Warworld: The Lidless Eye (2 page)

2622 A.D., Tanith

Colonel Gary Edmund Cummings of the Seventy-seventh Imperial Marine Division sat in his temporary staff office and tried to ignore the moisture beading on his brow. Haven might well have the reputation—among the few who’d heard of her—of being a frozen mudball, but Tanith was like the depths of hell. It was a former prison planet, as Haven had been in CoDominium times, and despite being Sector headquarters it was still rough around the edges.

Cummings packed his pipe bowl with tobacco, tamped it and fired it up. He suspected anyone who did well on Tanith emigrated elsewhere as soon as they accumulated passage money. Cummings was originally from Churchill, another cold planet like Haven, so he suffered the heat more than most. Haveners in general, however, were used to extreme climates and most of his command seemed indifferent to Tanith’s weather.

His adjutant, Captain Anton Leung, came into the room with a more serious demeanor than usual. Leung was of Tartar ancestry, which showed in the folds of his eyes and his stocky thick-boned frame. A native Havener, he had an inborn stoicism that not even Tanith’s unbearable
heat could touch. Yet, something was bothering him.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Colonel, special orders from Admiralty Building.”

“About time.”

“I heard the
Canada
docked late last night. Maybe we’re finally getting off this hothouse.”

“I hadn’t thought you noticed.”

Captain Leung made a wan smile. “The men have been stationed here too long. We had two more go outback last night. Haveners are great warriors, but they make terrible garrison troops.”

That was about the longest speech Cummings had heard from the taciturn Leung. Six months on Tanith had not been a picnic for anyone—especially while there was a war going on everywhere else. Tanith was an important Alderson intersection between several important tramlines, which made it a major military target. If the Sauron Coalition of Secession could forge a victory here they would have a bottleneck that would hamstring the Empire in several different sectors.

There had already been one Battle of Tanith a decade ago and Intelligence had reason to suspect the Saurons were preparing for another assault. The Seventy-seventh was one of six divisions stationed on Tanith to keep them from establishing a planetary beachhead.

Cummings unsealed the orders and quickly read them. When he was finished he looked up to see Captain Leung attempting to read his expression. “Nothing specific. They just want me to report to Admiralty Headquarters at 1400 hours. I’m to see Admiral Lyons. Heard any scuttlebutt about him?”

Leung nodded. “Yes, Colonel. He’s supposed to be some young hotshot, with a title. Lord ‘Such and Such of Sparta.’ Word is he’s Lord-High Admiral Waterford’s hatchet man.”

Like Cummings, Leung had made it into the Academy based on merit rather than connections. One of the reasons he was still a captain at thirty-five; although Cummings intended to give him a battlefield promotion the next time the Seventy-seventh saw action. Leung
would have been eligible long ago if he hadn’t been tied to staff duty. His problem was he was too fine an administrator. Cummings had no end of young officers who were willing to jump into the breach, but few who could coordinate interstellar transportation, insuring that the Division ordnance ended up with the Seventy-seventh rather than at some Alderson Point dead-end.

“It must be important if they want me there in an hour.” Cummings didn’t bother to speculate why; there were too many possibilities and very few of them looked good for him or the Seventy-seventh.

The Admiral’s office was paneled in rare Tanith hardwoods and the desk was made from the bole of a tiger tree. Admiral Lyons was a young man with fine features and long fingers, every inch the aristocrat. As Colonel Cummings waited for him to speak, he examined the Tri-D holograph of Alexander VI, which was flanked by the Spartan flag to the left and the Imperial Eagle on the right.

In his own office Cummings had the Haven flag to the left of the Emperor’s portrait. The Haven flag was a green land gator, snapping its jaws, on a yellow field with a black banner on the bottom reading “Don’t Tread On Me” in gold letters. It went back to CoDominium times and legend had it that it was based on a State flag of the Old United States of America back on Earth. It was rough and crude, but Cummings preferred it to the Admiral’s holo-picture version of an officer’s headquarters.

“Sit down, Colonel,” Admiral Lyons ordered in what sounded like a trained announcer’s voice. The Admiralty Office was air conditioned, a relief to Cummings, who didn’t know such luxuries in his own headquarters.

“Thank you, Admiral Lyons.”

“You were at Tabletop, so I don’t have to draw you a picture of why the War is not going well.”

Cummings nodded in agreement; the Empire had taken a terrible beating at Tabletop, losing over half of the Third Imperial Fleet and six Marine divisions. It had been a major loss of capital ships and men the
Empire could not afford to lose.

He studied the young Spartan Admiral. Was he one of the bright young men who were going to buy the Empire some time? Maybe even end the war with Sauron if some new Imperial Claimant didn’t pop out of the woodwork in the next few years. Unfortunately for the Empire—as Tacitus had once said:
“A well-hidden secret of the principate had been revealed: it was possible, it seemed, for an emperor to be chosen outside Rome.”

“We need to concentrate our forces,” Admiral Lyons continued. “The Sauron Super Soldiers are forcing us to rethink our previous strategy. It’s becoming obvious to the Admiralty that we cannot defeat the Saurons on the ground, not without incurring tremendous losses. We lost enough men to raise four divisions trying to re-take Thurstone, and for what? A world blasted back to the Stone Age. No, we need to fight the Saurons where their individual abilities are minimized. We can no longer afford to fight them piecemeal. To do so is an act of suicide.”

“You mean the Empire is pulling out?”

The young Admiral’s ice-blue eyes studied him as if he were an insect on an examining slide. “It appears you did earn your reputation. Yes, the Admiralty has been ordered by the Emperor to pull back our forces from the frontier. We are to concentrate our units for maximum response. We can win this war yet, Colonel. But we can’t win by defending every backwater planet and Alderson cul-de-sac.”

The sudden light in Lyon’s eyes told him that the Admiral believed his words. Cummings wished he were as certain of this policy. He’d fought Saurons almost—hell, his
entire
military career. If he’d learned anything, it was that you didn’t beat the Saurons by abandoning useful worlds and allies. What was the Empire but a collection of worlds held together by allegiance to a set of ideas and loyalty to the Emperor? How many strategic withdrawals could it make before that Empire of Man became another coalition or a petty kingdom with a fancy name?

“It could be a mistake. Men don’t fight as well if they think no one’s protecting their homes. Marines aren’t Sauron Soldiers; they aren’t automatons bred to fight for no other reason than to do battle—like
fighting cocks.”

If Lyons found Cummings’ view of the war disturbing, he didn’t show it. Ruthless hatred of an enemy like the Saurons was a positive asset, as far as he was concerned. “Nice speech, Colonel. But this has already been studied by several Admiralty commissions.”

Cummings examined the younger man closely; he appeared well-intentioned and even intelligent. However, it was doubtful that he’d done much of the fighting he was so expert upon. Unfortunately for the Empire, it appeared the time had arrived when loyalty was more important than competence or experience. It did not bode well for the Empire’s future.

“What are your orders, sir?”

“The new Directive is to abandon certain marginal worlds at the edge of the Empire of Man. If we remove those underused units from long-established bases, combine them with loyalist units Coreward and relocate them on secure bases, we will remove sources of possible future Claimant and Secessionist recruits. Plus, we will have moved our forces closer to the fighting. True, there is a trade-off, in that we lose a substantial recruiting base; however, the ships and manpower spared trying to defend these marginal worlds will allow the larger population of Coreworlds to be more efficiently developed and protected.”

“Admiral, that may be a good strategy with worlds of questionable loyalty, such as New Chicago, which will likely join the Secessionists the moment strong Imperial presence is gone. But it is not good policy for worlds like Haven where the tradition of Imperial service is long and well established. There was a time, before the War, when the units of the Seventy-seventh made up part of the Imperial Household troops.”

“The Admiralty is appreciative of Haven’s loyalty and highly appreciates the value of the Land Gators. While Haven is too far off the major trade routes to succumb to Secessionist propaganda or sedition, we cannot afford to take the chance that some long-lost second cousin of the Emperor might turn up there and raise an army.”

“Colonel,” Admiral Lyons continued, “the Land Gators are one
of the best units we have. They have a higher kill ratio against regular Sauron Soldiers than any division of the Imperial forces—except units of the Imperial Guard. The Empire needs the Land Gators and their loyalty, and we believe we have come up with a way to ensure both.”

“I’m listening, Admiral.”

“First, we’re going to promote you to General. We want you to command and accompany the Seventy-seventh Imperial Marines to their new garrison on Friedland. After the new garrison has been established, you will appoint a successor to command the division. Thereafter, your orders are to return to Haven as Commandant and immediately begin to evacuate the remaining training cadres, the Seventy-seventh’s support troops and garrison regulars.”

“Then what?” He wondered how Laura would take his latest career advancement; badly, he suspected. She would have been overjoyed at returning to Friedland, where her family lived and the home she kept urging him to retire to was located. How ironic, after they had traipsed all over the Empire, Friedland would now be the Seventy-seventh’s permanent garrison, while they left to evacuate Haven.
Another skirmish in a battle almost as old as our marriage.

“Then, you will be appointed, by His Imperial Majesty Alexander VI, as Commander-in-Chief of the Haven Volunteers.”

Cummings wasn’t yet sure how to take this
promotion
. In some ways it was more of a demotion, since he would no longer be line staff and soon—no longer a Marine. He was familiar with the Haven Volunteers; they had been formed during CoDominium times. Legend had it that John Christian Falkenberg, one of the architects of the Empire, along with Grand Admiral Lermontov and Lysander the First, was the guiding hand behind the formation of the Volunteers. They had served Haven well ever since.

“But you have heard enough from me. Let an old friend give you the details.”

Cummings heard the door opening behind him. When he heard Marshal Blaine’s familiar gruff voice calling for him to rise, he was as
surprised as if his father had come back to life. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Admiral Lyons left the room while they shook hands.

“Marshal, you look great.”
No exaggeration either
, he thought. The Marshal looked better—make that much younger—than he had almost ten years ago at Lavaca when Cummings had been on his staff. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear there was more hair on that high dome! And where had the wattles and wrinkles gone?

“Retirement…well,
semi
-retirement’s been grand. Even had time for regeneration treatments—the Admiralty insisted.”

“They couldn’t have found a better choice,” he answered sincerely. Blaine had single-handedly devised the divide and conquer strategy on Lavaca that had allowed the Imperial forces to outmaneuver and outthink their Sauron opponents. He was a national hero on Lavaca; his bust was on display in their Imperial Council Chambers.

“Glad you think so. You always did speak your mind, Gary. Probably held you back with the boards, but some of us have watched your career with interest over the last decade. The same ones who thought you might appreciate hearing what I’ve come to say from an old friend, rather than one of our young hotshots. Anyway, I’ve come with good news, and some rather interesting news. The good news is that the Admiralty believes that you’re a good candidate for regeneration. In fact, as soon as this meeting is over, you’re ordered to Lysander Hospital for the full treatment.”

Cummings didn’t speak, but he could feel his eyebrows raise and his jaw drop. It was almost unheard of for a commoner to get longevity and regeneration treatments. They were time consuming and expensive. So expensive only industrialists, shipping magnates and lords could afford them.

“What about Laura? Will she get the regeneration treatments, too?”

Marshal Blaine shook his head ruefully. “I fear not, old friend. The treatments are hideously expensive, even for the Admiralty. Especially now when we need most of our medical resources for the wounded. And, God knows, we have far too many of those.”

“But why?” he stammered. “How am I going to tell Laura?”
Isn’t
it bad enough that I’ve dragged her all over the known galaxy, but now I’m going to turn back the clock while she grows older. I’m fifty-five years old and the treatments will take me back to my early thirties, plus extend my life by half a century. How would any woman feel about her husband growing younger as she aged—especially one as high-strung as my Laura?
“This is not a gift you’re giving me, Marshal. I will get to watch my wife grow old and die before my eyes. Blast it, I may even outlive my own children!”

“I was afraid of this, Gary. It’s for the Empire. We need you, and commanders like yourself, if we’re ever to win this bloody damn war! If we lose, it’s not just the Empire that will disappear. It will be the death of mankind itself. These arrogant Sauron bastards are no more human than army ants. The Saurons just don’t realize it. Even many of our fellow commanders don’t. You and I do. We were at Lavaca, for Christ sakes. We saw just what Saurons are capable of and just how they think of us
cattle
. If the war is lost, how long do you think any of us
cattle
will live?”