Warworld: The Lidless Eye (14 page)

“For the first few years. You provided the polish, as I remember.”

The Brigadier paused to relight his pipe. He inhaled slowly, then let loose with a small cloud of smoke. “Maybe we’ve done some good here, after all. Sometimes I honestly don’t know. Things are so bad that it’s hard, until a riot like this starts, to imagine them getting much worse. Then suddenly they do and I don’t know if we’ve done our job. I don’t believe this is what Marshal Blaine had in mind when he gave me the job of keeping Haven a peaceful and loyal vassal to the Empire.”

Sergeant-Major Slater bestowed one of his rare smiles. “Sorry, Brigadier, but I believe this is exactly what the Marshal had in mind. He was a historian before the War.”

On the main continent of Haven, along the densely populated equatorial region of the Shangri-La Valley, the last remaining operational orbital surveillance monitoring station was entering its Trueday duty shift. Warren Delancey arrived at work with the pastry and hot morning tea typical of clerks throughout the universe.

An off-worlder might have noticed the starchiness of the pastry and the poor flavor of the tea, but Delancey had grown up in the years of Haven’s decline, before the Empire had finally left for good. Good tea was for him but a dim memory. And Haven had not seen off-worlders for a long time.

Delancey’s duties now consisted mostly of simple study. The last merchant ship to come through the system had been an independent trader five or six years ago, bearing a paltry few hundred tons of marginally useful items, whose captain and crew had admitted to coming to Haven only out of desperation. Delancey sighed.

No point dwelling on the past
, he thought.
And nothing to be gained.
Today’s task at hand greeted him in the form of a hundred pages of manuscript.

“What’s this?” His assistant, a young student named Alec Farmen, idly (and rather rudely, Delancey thought) picked up the manuscript and began flipping through it.

“Orbital data program from the University. They want data on the degree of oscillation—”

“—oscillation in the storm ‘pupil’ of Cat’s Eye, right?” Alec finished Delancey’s sentence, dropped the manuscript in disgust and collapsed sprawling into a chair. “God, how can you stand it, Warren?”

Delancey scowled. He did not much care for being called by his first name by a fellow ten years his junior, but what could you expect from young people these days? Rude, undisciplined, sullen. Since the economy had collapsed, there wasn’t much in the way of jobs. Most youngsters went straight from their farms or the city into one bullyboy private army or another.

As for Alec Farmen, well, his usefulness was unquestioned. He could tinker about and fix nearly any piece of equipment they had here at the station, but God—he could be irritating. He stayed on at University only because he couldn’t abide even the poor discipline a paramilitary life might force on him in the service of one boss or another.

The University of Haven
, Delancey thought.
A center of learning
; he almost snorted. Everyone knew the University had become a joke. The Chamber of Deputies only kept it open because it was a symbol of Haven’s unity. They didn’t provide much in the way of funds so the Board of Regents were nothing but a rubber stamp for the dictator, Enoch Redfield, who supported it as a source of technology. To Redfield, and others like him, technology meant weapons.

In the twelve years since David Steele’s rise to power, three things had been occurring on Haven: The Planetary Chamber of Deputies had never regained their rule over Haven, instead they barely held control of Castell City and the surrounding suburbs; rival city-states and countries tried to absorb or kill each other off, while Haven itself tried to kill everybody. The moon had never been hospitable, only tolerable. Now, with the high technology and industrial strength of the Empire fading rapidly from memory…

“…going on, I mean, how would we know?” Alec was speaking to him. Or, more accurately, at him.

“Eh? What did you say?” he asked.

The young man heaved the great, expansive sigh of all youth at the stupidity of those in charge. “I said, if the war had ended or was still going on, how would we know about it? I read the newspaper every day. I see the same pointless Tamerlane shit”—Delancey started at the vulgarity—“in
the ‘News of the Empire’ section year after year. There’s nothing ‘new’ about any of it; it’s all recycled filler material. The Emperor’s third cousin’s seventh niece has married the same minor lord about fifteen times, now, by my count.”

Alec leaned toward Delancey. “I mean, when was the last time you actually read or even heard of a message packet from Coreward, eh, Warren?”

Delancey shook his head, more in exasperation than commiseration. Of course Haven had been abandoned by the Empire, but her people hadn’t yet given up hope that it was only a retreat, not a withdrawal. Alec’s generation was growing up with the stigma of that abandonment, knowing it for what it was.

“Alec, just do your job, all right? Just get to work, and…” at a loss for words, Delancey finally just grabbed the manuscript and thrust it at the younger man. “And do your job, yes?” he repeated.

Alec rose and stalked off, the pages of the manuscript fluttering in the speed of his departure.

Paper
, Delancey thought.
I remember when everything was on datapads. Paper was only found in books in museums… But batteries are scarce, and getting more so. While paper production is basically low-tech. We are already running out of spares for the shuttles…and when this thing comes tumbling down, we’ll lose our last link to the Empire…

Delancey turned back to his terminal. The equipment had been old twenty years ago, and now the data line at the bottom of the screen had actually burned into the panel.

Delancey shrugged. People got set in their ways. Why shouldn’t their machines? He suspected the data line had stopped working right years ago. Not that it had mattered. Nothing ever happened in the Haven System, anyway.

The screen display showed no readings within range of Haven’s remaining surveillance satellites. If there had been any activity, a section of the data line would have flashed amber and Delancey could have called up enhancement.

“Until off-world communication from Haven is neutralized, nothing is to be done or used that will identify us as Saurons.” Diettinger was briefing the Survey ranks in the wardroom. They would be charged with the initial reconnaissance of Haven, and their mission would carry several restrictions crucial to its success—and to the continued survival of the Sauron Race.

The Survey Rank replied, “This may be an unreasonable worry, First Rank. The closest Imperial planet by distance is more than forty light-years from Haven, and a dozen Alderson Jumps away. It’s unlikely that a message would arrive there in time to halt the invasion.”

“This is to be our new Homeworld,” Diettinger replied. “I don’t want any message—even if it takes a hundred years to arrive—to leave this system that might announce our survival to the Empire. Our physiognomy is unmistakably Sauron; there is little we can do about that, except for our troops to avoid visual observation until the landing is secured. By then, it won’t matter. Should any of the cattle”—it was the Sauron term for any noncombatant, not an insult—“or their military manage to send off a message announcing their plight, they must think they are being attacked by pirates or Outie raiders.”

Second Rank Adame added, “These days, with the Empire collapsing, no one will bother to respond to another intersystem dispute or pirate raid.”

Diettinger took a sip of water. There were only two thousand gallons left aboard and, with the ship’s recyclers offline, it was strictly rationed until more could be obtained during the Ayesha refueling station
takeover. “You have the data I asked for, Second?”

Second Rank’s face showed frank disapproval. She was a Soldier, and while her training taught the wisdom of covert actions, this latest wrinkle did not sit well with her.

“Yes, First Rank. Pirates in these outlying sectors name their ships and outfit their ground forces after myths; an expression of the swaggering attitude prevalent among the criminal element in human norms. Of such fictions extant throughout this arm of the Empire, those of Earth origin are still the most widely known. There is an ironic appeal to the one I’ve chosen. It fits both our needs and character, and even contains a reference to our racial name; an interesting note, as the origin of the word ‘Sauron’ is largely unknown.”

Now it was Diettinger’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I just said there was to be no connection, Second Rank. Is this an act of rebellion against your new status as a noncombatant?”

The wardroom went still as Second Rank’s temper flared silently in her eyes. Before speaking, Althene calmed sufficiently to remove the edge from her voice.

“Respectfully, First Rank, it is not. The myth is taken from an obscure piece of adventure fiction from pre-CoDominium times. It possesses several almost complete artificial languages, one of which has many tonal qualities and guttural expressives designed to evoke specific racial responses in readers of standard Anglic. The language therefore is even useful as a code, since my records indicate that the work of fiction from which the whole myth derives has long since sunk into oblivion.”

Diettinger listened to Second Rank’s defense with some enjoyment. He had always thought her verbose for a Sauron. Second Rank’s need to justify her actions was, he suspected, what had kept her from First Rank status.

“Using the myth,” Second Rank continued more calmly, “requires the alteration of our uniforms to a small degree, as well as the configuration of our ground-attack fighters and the transponders on the
Fomoria
herself.”

“Acceptable. See that it’s done. First modify the fighter craft. I want
very large markings of whatever style you’ve chosen. Use them in several low-level attacks to announce our presence to the locals. The temporary billets in the docking bay will have to be moved. Supply ranks are assigned that task.”

The Survey ranks acknowledged the orders and left to carry them out.

Diettinger considered a moment. “You have a recording of this ‘obscure work of fiction,’ Second Rank?” he asked.

“Fragments only, First Rank.”

“Let me see it.”

Second Rank produced the wafer. It was labeled on one side: DOMINANCE MYTHS/HUMAN NORMS/TERRENE. Most likely from one of the Breedmaster’s political research tracts, but possibly from Second Rank’s private collection; she was rumored to be something of an anthropologist as well as an historian.

The other side of the tape bore its title. Diettinger read it aloud.

“
The Lord of the Rings
…” he said. Perhaps Second Rank was right, he thought. There was a sort of power in those words, at that.

The
Fomoria
refueled without incident at the automated refueling station tethered to Ayesha, one of the small moons orbiting Cat’s Eye. Meanwhile, her surviving orbital fighters were making low level runs to the surface of Haven, then back out to a close orbit. Their occasional strafing attacks on communication centers were accompanied by false signals to the “pirate fleet” standing off from Haven, supposedly in orbit around Cat’s Eye.

EVA teams had emplaced scuttling charges on the refueling station without meeting a single person. They noted the presence of a few remote video sensors, all of them covered with dust and long inactive.

Diettinger was conferring with Weapons on the bridge as the
Fomoria
cleared the station on five maneuvering engines. Engineering had done his best, but the sixth engine had, indeed, been beyond repair.

The station dwindled rapidly as
Fomoria
pulled away at increasing
speed. Finally, it was lost from sight against the immensity of Cat’s Eye’s dark spot, the ‘pupil’ of the gas giant.

Diettinger waited a moment longer. With his next order, their fate would be sealed, for the
Fomoria
had taken on only half-tanks for her final operation. With the station destroyed, their bridges would be burned behind them. Steeped as Diettinger was in martial history, the parallels to the Sauron Role Model of the Ancient, Julius Caesar, were not lost on him.

As the
Fomoria
left the station far behind, Survey Ranker Martel reported: “All clear.”

“Charges status?” Diettinger asked.

“Telemetry indicates full functions, all, First Rank,” Weapons replied in an equally clear voice.

“Activate,” Diettinger ordered.

Weapons obeyed instantly. With the press of a key, Cat’s Eye’s pupil developed a brilliant white cataract, fading in an instant as the refueling station was consumed.

“Very good.” Diettinger said simply, turned, and went back to the chair. He began to notice the excitement he felt before any battle. There were only human norms on Haven, to be sure; not even Imperial Marines. Not much, really, as opponents went. But Survey had told him that the world was so inhospitable that, with the loss of what little technological base existed there, the moon itself would prove as worthy an adversary as any Soldier could hope for.