Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  Diettinger nodded. “It also guarantees us control and access to the entire Shangri-La Valley.” He did not add that his first concern in the matter of tribute would be acceptable female breeding stock. With less than two hundred Sauron females available, he did not have to.

  “Proceed, Deathmaster. The Combat Engineer Ranks will be put at your disposal.”

  Quilland saluted. Diettinger broke the connection, but before the image faded, Diettinger noticed the flaming eye insignia on Quilland’s raised arm. The need for secrecy was past. Indeed, those cattle who had been captured and interrogated seemed only too aware of the true identity of their invaders, though not their reason for taking so worthless a place as Haven. Most believed that the Saurons had defeated the Empire and were claiming Haven as one of their spoils of the war.

  As of yet, few of the Soldiers had relinquished their insignia. The “pirate” designation they had abandoned immediately, with noticeable relief. But something is in their character that had not been there before, he thought, something the insignia and more rakishly cut tunics was fostering. A swagger, he decided.

  Diettinger was not sure if this should be allowed to continue. However, if it helped his Soldiers accept this harsh world, he was not opposed. He suspected it was their way of coming to terms with the loss of the Sauron Homeworld and becoming “citizens” of this new one. A side effect he had noticed was that it ran counter to the old State’s blanket “pro-Cyborg” policies. Anything that diminished the Cyborg mystique among the rank and file was, he decided, perfectly acceptable to him.

  Now it was time to consult with Breedmaster Caius.

  III

  Deathmaster Quilland examined the force drawn up before him, with the partially built Firebase One in the background.

  Groundmaster Bohren approached him and saluted. “All in order, sir.”

  The Deathmaster nodded his agreement. Certainly, they had more than enough forces to take Evaskar, a town protected only by pitiful stone walls and a bedraggled city militia. For the attack, Bohren had two full companies, one infantry and one mechanized, for a total of two hundred and twenty Soldiers.

  The mechanized company included twenty-four of the light, two-man Waltimire ATVs. The tanks came disassembled, with engines mounted on a hex-frame. The rest of the tank was built from strong, lightweight tubes which were connected by joints to create individual vehicles best suited for local terrain. For an Imperial force, the tanks would have been larger, used steeper outside angles, and lower profiles to deflect armor-piercing rounds.

  On Haven, speed mattered more since the expected Havener resistance was fairly primitive. The tubes could be filled with sand or dirt, which strengthened the chassis, which itself could ride on a variety of wheels or treads. The engines were basic HCT’s, hydrogen conversion-turbine engines, and could drink anything containing the first element for fuel, including water; a real plus given Haven’s thin air and extremely limited petroleum supplies.

  Typically, Waltimire tanks carried no armor of their own, since they were designed for swift attacks. Pockets opened into slots on the outside frame which were filled with sand or dirt surrounding the body of the tank, sometimes with sheets of flexible Kevlon that unrolled to stiffen along their molecular grain into plate armor. Waltimires were easily transported, even by interstellar ships, and could be bulked up quickly for maximum protection to crew and tank.

  Two or more Waltimire frames could be combined into larger vehicles and even armor could be forged for special situations. Quilland doubted armor would be necessary for the attack on Evaskar. It might be needed later when they besieged Fort Kursk, headquarters of the Haven Volunteers. Saurons rarely conducted sieges, and Quilland couldn’t imagine a situation in Evaskar that would require anything heavier than these vehicles.

  Quilland watched as Bohren climbed aboard the lead tank. He wished that he could take charge personally, but administrative details over the arrival of the Dol Guldur had left him little time for anything else. Bohren was a competent, if unimaginative, commander. He would do.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I

  Colonel Nelson Harrigan examined the Brigadier with a look that was just shy of insubordination. “We’ve only got three nuclear shots, sir. Why waste one on this Diettinger when we could better deploy them to take out this main Firebase of theirs?”

  Not for the first time, Brigadier Cummings decried the breakdown in militia command that had given Colonel Harrigan delusions of independence. It’s probably my fault, he thought. Spent too much time at Fort Kursk and not enough at Fornova. On the other hand, there had been no end of crises in Castell City and he hadn’t had much time to travel or make needed inspections. Well, I’m paying for it now.

  “You overestimate the power of this weapon, Colonel. It’s a tactical nuclear weapon with a quarter-megaton blast, not a city-buster. The Saurons have already hardened their staging area. The worst we can do now would be to cost them a few casualties and some inconvenience.”

  “Not if we set up a diversionary attack—”

  “Yes, Colonel, and have half our command caught in our own blast!”

  “No. But—”

  “Enough, Colonel. If we can take out Diettinger and some of his aides, we can chop the head right off the Sauron serpent. From the transmissions we’ve been able to crack, there’s already a split in the Sauron camp between the Cyborg Super Soldiers and the regular troops. If we can kill Diettinger, there’s a good chance this will break into open warfare. Besides, Diettinger is frighteningly capable even for a Sauron. Diettinger was the one who developed the Alderson asteroid gambit, sending automated rocks ahead of ships to take the brunt of defensive weaponry.”

  “Yeah, but we used it, too, sir.”

  “Right, after the Saurons neutralized half the Imperial Alderson battlestations. Then we took out theirs. In the end, both sides—except for vital outposts—stopped trying to defend Alderson junctions. And who gained? The Saurons. The Empire has five times as many worlds to defend and without the Alderson battlestations we had to fight our battles in space or on the ground. More casualties, more lost worlds. No, it was a brilliant strategic move.

  “I just wish we had better communications with the Empire. I’d like to know what Diettinger’s been up to in the past half dozen years since our last dispatch. I’m convinced that Galen Diettinger is the key to any long-term Sauron success on Haven.”

  “So how do we stop this Diettinger’s clock?”

  Cummings pointed to a series of mountains just southeast of the Sauron beachhead. “We’ll put one of the missiles up there with a squad. Then, to keep the Sauron’s attention where we want it, we’ll start a counter-offensive against their firebase.”

  “Sweet Jesus!” Harrigan cried. “You want to talk about casualties; they’ll be horrendous. Well, maybe not so bad if we use the last of the aircraft in a simultaneous airstrike.”

  “Exactly. It’s go-for-broke time. Besides, we’re not going to use the entire Regiment, just a battalion. We’ll use the attack to withdraw the rest of the regiment into the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. Here we’re just sitting ducks; it’s only a matter of time before the Saurons take Fornova. In the mountains we can conduct guerrilla operations and build-up our support among the mountain peoples.”

  “But what will taking out Diettinger accomplish?”

  “Maybe a little, maybe a lot. It won’t end the war, but it just might start another one. With Diettinger gone, there won’t be anything to keep the Cyborgs from taking over.”

  “And that’s good news?”

  “Actually, yes. Cyborgs are great soldiers, the best ever seen. But the invasion is over—for now. If the Saurons plan to establish a colony here, then it will be up to the Cyborgs to set up and maintain that colony. I’m betting they’ll do a lot worse job of it than Galen Diettinger. A lot worse!”

  “I hope so, Brigadier. Because the success or failure of that attack will determine the future of the Haven Vol
unteers.”

  II

  The Breedmaster looked up from his data terminal as First Rank Diettinger entered. He almost seemed to be smiling. Diettinger was sure it was a trick of the light; Caius was virtually humorless.

  “First Rank,” Caius acknowledged. “I was about to contact you myself. Cross-fertilization tests on captured cattle gave the expected results. Full compatibility.

  Diettinger grunted in relief. “Any progress on the Cyborg issue?” he asked.

  Despite the difficulties they posed to his continued leadership, the survival of the Super Soldiers was crucial to his long-range plans for the Race. The Empire that had destroyed Sauron was dying—he knew that for certain. The first race to emerge from the Interregnum with technological and military superiority would dominate human-occupied space for the next thousand years. The Cyborgs could be the critical factor.

  But Caius shook his head. “Very bad, I’m afraid. Cyborgs were typically altered within their gestation capsules, all through their development, with the chemical, physical and biological augmentations that make them what they are. That technology is of course lost to us now. However, there is hope.”

  Caius called up a list of information on his screen.

  “That hope arises from the fact that the word ‘Cyborg’ is almost a misnomer. The Cyborgs’ abilities, as opposed to those of the failed experiments conducted hundreds of years ago by the Imperials, come not from artificial constructs implanted within their bodies, but from synthesized, purpose-built genetic material, which the fetus assimilates as it develops. Much like the ‘royal jelly’ process that creates fertile queens out of sterile workers.”

  “Bees,” Caius explained.

  Diettinger nodded his understanding of the reference. Born and schooled before the war, his education was better-rounded than that of most Saurons, but every Sauron knew about social insects.

  “This synthesized DNA was fashioned in toto by our scientists, but its necessary similarity to normal Sauron genetic structure allows for the occasional ability of Cyborgs to breed true, even down to the concentration of polarized metallic lattices in their skeletal structures.” Caius turned to Diettinger, and, this time, he did smile. “End of genetic biology lesson, but for one thing. For at least the first few generations, the female mates of the Cyborgs must be of the highest physical and genetic qualifications, to allow any chance of survival for the offspring of such unions, to say nothing of the mothers.”

  “Then,” Diettinger said slowly, “every attempt will have to be made to protect the Cyborgs and afford their assigned mates the utmost care. They will be mated only with Sauron females, I presume?”

  “That would allow the greatest chance for success.”

  “Make the necessary arrangements.” Removing the Cyborgs from combat duty would go a long way toward finishing them off as competitors for social dominance in the new order. But the loss of Sauron females as mates for the crew was a problem. Quite a few had already established liaisons with one another.

  No matter. The Race came first; Diettinger really had no choice. He took a stimulant and hurried down the corridor for his meeting with Engineering.

  The engine bay was a cacophony of noise that set Diettinger’s teeth on edge as ranks worked at gutting the Fomoria for her precious high technology. Around him the walls were bare metal in most places; the Jump engines had already been disassembled and removed, as had the non-functioning maneuver engine. Soon the walls themselves would be attacked by the engineering crew, hacking away at the Fomoria—the Dol Guldur, you mean, Diettinger mentally corrected himself—like leafcutter ants. Someone was speaking to him, and he turned.

  “What is it, Engineering?” he shouted over the surrounding din.

  “First Rank.”

  “Status.”

  Engineering appeared to study him closely before he began speaking. “Of the three remaining orbital fighter craft, one has been disassembled planetside and is en route to the new citadel. The remaining two have been converted to shuttles. Thus far, seven hundred and seventy tonnes of metal have been drop-shipped to Firebase One.”

  “Time frame?”

  “A two-and-one-half-hour round trip, First Rank, allowing for loading, off-loading and refueling.”

  That was too much time. Diettinger had overestimated the load-bearing capacities of the converted fighters and assault boats.

  “My apologies, Engineering, but I will have to redirect your crews. Begin loading personnel and technical equipment immediately. High grade metals will be moved to the center of the ship; we’ll have to risk them making it intact through the drop.”

  Engineering did not look too hopeful, but acknowledged the order. Then he added, “Permission to speak, First Rank.”

  “Granted.”

  “You require rest, sir. The sooner the better. The fate of the remainder of the Race is in your hands. We depend on your judgment and acuity for our survival.” Engineering’s voice dropped slightly. “Also, the Cyborg Ranks are still a threat to your authority. They will not hesitate to exploit any sign of weakness on your part.”

  The concern in his fellow Soldier’s voice was not lost on him. “At once, Engineering. And thank you.” Although how he was going to get any rest, having just taken a stimulant, was beyond him.

  Engineering nodded. “These new orders will keep the engineering section occupied for another seven hours, and if I may extend my conscription privileges, I can keep the rest of the on-board crew busy for at least twice that long. Rest easy.” He left to reassign the crew as Diettinger headed for his cabin.

  Once there, the First Rank removed his uniform and showered, his first in Haven water. Hygiene was important to Soldiers and the water brought up from Haven had boosted morale considerably. Overcrowding was gone, too, since most of the crew and most of the Soldiers were now planetside.

  And the insides are being ripped out of the Fomoria, Diettinger thought. He could not go on referring to his ship as the Dol Guldur. That was a game for the younger men in the crew. For him, the ship—his ship—was becoming a hollow place. The soul was going out of her.

  And, he thought, her commander’s fatigue had him lapsing into maudlin images. He pulled off his eye-patch and massaged the smooth, numb flesh beneath it. Sauron physicians could have replaced the organ easily. But regeneration therapy would have required his removal from active duty for at least a month, and there had been no time. War had come to Sauron too soon.

  Diettinger stretched himself out on his bed and began to use his training to counteract the effect of the stimulant he had imprudently taken. Saurons slept in three levels of increasing rejuvenative power and correspondingly reduced outside awareness. He was determined to get to the third level. He knew he needed it.

  At first his conscious concern for his crew seemed determined to hold his rest at the second stage, but eventually he managed to shrug off enough of the effects of the stimulant to reach full recuperative sleep. This state left a Soldier completely defenseless, and was only used when in a secure area. Thus Diettinger had no way of knowing when Second Rank entered his cabin.

  The now-demoted Second Rank of the Fomoria stood in the doorway a moment, then closed and locked it behind her. She could see that Diettinger’s defensive senses had not awakened him at her entry. Third-level sleep, she decided after observing him a moment longer. Good.

  She sat down at the desk in a corner of the room and waited.

  III

  John Hamilton moved through his duties like an automaton for the next few weeks, and volunteered for every patrol duty that took him away from Whitehall. He ate in the field or kitchen at every meal. As a result, almost five standard weeks passed before he unexpectedly met Ingrid Cummings face-to-face in a castle hallway.

  “Lord Hamilton,” Ingrid said, her voice stiff. Her face was frozen, devoid of emotion. Her complexion was as pale as the first snow outside, and he couldn’t help but notice that she looked more beautiful than ever.

  �
�About our night together—”

  “What night?” she asked in a voice cold enough to frost a Tamerlane’s fringe.

  “I wanted to apologize — “

  “You fool,” she hissed.

  John drew back as though slapped in the face. He’d tasted steel with less bite. “I’m sorry.”

  “What kind of man are you? Or are you a man?”

  Her claws drew blood. John was at a complete loss for words.

  “Just leave me alone,” Ingrid said, through clenched teeth. He noticed her deep blue eyes were wet.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You! How could you hurt me? What a fool I am.”

  “I never meant—”

  “You never mean anything, will never mean anything…or amount to anything. I was vulnerable, you took advantage. I should have known better.”

  “It was not that way, really. There was more to it than just…you know what I mean?”

  “Is that why you slipped into the night like a thief, never to return? Why haven’t I heard from you?”

  “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “—didn’t mean a word of what you said. I was warned; I should have known better.”

  His mind was blank. John didn’t remember saying a thing, although he did remember drinking deeply on numerous occasions from a flask. He also remembered the silken softness of—Enough of that! What trouble has my tongue got me into this time? My God, did I actually make some formal proposal?

  “You can wipe that stricken look off your face, John Hamilton. You didn’t make any foolish promises you wouldn’t keep anyway.”

  “You impugn my honor, Madam.”

  “You know no honor, only false bravado and enough sweet lies to win a woman’s favor. Get out of my sight, before I rip that lying tongue right out of your mouth.”

  The force of her words left him reeling.