by John F. Carr
ENHANCEMENT COMPLETE:
WARSHIP IS SAURON HEAVY-CRUISER, TALON-CLASS.
NOW ORBITING IN CONTRA-ROTATIONAL BOMBARDMENT PATH DEFAULTING TO EMERGENCY NAVAL ALERT CHANNEL VIA ‘CAT’S EYE’ REFUELING STATION RELAY ARRAY.
EMERGENCY NAVAL ALERT CHANNEL INOPERATIVE.
RELAY ARRAY NOT RESPONDING. PRESUMED DESTROYED.
Delancey’s first thought was incongruous relief that it had not been his or Alec’s fault that the station transceiver signal had been lost. It took a moment before he forced the words out.
“We’ve got to tell someone, Alec.”
Alec stepped slowly back from the terminal, sat down in the chair beside Delancey. “Who?” he asked finally. “Who do we tell? Against Saurons?” He ended in a ragged shout.
“Pirates; perhaps they’re pirates…”
“Sure, and they destroyed the only refueling station within four systems? It has to be Saurons.”
Delancey looked around him at the large, empty room, most of its computers long gone. Also gone were the Imperial orbital defense techs who had once watched over Haven. All that remained was dust, neglect, and the ghosts of machines long since cannibalized for circuits, wiring and finally the very metal of their bones. A great, hollow, drafty place with a puddle of cold tea on the floor. Abandoned. Forgotten.
Thrown to the wolves, he thought in sudden bitterness.
“Who could do anything about it?” Alec whispered…“Sauron.”
After another moment of stunned inactivity, Delancey realized he was shaking. But not in fear, not anymore. In anger. He yanked the radio-telephone from its console and began pushing buttons in a grim rhythm.
Orbiter Prime’s path over the equator guaranteed line-of-sight contact with the Shangri-La Valley and the outlying territories, when in phase. It was approaching the eastern Shangri-La now, and the monitoring facility where he and Alec were stationed was about to lock onto its signal. Still out of phase with Fort Kursk, but well within reach of the Satrapy.
“Hello, Defense Operations? I want to speak with the Redfield Air Command, please. There’s a Colonel Kettler there, somewhere. Get him!”
II
John Hamilton sat uncomfortably in the hard, straight-back chair in the study. He was still uneasy about acting as Lord of the Manor, and even more uncomfortable about the bad news he was going to have to give to this poor refugee and his family. The Baron was in a tête-à-tête at Bridgeford Manor with Lord and Lady Kendricks and a dozen other large landowners; it would be days before he was back at Whitehall.
A shabbily-dressed man, accompanied by two armed guards, approached the desk with eyes down, doing everything but tugging his forelock in supplication. “Sorry to disturb your Lordship, but my brother-in-law, Robin Caldwell, is a vassal here. My family and I are fleeing from Redemption, where the Lord Mayor has disbanded the City Assembly and declared himself Lord-High Mayor and Exchequer.”
John sat up a little straighter; it appeared Mr. Caldwell had more than a passing acquaintance with a book or two. They already had more men working the land than they needed, and no end of Petitioners, but there was always room for skilled teachers and tradesmen. “Mr. Caldwell, what was your occupation back in Redemption?”
“Sir, I am a shoemaker.”
“You worked in a shoe factory?”
“No, sir. Before the Troubles I worked in a shoe factory. But as your Lordship knows, most of the factories have broken down or are working short hours because of all the brownouts. So I went back to the ‘old craft’ and started making my own boots. That’s all I’ve been doing for the past few years. I was earning a good living doing it, too, sir. Until the Lord-High Mayor doubled the City taxes—now I can’t even afford to buy proper leather. I damn well—excuse me, My Lord—refuse to make inferior boots.”
John nodded, thinking to himself. We’ve got one good cobbler, but he’s overworked, even with two apprentices. He was sure the Baron would approve Caldwell’s application for ‘employment.’
John scribbled a note. “Give this note to our Steward, David Kanter. He will assign you and your family temporary quarters. Do you have samples of your work with you?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like to see them? I have several pairs of my boots in our cart.”
“Not now. You’ll need to petition the Baron for a Residence Permit when he returns. Bring your samples with you when your audience is approved.”
“Thank you, thank you, Your Lordship.”
Truly it is a Time of Troubles, John Hamilton thought, when good craftsmen have to flee their homes because of high taxes and no representation. The Baron was right, when he said that the dark ages were coming to Haven.
“Next Petitioner,” he said to the guards. Before they could leave, David Kanter rushed in, holding his chest as if it were about to explode. Kanter was a tall, thin scarecrow of a man, but knew more about the estate than the management computer ever did, even before it broke down.
“What is it, David?”
“Emergency call,” he huffed.
“Catch your breath.”
After what seemed an interminable wait, the Steward began to speak again. “Tight beam call from the militia. Saurons! Here on Haven. Attacking the Fort!”
“Saurons!?”
“That’s all we got, before they stopped sending. The Radioman’s getting nothing but static now.”
Saurons, he thought. The Empire will never come back now. Raymond’s gone too. That makes me next Baron—my God!
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was no time for woolgathering. “Have the Master-at-Arms call out the Household troops. Shut off the radio! Then shut down all electrical appliances and keep all the lights turned off.”
“I’ve already informed Master Cromwell about the attack. He should have the Guard out as we talk. He didn’t think it was necessary to call out the levy.”
“He’s right. Too little information. Besides, we don’t want to look like an armed camp. It might draw the wrong attention.”
“Your Lordship, who should I tell about this? What about the Baron?”
‘Your Lordship?’ That’s a first, John thought. The old boy must really be shook! “We don’t want to frighten anyone, so tell the Staff that we’ve got a report of raiders in the area. They’re used to that drill. Same with the subjects. I’ll talk to the Master-at-Arms. We’ll need to send a fast rider over to Bridgeford to give a message to the Baron. I’ll write it now.”
While John wrote a short note, Kanter dismissed the line of petitioners at the doorway. Then he took the note and dashed out.
John took a handgun out of the desk, and took his leave of the manor. He was at the front door, when he heard Ingrid Cummings’ voice, “Who are these raiders, John?”
“Just some bandits. Sparks got word of them on the shortwave.”
Ingrid turned him around with the light touch of her hand. “Don’t lie to me, John Hamilton. I’m a general’s daughter and I’ve been lied to by the best. These are not household variety bandits. I take it you’re on your way to the Tower?”
John nodded.
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“It would be safer if you stayed here.”
“I’m right, aren’t I? Aircraft? Who could that be? The Redfielders can’t make it over the Miracle Mountains in those cloth kites of theirs. And they don’t carry enough gas to get here from the Anglia Satrapy, or whatever Redfield’s calling New Anglia, these days. Of course, if Old Enoch has divined anti-gravity we’re all in trouble.”
John smiled in spite of himself. He could see she was going to keep at him until Eyefall unless he invited her along. “Follow me, then.”
“Such a gracious invitation, Your Lordship.”
He ground his teeth. The Tower was the original keep of the castle that Old Edmund Hamilton had brought with him from Scotland (not New Scotland, but Scotland, Earth) during the CoDominium era. It was also rumored to be the spot where he had hidden the treasur
e of gold and silver ingots that had given House Hamilton security and strength, while everyone else on Haven scrambled to survive as the planetary economy cracked and splintered into a million small pieces.
These days the Tower was used as an armory and they had to make their way through stacked cases of rifles and munitions, as well as man-sized boxes containing the durasteel armor created for the Baron by Brigadier Cummings a dozen years ago. The accommodation had worked out well for both parties; the Baron had gotten almost impenetrable armor and the brigadier had gotten enough gold and silver to feed and pay his troops. All parties had prospered—until now.
The stone staircase was large enough for four abreast, but was cold and drafty. John found himself putting his arm around Ingrid, who was shivering, to keep her warm. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and when she snuggled closer he found himself frowning at the unexpected closeness, as well as the animal awareness of a shapely female at hand.
Ingrid turned and caught his frown. “Wipe the smirk off your face, John Hamilton. If it’s too difficult to keep your lecherous thoughts under control, then I’d just rather be cold, thank you.”
“Aargh!” he spluttered, jerking his hand off her shoulders as if he’d accidentally laid it on a hot stove. Damnable woman! It wasn’t as if he had an abundance of female companionship around here, anyway. Most of the attractive women at Whitehall were wives or young daughters of friends or allies. Which surely cut down on his opportunities. The most available—and attractive, blast it—woman on the premises had the spit and snarl of a Tamerlane. Not that he’d ever thought of Ingrid as an “available” woman. Bloody hell, she was doing it to him again!
They walked the rest of the way up the old staircase in silence. From the top of the Tower all looked well. It was still several hours to Eyefall and the countryside that fell away below them looked as peaceful as a painting. They could hear the clank of armor as the Guard formed up along the battlements and took positions inside the courtyard.
A loud boom sounded overhead.
Ingrid flinched. “What was that?”
“Sonic boom, I believe. It’s been years since we’ve heard that sound here.”
“I do hope Dad’s okay. Mom, too.” Ingrid shivered again, but this time it was obviously not from the cold.
It was hard to think of Brigadier-General Cummings as anyone’s ‘Dad,’ but he too would hate to see anything happen to the man who’d been Greensward’s savior on more than one occasion. According to the Baron, the brigadier had been awarded the Imperial Cross for valor and was one of the heroes of the Liberation of Lavaca. He’d also fought the Saurons at Tabletop and had led the Land Gators to victory in the First Battle of Tanith. How old was he anyway?
“How old is your father?” he asked Ingrid, partly to take her mind off her worries, and partly to satisfy his curiosity.
“Seventy-three standard years. He had full regeneration treatments before we came to Haven, back on Friedland. I know everyone wonders why I’m so much younger than Mom and Dad. I was the last child, late in life.”
Her face crumpled. “Born of my father’s rejuvenated lust, that’s how my mother puts it. She’s still bitter that he could only arrange treatments for himself. But it wasn’t father’s fault; he was under orders from the Admiralty. He’s attempted to explain it to mother many times….”
John had only met Laura Cummings once, while staying in Castell City. That meeting had been uncomfortable enough that he’d made sure their paths had never crossed again. Even a decade ago she had looked more like the Brigadier’s mother than his wife. Treated him like a mother, too. Another reason he preferred to stay single and free. Marriage turned the entire breed into stobor—and usually sooner, rather than later.
“Don’t take it so hard, Ingrid. I was never able to know my parents, as they died in a road accident when I was a young boy. Hard to imagine these days, traffic being what it is now. The Baron raised me and the only woman in the house was Mrs. Ransom, the housekeeper. I didn’t shed many tears when she passed away.”
“So you never knew your mother?”
“Only as a very young child.”
“You were lucky. I don’t mean to be cruel, but my mother still holds grudges she nursed back on Friedland as an infant. She despises my older sister for marrying beneath her, as she puts it, and living in the suburbs. I think mother’s just jealous she didn’t have enough gumption to refuse to leave Friedland with father in the first place. But Friedland’s a conservative world and her family would have been scandalized if she’d stayed instead of leaving with her husband. I would have done it anyway.”
John was certain she would have stayed. It was one of the reasons she was still single. She had come to Whitehall against her mother’s wishes. It was true that Ingrid got along famously with the Baron, which was probably where the Old Man got his ‘idea’ that the two of them were a good match. Thankfully, this was the middle of the Twenty-seventh Century and dynastic marriages were no longer arranged. Give it a few decades, he thought wryly. Maybe not; best to be on guard. It would be just like Grandfather to bring the custom of arranged marriages back to Haven!
“Ingrid, I take it you’re not anxious to return to Castell City?”
“No. I don’t have many friends there. The militia is not popular in the city since my Father refuses to do as the Chamber of Deputies or anyone else asks. Not that I blame him. They can’t even run the City, much less Haven.”
John nodded. The Hamiltons had already had more than one near-fatal brush with Castell, when former King Steele had sent an ‘army’ to take Whitehall. And another when they’d taken their force back to Castell to teach the blackguard a stiff lesson in diplomacy. John could sympathize with Ingrid wanting to be out of the City, but why here? And with him? Although he suspected he was no more her choice than she was his.
“Look over there!” she cried. There was a brief flash, not enough to hurt his eyes so he knew it was some distance away, a couple hundred klicks at least.
Then they saw the familiar dark plume, from old newsreels and solidos, followed by a rumble that shook the old stone walls.
“Jesus wept,” John said without thinking.
Tears were streaming down Ingrid’s face. “Those poor people. Our world is coming to an end.”
John nodded.
“Is the blast far away?” she asked.
“Yes, or we’d be blind.” He took her in his arms without thinking. Ingrid buried her face in his thick wool sweater. Damn, she feels good, he thought. Then they caught sight of the mushroom cloud and didn’t say or think anything for a long time.
Chapter Seventeen
I
The second pair of Redfield/Suomi planes were maneuvering to relieve the first as Leino watched from a circling pattern due west. A boring and silly exercise, he had decided, but it did give him and his men the chance to study the Redfield ships and pilots at close quarters.
The last skirmish with the Redfield Satrapy had brought a few of their planes down in Uossi Suomi territory. The technicians were both delighted and astonished to find that the enemy aircraft had wooden frames with canvas skins; except for the engine, almost no structural metal at all. This made them more fragile than the Suomi aircraft, but lighter and more agile as well, much less prone to stall or suffer loss of control in the thin atmosphere of Haven.
It was Leino and the fighter pilots like him who had to learn that the Redfielder ships were also practically invisible to Uossi Suomi’s powerful radars, modified from designs for detecting metal-skinned jets—such as the Invictas flown by the Militia and some of the richer Valley states. They’d learned that the Redfield planes didn’t appear on their screens until very close indeed. And they’d learned it the hard way.
It makes an interesting match, Leino thought. He himself had brought down three of the Redfielders’ ships during that last flare-up, but the enemy had given a good accounting of themselves, as well.
Something glinted along the coast, two t
housand meters below. Two somethings, Leino corrected himself.
“Viggen, this is Leino, do you read?”
“Leino, this is Viggen, I see them. Do you have a signature?”
The Redfielder’s voice had gone tense. Leino’s radar had not sounded its detection tone. He increased the gain, aligning his aircraft toward the two glittering streaks below, already very much closer than any conventional aircraft could have gotten so quickly—and climbing! There was still no image on his screen. Yet, they were obviously metal jets.
“Negative, Viggen. Either they’re jamming us or using—”
Leino’s voice choked on the word “stealth,” the level of technology required to render jet aircraft invisible to radar was so far beyond his experience as to be practically mythological.
Another voice came on over the channel, one of Viggen’s squadron.
“They’re splitting up, sir, one making for—Christi!”
The spook passed so close that Leino could clearly see the great, flaming eye insignia on the fuselage, and could even make out the pilot in fully secure extra-orbital flight gear.
Pirates, he realized, and in the next instant a thunderous shock wave of displaced air battered Leino’s aircraft straight up and back. Leino’s face struck the instrument panel, shattering glass, and blood filled his eyes. The shock wave must have deafened him, too, because he couldn’t hear his engine. I hope it’s my ears, he thought, as he wiped the blood from his face. He would need the engine to recover, now; his aircraft had gone into a flat spin.
II
As the all-terrain vehicle bounced along the twin ruts that passed for a road, Brigadier Cummings tried to keep from biting his tongue in two. He was in the backseat of the rover, with Colonel Robert Thurstone, the commandant of Fort Kursk. The Sergeant-Major was driving, while Cummings’ aide, Colonel Leung, rode shotgun. The makeshift road led to a barn where a small helicopter had been hidden.
No one was sure just how good Sauron surveillance was, nor did they want to find out. Few battle plans survived contact with the enemy; in this war, he had learned, no battle plan survived contact with a Sauron. And where they were involved, things were always worse than they appeared. The combined maxim hadn’t failed him yet.