Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  “Yes, sar, or I can make tea if Lady Allenson would prefer it.”

  “Where did you get hold of tea?” Allenson asked.

  “Oh, well you know, contacts,” Boswell said vaguely.

  “Tea would be most welcome,” Trina replied.

  “Right you are, ma’am.”

  Boswell disappeared.

  “Does he always dress like that?” Trina asked faintly.

  “No, sometimes the colors clash horribly,” Allenson replied. He thought for a moment. “How did he know who you were?”

  Trina laughed. “If you want to know what’s really going on in a house you visit the servants’ hall. Their intelligence service is second to none.”

  Boswell reappeared almost immediately with a silver tray holding a rather decent tea service including an ornate tea pot. A small plate of Garibaldi biscuits accompanied the refreshments.

  “I thought the dons had locked away their private possessions to protect them from us coarse soldiery,” Allenson said, noting the college coat of arms decorating the china.

  “Did they, sar?” Boswell asked. “The lock on the senior common room door must have been faulty because it opened with just a little push.”

  Trina covered her mouth but Allenson knew she was grinning from the sparkle in her eyes.

  “You can put the tray down. I’ll ring if I need you,” Allenson said, wishing he hadn’t asked.

  “I enjoyed helping you, quite like old times,” Trina said, sipping her tea. “You know, I’m glad Hawthorn has turned up.”

  “Really?” Allenson asked skeptically.

  Trina waved a hand.

  “I’ve never pretended to like the man. I admit I was not unhappy when he took himself off. Where did he go, incidentally?”

  “Apparently he was running a Rider trading station deep in the Hinterlands.”

  Trina nodded.

  “I assumed it would be something like that. Imprisoned in a labor camp under an assumed name was the other possibility.”

  “I thought he was dead,” Allenson said.

  “I never did,” Trina replied. “The Hawthorns of this universe aren’t so easy to kill. As I said, he was never my favorite but I’m glad he’s back. He’s devious, violent, ruthless and suspicious to the point of paranoia. He’s also utterly loyal to you. I can’t think of a better man to watch your back.”

  “He’s running a spy network inside Oxford.”

  “Really, I would love to see what he’s found out.”

  Allenson unlocked the file and let her flip through it.

  “Astonishing,” she said. “Where’d he get all this?”

  “Well . . .”

  “On second thought, don’t tell me. I suspect I don’t want to know the sordid details.”

  “What do you think?” Allenson asked, pouring her another cup of tea.

  “The same as you I expect,” Trina said neutrally.

  “Humor me; I would value a second opinion.”

  She grimaced.

  “If these reports of the Brasilian build up in Oxford are true, I suspect we are losing the logistic war. The balance of power is inexorably shifting in their direction.”

  Allenson sighed. “I agree.”

  “Presumably they’ll attack out of the city when they have a sufficiently favorable force ratio.”

  “I would in their position but they may be content simply to make the city impregnable while letting us stew.”

  Trina thought about that while she sipped her tea.

  Finally, she said, “Yes, that makes sense, so why would you attack if you were the Brasilian commander?”

  “Because the new pan-Colonial state consists of just two institutions, the Assembly and the army. Of these the army is by far the most important. The Assembly hasn’t even managed to decide on a Declaration of Independence. They could never hold things together without the army. Brasilia can stop the revolt dead in its tracks by destroying the field army. It’s a hostage to fortune pinned down here outside Oxford. The Assembly by contrast is a shambles.”

  “Then you have to break the log-jam immediately, Allen. Your situation isn’t going to improve.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Allenson replied sharply. “Sorry Trina, I’m angry at my own lack of foresight, not you.”

  “Look,” she said, “have you tried making a list of your assets and liabilities in the hope it might stimulate something. Come on, I’ll help.”

  “Very well.”

  He slipped his notebook out of a pocket and fished around until he found a pencil.

  “Your notebook? This is getting serious,” Trina said.

  “Somehow the act of physically writing on organic material rather than dictating at a hologram fires my imagination. I used to use it to write poetry.”

  He laughed.

  “Very, very bad poetry.”

  “I know,” Trina replied. “I sneaked a look at it when you weren’t around. So what are your assets?”

  Allenson jotted down notes as he went along.

  “Okay, let’s see, I outnumber them in light infantry, my troops are reasonably trained and enthusiastic, I’ve a few mortars and lasercannon, my logistical tail is uncutable and I also have some hydraulic pumps for what they’re worth.”

  “Liabilities?”

  “My army is green, brittle and I’m desperately short of heavy weapons.”

  “And their assets?”

  “Professional troops who will withstand losses, a position damn near impregnable to light infantry behind a poisonous marsh, and a major port facility for shipping in supplies and reinforcements.”

  “Their liabilities?”

  “Everything has to be transported in through the Continuum but as I can’t stop them . . .”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m not sure this is helping.”

  “Give your mind time to dwell on the matter,” Trina said. “You made your reputation in the Terran wars by not doing things the proper way. We can’t defeat a Home World by playing the game according to their rules. You showed how to beat them by changing the rules and doing the unexpected.”

  She looked him directly in the eyes.

  “It seems to me, Allen, that you need to stop wallowing in self-pity and start thinking around the problem. You have to find an indirect approach.”

  Hawthorn drank on his own at the end of a rough bar in a small village outside Cambridge. He was not exactly a social drinker; actually he was not exactly social under most conditions. The bar was almost empty. It had more patrons when Hawthorn arrived but the clientele drifted away as the evening progressed. The barman made an attempt or two at conversation with Hawthorn but gave up after repeated rebuffs. He moodily wiped a glass with a dirty cloth that probably added more smears than it removed. He approached Hawthorn.

  “Anything you require, master?” the barman asked, tentatively.

  “Another bottle.”

  “Will you be drinking it here or shall I wrap it to go?”

  Hawthorn fixed him with piercing blue eyes but didn’t answer. The barman placed the container carefully on the bar and found something to do elsewhere. Hawthorn poured himself another slug from a bottle of tonk sporting a brand that was new to him. He took a pull. It was no better or worse than any other but then he hadn’t expected it would be.

  The pub door opened. Hawthorn had his back to it but was able to monitor who came in or out in a mirror hung behind the bar.

  The newcomer paused to check out the room as if looking for someone. He was splendidly attired in voluminous purple pantaloons and an electric blue cape. The man came and stood by Hawthorn.

  “If you’re here to keep me company then you can bugger off, Boswell,” Hawthorn said, without turning round.

  Boswell signaled the barman with a raised finger and ordered a plum cider. He said nothing until the barman provided the requested beverage and departed.

  “No offense, Colonel, but drinking with you is not my idea of a rela
xing night out.”

  Hawthorn grunted, amused.

  “I need to tell you something and I wanted to do it where we couldn’t be overheard. In fact I didn’t even want anyone to know we had a private conversation.”

  Hawthorn put his glass down and looked directly at the servant for the first time.

  “Now you interest me. Let’s sit over there.”

  Hawthorn pointed to a table in a quiet corner. He walked around the table to take the chair with his back to the wall.

  “I was in a bar in Cambridge when this bloke started up a conversation about the cider,” Boswell said when they were seated.

  “You knew him?” Hawthorn asked.

  Boswell shook his head.

  “He kept trying to steer the conversation around to the general.”

  “Really, what did you tell him?”

  Boswell lifted his head and looked Hawthorn in the eye.

  “Nothing. I don’t discuss my clients.”

  “A good policy,” Hawthorn observed.

  “I didn’t think much of it at the time but I found out later that this bloke was in the habit of buying the soldiers drinks and talking about the general. Apparently, one of them had pointed me out as the general’s servant. I dunno, it just seemed odd when I thought about it so I decided to report the thing. Anyway, I have so I’ll bugger off.”

  Hawthorn stopped him by gripping his arm. He laughed as if Boswell had said something funny.

  “Some plum brandy for my friend, here,” Hawthorn said loudly to the barman.

  Hawthorn started a monologue about a girl he’d known who ran a burlesque show until the barman had finished serving them.

  “I don’t suppose you took any pics of our curious friend?” Hawthorn asked.

  “No sorry, but I would recognize him again,” Boswell said eagerly. “He had an unusual orange tint to his eyes and a mass of scar tissue on his neck.”

  Hawthorn smiled and inwardly cursed. There was nothing better at disguising a face than a few hideous defects to distract attention from everything else.

  “No matter, I will arrange a hard cash payment for you in a way that doesn’t look as if it comes from me.”

  “There’s no need for that, sar, I don’t need bribing. I pride myself on my loyalty to my clients.”

  “If I had any doubts about your loyalty, Boswell, I would have removed you long ago,” Hawthorn said, pleasantly enough, but something about his smile seemed to bother the servant. “It’s not a bribe but a bonus for services outside the normal expectation of your duties.”

  “Oh, a bonus,” Boswell said, brightening. “In that case I gladly accept, sar.”

  The way people divided simple acts into classes according to complex social rules had always puzzled Hawthorn. Especially with women. Some ladies had fixed fees for their favors while others required flattery and presents. It was all the same to Hawthorn, but apparently the difference was a matter of great importance to the women.

  And with people like Boswell, a bribe was an insult but a bonus was a compliment. It was still just money, something whose only value was in its usefulness to achieving one’s goals. No matter, Hawthorn learned society’s rules and how to game them.

  He had a rapid change of mind and insisted that Boswell keep him company for the rest of the evening’s entertainment. Boswell had chosen his moment wisely. It was very unlikely that anyone who mattered would ever hear of their meeting, but Hawthorn liked to play the odds. He wanted to leave memories of only a couple of pals enjoying a jolly evening. The best place to hide something was in plain sight. Hawthorn was a good raconteur and worked to keep Boswell in stitches. He left a decent tip for the barman when he finally paid up and they staggered off into the night.

  Actually Hawthorn was nowhere near as smashed as he looked. He came to a decision. Allenson’s security would have to move up a gear from a defensive reactive posture to a more aggressive proactive strategy. He was going to have to kick arse and get answers.

  It turned out that Trina had traveled with a number of cases of wine, plum brandy, and assorted sweetmeats in vacuum packs. Dinner in the officers’ mess that evening was a great success and not just because of the novel varieties of food. The leavening effect of the ladies transformed the mood. Allenson did his best to join in but he was not by nature a party animal and at the moment his responsibilities lay heavy on his shoulders.

  Sleep came slowly that night. He lay for what seemed a lifetime listening to Trina’s fluttering breath. When he did sleep it was fitful and much disturbed by dreams. Sari Destry danced in front of him singing a bawdy ditty about the indirect approach. She waved a document but danced out of reach whenever he tried to grab it.

  “Too slow, Allen, too slow,” she trilled.

  Somehow she disappeared to be replaced by Hawthorn, who balanced an impossibly heavy hydraulic pump on his shoulder.

  “Can’t wait for you to catch up, old son, I’ve got a battleship to build,” Hawthorn said.

  Allenson stood on the causeway above Oxford. Laser pulses reached slowly out for him like colored marbles rolling down the channels in a children’s toy. He soared into the air avoiding the fingers of light. His flight path went over Oxford.

  “Look that man’s got no clothes on,” yelled a small child pointing up at the sky.

  Women and girls laughed and pointed. He tried to cover his nakedness with his hands, which caused them to laugh all the more. In desperation he threw himself away from the city, trying to hide amongst the vapors over the marsh.

  Trina leaned out of her carriage and shook her head sadly to see him.

  “You’re not going to find the indirect approach by rolling around in the mud stark naked are you?”

  His stepmother sat next to Trina.

  “He’s always such a disappointment,” his mother said to his wife. “The wrong brother died.”

  Allenson flushed. He tried to defend himself but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He sank deeper into the mud. When he tried to climb out his legs wouldn’t work. Hawthorn sat on a stone pier fiddling with his pump.

  “Look it works fine even in the vapors,” Hawthorn said. “I could drain the swamp.”

  Kiesche appeared beside him.

  “It wasn’t the pumps that blew but something else. Some idiot always disobeys the rules and brings in an unauthorized bit of kit sooner or later. Kaboom!”

  Allenson tried to yell for help but his mouth filled with vile-tasting ooze. A strangled scream was all he could manage before the filthy stuff filled his lungs.

  He woke and sat up with a jerk.

  “What?” Trina said, dozily.

  “Just a nightmare, go back to sleep,” Allenson said.

  Eventually, he took his own advice. When he woke in the morning he knew just how he was going to capture Oxford.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Battle of Oxford

  Allenson adjusted the mask over his face until it covered his mouth, eyes and nose. It supplied metallic air that tasted like an iron-based tonic wine. A thick cable ran to a box strapped over his left hip that acted as an artificial lung. It filtered out undesirable vapors and pumped in nitrogen and oxygen. Exhaled air evacuated through a valve in front. Something in his humid breath reacted with the marsh vapors to create a white smoke that strung slowly into streamers in the light breeze.

  The mask design assumed the limited oxygen requirements of a man doing no more exercise than he would taking a gentle stroll. Unfortunately Allenson was helping to pull a line attached to a sledge loaded with hydraulic equipment.

  The sticky ooze sucked at his feet, making each step a struggle. He tried to remember which idiot had decided that it would be easier to drag sledges through the mud at the side of the peninsula rather than manhandle the loads along the rocky high ground. He couldn’t recall but he did remember which idiot had approved the idea—him.

  Not that he’d had much choice. He had explored the concept of modifying various vehicles to run a
long the peninsula but it was full of jagged stones. Sooner or later there would be a catastrophe letting explosive fumes into the motor.

  He took another deep breath, sucking in air against the resistance of the equipment and exhaling so hard that pressure built up in the mask. The mask lifted slightly. When it snapped back into position the merest trace of acidic vapor entered around the edge, stinging his eyes and nose. He resisted the urge to cough. The pressure pulse would probably let in more of the toxic whiff and crease his eyeballs for good measure.

  Steadying his breathing he took another step and heaved on the line. Something under his foot squirmed. The locals assured him that nothing bigger than a bacterium lived in the swamp, so the movement must be a release of gas. An unconvinced part of his mind toyed with pictures of large amorphous things with tentacles and parrot beaks. Get a grip, man, he thought, forcing his imagination back to sleep.

  The officer in front of him was on a rest period. He held a nightscope, one of the handful of devices that Kiesche approved for use in the swamp. Hawthorn ruthlessly strip-searched each soldier before they started, discarding anything with a power source that just might create a spark if it malfunctioned. Allenson insisted on being publically searched first to set an example.

  Guns were the first to go. Hawthorn personally chose each person for the security detail and muscle part of the expedition but it was still astonishing how many tried to smuggle in a pistol. Each one assured Hawthorn that he only had it as a safeguard for unforeseen circumstances. Hawthorn ignored it all.

  He encouraged the troopers provide themselves with a variety of sharp-edged and blunt instruments as personal choice dictated. Allenson could not imagine any circumstances where they might prove useful but such primitive weapons could do no harm and were a sop to morale. Many of the people Hawthorn selected were from the ranks of his security group rather than the line soldiery. This no doubt explained their attachment to clubs and the like.

  “About a hundred and fifty meters to go,” the officer with the scope said breaking into Allenson’s thought processes.