Warworld: The Lidless Eye (12 page)

Let her preserve what little self-respect she has left
, he thought. If Laura truly wanted to stay in their home, fortified by her familiar possessions and memories, let her stay. He owed her that much—at the very least.

Vessel Commander First Rank Galen Diettinger took his seat in the wardroom as his staff filed in. There were no distinctions of services among Soldiers, only of caste and rank, so the Deathmasters and Breedmasters were directly subservient to Diettinger, as First Ranker.

Perhaps even more so than when I was Dictator
, he mused.
That must have seemed quite ludicrous to many of my old staff, for a while, there. No doubt they prefer having things back to normal…

“
Normal
,” he smiled, almost saying the word aloud. His staff had never been allowed any doubt whatsoever about the chain of command, and the tone of this conference, Diettinger knew, would be maintained along those lines.

The Survey Rank was presenting as much information as she had on the Haven System. “The inhabited moon which is named Haven is only marginally habitable. Rotational period for the moon is eighty-seven
hours standard, with a longer relative ‘day’ owing to the considerable illumination provided by the gas giant, Cat’s Eye. Drier than we might like, with only a sixty-percent hydrographic index…” The voice of the Survey officer droned on through the communications panel in the wardroom, but the impassive faces of the listeners belied their keen interest.

They were learning about their next conquest, after all, and as military men, and especially as
Soldiers
, they would need every bit of information available to them.

What they have not yet realized
, Diettinger thought,
is that Haven is to be far more than just another conquest. That realization will come soon enough.

“…Haven’s rotation is unusual, since it is locked tidally with the Cat’s Eye, but in the synchronized pattern of Mercury rather than always presenting the same face as does the Earth’s Moon. The planet is somewhat smaller than Earth, and has a much thinner atmosphere. Due to its proximity to the Cat’s Eye there is great seismic activity. During the period of formation the tidal forces resulted in unusual patterns of vulcanism. Haven is a jumble of high mountains and deep rift valleys. Most of the mountains are high rocky peaks similar to the Himalaya Mountains in Asia on Earth.

“The only temperate area is in the equatorial zone, which climactically resembles northern Scotland or Churchill. Due to the thin atmosphere the only nearly comfortable area of Haven is a single deep rift valley in the equatorial area. The valley is locally called Shangri-La and was named after a similar place in a novel popular in the Twentieth Century.

“The indigenous plants and animals of Haven have biochemistries similar to those of Earth, but evolution has produced some unusual proteins. Needless to say, life native to Haven is extremely hardy, and proved quite dangerous to the early settlers, as indicated by names such as “shark’s fin,” “hangman bush,” “land gator,” “dragon” and “wireweed.” Efforts to reseed Haven with Earth plants and animals have been only partly successful.

“There has been little contact with the Empire since the Imperial Governor and all Imperial officials departed in 2623, approximately the same time the Seventy-seventh Marine Division, the Land Gators, shipped out for Friedland. There are no records of any Imperial contact for the past six years. Most of the moon’s satellite defenses have been destroyed; this was determined by scans of debris in the high orbit around the moon. It appears Haven has been attacked at least once, maybe more, by off-world raiders.

“There are little in the way of off-world defenses remaining. We have picked up evidence of human life on an observation satellite and one off the small moon Ayesha, which is tethered to Cat’s Eye and is the primary in-system refueling station. Castell City, the major city in the Shangri-La Valley, shows recent signs of battle damage and of serious population loss. We identified two major fortifications, Fort Kursk and Fort Fornova. Both date back to the CoDominium period and should be considered heavily fortified. According to Records: when the Imperials abandoned Haven, they put a former Imperial Marine officer, Brigadier-General Gary Cummings, in command of the Haven Volunteers, an under-staffed brigade composed of two regiments of local militia.”

Colonel Gary Cummings
, Diettinger mulled. He remembered a dispatch after the Tabletop action that had some favorable reports on the Imperial resistance on that planet. The Colonel had been mentioned as one of the resistance leaders.
I wonder if it’s the same man. If so, Cummings is familiar with our capabilities and tactics and he could be a dangerous opponent
.

Survey ended her report, and Diettinger threw the switch that secured the wardroom from further communications.

“Breedmaster Caius,” Diettinger addressed the Soldier charged with the standards of racial and genetic purity among the detachment under his command. “How many female Soldiers aboard, including those EVA Commandos we took aboard back on Sauron?”

“One hundred and seventy-three.”

Diettinger considered the answer a moment, then continued. “All
such personnel are to be removed from active combat duty and other responsibilities as of the end of this meeting. Also to be removed from the duty roster are those Soldiers aboard, now serving in any capacity, with a Genetic Preference Rating of A-5 and above, as well as those personnel with Fertility Ratings of three or higher.”

The physical abilities of the elite EVA Commandos aboard would make that order cut sharply into available forces, but if Breedmaster Caius had an opinion, he kept it to himself. Diettinger’s order was acknowledged with a brief nod.

“Deathmaster Quilland.” Diettinger looked farther down the wardroom table, but not to the other end, not quite yet. He wanted the figure seated there to hear all the groundwork before the full plan was revealed. “As senior Staff Rank aboard, you, the Ground Force commanders, and the other Deathmaster Ranks are to review all planetary data as Survey ranks acquire it. In forty hours, present me with your recommendation of areas planetside that our available forces can secure and hold against counterattacks from such opposition as we might expect to encounter from the locals.”

If Breedmaster Caius had reserved his opinion, the Deathmaster did not. Fond of nurturing his caste’s reputation for ruthlessness, he broke into a wintry smile at the thought of local resistance having any affect whatsoever against a force of Sauron Supply Clerk Rank Cadets. But elite Commandos? The concept hardly warranted consideration.

“Acknowledged, First Rank.”

Despite Imperial propaganda to the contrary, Saurons were not automata; Diettinger was pleased to see his orders puzzling some of his officers.
But now, the hard part.
Diettinger looked to the end of the table. Seated and at ease, the figure there still looked tense as spring steel. Since a substantial portion of his anatomy was not dissimilar to that material it was hardly surprising.

“Cyborg Rank Köln.” Diettinger addressed the figure, deliberately adding the obsolete distinction of “Rank.” To be a Cyborg was by definition to be a superior being and many—far too many as far as he was
concerned—in Sauron society had allowed this attitude to subvert the military chain of command. If Diettinger’s scheme was to have any hope of success, he would have to arrest—and overturn—that subversion.

“Acknowledged.” The voice that answered was rich, warm and deep, resonant with humanity—and seemed identical to that of every other Cyborg Super Soldier. It never failed to awe Diettinger at the power that was—had been—Sauron’s, the power to shape the very stuff of life itself.

“You and the other Cyborg Ranks will aid the Deathmasters in the details of said planning. You will not participate in combat operations.”

Cyborg Köln’s shoulder shifted as he sighed briefly. It made a faint sound as sections of augments met within the genetically toughened flesh. “May I ask why?”

Of all the castes in Sauron society, only the Cyborgs were permitted the luxury of such a question. The very capacity to ask had been trained out of most others.

“You and all other Cyborg Ranks are to present yourselves to Breedmaster Caius for propagation research.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on Diettinger’s right as Caius realized both the extent of this task and its implications.

“Acknowledged,” Cyborg Köln said after a brief pause. Diettinger sensed that he had not resolved the issue, but had at least bought himself some time. He nodded once, then addressed the table again.

“There is no Sauron Unified State any longer. No Sauron Trade Bloc, no Sauron-dominated Coalition of Secession.” He activated the display screen, and the image of the sundered Homeworld glared darkly from it.

“There is, in fact, no Sauron.”

The recording played out. The silence was absolute. “Whatever is left of the Homeworld and Landyn System’s planets are now occupied by the forces of the Empire. The war is lost. But the Race must not die.”

Diettinger’s emphasis on the last words would have been expressive among other human species; among Saurons it was almost melodramatic. But it had the desired effect on those listening. They could guess what was coming, and they were eager to hear more.

“The Haven System is isolated, four Alderson Jumps from the nearest inhabitable world. Trade charts of this area have not been updated in over seventy-five years. Records indicated that not so much as a regiment of Imperial Marines have been in this system over twenty years. Fate,” he smiled; none of them believed in fate in quite the way he did, “has brought us here to stay. This must now be home.”

He began to outline his plan.

Lord John Claude Hamilton stood on Whitehall’s battlements, examining the patchwork of farms that stretched around the castle walls as far as the eye could see. Villages dotted the countryside and a small town was sprouting up outside the walls of Whitehall. This once decrepit country estate had grown into one of the major agricultural centers in the east-central Shangri-La Valley. Thousands of people now depended upon Greenswards’ military might and network of political alliances; it was a lot of responsibility.
And someday
, a voice whispered in his ear,
all this will be yours.

John wasn’t sure that he was up to the weight all this represented. If only Raymond would come back from the War. He would know what to do, and do it without question. Raymond, following the family tradition—that John had successfully, albeit not happily, broken—was an officer in the Imperial Navy. A fighter pilot, at least that’s what Raymond had been almost thirteen years ago, when his most recent message had reached Haven.

They hadn’t heard from Raymond since—or the Empire, for that matter—but that could mean anything. Maybe the Empire had forgotten Haven completely, which looked increasingly likely as years passed by without any official word. Or maybe the Empire had lost the war and
Raymond was a prisoner or stranded on some former Imperial outpost. Maybe Raymond was too valuable to muster out, or he’d retired from the Navy and couldn’t find passage back to Haven.

A lot of maybes, but there was one certainty; Raymond would never forget the family. He was definitely the ‘right’ sort. The verdict was still out on John, both in his own mind and certainly in that of his grandfather, the Baron.

Or Raymond could be—
He stopped himself.
Don’t even think that word!
Thinking things sometimes made them true. It was better not to know than to think the un-thinkable.

John had tried to do the ‘right’ thing, ever since he had realized a talent for money exchanging; he’d even given up most of his bad habits. Tried to live a more moderate life. Still, on occasion, he would sneak out at late night to the White Tamerlane for spirits and occasional female companionship. He wasn’t dead, but he’d certainly given up his gambling and horse racing.

Usually, though, he spent his nights alone, too tired to do anything but press his face to the pillow. Managing a large estate, or barony—the return to quaint Medievalism still rankled; after all wasn’t this the Twenty-Seventh Century?—was bloody hard work. However, his grandfather had been right about the decivilization of Haven. Automobiles were becoming so rare that the family’s traditional semi-annual drive to Cardiff in the Baron’s old Fleetwood brought the kids out in droves.

How far is down? Shamans dressed in feathers, shaking rattles and casting spells. When does it bottom out?
The latest reports from Brigadier Cummings told of a Castell City fulminating with riots and beggars on every corner. And only God knew what life on the northern steppes was like—

“Hello, John. Find anything interesting?” asked a pleasant female voice he recognized as belonging to Ingrid Cummings. Ingrid was Cummings’ daughter; she had come to Whitehall earlier this year after the first big food riots, when two of the petrocarb plants broke down. The Baron had told him that the Brigadier had tried to get his wife to
come along, too, but she refused to leave their home in Castell. John found it hard to fault her, since even a boring provincial capital city was better than a boring estate east of nowhere.