War World III: Sauron Dominion Read online

  After a long time, Abdollah Khan spoke: “I have lost sons before. Likely I will do so again.” He waved a hand: “Insh’allah.

  “But we cannot afford the loss of our weaponsmith. Bring my guns. We go to parley with the Saurons.”

  Surgeon Rank Vaughn was summarizing his report to Diettinger and his advisors. The windows in the First Citizen’s office were wide open to the frigid morning air, and a fire roared in the open hearth, creating a bracing comfort zone less than a meter wide directly between the two. Vaughn stood just within it on the fire’s side; the First Citizen was just without, closer to the window. His other advisors were placed as they preferred, although Breedmaster Caius scowled repeatedly at the Lady Althene’s choice of a seat almost beside the window.

  “The captive is whole, First Citizen. And all my tests indicate that he and his people have lived on that plateau for almost a century. Evolving from mountain dwellers, they have simply adapted still further.”

  Diettinger turned to Breedmaster Caius. “How can this tribe exist? The birthing of their women in such an environment must be close to impossible.”

  Caius gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking, and Diettinger and the others braced themselves for one of his diatribes. “In normal environments, the most dangerous period of a pregnancy is during the first trimester; ten percent of all human norm pregnancies terminate during this time for one reason or another. This number is higher for native Haveners, approximately eighteen percent, even higher than the fifteen percent normal for Saurons. But consider: the thinner Haven air would long since have killed off all the fetuses carried by mothers who could not adapt to the atmospheric conditions here. The normal vulnerability of the first three months of life still exists, but the mothers who could not compensate for the lack of oxygen have either”--he ticked off the results on his fingers--”A, aborted naturally; B, died in childbirth; or C, given birth to severely deformed and/or retarded offspring.”

  Caius noticed the look of discomfort crossing the Ladv Althene’s features and took some pleasure that he’d made her as uncomfortable as her proximity to the window was making him. “In each case, the genetic consequence was to end the strain of atmosphere-vulnerable genes. This Yurek’s people were fortunate enough to have adapted so quickly, before the lowered birth rate could wipe them out.’

  “Could our people birth there, as well? Naturally?”

  “Possibly, given a minimal period of adaptation. Say four to six generations.”

  The First Citizen closed his eyes. Why were even the most enlightened of Breedmasters nevertheless incapable of seeing things from any perspective but their own? Caius “minimal period of adaptation” would see them all in the grave by at least a century. He looked up to see Fourth Rank Milsen frowning in concentration. “Milsen. Speak.”

  “Something Yurek has spoken of, First Citizen. The plateau where his village is situated is sheltered on three sides by sheer walls, one of which actually overhangs the village. More than a natural redoubt, it forms a pocket which could trap the normal winds crossing over the mountains between the steppes and the Shangri-La.”

  “Resulting in a higher air pressure than would normally be possible at that altitude,” Diettinger concluded; suddenly he remembered Squad Leader Gav’s barometer, and the Soldiers report that his men found it easier to breathe as they approached the town. “And making the air pressure on the plateau almost as comfortable as that on the floor of the valley.”

  “The Breath of Allah,” someone said, and everyone who was familiar with the name of Yurek’s god turned to see it was Combat Engineer Denbannen.

  “What’s that?” Diettinger asked.

  “First Citizen, something the captive said. He saw the scale model of the Wall when I brought it into the workshops for the structural tests we spoke of. He claimed it wouldn’t work the way we had designed it.”

  Deathmaster Quilland almost laughed. “Really? May we assume that when he is not fabricating chemically fired antique rifles, he is hand carving fifteen hundred-meter walls?”

  Diettinger gestured for silence. “Why will it not work, Combat Engineer, and why do you think his statement has merit?”

  Denbannen shook his head. “He would not elaborate, First Citizen, unless he was allowed to tell you directly. As to the veracity of his statement, I can only say that he referred to something called ‘The Breath of Allah,’ and reminded me that ‘the winds must blow.’ “

  “Not ‘blow’, Combat Engineer,” Milsen corrected him. “The word he used was ‘flow.’ His Sauron was poor, but I remember it precisely.”

  “In any case, he seems aware of the phenomenon, and if he is educated enough to understand it, perhaps he saw some crucial flaw in your Wall at that,” Diettinger concluded.

  “Query, First Citizen,” Quilland’s consternation was evident in his tone.

  “Speak.”

  “This meeting represents my first encounter with the data on this savage, but I have seen nothing so far to warrant such interest. He claims the ability to fabricate weapons, but the only evidence of that claim is no more than a primitive assault rifle.”

  “Your question, Deathmaster,” Diettinger’s tone made the window seat seem cozy.

  “Of what importance is the opinion of one savage Havener craftsman?”

  The First Citizen did not answer. Instead, he opened a box that sat before his place at the table. Removing two cloth bundles, he placed them beside one another on the table. He unwrapped them simultaneously, revealing two antique-style revolvers.

  “One of these weapons was taken from a Havener bandit. It is a revolving-cylinder, gunpowder-fired hand weapon known as a double-action revolver. Those of you familiar with antiques will understand its action. Suffice it to say that it is a simple, robust design, with a minimum of moving parts, capable of delivering a three gram slug with killing energy at a range of one hundred meters.” He picked up both weapons and placed them in the center of the table. “The other was made by the captive during his convalescence, and is identical in every way to the original.”

  Quilland picked up both weapons, scrutinizing them carefully. “Which is the original?”

  Diettinger smiled thinly. “I don’t know. I had expected a serviceable copy. But in telling the captive that the quality of his work would bear on the likelihood of his release, I apparently motivated him to new heights. He copied every production mark perfectly.

  He even added the appearance of normal wear to the outside. Only firing the weapon gives away its identity. The copy has a smoother action and a freshly rifled barrel, and is noticeably more accurate.”

  Quilland nodded. “Your pardon, First Citizen. I appreciate his importance now.”

  “Your pardon, First Citizen,” came a flat indictment from the end of the table. “I do not.”

  Cyborg Rank Koln watched the proceedings with the utter lack of emotion that characterized all members of his species. He looked, acted, smelled different than his less genetically enhanced fellow Saurons, was in fact almost an alien in their midst. He never confronted Diettinger directly on any issue, and that alone was enough to keep the First Citizen on guard wherever the Super Soldier was concerned.

  “I will elaborate. We have one hundred eighty-seven Mark VII manpack fusion guns in stores, but they must be held in reserve for highest priority crises. Our troops are thus armed with substandard projectile weapons, linear accelerator gauss guns. Nothing like as effective as the Mark VIIs, but still far superior to the majority of Havener weaponry encountered.” Diettinger picked up both revolvers and went to the window. “That is because we have destroyed the industrial infrastructure of Haven; and to ensure that they never send word off-planet which might bring the Empire down on our heads, we are committed to keeping that infrastructure destroyed. We can tolerate no level of technology above steam power, and even that must be strictly monitored.

  “We have been successful at this; the Haveners are no longer capable of manufacturing
gauss weaponry. But once our stocks of such weapons wear out, neither will we be.”

  “But, First Citizen,” Engineering interrupted, “the only moving parts in gauss rifles are the ammunition feed mechanisms in the clips; there is no reason why they should not last for a century or more.”

  “What about the power packs, Engineering? What will happen when we can no longer recharge them efficiently? What about metal fatigue in the accelerator magnets, or the guidance rail on which they are mounted? What about weapons damaged in accidents, stolen by bandits, captured in battles? We have lost firefights to the Haveners before, we will lose them again. Indeed, such losses will be minimal, and granted, the weapons we retain should last for more than a century.”

  Diettinger held each of them with his gaze before he concluded: “Is there still one of you who doubts we will be here on Haven for at least ten times that long?”

  He paused to let the reminder of their predicament sink in. “The only thing keeping us technologically superior to the Haveners is our military capacity to supress their technological growth. And that military capacity depends on an extremely fragile industrial base: the remains of the machine shops and production facilities salvaged from the Fomoria.”

  Diettinger went back to the head of the table. “Nothing lasts forever. Not gauss rifles. Not dark ages.” He picked up the Afghan’s duplicate pistol, aimed briefly with his good eye, and fired out the window; a flagpole on an outside wall shattered, the banner tumbling down out of sight.

  “Not even Sauron dominance. All such things fade away, because we forget that it is natural for them to do so. ‘Entropy is the nature of the universe, but only if it remains unopposed by the actions of Man.’ We learn this from our first educations, but we must always remind ourselves of it. With these mujahadin producing weapons for us, we may just possibly stave off the decline of our military-industrial capacity until such time as our genetic dominance of Haven is completed.”

  “You propose an alliance with these cattle?” Cyborg Rank Koln asked quietly; his voice was toneless as ever, but his inflection bespoke disapproval.

  Diettinger faced the Cyborg for the first time. “I propose nothing. I am informing this board of advisors that we will make use of these people in the manner best suited to the continued dominance of the Sauron genotype on Haven.” He turned to Althene. “First Lady, you have examined the available historical data on the behavioral patterns of these Afghans, and correlated with Fourth Rank Milsen’s observations of the captive?”

  “I have.”

  “Assessment.”

  “Pathologically incapable of servitude.”

  Diettinger nodded once. “Briefly then, we can simply obliterate these people, since they will never submit to dominance, and gain for ourselves nothing more than another birthing area; albeit more convenient than those we must construct or otherwise seize. We may even capture some of their women as birthing personnel, but this is by no means assured.”

  “That has been standard procedure with all Haveners since the invasion,” Quilland objected. “I wish to remind the First Citizen that modifying such a policy now may be taken as a sign of weakness on our part by the inhabitants.”

  “Only if they find out about it, Deathmaster,” Diettinger answered. “This Afghan village is sufficiently isolated that the other Haveners need never know of our dealings with them.”

  “Query.”

  Diettinger paused a moment before acknowledging the speaker. “Speak, Cyborg Koln.”

  “If these tribesmen are permitted to manufacture weapons for us, what guarantee have we that they will not produce extras for themselves and other Haveners?”

  “None.” Diettinger said. “Which is why we must make it important for them to know where their greater interests lie.”

  “Your pardon, First Citizen,” Koln said quietly. “But I fail to see any advantage to be gained from any liaisons with cattle.”

  “Then perhaps Breedmaster Caius can prepare an introductory lecture on the subject for you,” the First Citizen ended the debate coolly.

  Diettinger rose and addressed his staff as a group: “The Coalition of Secession was an acceptable political maneuver to the Sauron Council. They devised it in order to provide us first with votes in the Imperial Parliament, and later with buffer worlds in the war against the Empire. Instead, we gained weak, petty tyrannies which required constant rescue from Imperial forces, and to what gain? Most of the ‘allies’ in the Coalition had less to offer Sauron than these people have to offer us.” He held the pistol before him, admiring the workmanship, the accuracy, the feel of expertise with which it was imbued.

  ‘And somehow,” Diettinger finished, “I doubt that these mujahadin will be running to us for help very often.”

  He put the weapon down. “This meeting will reconvene in two hours. In the meantime, Combat Engineer Denbannen, return here with your model in ten minutes. Fourth Rank Milsen, collect the captive and bring him here, as well.”

  “Will you require my computer data on the Project as well, First Citizen?” Denbannen asked.

  Diettinger thought a moment and said: “I doubt this Yurek would understand any of it, Combat Engineer. We have been relying on a detail-planning method to solve the problems with the Wall. Let us see what can be accomplished by embracing a more intuitive approach.”

  Yurek had been praying steadily since M’ahl Hassan had come to collect him; he had vowed he would not be afraid, but his nerve left him as the double doors opened and he was ushered into the presence of the Sauron khan and his council.

  Yurek had met other khans before, and even as an artisan, a bearer of the Gift, he knew what was expected of him. The cold stones of the floor grated against his knees as he knelt before the only one standing, who must, therefore, be Dihtahn Shan.

  M’ahl Hassan spoke after a brief exchange with his khan. “Yurek, you have been granted an audience with the Khan-of-All-the-Saurons. You understand that this is an extreme honor?”

  “Yes, M’ahl Hassan.”

  “The khan desires that you inspect once more the model you saw in the workshop.”

  Yurek nodded and rose to his feet. Though careful to avoid confronting the Sauron khan’s gaze directly, he stole glances at the man from the corner of his eye. Dihtahn Shah was tall and fair, his hair straight and almost white, with sharp, straight features. The man’s face was utterly uncompromising, a study in planes. He reminded Yurek of a snowhawk his cousin had once trapped. Yurek saw too that Dihtahn Shah wore a patch over his left eye, and the Afghan youth’s respect for him climbed a notch to know that the Khan-of-All-the-Saurons was obviously a warrior in his own right.

  The model had been delivered only a few moments before Yurek arrived, and its surface was still cool from its sojourn along some outside parapet of the Citadel.

  Uncomfortable with being the focus of the flat, unblinking stares of the Saurons, he poked and prodded the model, trying to compose himself as he studied it carefully.

  Yurek noticed the war builder, Din b’ahn Ahn, watching his every move, but there was no hostility in his eyes. Rather, he seemed to be intensely curious about--and baffled by--Yurek’s methods of inspection. Yurek himself could not have described what he was doing, exactly. From childhood, Yurek had only to look at a thing to know intuitively what its strengths and weaknesses were. It was all part of his Gift, nothing more. Insh’allah.

  Finally, when he thought he could speak without squeaking, Yurek faced Dihtahn Shah squarely and said; “It will fall apart in three winks of the eye.”

  Diettinger frowned at the translation, until Milsen explained. “It is a local term of measurement, First Citizen, a literal statement, not a euphemism . . . According to local legends, the oscillations in the ‘storm-pupil’ collapses and the blank ‘iris’ of the main body of the storm makes the Eye appear to have closed or gone blind. After a period of some weeks, the storm will reassert itself and the ‘pupil’ will reappear. There was a wink’ shortly after
we arrived in the Fomoria. ... It happens approximately once every eleven standard years.’

  The other Saurons were upset by degrees over that, but Dihtahn Shah only smiled slightly. “Thirteen years,” he said. “Close enough to your estimate, Combat Engineer Denbannen, to make me want to hear more. Fourth Rank Milsen, translate as we speak.”

  Diettinger stood next to Yurek, both of them looking down at the model. “What did you mean when you said that ‘the Breath of Allah must flow’?”

  Yurek shrugged. “The winds over the mountains carry the seasons to the valley. Without them, the lands will wither and die.”

  Diettinger turned to the young Afghan with a thin smile. “You are not a superstitious savage, young man, and I am not a fool. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending the one or assuming the other.”

  Yurek looked back for a moment, sizing up the Khan-of-All-the-Saurons, before answering. “Very well. The mullahs, the learned men of my village, say that the warm air rising from the valley floor and the out-land steppes meets cold air moving down the mountains or in from the northern seas. The high-speed winds which result are trapped in the sheltered plateau where our village rests, forming a year-round pocket of overpressure. The air on our plateau is only a little thinner than that on the floor of the valley.”

  “We surmised that,” Diettinger said, ignoring the surprised comments of the other Saurons in the room at Yurek’s apparently sudden increase in sophistication.

  “But what I said about the land withering is true in a way, as well,” Yurek continued. “The pass which the Citadel guards is the main low-altitude access for winds between the steppes and the valley. Most wind from the seas never gets over the Atlas Range--what we call the Walls of Allah--since it cools so rapidly as it climbs the mountains that it drops back before cresting the peaks.”