Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  They were learning about their next conquest, after all, and as military men, and especially as Soldiers, they would need every bit of information available to them.

  What they have not yet realized, Diettinger thought, is that Haven is to be far more than just another conquest. That realization will come soon enough.

  “…Haven’s rotation is unusual, since it is locked tidally with the Cat’s Eye, but in the synchronized pattern of Mercury rather than always presenting the same face as does the Earth’s Moon. The planet is somewhat smaller than Earth, and has a much thinner atmosphere. Due to its proximity to the Cat’s Eye there is great seismic activity. During the period of formation the tidal forces resulted in unusual patterns of vulcanism. Haven is a jumble of high mountains and deep rift valleys. Most of the mountains are high rocky peaks similar to the Himalaya Mountains in Asia on Earth.

  “The only temperate area is in the equatorial zone, which climactically resembles northern Scotland or Churchill. Due to the thin atmosphere the only nearly comfortable area of Haven is a single deep rift valley in the equatorial area. The valley is locally called Shangri-La and was named after a similar place in a novel popular in the Twentieth Century.

  “The indigenous plants and animals of Haven have biochemistries similar to those of Earth, but evolution has produced some unusual proteins. Needless to say, life native to Haven is extremely hardy, and proved quite dangerous to the early settlers, as indicated by names such as “shark’s fin,” “hangman bush,” “land gator,” “dragon” and “wireweed.” Efforts to reseed Haven with Earth plants and animals have been only partly successful.

  “There has been little contact with the Empire since the Imperial Governor and all Imperial officials departed in 2623, approximately the same time the Seventy-seventh Marine Division, the Land Gators, shipped out for Friedland. There are no records of any Imperial contact for the past six years. Most of the moon’s satellite defenses have been destroyed; this was determined by scans of debris in the high orbit around the moon. It appears Haven has been attacked at least once, maybe more, by off-world raiders.

  “There are little in the way of off-world defenses remaining. We have picked up evidence of human life on an observation satellite and one off the small moon Ayesha, which is tethered to Cat’s Eye and is the primary in-system refueling station. Castell City, the major city in the Shangri-La Valley, shows recent signs of battle damage and of serious population loss. We identified two major fortifications, Fort Kursk and Fort Fornova. Both date back to the CoDominium period and should be considered heavily fortified. According to Records: when the Imperials abandoned Haven, they put a former Imperial Marine officer, Brigadier-General Gary Cummings, in command of the Haven Volunteers, an under-staffed brigade composed of two regiments of local militia.”

  Colonel Gary Cummings, Diettinger mulled. He remembered a dispatch after the Tabletop action that had some favorable reports on the Imperial resistance on that planet. The Colonel had been mentioned as one of the resistance leaders. I wonder if it’s the same man. If so, Cummings is familiar with our capabilities and tactics and he could be a dangerous opponent.

  Survey ended her report, and Diettinger threw the switch that secured the wardroom from further communications.

  “Breedmaster Caius,” Diettinger addressed the Soldier charged with the standards of racial and genetic purity among the detachment under his command. “How many female Soldiers aboard, including those EVA Commandos we took aboard back on Sauron?”

  “One hundred and seventy-three.”

  Diettinger considered the answer a moment, then continued. “All such personnel are to be removed from active combat duty and other responsibilities as of the end of this meeting. Also to be removed from the duty roster are those Soldiers aboard, now serving in any capacity, with a Genetic Preference Rating of A-5 and above, as well as those personnel with Fertility Ratings of three or higher.”

  The physical abilities of the elite EVA Commandos aboard would make that order cut sharply into available forces, but if Breedmaster Caius had an opinion, he kept it to himself. Diettinger’s order was acknowledged with a brief nod.

  “Deathmaster Quilland.” Diettinger looked farther down the wardroom table, but not to the other end, not quite yet. He wanted the figure seated there to hear all the groundwork before the full plan was revealed. “As senior Staff Rank aboard, you, the Ground Force commanders, and the other Deathmaster Ranks are to review all planetary data as Survey ranks acquire it. In forty hours, present me with your recommendation of areas planetside that our available forces can secure and hold against counterattacks from such opposition as we might expect to encounter from the locals.”

  If Breedmaster Caius had reserved his opinion, the Deathmaster did not. Fond of nurturing his caste’s reputation for ruthlessness, he broke into a wintry smile at the thought of local resistance having any affect whatsoever against a force of Sauron Supply Clerk Rank Cadets. But elite Commandos? The concept hardly warranted consideration.

  “Acknowledged, First Rank.”

  Despite Imperial propaganda to the contrary, Saurons were not automata; Diettinger was pleased to see his orders puzzling some of his officers. But now, the hard part. Diettinger looked to the end of the table. Seated and at ease, the figure there still looked tense as spring steel. Since a substantial portion of his anatomy was not dissimilar to that material it was hardly surprising.

  “Cyborg Rank Köln.” Diettinger addressed the figure, deliberately adding the obsolete distinction of “Rank.” To be a Cyborg was by definition to be a superior being and many—far too many as far as he was concerned—in Sauron society had allowed this attitude to subvert the military chain of command. If Diettinger’s scheme was to have any hope of success, he would have to arrest—and overturn—that subversion.

  “Acknowledged.” The voice that answered was rich, warm and deep, resonant with humanity—and seemed identical to that of every other Cyborg Super Soldier. It never failed to awe Diettinger at the power that was—had been—Sauron’s, the power to shape the very stuff of life itself.

  “You and the other Cyborg Ranks will aid the Deathmasters in the details of said planning. You will not participate in combat operations.”

  Cyborg Köln’s shoulder shifted as he sighed briefly. It made a faint sound as sections of augments met within the genetically toughened flesh. “May I ask why?”

  Of all the castes in Sauron society, only the Cyborgs were permitted the luxury of such a question. The very capacity to ask had been trained out of most others.

  “You and all other Cyborg Ranks are to present yourselves to Breedmaster Caius for propagation research.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath on Diettinger’s right as Caius realized both the extent of this task and its implications.

  “Acknowledged,” Cyborg Köln said after a brief pause. Diettinger sensed that he had not resolved the issue, but had at least bought himself some time. He nodded once, then addressed the table again.

  “There is no Sauron Unified State any longer. No Sauron Trade Bloc, no Sauron-dominated Coalition of Secession.” He activated the display screen, and the image of the sundered Homeworld glared darkly from it.

  “There is, in fact, no Sauron.”

  The recording played out. The silence was absolute. “Whatever is left of the Homeworld and Landyn System’s planets are now occupied by the forces of the Empire. The war is lost. But the Race must not die.”

  Diettinger’s emphasis on the last words would have been expressive among other human species; among Saurons it was almost melodramatic. But it had the desired effect on those listening. They could guess what was coming, and they were eager to hear more.

  “The Haven System is isolated, four Alderson Jumps from the nearest inhabitable world. Trade charts of this area have not been updated in over seventy-five years. Records indicated that not so much as a regiment of Imperial Marines have been in this system over twenty years. Fate,” he smiled; n
one of them believed in fate in quite the way he did, “has brought us here to stay. This must now be home.”

  He began to outline his plan.

  II

  Lord John Claude Hamilton stood on Whitehall’s battlements, examining the patchwork of farms that stretched around the castle walls as far as the eye could see. Villages dotted the countryside and a small town was sprouting up outside the walls of Whitehall. This once decrepit country estate had grown into one of the major agricultural centers in the east-central Shangri-La Valley. Thousands of people now depended upon Greenswards’ military might and network of political alliances; it was a lot of responsibility. And someday, a voice whispered in his ear, all this will be yours.

  John wasn’t sure that he was up to the weight all this represented. If only Raymond would come back from the War. He would know what to do, and do it without question. Raymond, following the family tradition—that John had successfully, albeit not happily, broken—was an officer in the Imperial Navy. A fighter pilot, at least that’s what Raymond had been almost thirteen years ago, when his most recent message had reached Haven.

  They hadn’t heard from Raymond since—or the Empire, for that matter—but that could mean anything. Maybe the Empire had forgotten Haven completely, which looked increasingly likely as years passed by without any official word. Or maybe the Empire had lost the war and Raymond was a prisoner or stranded on some former Imperial outpost. Maybe Raymond was too valuable to muster out, or he’d retired from the Navy and couldn’t find passage back to Haven.

  A lot of maybes, but there was one certainty; Raymond would never forget the family. He was definitely the ‘right’ sort. The verdict was still out on John, both in his own mind and certainly in that of his grandfather, the Baron.

  Or Raymond could be— He stopped himself. Don’t even think that word! Thinking things sometimes made them true. It was better not to know than to think the un-thinkable.

  John had tried to do the ‘right’ thing, ever since he had realized a talent for money exchanging; he’d even given up most of his bad habits. Tried to live a more moderate life. Still, on occasion, he would sneak out at late night to the White Tamerlane for spirits and occasional female companionship. He wasn’t dead, but he’d certainly given up his gambling and horse racing.

  Usually, though, he spent his nights alone, too tired to do anything but press his face to the pillow. Managing a large estate, or barony—the return to quaint Medievalism still rankled; after all wasn’t this the Twenty-Seventh Century?—was bloody hard work. However, his grandfather had been right about the decivilization of Haven. Automobiles were becoming so rare that the family’s traditional semi-annual drive to Cardiff in the Baron’s old Fleetwood brought the kids out in droves.

  How far is down? Shamans dressed in feathers, shaking rattles and casting spells. When does it bottom out? The latest reports from Brigadier Cummings told of a Castell City fulminating with riots and beggars on every corner. And only God knew what life on the northern steppes was like—

  “Hello, John. Find anything interesting?” asked a pleasant female voice he recognized as belonging to Ingrid Cummings. Ingrid was Cummings’ daughter; she had come to Whitehall earlier this year after the first big food riots, when two of the petrocarb plants broke down. The Baron had told him that the Brigadier had tried to get his wife to come along, too, but she refused to leave their home in Castell. John found it hard to fault her, since even a boring provincial capital city was better than a boring estate east of nowhere.

  He shook his head in the negative in response to her question. Ingrid was always asking questions, probing intentions, feelings; just the sort of things he believed were best left alone. The fact that she’d caught him in a rare moment of introspection only made him feel guilty, as if he’d been caught with another woman. That was ridiculous, since they had no ties of any sort. Ingrid was too old for him.

  Well, actually, she was just a year or two older than him. And even pretty in an acceptable sort of way, if she would only use some makeup… And her eyes were attractive, especially when she flared up, which seemed to be just about every time they met. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to offend her this time.

  “Your grandfather sent me to fetch you. It’s almost dinner time.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. He knew the Baron entertained the notion of a dynastic joining of the two families. Was it possible she resented his meddling as much as he did?—no, not likely. Although she didn’t seem like the matrimonial web-spinning type he had avoided for the last decade.

  Not that her desires or his own would thwart the Baron’s plans. An heir was necessary if the Hamilton line was to continue. His sister Matilda already had three children, so the barony would continue, but not under the name Hamilton. To the Baron, the issue was settled; John must get married and have children. The Baron would not die happily until he was certain that the new lord would carry the Hamilton name.

  Another weight to carry.

  “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve got the troubles of the Empire on your shoulders. Relax. It’s a beautiful evening. Cat’s Eye is about to set.”

  He watched as the sky-filling orange gas giant around which Haven was but a revolving moon began to merge into the horizon. Byers’ Star was still up and the evening was turning into Dimday. “Haven’s a harsh world, but it has its beauty, too.”

  Ingrid cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a poetic side.”

  John shook his head. “Sheer exhaustion must be the explanation. Why, the glow of Cat’s Eye even gives your complexion a buttery hue.”

  She folded her arms across her breasts, which he couldn’t help noticing. What he could see of them, through her usual heavy sweater, looked like ripe tigermelons.

  “Your sweet talk won’t work on us city girls. Save it for the wenches at the White Tamerlane.”

  He flinched. How did she know about that? Damnable woman! “At least they know how to appreciate a man.”

  “Well! You’d know,” she spat back.

  The late summer spell was suddenly broken. What had he been thinking of? Had I actually considered…? No, I couldn’t have. Exhaustion, that’s the only explanation.

  “Some figure of a man you cut,” Ingrid finished, giving his midsection a pointed stare and shaking her head in disapproval. “Hope you don’t expect to fit in your armor at the next Muster. I’m going to the dining room. Come if you will—or don’t. It matters little to me.”

  John looked down at his paunch, and quickly looked away again. It wasn’t his fault his metabolism had slowed down. Maybe some practice time in the tiltyard would melt some of it off. He watched the sway of Ingrid’s retreating backside for a moment, shook his head in dismay, and followed.

  John suddenly realized he was starving; maybe tomorrow he’d have a talk with the cook about working out a diet. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be wise to rush into anything.

  Chapter Ten

  I

  Brigadier Gary Cummings sat hunched over a pile of computer printouts, surveillance and intelligence reports, from Operatives throughout the Shangri-La Valley and outside. Other than the piles of paper, the Brigadier’s office was spartan; the only decoration on his desk was a large acrylic cube containing a gauss pistol that he’d pried from the hand of a dead Sauron Soldier he had killed on Lavaca.

  Up close one could see where the dying Sauron had left his finger marks, not prints, pressed right into the durasteel grip. It was his constant reminder to never underestimate the enemy.

  On the wall directly behind the Brigadier’s desk were two flags—the Empire’s, with the gold Imperial Eagle and a circle of stars, and the yellow banner of the Haven Volunteers. He purposely kept all insignia of any planetary government off the walls, especially that of the Haven World Government, with the Cat’s Eye emblem on a black background surrounded by twelve stars. These silver stars represented the twelve city-states and towns that former King Steele had conquered and adde
d to the country—as it was now called—of Castell.

  The Imperial flag was there to remind visitors of the Brigade’s true allegiance. As the Haven Imperial Marine Reserve, the Haven Volunteers loyalty was to the Empire of Man; not to any of Haven’s ragtag governments, no matter how lofty their title or ambitions.

  The report that held his attention was an intelligence memo on the breakdown of the primary petrocarb plant in Lermontovgrad. A disaster that left the Valley’s second-largest city with only two food plants, and meant that they would have no surplus to sell to Castell this winter. Probably just as well, he decided, petroleum supplies are running low and there won’t be enough for anyone in a standard year or two. And winter would be on them soon. The late-summer chill was already in the air. Cummings shivered, and not just from the cold.

  The dunderheads that ran Castell were so worried about passing planetary declarations—which no one outside of Castell gave a muskylope dung about—that they had neglected their own city and its economy. Well, not for the first time. However, this spring they had sent out the Castell Guard to quell the local countryside. Other than the occasional rape or farm burning, all that this had accomplished was to force about a quarter of the area’s farmers into exile.

  Aware of what that would mean this winter, Cummings had discreetly sent out his agents to purchase most of the early summer harvest with actual gold and silver coin, specie the farmers far preferred to the government’s worthless paper. The Brigade’s granaries at the fort were bursting; they would have more than enough food to get them through the long winter.

  The same could not be said for Castell itself. For a city of a million-and-a-half people, they only had one remaining working petrocarb factory, which was guarded night and day. God only knew what the City Fathers would do when that too broke down. Still, one food plant alone wouldn’t guarantee enough nourishment for more than a quarter of the city’s population. They would buy up a good amount of the fall harvest, but there would still be a large deficit. Haven’s winters were long, cold and unforgiving.