, that my fail-safe plan will work, nor if it does, they would even wish to be here to see it.
He knew what his parents had wanted. They had chosen it even before summoning the courier for the holo. Floating in the low gravity of the chamber was the notification from the registrar of his parents’ district that he had been named legal inheritor of all title to the family estate and holdings. Thus passed the last of the Diettingers on Sauron….
Diettinger rose and went to his desk, removing the datachip he had hidden there weeks ago. He put it on the table next to his computer panel, and signaled the bridge.
“Second Rank here, Dictator.”
“Initiate Phase One: Computer Security throughout the Fleet.”
“Acknowledged, Dictator. Phase One lock activated.”
Even by laser, it would take almost two hours to pass on the order and receive confirmation from all the task forces in the fleet, but the Fomoria went into security protocol at that moment. From now until Diettinger released them, no ship’s computer could access another without the codes issued by Diettinger himself two days before—now locked within the safe of every captain. The Fomoria’s computer itself could not be accessed at all by anyone off-ship, at any level of security.
Upon confirmation of this lockout, Diettinger called up the navigational database, inserted his datachip, and downloaded the last third of the special program he had written. He sealed it within a file labeled “Diettinger.” When the computer requested a password, he smiled briefly and gave it the best one he could think of.
He looked out the viewport, but he could not see Sauron from here.
Just as well, he thought, and went to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
I
The invasion from space of an inhabited, defended world is the single most complex undertaking in all of human experience. The mapping of the human genotype was a moderately difficult crossword puzzle by comparison. Given that analogy, it was fitting that the Saurons were the first humans to master the techniques of both; given the uses to which they had put those achievements, it was likewise fitting that they should suffer the one as a result of their abuse of the other.
The Fleet ran on Sauron planetary time, its activities synchronized with the chronometers of Sauron’s capital city of Utumno. At 0400 hours on the morning of December first—a Saturday on the Homeworld—aboard the reconnaissance destroyer Reno of Task Force Damaris, Sensors Third Rank Muñoz’ screen abruptly flashed red.
“Multiple signals at St. Ekaterina Alderson Point,” Muñoz declared. “Minefield telemetry shows seventeen initial detonations and counting.”
The duty officer confirmed that the Reno’s computer had automatically relayed the alert first to the Damaris, then on to the Fomoria, the Homeworld and every station in between. That done, she began to record the number and composition of the initial intruder forces.
No warning from Sauron Traffic Control would be forthcoming; every remaining Sauron and Coalition vessel that could be accounted for was already in-system. If these were indeed friendly stragglers that would just be too bad.
Crawling along at only the speed of light, it would take over fifty-three minutes for the message lasers to reach the command units of the fleet, another hour for word to reach those ships on the far side of the Sauron System. By the time the first Sauron vessel began to respond, the intruders would have already recovered from Jump Lag and be underway. Had Task Force Damaris been on-station at one of the Alderson Points, a further billion kilometers distant, this response time would have been doubled.
Lacking the necessary superiority of vessels to engage the intruders on arrival, Diettinger had ordered all jump zones to be seeded with the highest-yield nuclear weapons ever developed; hundreds of each were scattered around the position of each Alderson Point. Many of these would detonate immediately, others would stagger their ignition to maintain high levels of energy flowing into the Langston Fields of the intruding ships. Still more would lie in wait for succeeding waves of Imperial vessels.
Since Alderson Points can be difficult to find, even when their position is known in principle, astrogators bring their ships to as near a complete stop as they can, enabling them to precisely determine their position before jumping. Mining such Points was standard practice—though the density employed by the Saurons in the Sauron System was far beyond doctrine. Even so, it was usually dealt with by turnabout; an attacking force would first send through unmanned drones, comprised of an Alderson Drive package strapped to a high-yield nuclear weapon of its own. Such bombs were armed and detonated by a simple mechanical timer and chemical explosives, less sophisticated than the machinery used on the first nuclear devices over seven hundred years earlier. The madness had method, however; while jump lag might disrupt computers horribly, it had no effect whatsoever on the physical components of a wind-up clock. Such weapons, arriving as they did immediately prior to the fleet which sent them, were generally referred to as “precedents.”
This time, however, there seemed to be no such precedents. The only telemetry received by detonating thermonuclear weapons showed wavelengths consistent with the Sauron versions of such devices.
Diettinger was not surprised to learn this, less than an hour later. He read the initial reports, and only nodded. “They’ll be saving their nuclear weapons,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Though Second Rank had heard.
The report concluded with Fleet First Rank Emory’s signal that Task Force Damaris was changing station according to its mission orders.
“Signal to Hourglass North,” Diettinger told his Fleet Communications Ranks. “Initiate Delta/Sierra maneuver.”
“Delta/Sierra” referred to the first letters of the Dropshot and St. Ekaterina Alderson Points, each on the same side of the orbital plane occupied by Sauron itself; “Hourglass North” was the concentration of System Defense Boats and other craft arrayed over Sauron’s northern hemisphere. Diettinger’s order was relayed immediately to the cone-shaped formation of ships, initiating maneuvers designed to allow it to react most efficiently to this first Imperial threat. Twenty-five thousand kilometers above Sauron’s north pole, the ship at the point of Hourglass North fired attitude thrusters, bringing its main engines about to point toward the gravity well of the Homeworld.
At each successive level of Hourglass North, with its ever greater numbers of System Defense Boats, the maneuver was repeated. Eventually each ship in the formation sat motionless on the same bearing, at a right angle to the plane of the ecliptic. Upon completion of the order, the weapon batteries of the entire formation were pointed directly away from the angle of approach that every naval commander knew must be taken in any attack on the Sauron System.
Diettinger watched as the confirmation signals continued. Initial signals from the St. Ekaterina Alderson Point showed fifty-one Imperial vessels. Eight had been destroyed when their exits from the Alderson Point had placed them within meters of several of the high-yield mines. There had still been no indication that the Empire was sending any nuclear precedents of its own ahead of the invasion fleet.
Diettinger considered the implications of that: Alderson Drives are expensive; perhaps the days when the Empire could afford to literally throw them away to provide a margin of safety for her ships entering hostile space are truly gone, after all.