War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 4

  Milsen suddenly began speaking in a loud, authoritarian tone; the captive relaxed, but only a little. Diettinger understood nothing but what might have been “Sauron-dah” near the end, at which point the man on the table slumped in despair. He whispered something, then closed his eyes.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said: ‘Mighty Satan,’ First Citizen, or ‘The Great Satan.’ Something like that.”

  Bewildered, Diettinger looked to Althene. The First Lady shrugged. “A religious reference, I believe. Old human norm, quite common; usually referring to the antithetical totem of most belief-oriented mythologies.”

  “Was he praying, then?” Diettinger wondered, curious.

  “Perhaps, sir.” Milsen said. “Or, he might have been referring to us.”

  Althene turned to the Fourth Rank interpreter. “If he is from a technological culture, such a primitive transference seems unlikely.”

  “I cannot tell, Lady,” Milsen admitted. “But his tone did seem to indicate us. Also, he is evidently disturbed by his nakedness in the presence of a woman.”

  Althene nodded. “Hmm. That is typical of less-developed races.” She raised an eyebrow. “Ah, perhaps he is a slave?”

  Diettinger took the man’s jaw between thumb and forefinger and turned his gaze to meet his own. There was a cool resignation in the gray eyes, and absolutely no fear. Not a slave, then. Even human norms are not so foolish as to keep slaves without fear. Interesting. He had seen hate, bloodlust, and a hundred other reactions that human norms evinced on contact with Saurons. But never, not once, had he ever seen a look of such complete and utter peace.

  Suddenly, he realized the man was whispering, and gestured Milsen closer.

  “ ‘I testify that there is no other god but God,’ “ Milsen translated the captive’s words as he spoke them, “ And Mohammed is his prophet.’ “ He looked up at Diettinger. “He goes on to repeat that several times, First Citizen.”

  “What does it mean? Who is Mohammed?”

  “A religious figure of Old Earth,” Althene said. “He is most certainly praying, then.” Althene had effortlessly identified what most Saurons could have only guessed at.

  “Stop him,” Diettinger said, the first faint stirrings of impatience creasing a line in his brow over his eye patch. “Confirm that his village is at the elevation stated by Squad Leader Gav.” Diettinger did not doubt Gav, and anyway the details of how this particular band of Haveners could thrive at that altitude was more for the Breedmasters to sort out than himself. But he was curious about how much the man would try to conceal.

  “He confirms it, First Citizen, but he offers no other information.”

  “Ask him about this weapon.” Diettinger held the rifle before the man; whether it came from some hidden stockpile or was purchased with hides, wherever savages could acquire arms like this, a great danger lay for the Saurons. “Where did he get it?”

  To their surprise, the captive answered immediately.

  Milsen translated: “He says he made it, First Citizen.”

  After the morning’s concerns, Diettinger’s patience was nearing its end. “Fourth Rank Milsen, I have dealt with one Wall long enough today; kindly pierce the one in this savage’s head and ask him where he got the parts to assemble it.”

  The captive looked puzzled at the question, and his simple answer made Milsen blink. The interpreter looked up at Diettinger.

  “First Citizen, I--he says he made those, too.”

  The long silence that followed was broken by a keening wail of utter despair. The Saurons looked to the table, where the captive had freed one hand and brought it before his face, and was regarding the broken fingers with undiluted horror.

  In his own village, Yurek would most likely have died within days. Blood loss in Haven’s thin, cold mountain air induced rapid, deadly shock, and it was not likely he would have been found by his own people. But here in the Citadel, tended by Sauron doctors, well fed and warm, his body mended quickly.

  His spirit did not.

  Restrained in his bed by straps, he never tried to test them. He answered their questions, responded to their interrogator--a Sauron about his own age named M’ahl Hassan, or something like that--and prayed. He’d had trouble at first explaining why he needed someone to wash his face and head, then a small cloth to cover his scalp, but eventually M’ahl Hassan understood.

  The Koran also dictated that he clean his hands before prayer, but Yurek still could not bear to think about them. Five times daily he prayed that the Devils had not taken his Gift when they had broken his fingers.

  When he asked M’ahl Hassan, tentatively, about his hands, the interpreter had spoken briefly to the Sauron doctor, then told Yurek not to worry about it. Keep them still, do everything the Surgeon Rank told him to, and they would function perfectly once healed.

  Yurek’s heart fluttered at the prospect of regaining the full use of his hands, but he crushed the hope quickly. Hope was the prerogative of God, and He would dispense reason for it as He saw fit. It was not for Yurek to tempt His mercy by petitioning for it.

  “Insh’allah,” Yurek said quietly. M’ahl Hassan asked him what it meant.

  Yurek’s temper flared for a moment at the ignorance of all infidels, then subsided. He knew very little about Saurons, but he had heard they followed no God of any name. He shook his head slightly. To be blind to His mercy, deaf to His word, ignorant of His miracles; to never know Paradise. They were more to be pitied than hated.

  “It means: ‘As God wills,’ “ he explained. M’ahl Hassan was a faithless man, but he seemed decent enough for all that.

  The Sauron’s eyebrow lifted as he studied Yurek, and the young Afghan realized that the infidel seemed interested by what he had just heard. Could it be-- was it possible that this Devil was ready to hear the words of the Prophet? Yurek could read, the khan had insisted he learn the skill to further nurture his Gift, but he was no mullah; he could not sing the Koran to ears hungry for His truth, to hearts waiting to be filled. Still, the Prophet admonished all men to spread God’s word in all ways, and never to fail to bring His truth to those who asked.

  Yurek was an artisan, true; a bearer of the Gift. But he was, first and last, a good Muslim. He would try, despite his pain, despite his ignorance, and above all, despite his hatred for these creatures who had brought him to this crippled captivity, if they asked. To his shame, he realized that he fervently hoped that they would not ask.

  “Tell me about this ‘god’ concept,” M’ahl Hassan said, activating a recording device.

  Yurek sighed, took a deep breath, and began to speak.

  “Fascinating,” Althene said as Milsen finished his report. “A completely fatalistic belief system.”

  ‘But poetic,’ Diettinger said. “Quite beautiful, actually, in its way. And the ingrained belief in an afterlife is an inevitable part of a primitive warrior ethos. Particularly warriors of a culture surrounded by enemies, many of whom share the same faith.”

  Milsen nodded, speaking almost to himself. “An altogether brilliant social engineering tool; most religions are, of course, but they tend to erode with the advent of science. Notice how this one very cleverly embraces knowledge gained as an expression of the ‘god’s’ favor. The more its adherents understand of the physical universe, the more that knowledge is taken to edify the ‘miraculous’ nature of that universe.”

  Althene was at her computer, consulting the historical database that had been her unofficial specialty even when she was Second Rank aboard the Fomoria. “It worked particularly well with these people, too. This Yurek and his people are evidently descendants of an Old Earth culture Known as ‘Afghans.’ “

  Diettinger frowned. “That name is familiar. They are mentioned in several texts on military history and adaptive warfare.”

  “The strain was wiped out during Earth’s Patriotic Wars,” the First Lady continued. “But what data I have indicates very large portions of their population had alread
y been forcefully relocated, particularly the mountain tribes. Apparently they had made a strong enemy of one of the two planetary powers that comprised the old CoDominium.”

  Diettinger could not conceal his surprise. “They’ve been here on Haven that long?”

  Althene nodded. “And virtually unchanged in their lifestyles and beliefs for all that time. The single dominant feature of their history appears to be an almost pathological devotion to self-determinism.” She turned to her husband. “There is no record here that they have ever been conquered, Galen; ever. Not even the Ancient, Alexander, was able to subdue them.”

  “A romantic notion, Althene, but I remind you that during our history, Sauron Soldiers have put paid to that same reputation about a great many other peoples.”

  “Granted. But given that heritage, this religion of theirs takes on a whole new significance. They believe that death in battle against nonadherents to their faith is a de facto defense of that faith in the eyes of their ‘god,’ and so guarantees them admittance to their paradise. Thus, they have, potentially, no sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”

  “Then what you are telling me,” Diettinger said, “is that these people will not submit to Sauron rule, making it necessary to destroy them; and that they will charge headlong into our soldiers’ guns, making it convenient.”

  Althene shrugged. “Unfortunate to lose such a dynamic and promising gene pool, but that is probably the case.”

  “What about the weapon?” Diettinger asked. Engineering sat at the end of the table, examining the automatic rifle in silence, and evidently with great respect.

  Milsen shook his head, frankly puzzled. “First Citizen, I know that it sounds incredible, but he maintains that he fashioned that weapon--a chemically fired slug thrower capable of full and semi-automatic fire--out of raw materials, by hand. He says that the shells are frequently stolen from other human norm tribes, but they are more often retrieved after battle and reused. He also claims that he personally produces several such weapons in the course of a year, and enjoys a special status among his people because of that.”

  Diettinger gave a short laugh. “I don’t doubt that he would, Fourth Rank.” He turned to Engineering. “Is this possible?”

  Engineering thought for a moment. “In theory, certainly. First Citizen, every tool made by Man, even Sauron Man, is simply an extension of his own physical capabilities. Hands can kill, hands holding rocks can kill bigger opponents. Thrown rocks kill opponents at a distance, while a bow makes a better projectile weapon than an arm; a rifle better still. And a fabrication unit which produces a thousand rifles a day really does nothing more than the work of a thousand men in a fraction of the time they would require for the same task.”

  Engineering picked up the rifle. “Certain tolerance requirements grow in importance as the technological levels of the weapons increase, and it is arguable that a ceiling would be reached, beyond which human senses and manual dexterity could not go.” He stopped and looked up at Diettinger. “But until one reaches the realms of microscopic circuitry in those arguments would be in error.”

  “Human capability is the founding principle of the entire Sauron race,’ the First Lady put in quietly.

  Engineering nodded. “Exactly, Lady. Briefly then, First Citizen, only three things are required to do what this human norm claims he can do. First: tools, of at least a minimal level of quality, but doubtless his people even know how to fabricate and improve upon those. Second: time, the ability to work undisturbed, for weeks, perhaps months, in an area of security; that, of course, would be an end product of having such weapons. And third: expertise. Years, more likely generations of training and practice, to learn to do, implicitly, what a man at a higher technological level, dependent on better tools, would have to think about constantly. Eventually, even cutting and finishing metal to the finest tolerances would transcend mere technical expertise, and be elevated to an art form.”

  Engineering looked up to see the First Citizen smiling broadly. “I’m sorry, sir, did I say something?”

  “Indeed you did, Engineering,” Diettinger said. He turned to Milsen. “Can he walk?”

  “Yes, First Citizen. He’s quite improved over the past few weeks.”

  “Good. Exercise him regularly. Keep him healthy, and when Surgeon Rank Vaughn says he is ready, take him to the workshops and allow him the use of some simple tools. Tell him to indulge himself, but watch him carefully. More importantly, observe his procedures, and present me with a report on the feasibility of teaching them to our own people.”

  After Milsen had left, Diettinger stood and went to the map of the area surrounding the Citadel. “Beyond these walls, dozens of patrols are out every hour of every Trueday and Truenight, monitoring hundreds of passes and almost as many bands of raiders.” He turned back to face Althene and Engineering. “And every Soldier of those patrols is armed with a weapon that is technologically superior to those of the locals.” He picked up the rifle.

  “For now.”

  Diettinger returned to the table and continued: “What you described, Engineering, are not just the requirements for a craftsman of this sort. They are also the ideal conditions for the training of a Soldier.”

  Yurek’s convalescence was brief; if the Saurons’ medical equipment was sparse, their knowledge was extensive. Yurek was walking on crutches within a week after his capture, on a cane within two. He waited for the Sauron Devils to begin torturing him for information about his people, but no such abuses ever occurred. Finally, he asked the interpreter, M’ahl Hassan: “What became of my people?”

  “I am told that the patrol which captured you watched your village drive off the Chin raiders; evidently the mortar which you destroyed was the Chin’s best hope for victory.”

  Yurek tried to see if the Sauron Devil was flattering him, but they showed little in their faces; he had come to think of them more as machines than men. M’ahl Hassan added: “You might be interested to know that our patrol destroyed the rest of the Chin raiders during their retreat.”

  Yurek blinked. “The Chin are your enemies as well?”

  M’ahl Hassan shook his head. “Not specifically. But they are disruptive. We will tolerate villagers, townspeople, farmers, fishermen, even nomads. These people produce, and thus contribute to the social infrastructure. But simple raiders are counterproductive to our purposes.”

  Yurek was taken aback; the infidel had spoken from the Koran! Not the same words, of course, but the idea . . . was it possible that something of the Truth had touched this soulless one? Ah, God, forgive me! Yurek hissed a sharp intake of breath at his near-blasphemy. The Word of God was the Word of God, and nothing could stand before it, not man, not machine, and least of all the Devil and his servants!

  “Is something wrong?” M’ahl Hassan had asked, seeing his distress.

  “Ah, no, nothing. Some pain.” Yurek’s thoughts scrambled wildly; if he could convert this one, at least, then they might both escape to return to his people. But he was being tempted by his hopes again, and he pushed them down, below where they might reveal is purposes to these infidels and thus betray him. The fact was that he was a prisoner here; remember that, and only that, and trust that God will dispose of you as He sees fit, blessed be the name of God.

  ‘Has your khan made contact with mine?” he asked, ordering his thoughts and watching the Sauron.

  “Not yet.”

  He offers little, Yurek thought, and asks much. He knew he should not speak to these infidels more than necessary, but the inactivity of the past month did not sit well with the mind of a man like himself. I am alone, and yes, may God forgive my faithlessness, I am frightened. And if I might not be allowed the use of my body, I would wish to use my mind. I want onlu to ham someone to talk to.

  “What will you do to my village?”

  “If the First Citizen wants to make contact with them, he will send a patrol to meet with your khan. Such patrols explain the terms of peace with the Citadel and
the forms and quantities of tribute required of the contactees.”

  “ ‘Explain,’ you said. Do you not mean ‘offer’?”

  M’ahl Hassan looked directly at him with an expression that might have been compassion. “No, Yurek. The terms are accepted, or the patrol destroys the village.”

  Yurek nodded. “Insh’allah,” he said. But the words brought little comfort.

  He could not understand the Saurons. He knew them to be fierce warriors; the least among them was more than a match for any of the mujahadin, even big Amir, who had once killed a tamerlane with nothing but a short knife, and could still walk. But when it came to personal honor, these people were less than women. They accepted any order to any task, however menial, without hesitation. Old, scarred warriors could be commanded by fresh-faced youths, strong young men returned from patrol one day with head counts of twenty enemy dead, and the next they could be seen mopping floors, and not one grumbled. The Saurons did not even hold Meets around their tables at night. Soldiers talked, but it was about inconsequential things; no one boasted of his or his comrade’s valor, no one wagered on the morrow’s successes, and no one--and this was the most difficult for Yurek to understand--no one ever criticized the khan of the Saurons, Dihtahn Shah.

  It was not fear, Yurek knew. He had seen men who lived under bad khans, where a word of dissent was the last thing their tongues did before leaving their mouths. These Saurons accepted the decisions of Dihtahn Shah without a council, and the orders of their other leaders as if each man was an imam.

  And the women! Yurek could not help shuddering in dismay. The women were the worst. They conducted themselves absolutely without shame, taking their food with men, monitoring the activities of men, giving orders to men--to men--and worse, the men obeyed, and thought nothing of it!

  Yurek could make no sense of the way these people lived, for they seemed to have no rational social structure, and they certainly had no God.

  Of course, Yurek considered, they have no enemies, either, at least none who are any real threat to them. So they must be doing something right.