Warworld: The Lidless Eye

by John F. Carr

  She spun around and ran out of the hallway. Before the night they had spent in each other’s arms, he would have cursed her and her breed soundly and gone off to a night of sound slumber. Now, he found his thoughts were as inflamed as his burning face. Was it possible he actually had feelings for Ingrid Cummings?

  No, impossible, he decided. Her lost virtue and his part in its loss was what he decried. He was certain that he could never redeem himself in her eyes, but he needed to do something to redeem himself in his own. Raymond, my dear departed brother, why did you leave me with all of this? Whitehall is your patrimony. I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it. Any of it!

  IV

  “Fomoria, this is Groundmaster Helm. Shuttle now departing.”

  As in any such operation, in any military, this man’s actual rank was immaterial; while he was the designated Groundmaster, he exercised the power of life and death over anything that moved within his domain, from the lowest ranker to Diettinger himself.

  The landing zone was at the northeastern limit of the Valley, several kilometers below the southern exit of the Karakul Pass in whose upper reaches sat the newly christened Citadel. An early attack against the landing zone had been mounted by the cattle and they had suffered disastrous losses. They had scattered and fled, the nearby city stormed and taken. The cattle had not made the same mistake again, and were quiet for the moment.

  After First Rank had consulted with Deathmaster Quilland and Breedmaster Caius, he had decided to make the Citadel their permanent encampment, and patrols had begun collecting local beasts of burden. These were used to immediately begin the transshipment of material up into the Pass. All technical gear had particular priority: eugenics equipment first, data processing and communications gear second, energy supply stations third and so on.

  Groundmaster Helm nevertheless felt the most crucial machinery was being neglected and assigned extra men to its security. Fifty Soldiers stood guard over the vast array of heavy machining and engineering equipment. Helm knew the Saurons were here to stay, and even the best-cared-for weapons broke down eventually. With these tools they could manufacture spare parts for all but the most advanced energy weapons in their arsenal. Helm was not about to let anything happen to them.

  Unlike virtually every other Sauron in the force, Helm had not embraced the myth they had used as a ruse in their invasion. When Diettinger had rescinded the order to use the code name Dol Guldur, Helm had gratefully reverted to calling the ship by her true name. He didn’t care for myths. And he cared even less for the way most of the younger Soldiers had taken to swaggering in a manner worthy of the pirates some of the cattle probably still believed them to be. Helm thought it bad discipline to allow such behavior in time of war. Had anyone but Diettinger been in charge, he might actually have wondered if the Cyborgs might not be their best chance for salvation. However, Diettinger was in charge, and that meant Helm could sleep easy. His faith in the First Rank was as firm as his faith in himself as Groundmaster; these mountains would crumble sooner.

  As the last lights of the shuttle disappeared, Helm immediately dispatched the last team of bearers to begin driving the load animals—muskylopes, the locals called them—up the pass to the Citadel.

  Cat’s Eye was dipping below the horizon; the wind came up as Haven’s truenight drew close, and even Sauron ears stung in the biting chill.

  Helm consulted his implanted chronometer, now modified to the Haven time cycles for this time of year and area.

  “Five hours until the sun comes back up,” he told his relief, “Fomoria will be brought down an hour after that. This whole zone is to be cleared and all equipment and personnel secured at Firebase One or in the Citadel before drop time.”

  “Acknowledged.” The relief Groundmaster glanced over the area, taking in the sprawling vista of men, women, machines, draft animals, electric carts, troopers’ kits, crates and weapons. A non-Sauron would have remarked at how orderly everything was; not a scrap of trash anywhere, not a single piece of gear out of place. His relief was confident the time limit would be easily met.

  So was Groundmaster Helm. He handed his terminal pad over to the other Soldier. “Third Rank Houten, you are Groundmaster in Command. See you in two.”

  Helm saluted and left for the command tent at the edge of the landing zone. It was a measure of his concern that the tent was next to the manufacturing equipment cache.

  Stepping through the seal, Helm went over the records of the last shuttle lift, confirmed his notations, and opened the beam to the Fomoria above.

  “Dol Guldur here, Groundmaster,” It amused Fourth Rank Boyle to bait the officer with the now widely used name of the ship. Helms’ distaste for the overall masquerade was well known. “One moment, please. First Rank is in his cabin. I’ll wake him.”

  Diettinger came on line a moment later. He appeared displeased with something, but nothing in the First Rank’s tone indicated problems for Helm.

  “The Citadel staging area is being cleared of the last of the cargo, First Rank. The landing zone will be ready for Fomoria on schedule.”

  “Acknowledged, Groundmaster. Check back with me for final clearances. Diettinger out.”

  Helm sat at the darkened screen for a moment. He was sure he had glimpsed Second Rank seated at the table in First Rank’s cabin. Helm shrugged. Not my concern, he decided.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I

  Albert Hamilton put two glasses of rare imported Scotch whisky—Glenmorangie, from the last of three bottles bought from an Imperial trader twenty-one years ago—onto the nightstand. According to the merchant, these had been distilled on New Scotland. It had the fire and smoothness of good whisky so he suspected it was true. He hadn’t been on that rocky mudball in over fifty years, when he’d met his departed wife Mary. If it hadn’t been for this god-blasted war, he would have made a pilgrimage to New Scotland and spent his last years in solitude and remembrance.

  The Baron felt the chill of truenight steal through the castle’s stone walls and his smoking jacket to settle into his aged bones. He massaged the aching rheumatism in his left knee, the residue of a wartime bullet, then tottered over to put a few more coals on the brazier. Four hours sleep a night was just not enough. No help for it, though; there was so much to do and so little help.

  Raymond, my lost grandson, this was all done for you. Will the war ever end so you can return home?

  He heard McGee’s hesitant knock on his bedchamber door. “Come in, Sergeant-Major,” he said.

  The old soldier, who had been ten years older than the Baron when he had first served in the Imperial Marines under his command as an orderly on New Washington, limped into the room. His thornwood cane was much in use and even his twisted beard hairs were as white as hoarfrost.

  They clasped hands like old comrades, then the Baron motioned for him to sit in one of two leather easy chairs that faced the charcoal brazier inside the fireplace.

  “Mind if I put on some more coals, M’Lord?”

  “Go ahead, Sean.”

  The coals flared briefly, sending out a blast of hot air.

  “Ahh. Does these ol’ bones good. I’ll miss these times most when I’m called to the Beyond.”

  “Hush.” Albert Hamilton didn’t like the turn their conversation was taking; it was too reminiscent of his own woebegone thoughts of a few minutes ago. “You’ll outlive me yet, Sean.”

  “Har!” the Sergeant-Major began a harsh laugh that quickly turned into a rasping cough. Once he’d regained his breath, he continued. “Not with these lungs, Baron. This Haven cold’ll be the death of me.”

  Albert passed a tumbler of whisky to his former comrade-in-arms. He noticed the tremble in Sean’s hand. It’s possible he may not make it through this winter, the Baron admitted to himself. Yet another piece of the past he would lose…and mourn. “’Tis cold, Sean; want a tartan?”

  “Aye, Baron.”

  He passed a tartan woven in the Hamilton plaid—three broad blue
stripes, crossing three broad blue stripes, with a narrow white stripe running between each set of blue stripes on a field of red—to his old comrade, who placed it on his lap, over his thin shanks. The Baron put one over his own lap and felt the subtle change in temperature. We old men are like land gators, always looking for the sun and warm places.

  “Did ye see the lass tonight at the dinner table, M’Lord? Her eyes ’ave been red since we returned from the Kendricks.”

  “Yes, I have,” the Baron said. “I also noticed the way Ingrid avoided my grandson and how stilted he behaved in her presence.”

  “Ye don’t think!” the Sergeant-Major said, with a catch in his throat. “Not the daughter of yer old friend? No, nay our laddie.”

  The Baron took a deep draught of the Glenmorangie, which burned all the way down past his breastbone. He sputtered for a moment, then blurted out, “You’re damn right I do. Where’s the young ram been for the past few days? Never in his life have I seen him so eager to go on patrol. Curse the boy, damn him all to Hell!”

  “Ya don’t mean it, Baron.”

  “Yes I do. If he weren’t the Heir… And it’s not as if we don’t have enough serving wenches to slake any young man’s coals, and that one’s no longer a boy!”

  “Aye,” McGee said with a morose sigh. “Bad business, this be. The Brigadier, one o’ yer oldest friends and one o’ Greensward’s staunchest allies. And with him away fightin’ the Beasts.”

  “Yes, the boy’s timing, as usual, is impeccable,” the Baron pronounced. “I had hoped that bringing those two together might forge an alliance between the two most powerful houses on the planet. Instead, we’ve offered the Brigadier a deadly insult. And broken faith with a friend to boot. A girl under our protection, no less! Weren’t the flesh pots of Tampa and Last Chance good enough for the boy?”

  “Aye, the lad spends more time in the kitchen than the cooks,” Sean agreed.

  “Bah! It’s long past time for him to settle down and raise me a brace of grandchildren. I had such hopes. It’s not as if Ingrid’s plain in appearance. Or stupid or ignorant. She’s well-educated, smart, a good conversationalist, and, unless these old eyes of mine are playing tricks, she’s a woman that could take the chill out of any man’s bones!”

  “Aye, and it appears she has. And a bonnie lass she is, too.”

  “I should have insisted on a chaperone, but at their age…? He must have taken advantage of her; why else would John be so scarce? Yet, nary a complaint from her. Praise be, as otherwise, I’d have to set out on a course that we would all regret before it ended.”

  “Ye don’t think she’ll tell her father?”

  “Not that lady. She knows how to take her licks and still keep her back straight. I wish I could say the same for my Grandson. They could be good together, but this bickering between them must cease.”

  “But how, m’ Lord? Neither of these youngins takes to the bridle. I don’t understand young Hamilton. I’d thought he’d changed after leaving Castell, but not so much, I fear.”

  “He’s been restless ever since we raided Castell and bearded King Steele in his own den. He’s bored with our provincial life, I fear. I indulged him too much, and Mary did too, may the Lord bless her, after my son’s death. I should have taken a firmer hand to him, but it’s too late now.”

  “Aye. And he is the Heir.”

  The Baron’s hand came down hard on the small ironwood table, knocking the Sergeant-Major’s empty tumbler onto the thick carpet. He felt his friend’s gnarled hand on his shoulder.

  “I know, ’twas Raymond ye were groomin’ for the barony, but ye’ll have to put those thoughts away. He’s doin’ his duty fightin’ the Beast in some far-off part of the Empire. I doubt he or his issue will return to Haven in this century, or the next.”

  The Baron nodded numbly. “I know that in my mind, but not in my heart. I miss my boy. He was a man and a leader. I had hopes he would take my place and fill these stone halls with grandchildren….”

  “’Tis not too late for John, m’ Lord.”

  “McGee, the boy is almost forty standard years old. He’s not a lad anymore. It’s long past time for him to set aside his childish ways.”

  “Yer Granddaughter, Matilda, has two fine grandsons, and maybe another on the way.”

  “Yes, but they’re Mazarin’s, not Hamilton’s.”

  “Ye could put it in yer will that to inherit—”

  “Blast it, I could never do that to her husband. I’m not going to take the man’s name away from him. Aram Mazarin has been a good son-in-law and vassal. True, he retired from the militia to please my daughter. In peaceful times, he might be accepted, but not now. Besides, what would our liegemen say if I passed over my own flesh and blood?”

  “Aye. ’Tis true. John’s well-liked by the vassals, too. Didn’t young Hamilton volunteer to take command of the battalion against the big raiding party, Wheelock’s Raiders, they call themselves?”

  “This blasted Sauron attack has every bandit gang in the Valley up in arms! I’m still not happy how John used his position to pass right over the heads of men who’ve fought in more battles than he’s seen. I don’t want him to die, no matter how convenient it might prove.”

  “M’ Lord; he is the Heir!”

  “You’re right. It is time he took his rightful place and led the troops. I fear this war with the Saurons may be the death of that boy.”

  “Aye, Baron, or perhaps the birth of the man.”

  II

  “I believe it not only impolitic for you to be in my cabin, Second Rank, but positively rude. And possibly insubordinate.”

  Diettinger had been awakened by Groundmaster Helm’s call, but his first sight had been of Second Rank seated at his desk in the darkened room.

  “Permission to speak, First Rank.”

  Diettinger waited a long time before he gave it.

  “There is a power struggle going on behind the scenes, of which you are only partly aware,” Second Rank said.

  “I will deal with the Cyborgs in my own manner, Second.”

  “No doubt, sir. But I do not refer to Cyborgs. I refer to Haven.”

  If Diettinger had been a cat, his ears would have arched forward on his head. “Clarify.”

  Second Rank paused as if gathering her thoughts. “Saurons are soldiers, not pioneers. We are the development of thousands of years of refinement in the martial arts and sciences. Thus, we could only come about within the framework of an ordered civilization, such as the Empire.”

  Diettinger almost groaned. Second Rank was a historian, after all, with the historian’s need for lecturing.

  “Now we have come here: a battle of conquest, with no further battles to follow. Every trooper here has grown up under the auspices of a starfaring military society. Fight, conquer, then move on to the next battle.” She shook her head. “Such a lifestyle is gone forever, now. We are here to stay; and as our survival instincts, both natural and engineered, begin to activate, we will adapt our character to the environment far faster than our genetic structure.”

  “And what do you think will be the result of this adaptation?” Diettinger asked. Despite himself, he was captivated by Second’s line of reasoning.

  She gestured with one hand. “You see it all around you. The dominance myth I used has backfired. The Soldiers have embraced it wholly. Faced with an inferior opponent, Saurons previously conquered and left it at that. The possibility always existed that the next foe might be better. But now there is no longer a greater Sauron social order around us to judge our actions, thus our troops begin to act as, to think of themselves as, pirates. They strut, they boast, they are full of their own superiority. Before, only enemy noncombatants were referred to as ‘cattle,’ the term is now being applied to all non-Saurons on Haven. In time, patrols will not return. They will simply establish their own minor fiefdoms among the Haveners. Military discipline will dissipate. What social structure we do have will collapse as we are overcome by the vacuum
of authority on Haven.

  “In three generations, at the outside, the Sauron Race will degenerate into barbaric warlords, our martial heritage a thing of dim myth. And, at that moment, the Empire’s victory will be complete, for then the Race will truly die.”

  Diettinger could feel the tension in her, and in himself. The only hope for his people was their adaptation to Haven. But at what price?

  “Do you have a recommendation for avoiding this situation?”

  “Of course, First Rank. I would not be here otherwise.”

  “Speak.”

  “You are the First Rank, thus you are de facto First Soldier. You must become the First Citizen.”

  “Martial virtues are not social virtues, Second.”

  She shook her head. “Nor can they ever be. But with you as political and military figurehead, the Sauron System can be started anew here, on Haven, as it was on Sauron hundreds of years ago. A society of militarists: soldier-citizens, bound by codes of military behavior, dedicated to the propagation of the warrior race as an ideal.”

  Diettinger and Second Rank looked at each other in silence for a long time. Finally he spoke.

  “You are suggesting, then, that I re-establish the dynasty, here on Haven, with myself as patriarch?”

  “Such an act would legitimize your status as First Citizen to the Cyborg Ranks, as well as to the Soldiers. They all support you, First Rank, but a world of sheep can be very seductive to young wolves.”

  “The establishment of such a dynasty requires issue with Sauron parentage on both sides. All such Sauron females are already assigned to Cyborgs.”

  “Come, now, sir,” Second Rank’s voice dropped. “Surely by now you’ve deduced the most obvious reason for my being here…”

  Diettinger nodded, then sighed. He wasn’t going to get back to sleep, after all.

  III

  Lieutenant John Vohlt lay flat against the cold stones of the cliffs that shielded him from the Saurons along the floor and opposite rock walls of the Karakul Pass. His chest ached from contact with the chilling rock through his parka, but the pain was bearable—and it helped keep him awake. The long-range scanner he held to his eyes was the last one in his unit, possibly the last from the entire force Brigadier Cummings had sent up into the Atlas Mountains.