War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 3

  But the accommodations would be on the Saurons’ terms, and that meant via the Wall.

  Still, despite the power the Wall would provide, the project had its detractors. Nothing very vocal, of course. Saurons absolutely did not argue with the policies of their leaders, most in fact were incapable of doing so. But many of the Deathmasters had sent “recommendations” to the First Citizen that too many able-bodied Soldiers were being drawn off for work on this project, when the mountains surrounding the Citadel had yet to be fully explored and secured. The map on Diettinger’s wall gained pins daily, each one showing yet another clash between Sauron patrols and bandits in the passes surrounding the Citadel.

  But although Diettinger appreciated the situation of his commanders, there was nothing to be done about it. The Formoria had brought less than three thousand Saurons to Haven. In three years, two hundred Soldiers had died in the battles of pacification and consolidation resulting in the Sauron’s mastery of the Shangri-La. The Breedmasters, under the capable guidance of Breedmaster Caius, had overseen the natural births of one-hundred fifty True Saurons, with Sauron parentage on both sides, and eighty-seven hundred Sauron/Havener progeny, only about five thousand of which were from fertilized Sauron ova carried to term by Haven women. It would be at least fourteen T-years before those Saurons reached adulthood, and it was that gap in the Saurons’ population growth that made the Wall a necessity.

  Dominance of the Valley would have to be maintained for those young Soldiers until they matured. By then, the next generation of Saurons would be only a year away, and life could proceed normally. But for now, the Saurons were vulnerable. Their combat losses could not be replaced until this new generation matured, and while casualties had dropped sharply since the initial invasion, they still lost an average of one Soldier a month in combat with Havens diverse, warlike peoples. Diettinger thought it ironic that the Empire that had obliterated Sauron could have been so repulsed by her eugenics policies. Haven was a eugenics project the likes of which Sauron had only dreamt of: A harsh, merciless world forcefully colonized by some of the most violent and aggressive peoples of the old CoDominium and later of the Empire itself. A crucible, brewing a genetic steel that tested even the Sauron’s mettle.

  Diettinger looked up at the wall over the fireplace, where a tattered banner had been hung. A flag of the Haven Militia under Cummings, it was all that had been captured during a bloody, fruitless raid on a Havener stronghold that had cost the lives of three Soldiers. They will never be defeated, he thought, not entirely. And he smiled. So much the better.

  The events that had brought them here after the destruction of Sauron, at the end of the Secession Wars, were beginning to take on near-mythic aspects in the minds of some of the Breedmasters. Haven was a world which might possibly improve upon even the Soldiers themselves.

  All well and good, Diettinger thought. But mastery of Haven, with its thin air and concomitant poor birthing effects, meant mastery of the sheltered, fertile, oxygen-rich Shangri-La Valley. And that mastery begins with the passes from the Valley to the Northern Steppes. The original builders of the Citadel had known that; they had carved a splendid fortress from the stones of these mountains, a fortress which had stood secure until the Saurons came to annex it.

  But even beyond a mastery over the Valley, which is by no means guaranteed even with this Wall, something more is needed. Haven is practically secured, if not pacified. In the interim between the last battles of conquest and the primacy of the first New Generation, we will need a unifying purpose to prevent the factionalism Haven could make us prone to. The Project, building this Wall, will keep us busy, productive and united; the inevitable Havener raids on its progress will keep us alert.

  And those raids had already begun. The worst were a large faction of dispossessed Haveners known collectively as the Chin; little was known about them beyond the fact that they had been driven out of the Shangri-La some fifteen years previous, shortly after the Empire had withdrawn its last legions from Haven for the Secession Wars. They had been living as raiders on the steppes ever since, and they had the ferocity to prove it. They were constantly probing the perimeter of the Citadel’s defenses, harassing the survey parties in the mountains and on the valley floor.

  But they were only human norms, and what little threat they posed would be eliminated if only the hundreds of problems with the Wall could be solved. Denbannen had given him a new list this morning, and even Diettinger’s enthusiasm flagged. He leaned over the table, staring at the model as if prepared to will it into existence.

  “You will stare that wall down, Galen.”

  Diettinger started, turning to the voice of his wife Althene as she entered the room. He favored her with a rare smile, pointing to the patch that covered his left eye. “Only half of it, Lady.”

  “Slow going?” Althene asked. The former Second Rank of the Formoria was respected by the entire Sauron population, and cherished by her husband. She had been an expert Staff officer, continued to be an excellent administrator, and had shown herself to be a shrewd diplomat. But most importantly, she was fertile. She was carrying their second child into the sixth month.

  He nodded. “Acquisition parties have scoured the Shangri-La for processed concrete, structural steel, all manner of materials. Most of what is needed is available, just lying about for the taking, but getting it here will take time, and a great many laborers. Several contacts with Haveners from the Valley have indicated willingness to work for food and shelter.” He smiled at her. “Your recommendations for fair trading with them had precisely the effect you predicted; they will never love us, but they have grown to accept the fact that we are here, and already they see the wisdom in cooperation, however reluctant.”

  Althene smiled at her husband’s compliment. “They are only human, after all, Galen.”

  A knock on the door was followed by the entry of one of his aides, Savin. Savin had been a Gunner on the Fomoria, and was currently retraining for ground artillery.

  Not that we have much of that, these days, Diettinger thought. He acknowledged the young Soldier’s salute. “Speak,” the First Citizen said.

  “Squad Leader Gav has brought back a prisoner from his patrol, First Citizen. A human norm, slightly wounded. Gav took him directly to the infirmary, but he believes you will want to see him.”

  Diettinger nodded. “Very well. Inform Fourth Rank Milsen and have him meet me there.”

  Savin left to comply, and Diettinger turned to his wife. “Would you care to accompany me?”

  “I would. The Breedmasters treat me even more delicately than with our first son. I am prepared to suffer no such further indignities today.”

  Diettinger smiled. True, he thought, Sauron is dead. Her children are scattered, and perhaps only this pitiful, tenuous remnant on Haven preserves the race.

  He held the door for his wife, and in his innermost heart, he acknowledged once more that secret he would take to his grave: If such was the price for me to have found this woman, unnoticed all those days serving in my crew, then I am content with the bargain.

  Mulli held his chin against his chest so his tears could not be seen. He cried for the khan, but he knew his sympathy to be water poured into an ocean; the khan cried for them all.

  Abdollah Khan vented his frustration and rage in the same way he ruled his tribe, killed a foe, or made love to his wives: with great vigor and utter commitment. Now was the time for grief, and he grieved, and his people grieved with him. When he had rent his clothes and stopped pacing, the khan took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out.

  His eyes shone less with tears than with feral cunning, and Mulli thrilled at the sight as the khan turned to him.

  The time for grief is past, Mulli thought. Woe to the infidels that the time has come now for revenge.

  Abdollah Khan spoke aloud, and Mulli knew that meant he was planning a battle. “I have seen such men, and we have all heard the tales. They came in the starship that made the Gre
at Wasting of three summers ago. Their ship was destroyed by the lowland infidels with one of their great missiles, but there has been much fighting in the valley ever since.” The khan turned to face Mulli and the rest of the men gathered in his chambers; outside, the women wailed for the deaths of their neighbors and loved ones, and the loss of Yurek.

  “Yes,” Abdollah Khan decided. He paced slowly about the room as he spoke. “These are men from off world. Enemies of the Empire. They fight with the infidels of the valley and the steppes, and word comes to me that in them, the lowland peoples face a terrible foe these days. These men have a name that in Old Anglic sounds like the serpents of old--saurians, or something like that. Ah! I remember; they call themselves Saurons. They have taken over the old fortress which guards the northern passes between the outland steppes and the valley below.” The khan shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “No matter.”

  Abdollah Khan crossed the room and gripped Mulli’s shoulders in his hands. “Mulli, you would know such men if you saw them again?”

  Mulli nodded. “If I saw them, aga; they moved very swiftly. And Yurek’s ears are sharp; he should have heard them, but I think he did not.”

  Abdollah Khan nodded. “Hm. Did I not say they were like serpents?” He held out his hands to the assemblage of men, and all nodded at his wisdom. “Such men will leave little mark of their passing. But they took Yurek; they did not kill him out of hand, and they were not fighting beside the Chin.” The khan grew quiet, and Mulli knew that meant he was plotting, trying to find the small advantage in any situation that could be turned to the advantage of his people.

  “Mulli,” Abdollah Khan said in a thoughtful voice, “take three of our best marksmen and three of our best trackers. Find out where these men took Yurek. Watch, and send me word.” The khan raised a finger. “But do nothing without my command. If you should attempt a rescue and fail, Yurek might die because of it.”

  Mulli nodded firmly. “I understand perfectly, aga khan.”

  “Good. Then do not fear. Go, Mulli, and try to find out what these infidels want with my son.”

  The first thing Diettinger noticed in the infirmary room was the rifle. Smeared with blood, it lay with its detached ammunition clip on a table beside the body of the captive. Frowning, he picked it up as Squad Leader Gav announced himself.

  “First Citizen; it is the weapon of the captive.”

  “So I gathered. Why was it not taken to the armory?”

  Gav looked to the surgeon, who answered the question as he was cutting the bloody ruin of a sheepskin coat from the body of the man on the table. “They couldn’t get it out of his hands, First Citizen; Squad Leader Gav was afraid of injuring the man further, so they disarmed the weapon and left it in the captive’s grip”

  And how did you get it, Surgeon Rank Vaughn?” Diettinger’s tone indicated that it had better not have been by use of their precious stocks of sedatives.

  He needn’t have worried. Surgeon Rank Vaughn lifted one of his patient’s hands to show the splinted digits. “Broke his fingers, of course. He never even woke up.”

  “Will he live?” Althene asked, moving closer to examine the man: dark skin, several days growth of beard, curly brown hair, good teeth. Lifting an eyelid revealed the bottom sliver of a blue-gray pupil.

  “Oh, I think so, Lady.” Vaughn spoke as he continued working. “His wounds were not serious. Only his blood loss and resultant shock in such frigid cold put him in danger. He’s quite a healthy specimen, actually.”

  Diettinger was still examining the rifle. The Saurons used linear accelerators, commonly known as “gauss” rifles, from the magnetic fields generated by twenty sequentially charged rings. A ferrous metal-jacketed slug of depleted uranium was push-pulled down the array of magnets, accelerating as it went to a velocity that made the weapon the ultimate development of the slug thrower. Not as effective as the high energy weapons used during the Secession Wars, but close to the limit of what the Sauron’s light industrial capacity on Haven could produce and maintain.

  And for how much longer? Diettinger thought. They were perhaps only five years from phasing out the nigh energy weapons completely; how soon before the gauss rifles went in favor of something simpler still?

  Diettinger considered the weapon in his hands.

  Something like this . . . He was an expert on antique weapon designs, and this one was excellent, a superb conventional firearm. A robust design that required only simple maintenance, an easily produced and replaceable stock and grip made of local woods, a large clip holding at least seventy rounds of ammunition. Diettinger sprung one of the bullets from the clip and examined it.

  Long case, with a heavy charge; a copper jacketed slug with a disintegrating soft lead core. A civilian might misinterpret that as a needless cruelty, but Diettinger knew it to be simple expedience.

  His interest piqued, he turned the weapon over in his hands several times. Try as he might, he could find no serial numbers, at least none where they belonged. In three places, however, he found what appeared to be some form of writing, graceful, fluid characters, strokes and curves and dots. They were inscrutable to him. He turned to Gav.

  “Report.”

  “While patrolling Sector eight-zero, three-niner, we heard sounds of combat between locals. Deployed unit to investigate and found this man on the edge of a village currently engaging a band of local raiders, possibly Chin.”

  “This man’s significance?”

  “The village was situated at an altitude of eighty-five hundred feet, well beyond known human norm tolerances for Haven.”

  Diettinger, Althene, and Vaughn exchanged looks in silence. “You confirmed this altitude?”

  “Yes, First Citizen.” Gav pulled out his sealed barometer; the needle had locked in at eight thousand, five hundred and seven feet, but there was a long scratch in the calibrated wax altitude track.

  “Has this been tampered with, Squad Leader?”

  “No, First Citizen. There was some fluctuation as we reached the perimeter of the Havener village.”

  “Fluctuation?”

  “The needle began dropping, First Citizen, but it is designed to lock at its highest mark, to confirm our readings.”

  “Are you saying that air pressure increased as you entered the village?”

  “We carried no equipment to confirm such a statement, First Citizen, but some of the men did claim that breathing seemed easier nearer the village.”

  Diettinger considered this for a moment; he was not sure now such a thing could be possible, but it would bear looking into.

  “Good work, Squad Leader Gav. Your initiative may have discovered a new birthing area for your fellow Soldiers. Remain on station here with your squad at the Citadel until this matter has been resolved. Dismissed.”

  Pleased at the First Citizen’s praise, Gav acknowledged the order and left. He would order recreation time for his squad, and prepare his report with a mention of them all.

  Fourth Rank Milsen arrived as Gav departed. Surgeon Rank Vaughn was probing the captive’s chest wound, apparently satisfied that the bullet had exited as cleanly as it had entered; Haveners were known to use soft-slugs on each other as readily as they did on Saurons.

  “First Citizen, Lady Althene.” Milsen was one of the fastest rising young officers in Diettinger’s command. A low ranking Engineering Tech during the invasion of Haven three years ago, he had gone directly to Warrant Officer when it was discovered that he had a gift for the varied languages used by the human norms here. He had made Fourth Rank last month, when the total number of languages he had learned reached twenty. Milsen had extensively studied the various cultures that produced those languages, and Diettinger had come to depend on him as an indispensable intelligence asset.

  “Fourth Rank Milsen, can you identify this man?”

  Milsen picked up the clothes from the floor where Surgeon Rank Vaughn’s scissors had sent them. “Hill dwellers, I would say, First Citizen.” He looked at the ma
n’s boots. “A much colder region than we’ve seen so far; his clothes are worn from use, not travel, so he was not dressed to cross the mountains but to live in them. The workmanship is by hand, of extremely high quality.” Milsen studied some of the captive’s other items. After a moment he frowned, obviously puzzled.

  “Something?” Diettinger asked.

  “The metalwork of his belt; the few buttons on his coat. The production quality is exquisite, but the material used is of very poor grade.’ Milsen looked into the eyes of the First Citizen. “These artifacts appear to be the result of a technological mass-production process, First Citizen. And they are new.”

  Diettinger’s grip on the rifle tightened slightly. He went to the table, where Surgeon Rank Vaughn had turned his attentions to the wounds in the captive’s leg. “Wake him.”

  True to his Sauron nature, Vaughn switched gears without pause, producing a syringe seemingly from thin air. The needle went into the human norm’s forearm, and Vaughn said: “Within ten seconds, First Citizen.”

  It took eight. Yurek’s eyes rolled slightly, then squinted against the light of the surgery. He tried to raise a hand to his eyes, but Vaughn restrained his arm.

  Diettinger waited for the captive to speak; when he did, the language was somehow both fluid and stilted, lilting and guttural at the same time. He glanced to Fourth Rank Milsen, whose frown deepened as he concentrated on the alien words.

  The captive’s vision seemed to focus; he looked first at Vaughn, then to Diettinger. His gaze rested for a moment on Althene, and he seemed abruptly embarrassed at his nakedness, trying to cover his manhood by drawing his wounded thigh over his groin, obscuring Vaughn’s operation on the limb. He began chattering at them in a wounded tone.

  Not all of us, Diettinger realized. He’s ignoring Althene completely, as though she were of no consequence.