Warworld: The Lidless Eye (29 page)

The corridors of the ship resonated with the sound of their passage; all material that could be stripped from the
Fomoria
was long gone, particularly anything flammable. Diettinger and Althene’s boots rang on the naked durasteel decks. Power was at a minimum, so they took the access ladder to the shuttle bay.

Waiting at the bay were Engineering with two of his assistants, Communications, Navigation, and the Shuttle pilot, a Fighter Rank whose name patch identified him as ‘Stahler.’ Diettinger remembered the name from the Battle of Tanith.

“Stahler.” He read aloud.

The Fighter Rank cracked to attention. “Yes, First.”

“You were on the mission that lost one of our craft to the locals. I understand the enemy pilot rammed your wingman?”

“Yes, First Rank. Brilliant compensatory maneuvering by the enemy pilot flying an utterly obsolete ship.”

Diettinger had been impressed by the news the moment he’d heard it. Stahler’s personal rendition did nothing to dampen that earlier regard.
Haven evidently bred hearty sons and daughters. All to the good for breeding purposes, but such resolve to fight would necessitate close scrutiny of those “subjugated” peoples waiting below on the surface of the new homeworld.

“Everyone accounted for, then?” Diettinger asked Engineering, after he had dismissed the Fighter Rank to begin preparing the shuttle for departure.

Engineering nodded, held up a portable computer. “This is our remote piloting device.
Fomoria
has sufficient fuel left to maneuver and brake for most of her descent. After that, the engines will have drained the fuel tanks dry to avoid igniting residual hydrogen in the heat of entry into Haven’s atmosphere.”

“Excellent, Engineering. You will allow Second Rank—” Diettinger caught himself, then continued, “I beg your pardon. You will allow the Lady Althene the honor of guiding the
Fomoria
to her last berth.”

Engineering bowed and presented the pocket computer to his former superior officer. Althene accepted it with a murmur of thanks and a look of pure gratitude at Diettinger.

“Make your goodbyes, then,” Diettinger said quietly, scanning the naked, featureless bay surrounding them. Every removable piece of equipment and metal had been shipped down to the surface aboard the shuttle; now, even the air was getting stale, life support equipment having left two hours ago on the shuttle’s last cargo run. Breedmaster Caius had insisted it would be necessary for decent hospital facilities and breedchambers.

Outwardly an unemotional people, the Saurons were no less prone to pathos than anyone else; they simply resolved such emotions more quickly. Single file, they followed Fighter Rank Stahler up the ramp into the cramped shuttle, found seats and strapped themselves in.

Althene activated the shuttle terminal immediately upon securing herself into the acceleration couch. Diettinger, seated beside her, watched as the screen resolved itself into a miniature duplicate of the Second Rank command station on the
Fomoria
’
s
bridge.

In minutes the
Fomoria
was “dry,” her remaining internal atmosphere vented into space. With internal power down, Engineering threw the emergency switch that blew open the now-powerless shuttle bay hangar doors. As the great triangular slabs drifted aside, Haven was directly visible for the first time. Beyond the horizon of the new homeworld hung the colossal mass of the parent planet.

“Cat’s Eye,” Diettinger said aloud. The gas giant’s storm center was aligned almost perfectly with Haven’s horizon and the
Fomoria
’s orbital path. Cat’s Eye was looming over the equatorial horizon of Haven, an aroused god peering over an azure fence, its gaze boring directly into the hanger bay of the
Fomoria.

“‘…and the warriors of the Tuatha Da Danaan halted their charge, for there before them the Fomorians had brought forth onto the field of battle their mightiest Champion, who was Balor of the One Eye.’” Althene was looking out at the spectacle, quoting from another myth cycle she had drawn from the history of old Earth.

“‘And lo, the warriors of the Fomorian host brought forth great bars of bronze, for the touch of iron was anathema to them; and with these bars they prized open the orb of Balor, and from it issued forth the Death, and the army of the Tuatha Da Danaan withered as autumn leaves cast into a forge….’”

Diettinger had never seen a deciduous tree; for a moment, he wondered idly what “autumn leaves” were.
No matter
, he decided. He had the feeling he would soon know both the meaning of the phrase and the reality for which it served as a metaphor.
In many ways
, he thought,
the battle has only just begun.

The shuttle exited the
Fomoria’s
hold and took up chase position three kilometers from the great, gutted starship. Studying the data on her screen intently, Althene appeared to see something she had been waiting for. “Drop window approaching, First Rank.”

Diettinger smiled.
Once a Soldier, always a Soldier
, he thought. “Take her in, Second Rank.”

This time no one reacted to his use of his new mate’s former active
duty rank; Diettinger’s consort was being given the honor of piloting the
Fomoria
on her last flight, the only time a Sauron starship had ever intentionally entered a planetary atmosphere, for, of course, such ships were never designed to make planetfall. It was fitting Althene should fly it with her full rank restored.

Diettinger watched the fire in his new wife’s eyes.
Sauron’s death stroke had come with the impact of a hundred Imperial vessels streaming into her atmosphere, raining destruction from on high. Haven was an Imperial world, and now we send a Sauron vessel crashing into her. But to build, not destroy. I wonder, does Althene feel some small measure of revenge at the thought of turning the tables here? As I do…?

From their position to the right and rear of the
Fomoria,
the passengers of the shuttle watched as the great ship’s maneuvering engines glowed feebly.

“The
Fomoria
will drop aft foremost.” Althene reviewed the drop plans with Diettinger, more in affirmation of her upcoming duties than in any need to instruct the First Rank. “That lets the mass in the engine section absorb most of the punishment and heat from atmospheric entry, as well as deflecting the ionization effect away from the bulk of the shuttle trailing the
Fomoria
. The denser materials of the engines will also burn away more slowly, prolonging the protection of the forward sections.”

Diettinger nodded, his mind already elsewhere. The
Fomoria
would create a huge ionization field as it entered Haven’s atmosphere. He turned to Engineering. “How much difficulty will we have contacting the surface after
Fomoria
begins entry?”

Engineering considered a moment, frowning. “As close as we will be to the effect, First Rank, we will be effectively cut-off. If you have anything you want to say to the ground forces, you’d best do it now.”

Anticipating this need, Communications had kept a tight beam link with the communications station at the Citadel. Wordlessly, Communications passed Diettinger a handset.

“Diettinger here.”

“Ground Force Commander Quilland standing by, First Rank.”

“Drop is initiated, Deathmaster Quilland. Status?”

“Ground Forces are stationed in the foothills and along the valley floor around the drop zone perimeter. No cattle activity for the past three days. There was a skirmish two days ago with forces from some northern valley fiefdom; very good, very well-led, but they evidently realized the futility of a protracted conflict with our forces.” Despite the wording of his report, the Deathmaster’s voice carried no tone of arrogance.

Diettinger was still uneasy. He felt he had prepared for every eventuality, but his training reminded him that the commander who could do that had yet to be born, as Lucan of the
Wallenstein
had learned at the end.

“Double the watchfulness of the perimeter troops, Deathmaster. The cattle did not have much to resist with, but they gave all they had. Some units have fought to the last man. Such people do not accept defeat readily.”

“Acknowledged, First Rank. Permission to speak.”

“Granted.”

“The entire Ground Force wishes you and the Lady Althene good health and a Long Line.”

Sentimentality like this was inevitable from a swashbuckler like Quilland, but Diettinger was pleased, nevertheless. It let him know the troops were firmly behind him, despite the sometimes overawing influence of the Cyborgs planetside.

“We thank you, Deathmaster Quilland.” Althene smiled briefly, her attention still riveted to the control terminal balanced in her lap.

“We will see you at the Citadel, First Rank.”

“Until then. Diettinger out.”

“
Fomoria
entering atmosphere, First Rank,” Althene spoke without looking up. “Three minutes to first braking fire.”

Diettinger looked out the port beside him for a glimpse of his old command. The ship was falling toward Haven like a short sword dropped pommel-first. The aft engine section and the extended drives and launch bays, the ‘hilt,’ were blackening with the gathering heat; seconds later, the anti-corrosive coating vaporized, and the metal beneath began to glow red.

Fighter Rank Stahler paced the big ship down, keeping the shuttle at a safe distance yet easily in range of Althene’s remote control terminal.

“First braking fire.”

The glow from the heating tail of the
Fomoria
was dimmed by the glare of her engines firing. With no oxygen stores aboard her, tons of her remaining fuel was consumed inefficiently as the intakes gathered
meager quantities of oxygen from Haven’s thin upper atmosphere.

“Slowing appreciably, First Rank.
Fomoria
now entering stratosphere.” Althene looked up from her terminal to Engineering. “I had some trouble with my signals for a moment.”

“It’s partly range, partly the ionization effect,” Engineering said, “communication to and from
Fomoria
will be increasingly difficult, then impossible. All the braking telemetry will have to be finished before that happens.”

“Boosting the signal won’t help?”

Engineering shook his head. “Like trying to shine a dim light through a steel wall, Second Rank. Sorry.”

Lady Althene shrugged, returned to her terminal with a frown, and began calling up more data. In a moment she looked up again at Engineering. “Can we risk leaving fuel in the
Fomoria’s
tanks until after the ionization effect has dissipated?”

Engineering looked at Diettinger, then back to Althene. “I would estimate a sixty-percent chance such fuel would be ignited by the heat. The
Fomoria
would likely disintegrate.”

Althene looked at Diettinger. “Too high a risk.”

He nodded. “Survey tells us Haven is drastically poor in metals in this area. The hulk of the
Fomoria
will be our single greatest asset in the years to come. We can’t be roaming this continent picking up the pieces. Do your best, Second Rank.”

Althene gave her agreement. “Signal’s very erratic. I’m initiating full and final braking fire, then.”

As the atmosphere of Haven began to surround the shuttle, the world outside the ports was lightening. Away and below them, the
Fomoria
was fast disappearing in a colossal cone of orange-white flame, super-heated gases produced by the ship’s sublimating metal skin being consumed in her entry into the atmosphere.

Althene pressed a switch, and the cone erupted downwards as the last of the
Fomoria
’
s
fuel went, along with much of her maneuver engines. For a moment, the great hulk became visible amid the flames
as its descent slowed almost to a stop. Then it began to fall again into its own mass of smoke and debris. Seconds later, it left the cloud and began falling Haven-ward once more.

There was enough atmosphere around the shuttle now that they could hear the roar and feel the shock waves of the
Fomoria’s
drop. Fighter Rank Stahler pulled away slightly, expertly compensating for the buffeting.

For a moment, Diettinger wanted to ask if the
Fomoria
might hit the Citadel itself, but there was really no point in worrying about that. If it happened, they might just as well spiral the shuttle into the ground after it. And, if that happened, it truly
would
be the end of the Sauron Race. Diettinger turned back to the port, but the
Fomoria
was fading from view in the high cloud cover over Haven’s Shangri-La Valley. Stahler was diving the shuttle to catch up with it.

Soon, now
, Diettinger thought.

Lieutenant Vohlt jerked awake at the touch on his shoulder. Only his training had kept him from crying out in his sleep.
Dear God, what a dream!
, he thought.

Behind him, Pederson hobbled over from the small stove. His toes had gone black with frostbite in the last two days of waiting, and all their food was gone. If the Saurons didn’t make their move soon, Vohlt and his men would die in vain. They were too exhausted, too low on supplies, to make the journey back down the mountain.