War World III: Sauron Dominion Page 5

  And they were courteous, if not friendly. Within certain limits, Yurek was allowed the run of the Citadel. He was always accompanied by at least two Sauron guards, one of which was invariably M’ahl Hassan. When the time came for the splints and bandages to be removed from his fingers, the Sauron doctor took great pains to instruct him in the exercises necessary for full recovery of the use of his hands. This seemed only slightly less important to the Saurons than it was to Yurek himself.

  M’ahl Hassan waited until the second day after the bandages on Yurek’s hands had been removed, then asked: “How is your leg today?”

  “It is well; the stiffness is less. I think it wants exercise.”

  “And your hands?”

  Yurek s eyes narrowed. “I do not know.”

  M’ahl Hassan turned to the young Sauron beside him and said something in a language Yurek had not yet heard; a clipped, toneless language with no inflections to gave him any clue as to its meaning. The youth nodded and left Yurek’s room. M’ahl Hassan turned back to him.

  “Surgeon Rank Vaughn has approved a new therapy for you, Yurek,” M’ahl Hassan said. “If you feel well enough for a long walk, I think you will appreciate it.”

  Is this it? Yurek thought. I am healthy now, healthy enough to be interrogated and survive. Have they nursed me to this health for that purpose? It was what his people would have done, of course, but Yurek had heard that the Saurons were not much for subtlety.

  The other Sauron returned with a larger version of the recording device M’ahl Hassan had used during Yurek’s explanation of the Faith to him. This one had a glass lens set in one side, and Yurek assumed it was a video camera. He had seen such things once as a boy, during a rare trip to the lowland cities of the Shangri-La Valley, in the years before the Saurons came. If they were going to torture him, they were apparently eager to miss nothing.

  Very well, then. He would show them that death holds no fear for the Faithful. Inshallah, he would sleep this night in Paradise.

  “I will go with you,” Yurek said.

  They had walked for nearly an hour without once exiting the Citadel, or even passing a window. Up stairs, down stairs, past work crews refurbishing the interior, through halls where the Saurons met, or ate, or marched. Past row upon row of sealed doors clogged with dust, into brightly lit chambers so clean that Yurek would have believed even a Muslim could eat food from the floor without sin.

  Yurek was completely lost. Twice his leg had cramped, and the two Saurons had linked their arms behind his back and beneath his buttocks, lifting and carrying him in one motion without even breaking stride. Both times he had insisted they put him down the moment his leg had loosened sufficiency to bear his weight. Yurek found their effortless superiority humiliating.

  Finally, when his leg was about to give out a third time, M’ahl Hassan said, “We are here.”

  Yurek took a moment to realize that the door they were facing was set into one of two much larger ones; light shone through the crack between the great panels, and for a moment he had the crazy thought that they had brought him to an outside door, that they were letting him go.

  Then M’ahl Hassan opened the small door, and in the light of the brightly lit room beyond, Yurek saw that they had something far different in mind. He followed M’ahl Hassan into the chamber where dozens of the Sauron Devils were busily occupied in all manner of tasks, all of them involving equipment of one form or another.

  M’ahl Hassan had brought him to the workshop.

  “How did he react?” Diettinger was taking Fourth Rank Milsen’s update on their curious captive while Combat Engineer Denbannen waited to brief him on the latest problems with the Wall Project.

  “He is quite shrewd, First Citizen. At first, he openly refused to produce weapons for us which might be used against his people.”

  “Reasonable, if imprudent.”

  Milsen nodded. “Then I allowed him to watch a calibration test for a Mark VII manpack fusion gun; after that he seemed satisfied that nothing he could produce would be of any interest to us.”

  Which could not be further from the truth, Diettinger thought. But there was a thread of unease running through his thoughts; should Milsen have shown this Yurek a weapon as advanced as the Mark VII? He didn’t really think there was any danger of this-- mujahadin, he called himself--copying such a device, still . . .

  No matter. In ten years, the Mark Vll will be a memory. And in another generation, it will be less than a memory. It will be . . . what is a good word? He turned to look at the model of the Wall, now covered with revision marks made by Denbannen.

  A myth, Diettinger decided.

  “And now?”

  “He is fabricating a lathe, First Citizen.” Milsen seemed bewildered. “He is making it from scrap metal with hand tools and a simple forge, and the work so far is indistinguishable from that of a low grade, but undeniably technological process.”

  “You have surveillance teams emplaced?”

  “Yes, First Citizen,” Milsen acknowledged. “Whenever I am speaking with him, I always have at least one Soldier along who is learning his language, but under strict orders not to reveal the fact. Seven recorders cover his workstation, and Engineering himself is watching him closely on a hidden monitor.”

  “Good. Tell him to fabricate a simple weapon; a sidearm, perhaps, modelled after one of the chemically fired hand weapons in captured stores. Tell him such a task is to be a condition of his release. See that your men observe the process scrupulously, and bring me both weapons when he has finished.”

  “At once, First Citizen.”

  Diettinger stood quietly for a moment. “Your Soldiers are having no difficulty learning this mujahadin s language?”

  “No, First Citizen. It is a simple, logically structured tongue.”

  “Fortunate. It will be necessary to have an interpreter for the captive’s tribe within two weeks. Accelerate training for the Soldier among your staff who has made the most progress with their language.”

  “At once, First Citizen.”

  “Dismissed.”

  “First Citizen.” Denbannen called Diettinger’s attention back to the Project as Milsen left.

  The Combat Engineer pointed to a series of marks along the sides of the Wall, where the construct met the cliff faces on either side. “I have completed my analysis and located the stress points in the design.”

  “Serious?”

  “My calculations show that the Wall cannot bear its own weight for more than twenty years without them. Each one will have a load-bearing reinforcement brace sunk into the mountain at a forty-five degree angle, running the length of the wall’s interior, arching in the center, and extending one hundred feet into the mountains on either side.’

  “So much metal,” Diettinger said. Denbannen’s plans would use up the Sauron’s strategic reserves of steel and then some. “You see no alternative to this problem?”

  Denbannen frowned in concentration. “No, First Citizen. I reiterate, however, that my expertise rests primarily in temporary structures, battlefield enhancements, and the like. Even with the aid of the Fomoria’s database and computers, I am somewhat out of my depth. I may be missing something obvious.”

  “Very well. But if these struts are unavoidable, I would prefer they use the minimum material necessary. Is there a way to reduce their mass without seriously weakening them?”

  Denbannen thought for a moment. “There are several computer models I could use to find out, First Citizen. I will generate their specifications and ask Engineering’s staff to fabricate scale versions as physical test pieces. May I take this model with me for the purpose?”

  Diettinger nodded, dismissing him with a wave. Denbannen gathered up his datapads, and the First Citizen watched in silence as the Combat Engineer rolled the table with its model of the Project out the door.

  The Sauron guard behind Yurek stiffened as the young Afghan braced himself with his cane and leaned out over the parapet. The view i
nto the valley below was spectacular, the air crisp and biting, and the wan light of Byers’ Star mixed with the waxy illumination of Cat’s Eye gave the day an amber quality that reminded Yurek of the tallow candles in the nut of the khan.

  Yurek considered that it was a beautiful day to die.

  He had been in the workshop all morning, and had asked to go outside for the noon prayer. M’ahl Hassan and the other Sauron, a scarred Soldier named Tong, escorted him as always.

  When he had finished, he’d bundled up the sheepskin that served as his prayer mat and gone to look down into the valley. Far below, he could discern movement, as the Saurons on the valley floor labored with machines and tools to build something. He leaned forward a bit more.

  There was something down there in the rocks.

  Less than fifty feet away, a flap of sheepskin blew out of a crevice in the stone and disappeared back in again. Yurek turned his head, and could just see the brim of a sheepskin hat above it. The brim moved slightly, and for a moment, a sharp profile was exposed, then the face turned and looked directly up at him.

  Mulli! His blood went cold. And there are at least two more. ... If the Saurons found strangers this close to their Citadel, they were doomed. He had to try to warn them away.

  He made a circle with forefinger and thumb, then waved it before him as he sang a few snatches of prayer about health and well-being. Please, please understand it means that I am all right, and GO AWAY!

  He heard a small stone strike the rock face below the parapet, but he could not see if they had left the crevice for safety, and he must be sure they did not reveal themselves while M’ahl Hassan and Tong were nearby to see or even hear them.

  Yurek had learned that the Saurons were eerily aware of changes in facial expression, posture, and other body language, but they did not always interpret it correctly. He tried to lean over for a better look without arousing their suspicion.

  “You will not fall,” M ahl Hassan said matter-of-factly. The Sauron had been watching Yurek closely as he stared out over the pass, and had suddenly appeared at his side.

  Yurek shrugged. “I am not afraid.”

  “You misunderstood me,” M’ahl Hassan said. “It was a command, not a reassurance.” M’ahl Hassan stepped back to afford Yurek his privacy.

  Yurek looked back at the Sauron, fighting an urge to strike him; he would be knocked down, ne knew, before he could clench his fist. And besides, M’ahl Hassan had meant no insult. Yurek knew that if M’ahl Hassan should allow him to die, the wrath of the Sauron khan would be great.

  Then if my suicide thus causes an infidel death, Yurek wondered, have I died in the service of the Faith? He sighed. Probably not. He wished he could speak to a mullah. “I would like to go back inside, now.”

  M’ahl Hassan and Tong flanked Yurek as they returned to the door set in the stone of the mountain, which led to the workshops deep within.

  When they reached the halfway point, Yurek spoke without looking at M’ahl Hassan. “Why do you not kill me?”

  “You interest our khan. And you may be helpful in our negotiations with your people.”

  Yurek started. “Negotiations? Dihtahn Shah will send one of his patrols to my village?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they will deliver his ultimatum.”

  “Yes.”

  Yurek’s jaw clenched. “Then my people will die.”

  “You cannot know that. You are a young man; your khan is presumably older, therefore more pragmatic. Our conditions are severe, but reasonable, considering they are absolute.”

  Yurek watched M’ahl Hassan with sadness. These Saurons would never understand him, or his people. The Soldiers were so disciplined that Yurek had never seen one object to the most insulting of tasks, let alone refuse a direct order.

  They have no concept of freedom, he thought. To them, Paradise would be an anthill. He finished the trip to his workbench in silence, and in silence he picked up his tools again and returned to his work. He had finished the lathe, adjusted its bearings, and was satisfied with its performance. Today he would turn a small bar of metal, forming a rod that he would later carve down into a drill. That drill would not be hard enough to bore metal, but Yurek would use it to make a mold for casting a drill that would.

  He placed shields around the lathe to catch the metal filings; they would be used for something else later. Even the frugal Saurons were learning from Yurek’s stinginess; many of their larger lathes sported such catch-shields now, too.

  Yurek turned as the doors opened to see two Saurons pushing in a large table with wheels on its legs. Resting on the table was a pile of rocks with a slab of white stone wedged between them. Behind him, M’ahl Hassan and Tong began clucking quietly to one another in what Yurek had come to recognize as the Sauron’s Combat Tongue.

  “Is that something important?” he asked M’ahl Hassan.

  “A model of the Project, Yurek. It is not your concern.”

  The two Saurons were turning the table, and Yurek could now see that he had been looking at the back of a scale model. They were going to pass his workstation, and he watched the model’s approach curiously.

  As they pushed it toward him, Yurek could see that it resembled nothing so much as one of the great dams that had been built in the foothills in his grandfather’s time, dams which had channeled water from mountain rivers to generate hydroelectric power for the valley dwellers. Yurek could also see that the front of the model was a maze of red lines, numbers and notes written in Sauron.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Yurek asked one of the Saurons pushing the table.

  The Soldier stopped abruptly and stared at him, then shared a look with M’ahf Hassan. They spoke quietly to one another for a moment, then M’ahl Hassan asked:

  “How do you know something is wrong?”

  Yurek shrugged. “It has many marks, many numbers, but it is a finished thing. It must have been built wrong. And those wire frames look to be holding it up until it can be repaired.”

  M’ahl Hassan spoke to the other Sauron again, and Yurek noticed the new Soldier watching him with increasing interest. The stranger spoke to M’ahl Hassan again, who then turned to Yurek.

  “This is sub-sub-khan Din b’ahn Ahn. He is a war-builder, a maker of fortifications and redoubts. This is not a finished thing, but a model of one. He has built it this size to see what problems may arise when it is built larger.”

  Despite himself, Yurek grew excited. “Ah! I know this thing! A splendid idea! When I apprenticed as a boy, I made small weapons of wood, copying the motions of my master as he worked in metal. That way I did not waste steel with mistakes, but learned the rules of the craft that is part of my Gift.” Yurek stood and walked around the model, studying it from several angles. “It is a beautiful toy.”

  And indeed it was. Though he could not fathom its purpose, the detail was nothing short of exquisite. On closer inspection, Yurek could see that the large rocks flanking the gray slab had been carved by hand with some fine tool, details added with extraordinary care. On the left-hand rock, facing the slab’s front, he could see an indentation carved into the stone on which lay several small blocks of painted wood. Looking up and down the stone, Yurek saw several more such artificial plateaus, each with its own cluster of buildings; all were connected by paths carved into the face of the stone, but the highest was the largest and the most detailed, and Yurek could see that its buildings blended into crevices carved deep into the rock.

  He caught his breath. One of those areas was a perfect re-creation of the tower roof where he had stood less than an hour ago.

  Yurek took an involuntary step backward, taking in the whole of the model from his new perspective, and understood. He looked from the face of Din b’ahn Ahn to the marks and wires on the model, and when he looked back to the Sauron, he could not keep the triumph from his eyes.

  “You will never make it work,” the young Afghan said. “Not like this.”

  M’ahl Hassan did no
t translate, but Din b’ahn Ahn snapped a word at him, and he recounted Yurek’s statement to the Combat Engineer. There followed a hurried exchange between the two, and Denbannen went to Yurek’s workbench, examined his tools and the lathe, then turned and spoke again to M’ahl Hassan.

  “Sub-sub-khan Din b’ahn Ahn instructs you to explain yourself. Why will the model not work?”

  Yurek’s knees were shaking, but he managed nevertheless to do the same with his head. “I will not tell you.”

  Denbannen heard the translation and shrugged, then signaled his assistant to continue moving the table.

  “I will tell your khan, if he will grant me an audience.”

  M’ahl Hassan shook his head. “Dihtahn Shah has not expressed any desire to speak with you, and you may not dictate his audiences.”

  Yurek nodded. “I understand.” He watched Din b’ahn Ahn moving away, and called after him in the smattering of Sauron he had absorbed during his time at the Citadel: “Remember the winds, aga; the Breath of Allah must flow.”

  Din b’ahn Ahn stopped, looking over his shoulder at Yurek for some time before he continued on to his own working area.

  Yurek turned back to his workbench, singing softly under his breath as he began to work the foot treadle that powered his lathe.

  “He lives, aga khan.”

  Abdollah Khan did not react to the news. So many days had passed, so many weeks. “Is he guarded, Mulli?”

  “Yes, aga; and apparently comes out only for prayers. Had we not heard him praying, we might never have known.”

  “You have lived in harsh circumstances for weeks to learn this, Mulli,” the khan said, “and you have put aside your own well-deserved vengeance to see that the news reached me. I proclaim myself in your debt.”

  Mulli bowed his head in gratitude.

  “They allow him his prayers,” the khan said thoughtfully. “They are infidels, but they are civilized. ‘ He stroked his beard with one hand. “Even courteous.” The khan stood slowly and walked to the window. The room full of mujahadin behind him was silent. Their people had never submitted to an enemy in their history, and while all of them had heard of the might of the Saurons, none were afraid to die fighting them.