by John F. Carr
And why not? he thought. Even a Cyborg can’t escape from an EVA capsule flooded with lock-down gel.
And now that he didn’t have to worry about the self-proclaimed custodians of the Sauron Race’s future, he could try to assure it would have one…
“Enemy vessels engaging task force at all points along the formation, Dictator. Imperial battleship Lermontov closing on our position, within beam range in thirty minutes.”
“Fleet formation status?”
“Half the task force in position now, Dictator; projections indicate minimum of forty-eight minutes for remainder to match headings and velocities and complete the formation…”
“And Task Force Damaris?”
“Still not responding to the rendezvous command, Dictator; down to three vessels and engaging the left-wing of the Imperial fleet.”
Imperial Fleet, he thought. Not ‘Intruder Two’, anymore, but ‘Imperial Fleet’. That would be the one we were grinding into dust only a few days ago. And now it seems stronger than ever.
Diettinger looked at his Second Rank; he knew that she and Emory were great friends. He also knew that she would not be the last friend Second Rank would lose today.
He stood against the artificial gravity of Fomoria’s thrust and stepped forward into the immersion display. Sauron System surrounded him, glittering with pockets of debris that had once been ships, many of which had carried men and women he’d known. Still more had borne strangers, men—the Empire did not allow women to serve in its combat ranks—whose most fervent desire was to see him and every other Sauron eradicated from the universe.
By becoming self-proclaimed opponents of Sauron eugenics, the bulk of humanity had dedicated itself to the systematic genocide of a people who were, in the final analysis, not so very different from themselves. Human norm; Sauron norm…the distinctions were purely clinical. Saurons had conquered, to be sure, and their conquests always resulted in the fertilization of many subjugated women with Sauron progeny.
Nine months, Diettinger considered. Longer when the women formed emotional attachments to their children—as they usually did, for it’s only a rare mother who despises her child.
As often as not, the attachment carried over to their captors. And was it really so terrible? Carrying a Soldier in their womb had meant only that they were guaranteed at least nine months of kindness, care and consideration. For many breeders, it had been the only decent food, shelter and medical treatment they had seen since the war began.
He caught himself. Ah, yes. That. The war. The war which, in all honesty, we started. Like all humans, Saurons or Imperials, he could be oblivious to unpleasant truths when viewing them beneath the blinding light of necessity.
Or rationalization…
He looked back and forth between the roster of Imperial vessels attacking TF Fomoria and those comprising the falling hammer that was Intruder Three.
“Communications,” he said.
“Dictator.”
“Signal the fleet: ‘Stand down from all combat maneuvering; all ships to slave helm operations to Fomoria immediately upon receipt of this message.’ Notify me on seventy-percent confirmation.”
Communications and his subordinates were so shocked by the order they actually hesitated; only Fifth Rank Boyle—so eager to please and so determined to measure up to Fomoria standards—executed the signal without delay. Boyle seemed to realize the import of the order only after it had been executed. He looked up at Communications.
“Sir? What are we going to do?” Boyle whispered to his superior.
Diettinger overheard the question; he let the Communications Ranker find his own answer.
Sauron could never have won, he thought. The supreme jest: We—who had elevated military history, theory and thought to a life philosophy, whose oldest role model was the ancient Hannibal—have traveled down the very same road as our prototype.
We led a totalitarian state into war against a representative Empire, a republic in all but name. Hannibal’s ironic victory was that his actions forced the Romans to adopt policies that eventually doomed their Republic…and brought about an Empire in its place.
He looked back at the immersion display’s hundreds of Outworlder ship icons; once Sauron’s hope, her erstwhile allies had become her death sentence, these barbarians co-opted by the Imperials to defeat the hated Saurons. Looking closely, he could see that most of the Imperial vessels were at the rear of the formation, driving the Outworlder ships on from behind, which almost brought a smile to his lips.
Now we have forced the human norms to adopt policies which will bring about the doom of their Empire. The end result for the Saurons would be the same as it was for Hannibal’s own Carthaginian people; they would not live to see their revenge on the victors. For in the endless cycles of human political evolution, the state which follows Empire is inevitably…
“Anarchy,” he said aloud. Cold comfort, he thought. But enough to warm me…
The immersion display showed twenty-seven of his remaining forty vessels had acknowledged his order thus far: Sixty-eight percent.
Diettinger had made his decision some time ago; he had been hoping for the remnants of TF Damaris, but Emory’s vengeance for the death of the Falkenberg had put her ships out of position. Nothing for it, now. He returned to his console and entered the last coded key sequence of his program. When the status screens showed Fomoria to be in contact with the computers of all operational vessels, Galen Diettinger, Dictator of Sauron, spoke his last order, a code word.
“Brennus.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I
Something began to happen among the remaining vessels of the Sauron fleet. Maneuvering thrusters turned the wounded warships on their axes, headings changing to match those of the flagship Fomoria. As one, the remaining ships of Sauron began accelerating toward what appeared to be an intercept course with Intruder Three. What none of their crew saw, since it was not being displayed anywhere, was that—also as one—their navigational computers began countdowns to the Jump-off Point.
At first, the entire Imperial command seemed as stunned into inactivity as Diettinger’s bridge crew. The Imperial ships held fire for a moment, apparently attempting to gauge the import of this latest Sauron tactic. The Saurons seemed ready to destroy themselves in a hopeless attempt to prevent the impact of Intruder Three. From the Imperial viewpoint, so much the better. There was still a viable Imperial fleet in-system; if the Saurons continued to engage that fleet, Intruder Three would poison their Homeworld for eternity. If they destroyed themselves to stop Intruder Three, the intact Imperial fleet would reduce that Homeworld to irradiated slag. Either outcome was entirely acceptable to the Imperials.
Then the Sauron fleet began to bank to starboard.
“Time to impact Intruder Three.”
“Forty-one seconds, Dictator.”
“Sensors; concentrate visual recorders on the Homeworld. Maintain lock and record until…” his voice gave out, but he mastered himself quickly. “Until no longer possible.”
“Dictator…?” Second Rank asked softly.
He did not take his eyes from the display. “Not now, Second Rank.”
Intruder Three passed below them, the forward ships of the formation beginning to glow with atmospheric entry.
“Realtime,” he ordered.
The immersion display shifted from data-accompanied icons to visual sensor displays. Sauron lay suspended at the center of Fomoria’s bridge, Intruder Three a silvery lance, insignificant against the bulk of the planet below it. Then the tip of the lance flared: once, twice more, then an endless stream of light, pooling in Sauron’s upper atmosphere and spreading, first displacing the fleecy white cloud cover, then adding its own shades to the mass, first grey, then black.
“Impact,” Second Rank read the data aloud. “Multiple impacts, Dictator; several oceanic, mostly land. Scattered data reports indicate much break-up of smaller vessels, but the larger ones seem to be getting thro
ugh intact. Contact lost with all major equatorial cities on Lebensraum. Northern areas—”
“Shh.” Diettinger said. “Just watch, Second Rank. Think about the Spartans.”
She started. Had he gone mad? “Spartans?” She could take no more. Even Diettinger’s legendary imperturbability was not to be suffered in the face of the death of the Homeworld. “Dictator—” she began, but he cut her off with a savagery that took her back two steps.
“Never address me by that title again! Is that clear?”
She realized she had stopped breathing; she wondered why her heart had not stopped as well.
“But…the Spartans—First Rank?”,
He had returned his attention to the display, gesturing toward it. “Of course. Thermopylae. The Persians drove their vassal troops into battle with whips, climbing over their own dead to reach the lines of the Spartan King, Leonidas: When the Spartan’s spears broke, they fought with swords. When the swords broke they fought with daggers. When the daggers broke, they fought with fists, and teeth. And still, the Persians came on. Finally, reduced to a handful of bloody defenders on a small hillock, the Spartans held ranks until brought down by hails of missiles. The Persians could not be made to engage them any longer, though now the Spartans were less than a hundred men.”
He turned to look at her, and his remaining eye glistened. “What are we, Second Rank?” He swept a hand across the vista before them. “Here is the answer. This is our heritage; to fight…or build, or learn, or live, or love, or die, or kill…until the thing we do it all for is finished. This is not merely a Sauron trait.”
Diettinger turned and stepped up to his acceleration couch platform and took his seat.
“This is what it means to be human.”
II
Before them, the Homeworld was dying. By the last third of Intruder Three’s Impacts, the surface of Sauron was ablaze across the equator. Sweeping streaks of low saltwater clouds of brown steam, underlit a glowing red from oceanic impacts and columns of smoke from land fires of epic scope. In the wake of the onrushing remainder of Intruder Three, Imperial ships had detached from Intruder Two and joined hundreds of Imperial heavy fighters in low-level runs against the surface of Sauron; glittering charges fell from cargo bays, disappearing into the devastation below to reappear as blossoms of nuclear fire.
Fomoria and her charges moved on; the helm systems’ display showed her acceleration climbing past seven gravities of thrust.
Second Rank moved her acceleration couch next to Diettinger’s and addressed him in a low voice. “First Rank, if I understand my readings correctly, they indicate a sub-routine in Fomoria’s computers running a countdown to the Wayforth Alderson Point.”
Diettinger could not hold back an ironic smile. “I am glad, Second Rank, that you understand your readings correctly,” he answered.
Turning away from her, he then activated his console’s all-stations address function. “Crew of the Fomoria: The battle for the survival of Sauron is lost. The battle for the survival of the Sauron Race is about to begin. Fomoria, along with all the ships in her task force, is now locked into a random jump mode. She is being maneuvered by a computer program locked into a series of mechanical jump initiators, identical to those used on nuclear precedent mines. The program will take Task Force Fomoria to the Wayforth Alderson Point and simultaneously Jump all its ships to that system. At that point, while all crews and ships’ computers are disabled by Jump Lag, the clockworks will run the vessel until the systems recover, travel by normal space to the closest Alderson Point and Jump again. Each Alderson path will be chosen randomly. I estimate that the Task Force has sufficient stored energy in its Field capacitors alone to allow for over fifty such random Jumps.”
Navigation stared at him in horror. “But Dicta—First Rank; that many consecutive Jumps will completely burn-out our drives, even assuming we survive the first twenty!”
“May I assume you would prefer to return to Sauron and take your chances with the tender mercies of the Imperial fleet?” Diettinger asked.
Navigation only turned back to stare at the display of the ruined Homeworld.
“Signal from TF Damaris,” Communications Fifth Rank Boyle stammered, “well…actually, just the Damaris, now, First Rank.”
“Put her through.”
“No visual; voice only.” Boyle patched the communication to Diettinger’s station.
“Diettinger…intercepted signals Imperial Battleship Lermontov your rear port aspect. Your intentions known, repeat, your intentions known…expect heavy resistance en route to any Alderson Points… Lermontov calling in support to guarantee no Sauron vessels escape system.”
“First Rank Emory,” Diettinger answered, “Can you bring Damaris about and join our formation?”
“Negative, Dictator. But I believe I can guarantee that Lermontov’s first wave of requested reinforcements does not join theirs. God speed, Fomoria. Damaris out.”
Within the immersion display, Damaris altered course and closed to engage four Imperial battleships, a raging tigress among wolves. Amid streams of lasers and a hail of missile launches, the Damaris disappeared beyond the blackening horizon of Sauron, still battling the Imperial capital ships drawn off from the Lermontov, as Vessel First Rank Emory had promised.
Fomoria and the ships of her task force had reached nine gravities and Saurons or not, her bridge crew were being molded back into the gel cushions of their acceleration couches.
“Nine squadrons of Imperial heavy fighters closing on heading three-two-six mark two-seven. Lermontov has closed to beam range and firing.”
“Signal Task Force to return fire,” Diettinger ordered, “But under no circumstances are any ships to attempt to disengage computer lock and break from formation.”
“Why?”
He looked down; the voice that came from his communications panel was that of Cyborg Köln.
“The Race must survive,” Diettinger answered. “It cannot, will not be allowed to survive on Sauron, nor any other world where Imperials know Saurons are still alive. With almost forty ships full of Saurons and over-filled with Cyborgs, we can find a place to hide and rebuild.”
“The Empire will pursue us.”
“They are not likely to find us. In any case, I doubt that this alliance between the Empire and the Outworlders will last long. Whatever concessions the Imperials made for this aid they will undoubtedly come to regret. By escaping, before destroying too many of the Outworlder ships, we leave a strong and intact mercenary element within the borders of the critically weakened Empire. They will give the Empire a great many more important things to worry about than tracking down a few hundred thousand Sauron refugees.”
Köln nodded inside his helmet. “I am forced to concur. I have been watching the displays of Sauron; its fate was unavoidable. Your plan favors the survival of the Race, and seems viable.”
That, Diettinger realized, was positively effusive praise from a Cyborg. “My thanks. However, Cyborg Köln,” he used the popular form of address, dropping the obsolete ‘Rank’ as a gesture of respect, “I am somewhat engaged, as you must know.” Diettinger felt a touch of magnanimity couldn’t hurt. “But I will see to having you and the rest of the Cyborgs released from lock-downs as soon as possible.”
Diettinger broke the connection with a sense of relief. Köln had been self-contained and even approving. He would be happy to let the Cyborgs out once they reached some measure of safety.
Especially as there is still an excellent chance that we will not get out of this alive…
As if to underscore his fatalistic appraisal, Fomoria suddenly lurched to starboard as an explosion went off within her Field. The bridge went dark for a moment as power was automatically rerouted to crucial systems; the immersion display flickered, revealing the featureless grey walls of the Fomoria’s command center that had disappeared when the display had painted them over with the holographic illusion of space that lay beyond them. Fire leapt from a control sta
tion, sweeping over three of the bridge crew before the gas extinguishers smothered the flames that left a third of the bridge blackened and all of it filled with acrid smoke.
“It’s the Lermontov, First Rank; burn-throughs in our Field’s port zone,” Weapons began coordinating power shifts within the Fomoria to close the breach in the warship’s Fields.
“Enemy heavy fighters impacting our Field, coming in over the bow,” Second Rank called out.
The immersion display reproduced the Morgans as they swept over the Fomoria’s hull, raking fire in a series of walking hits and passing so close to the display’s sensors that Diettinger could make out the insignia of a gold-bordered black flag bearing a skull-and-crossbones; the 97th Imperial Fighter Squadron. At some level, he could not help but be flattered that the Empire had thrown the redoubtable “Jolly Rogers” at his ship. He hoped they appreciated the attention he was about to show them in return.
“Clear my sky, Weapons.”
Only a Sauron could have accomplished what happened next; Weapons’ commands swept the space ahead of Fomoria with an interlocking screen of fire from the heavy cruiser’s main batteries, creating a lattice so dense and so variable that not even a fighter pilot’s reflexes could save them; nor did they. Two of the Morgans were obliterated, consumed too quickly even to leave debris.
The satisfaction that was evident on Weapons’ face did not carry to that of Communications Fifth Rank Boyle. “First Rank; we’ve lost telemetry from the rest of the Task Force.”
Diettinger felt his blood go cold. “Are they still receiving from us?”
“Apparently not, First Rank. Helm and Navigation tie-ins have all been severed. The formation is falling behind.”
Second Rank nodded. “Confirmed. That last burn-through destroyed our comm laser paths and three-quarters of the projectors; elements of Task Force Fomoria breaking off to engage the Imperials.”
Diettinger stared at the immersion display. Emory’s last communication had revealed to him that Imperials were intercepting his message lasers; a difficult prospect to be sure, but easier at such close quarters as the battle had become. One simply aimed a broad-beam scanning laser between two enemy ships assumed to be communicating with one another; message lasers intersecting the scan created distortions whose modulations could be decoded into distinct, if patchy, patterns. Enough patches, and you had a picture of what was being said.