Warworld: The Lidless Eye (26 page)

As the last lights of the shuttle disappeared, Helm immediately dispatched the last team of bearers to begin driving the load animals—muskylopes, the locals called them—up the pass to the Citadel.

Cat’s Eye was dipping below the horizon; the wind came up as Haven’s truenight drew close, and even Sauron ears stung in the biting chill.

Helm consulted his implanted chronometer, now modified to the Haven time cycles for this time of year and area.

“Five hours until the sun comes back up,” he told his relief, “
Fomoria
will be brought down an hour after that. This whole zone is to be cleared and all equipment and personnel secured at Firebase One or in the Citadel before drop time.”

“Acknowledged.” The relief Groundmaster glanced over the area, taking in the sprawling vista of men, women, machines, draft animals, electric carts, troopers’ kits, crates and weapons. A non-Sauron would have remarked at how orderly everything was; not a scrap of trash anywhere, not a single piece of gear out of place. His relief was confident the time limit would be easily met.

So was Groundmaster Helm. He handed his terminal pad over to the other Soldier. “Third Rank Houten, you are Groundmaster in Command. See you in two.”

Helm saluted and left for the command tent at the edge of the landing zone. It was a measure of his concern that the tent was next to the manufacturing equipment cache.

Stepping through the seal, Helm went over the records of the last shuttle lift, confirmed his notations, and opened the beam to the
Fomoria
above.

“
Dol Guldur
here, Groundmaster,” It amused Fourth Rank Boyle to bait the officer with the now widely used name of the ship. Helms’ distaste for the overall masquerade was well known. “One moment, please. First Rank is in his cabin. I’ll wake him.”

Diettinger came on line a moment later. He appeared displeased with something, but nothing in the First Rank’s tone indicated problems for Helm.

“The Citadel staging area is being cleared of the last of the cargo, First Rank. The landing zone will be ready for
Fomoria
on schedule.”

“Acknowledged, Groundmaster. Check back with me for final clearances. Diettinger out.”

Helm sat at the darkened screen for a moment. He was sure he had glimpsed Second Rank seated at the table in First Rank’s cabin. Helm shrugged.
Not my concern
, he decided.

Albert Hamilton put two glasses of rare imported Scotch whisky—
Glenmorangie
, from the last of three bottles bought from an Imperial trader twenty-one years ago—onto the nightstand. According to the merchant, these had been distilled on New Scotland. It had the fire and smoothness of good whisky so he suspected it was true. He hadn’t been on that rocky mudball in over fifty years, when he’d met his departed wife Mary. If it hadn’t been for this god-blasted war, he would have made a pilgrimage to New Scotland and spent his last years in solitude and remembrance.

The Baron felt the chill of truenight steal through the castle’s stone walls and his smoking jacket to settle into his aged bones. He massaged the aching rheumatism in his left knee, the residue of a wartime bullet, then tottered over to put a few more coals on the brazier. Four hours sleep a night was just not enough. No help for it, though; there was so
much to do and so little help.

Raymond, my lost grandson, this was all done for you. Will the war ever end so you can return home?

He heard McGee’s hesitant knock on his bedchamber door. “Come in, Sergeant-Major,” he said.

The old soldier, who had been ten years older than the Baron when he had first served in the Imperial Marines under his command as an orderly on New Washington, limped into the room. His thornwood cane was much in use and even his twisted beard hairs were as white as hoarfrost.

They clasped hands like old comrades, then the Baron motioned for him to sit in one of two leather easy chairs that faced the charcoal brazier inside the fireplace.

“Mind if I put on some more coals, M’Lord?”

“Go ahead, Sean.”

The coals flared briefly, sending out a blast of hot air.

“Ahh. Does these ol’ bones good. I’ll miss these times most when I’m called to the Beyond.”

“Hush.” Albert Hamilton didn’t like the turn their conversation was taking; it was too reminiscent of his own woebegone thoughts of a few minutes ago. “You’ll outlive me yet, Sean.”

“Har!” the Sergeant-Major began a harsh laugh that quickly turned into a rasping cough. Once he’d regained his breath, he continued. “Not with these lungs, Baron. This Haven cold’ll be the death of me.”

Albert passed a tumbler of whisky to his former comrade-in-arms. He noticed the tremble in Sean’s hand.
It’s possible he may not make it through this winter
, the Baron admitted to himself. Yet another piece of the past he would lose…and mourn. “’Tis cold, Sean; want a tartan?”

“Aye, Baron.”

He passed a tartan woven in the Hamilton plaid—three broad blue stripes, crossing three broad blue stripes, with a narrow white stripe running between each set of blue stripes on a field of red—to his old comrade, who placed it on his lap, over his thin shanks. The Baron put
one over his own lap and felt the subtle change in temperature.
We old men are like land gators, always looking for the sun and warm places.

“Did ye see the lass tonight at the dinner table, M’Lord? Her eyes ’ave been red since we returned from the Kendricks.”

“Yes, I have,” the Baron said. “I also noticed the way Ingrid avoided my grandson and how stilted he behaved in her presence.”

“Ye don’t think!” the Sergeant-Major said, with a catch in his throat. “Not the daughter of yer old friend? No, nay our laddie.”

The Baron took a deep draught of the
Glenmorangie
, which burned all the way down past his breastbone. He sputtered for a moment, then blurted out, “You’re damn right I do. Where’s the young ram been for the past few days? Never in his life have I seen him so eager to go on patrol. Curse the boy, damn him all to Hell!”

“Ya don’t mean it, Baron.”

“Yes I do. If he weren’t the Heir… And it’s not as if we don’t have enough serving wenches to slake any young man’s coals, and that one’s no longer a boy!”

“Aye,” McGee said with a morose sigh. “Bad business, this be. The Brigadier, one o’ yer oldest friends and one o’ Greensward’s staunchest allies. And with him away fightin’ the Beasts.”

“Yes, the boy’s timing, as usual, is impeccable,” the Baron pronounced. “I had hoped that bringing those two together might forge an alliance between the two most powerful houses on the planet. Instead, we’ve offered the Brigadier a deadly insult. And broken faith with a friend to boot. A girl under our protection, no less! Weren’t the flesh pots of Tampa and Last Chance good enough for the boy?”

“Aye, the lad spends more time in the kitchen than the cooks,” Sean agreed.

“Bah! It’s long past time for him to settle down and raise me a brace of grandchildren. I had such hopes. It’s not as if Ingrid’s plain in appearance. Or stupid or ignorant. She’s well-educated, smart, a good conversationalist, and, unless these old eyes of mine are playing tricks, she’s a woman that could take the chill out of any man’s bones!”

“Aye, and it appears she has. And a bonnie lass she is, too.”

“I should have insisted on a chaperone, but at their age…? He must have taken advantage of her; why else would John be so scarce? Yet, nary a complaint from her. Praise be, as otherwise, I’d have to set out on a course that we would all regret before it ended.”

“Ye don’t think she’ll tell her father?”

“Not that lady. She knows how to take her licks and still keep her back straight. I wish I could say the same for my Grandson. They could be good together, but this bickering between them must cease.”

“But how, m’ Lord? Neither of these youngins takes to the bridle. I don’t understand young Hamilton. I’d thought he’d changed after leaving Castell, but not so much, I fear.”

“He’s been restless ever since we raided Castell and bearded King Steele in his own den. He’s bored with our provincial life, I fear. I indulged him too much, and Mary did too, may the Lord bless her, after my son’s death. I should have taken a firmer hand to him, but it’s too late now.”

“Aye. And he is the Heir.”

The Baron’s hand came down hard on the small ironwood table, knocking the Sergeant-Major’s empty tumbler onto the thick carpet. He felt his friend’s gnarled hand on his shoulder.

“I know, ’twas Raymond ye were groomin’ for the barony, but ye’ll have to put those thoughts away. He’s doin’ his duty fightin’ the Beast in some far-off part of the Empire. I doubt he or his issue will return to Haven in this century, or the next.”

The Baron nodded numbly. “I know that in my mind, but not in my heart. I miss my boy. He was a man and a leader. I had hopes he would take my place and fill these stone halls with grandchildren….”

“’Tis not too late for John, m’ Lord.”

“McGee, the boy is almost forty standard years old. He’s not a lad anymore. It’s long past time for him to set aside his childish ways.”

“Yer Granddaughter, Matilda, has two fine grandsons, and maybe another on the way.”

“Yes, but they’re Mazarin’s, not Hamilton’s.”

“Ye could put it in yer will that to inherit—”

“Blast it, I could never do that to her husband. I’m not going to take the man’s name away from him. Aram Mazarin has been a good son-in-law and vassal. True, he retired from the militia to please my daughter. In peaceful times, he might be accepted, but not now. Besides, what would our liegemen say if I passed over my own flesh and blood?”

“Aye. ’Tis true. John’s well-liked by the vassals, too. Didn’t young Hamilton volunteer to take command of the battalion against the big raiding party, Wheelock’s Raiders, they call themselves?”

“This blasted Sauron attack has every bandit gang in the Valley up in arms! I’m still not happy how John used his position to pass right over the heads of men who’ve fought in more battles than he’s seen. I don’t want him to die, no matter how convenient it might prove.”

“M’ Lord; he
is
the Heir!”

“You’re right. It is time he took his rightful place and led the troops. I fear this war with the Saurons may be the death of that boy.”

“Aye, Baron, or perhaps the birth of the man.”

“I believe it not only impolitic for you to be in my cabin, Second Rank, but positively rude. And possibly insubordinate.”

Diettinger had been awakened by Groundmaster Helm’s call, but his first sight had been of Second Rank seated at his desk in the darkened room.

“Permission to speak, First Rank.”

Diettinger waited a long time before he gave it.

“There is a power struggle going on behind the scenes, of which you are only partly aware,” Second Rank said.

“I will deal with the Cyborgs in my own manner, Second.”

“No doubt, sir. But I do not refer to Cyborgs. I refer to Haven.”

If Diettinger had been a cat, his ears would have arched forward on his head. “Clarify.”

Second Rank paused as if gathering her thoughts. “Saurons are soldiers, not pioneers. We are the development of thousands of years of refinement in the martial arts and sciences. Thus, we could only come about within the framework of an ordered civilization, such as the Empire.”

Diettinger almost groaned. Second Rank
was
a historian, after all, with the historian’s need for lecturing.

“Now we have come here: a battle of conquest, with no further battles to follow. Every trooper here has grown up under the auspices of a starfaring military society. Fight, conquer, then move on to the next battle.” She shook her head. “Such a lifestyle is gone forever, now. We are here to stay; and as our survival instincts, both natural and engineered, begin to activate, we will adapt our character to the environment far faster than our genetic structure.”

“And what do you think will be the result of this adaptation?” Diettinger asked. Despite himself, he was captivated by Second’s line of reasoning.

She gestured with one hand. “You see it all around you. The dominance myth I used has backfired. The Soldiers have embraced it wholly. Faced with an inferior opponent, Saurons previously conquered and left it at that. The possibility always existed that the next foe might be better. But now there is no longer a greater Sauron social order around us to judge our actions, thus our troops begin to act as, to think of themselves as, pirates. They strut, they boast, they are full of their own superiority. Before, only enemy noncombatants were referred to as ‘cattle,’ the term is now being applied to all non-Saurons on Haven. In time, patrols will not return. They will simply establish their own minor fiefdoms among the Haveners. Military discipline will dissipate. What social structure we do have will collapse as we are overcome by the vacuum of authority on Haven.

“In three generations, at the outside, the Sauron Race will degenerate
into barbaric warlords, our martial heritage a thing of dim myth. And, at that moment, the Empire’s victory will be complete, for then the Race will
truly
die.”