Into the Maelstrom - eARC

by David Drake

  “Jem’s shop?”

  “That’s what they call this world nowadays.”

  “I’m flattered,” Hawthorn said.

  Shrankin, the name of the man worn by the shell suit, jumped out of the vehicle.

  “Buggers, get the stuff off the wagon and take it inside,” he said to the driver who climbed into the back without a word.

  “Is he really called Buggers?” Hawthorn asked, mildly curious.

  “No idea,” Shrankin replied. “It’s what I’ve always called him. I’ve never asked to see his birth certificate ’cause he probably ain’t got one. Does his name matter?”

  “Suppose not,” Hawthorn replied, losing interest.

  He took the trader into the back room where he kept his purchases. They dickered over a price to be paid partly in trade goods and partly in Brasilian crowns. The negotiations were desultory as both men knew what price they would finally agree upon. It was simply a matter of honor to put up some show of bargaining even if they were both just going through the motions.

  A loud bang of wood on wood sounded from the shop, followed by a yell and another slam. Hawthorn flew through the door, lips pressed close together. A young male Rider glared at him from the other side of the counter. The Rider insolently lifted the counter hatch and slammed it again so hard that it tore off its hinges. Two of his friends standing in the entrance laughed and said something in their secret clan language.

  “Quiet beastspawn or I’ll gut you,” Hawthorn said in Kant, angling his laserrifle and caressing the trigger so that an orange sighting dot glowed on the Rider’s chest.

  “Want tonk,” the Rider said. “Got tokens.”

  The rider swayed slightly as he fumbled in a cloth bag tied to a greasy loin cloth. Hawthorn was amazed he could stand given the stench of stale tonk on his breath. The Rider extracted rectangular purple and gray trade tokens and tossed them on the counter.

  Purple and gray were the Mark of the Stream Administration. Hawthorn picked up one of the tokens and ran a thumb along the edge. A pattern code identified which trading post issued the token. It was not one of Hawthorn’s but that didn’t matter. Hinterland traders had an agreement to honor each other’s credit.

  “Shrankin, know anything about O’Zhang’s post?” Hawthorn asked, without taking his eyes off the Rider.

  “Got burnt out, three, four months ago,” Shrankin said from behind him. “O’Zhang lost his hands.”

  Riders collected hands from their victims as religious trophies. The term was used by people in the Hinterland as a euphemism for dying but in this case Hawthorn suspected that Shrankin meant it quite literally.

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Hawthorn replied, putting his laserrifle carefully under the counter.

  He tossed the token back at the Rider. The man fumbled the catch and the plastic rattled on the stabilized earth floor. The Rider attempted the catch with his right hand, which was odd as Riders were invariably left handed. This Rider held his left hand behind his back.

  “Token no good, maker dead so power gone. No tonk, feck off,” Hawthorn said.

  There was a dead silence. The Rider stared at him slackly as if his booze-sodden brain had trouble understanding that he had just been dismissed.

  “Women’s piss,” the Rider screamed and launched his body through the gap in the counter. He thrust upwards at Hawthorn’s lower torso with the flint knife that he had concealed behind his back.

  It was a beautifully timed strike despite the Rider’s apparent intoxication. If Hawthorn had recoiled the blade would have eviscerated him all the way to the rib cage, possibly nicking his heart or aorta before stopping.

  Hawthorn anticipated the attack and stepped forward.

  He deflected the knife strike with his right arm and pivoted, rabbit punching the warrior in the back of the neck as the man flew past. The Rider smashed head first into a cupboard and went down. Hawthorn put the boot in before he could get up. He kicked the rider in the side of the head and twice in the ribs. Something broke with a sharp crack after the last blow.

  Grabbing the Rider’s ankles, Hawthorn dragged the unconscious warrior back across the shop. His head left a trail of blood on the floor. Barging past the warriors at the entrance he dropped the wounded man in the dirt outside.

  The warrior’s two friends looked uncertain. One fingered a hatchet looped to a belt around his waist.

  Shrankin loomed like a bright yellow mountain behind them, waggling the discharge end of an ion pistol for emphasis.

  “I don’t think so, boys.”

  Hawthorn ignored them. He stomped back into his shop followed by the trader. The Riders disappeared carrying their out-of-it mate.

  “You took one hell of a chance,” Shrankin said, holding out a flask of plum brandy. “Why didn’t you just shoot him?”

  “And start a Blood Feud?” Hawkins replied before taking a pull of the liquor.

  It stung his tongue and burned all the way down his throat, reminding him that he was still alive. He took a slower slip, savoring the tangy fruit aftertaste.

  Hawthorn grinned and handed back the flask.

  “Besides, where would be the fun in shooting the bastard.”

  Shrankin joined him by sinking a generous measure. Hawthorn found a couple of glasses and the trader filled them.

  “There may be plenty of shooting soon enough,” Shrankin said.

  “Really, why?” Hawthorn asked.

  “The nobs are meeting at Paxton—”

  “On Nortania?”

  “You know of another one?”

  “No, just surprised at the choice of location. Why not meet at Manzanita or Trinity?” Hawthorn asked.

  “How the hell do I know? Do you want to hear about this meeting or not?”

  “Sorry, okay, continue.”

  Shrankin looked mollified.

  “As I said, the nobs are meeting at Paxton to organize a joint response and give Brasilia an ultimatum over taxation.”

  “Why, most of us don’t pay taxes?”

  “The nobs do,” Shrankin replied, refilling the glasses. “I’ve a mate who knows some guys in the militia. They reckon there’s going to be a war.”

  “I see,” Hawthorn said.

  “The Colonel of Militia is going to Paxton,” Shrankin said, tapping his nose to convey his subtle grasp of colonial realpolitik.

  Hawthorn started and put his glass down.

  “This colonel, your mate didn’t mention his name?”

  Shrankin shook his head.

  “Didn’t have to. Same colonel we’ve always had. The one who was a hero in the Terran War, Ballysin or something.”

  “Allenson?”

  “That’s the bastard.”

  Hawthorn put his laserrifle over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  “Oy, where you going?” Shrankin asked.

  Hawthorn turned.

  “Have you ever heard of amalgamated vertical business administration?”

  “No,” Shrankin replied, clearly confused.

  “Well, you have now. The trading post is all yours, an outlet for your distribution business. Just think, in a few years they could be calling this place Shrankin’s Shop or lemon-yellow land.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “I have,” Hawthorn said, “to see a man about a war.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Paxton

  Allenson’s carriage phased in over Paxton and began a slow circular descent through a sky crowded with frames. He had read about Paxton and seen video clips but the reality was still astonishing. The population must be four or five times that of Manzanita.

  Buller and Todd ignored the view. They concentrated on a heated discussion of the merits of various Brasilian football teams, particularly their chances in upcoming league matches. Both Brasilians were familiar with cities that made Paxton look like a village. Allenson wasn’t so he welcomed the chance to play tourist.

  Paxton had been founded as a commercial
venture by Exoticana Services, a consortium owned by three powerful Brasilian gens. It was really a series of towns strong along the edges of a ria, a drowned river valley complex. At some point the world of Nortania must have been in the grip of a snowball climate. When it warmed, water from the melting ice sheets had carved out steep-sided valleys which subsequently flooded as sea levels rose

  The hinterland behind the city must once been a mountain range but glaciers ground it down, flattening the peaks into a plateau. Rising sea levels then turned the terrain into a flat coastal strip partitioned by deep saltwater channels that acted to mediate weather already temperate.

  An astonishingly rich and agriculturally productive land resulted. Soils formed from glacial loess added to the fertility—something to do with varied mineral content, porosity and cation exchange capacity according to the farming manuals.

  The saltwater channels served as ready-made canals to move agricultural produce down-estuary to Paxton. Interworld ships could land directly there on the deep-water ria close in to the shore. Waterborne traffic was slow but extremely cost effective. The plants were in no hurry so the canals were still in use despite Paxton’s modern prosperity.

  A cross-Bight transporter and yacht lay floating at anchor. The cargo ship was docked at an industrial terminal, the yacht next to a bank dominated by the stepped up villas of the local gentry. Lighters shuffled between a dockside warehouse and the transporter, moving bales of plant material.

  Paxton was perfect for the growth and distribution of the genosurgeoned crops. That made it ideal for the mass production of high value exotic products such as narcotics, drugs, and perfumes. The low organic content of the soil was convenient as it facilitated the spraying of chemical precursors to fine tune the molecular constituents in the crops. Paxton Freeport prospered until it was one the most important commercial centers this side of the Bight.

  The extraction and blending of the target organics in the genosurgeoned crops was done on Brasilia under the direct control of Exoticana. The three families that owned the company shares had little interest in Nortania as such provided Paxton continued to supply a steady output of raw material.

  Neither Paxton nor Nortania as a whole had a Brasilian governor because the powerful gens involved hadn’t been keen on officialdom poking its nose into their business activities. The company maintained an office and small administration to oversee plant exports. Otherwise the commercial consortium was disinterested in government except in so far as it affected their business so the colonists on Paxton largely governed themselves. The locals had no interest in interrupting the trade on which their prosperity was based so everyone was happy; everyone except for a few political radicals and hotheads who were easily weeded out at intervals and exiled.

  Being centrally placed, neither of the Lower nor Upper Cutter Stream colonies, made Paxton an ideal neutral meeting place for the Assembly. The world had a suitably developed infrastructure capable of handling an influx of the great and the good. Such people could hardly be expected to live in tents and dig their own latrines while they discussed weighty matters of state.

  Allenson’s carriage descended to a commercial area behind the coastal villas. The region overflowed with shops, restaurants and inns. They parked beside Verdant House, a two-story public house built from dark varnished hardwood logged from forests deep in the lands beyond the Paxton agricultural zone.

  Buller booked into a different inn, much to Allenson’s relief. A little of Colonel Buller went a long way. The man alerted his hotel of his imminent arrival before landing so a complimentary ground carriage awaited him at Verdant House.

  Two large animals pulled it. They looked like descendants of an Old Earth tetrapod species although Allenson was unfamiliar with the strain. The beasts stood about shoulder high on the long thin legs of running animals. Muscle was concentrated at the top to lighten the limb itself so it could be swung backwards and forwards with minimal expenditure of energy in reversing momentum. The animals possessed a covering of wiry fur that flowed into long-haired tails and manes.

  Animal transport was rare in the Stream as the cost of keeping the animals usually outweighed any advantages conferred by a motor that reproduced itself. Of course, Paxton enjoyed a surplus of animal feed from the unwanted parts of the cash crops—provided the animals in question were plant eaters. This weighted the cost effectiveness of living compared to powered vehicles in the animal’s favor.

  One of the beasts looked at Allenson reflectively before issuing a tremendous methanic fart as a prelude to depositing a large pile of steaming waste. The composition dispelled any doubt as to the creature’s herbivorous habits. Allenson could see similar deposits around the frame park and resolved to watch his step.

  “Is that thing likely to do that often?” Buller asked the driver who was busy loading his bags into the carriage boot.

  “Old Buttercup does blow off a bit now and then, but don’t pay no mind,” said the man cheerfully. “Boys come round later and shovel it up to sell as fertilizer.”

  Allenson and Todd heard Buller complaining loudly over his datapad to his hotel about their complimentary transport as his carriage pulled away. Buttercup, whose ruminations had no doubt been excited by exercise, celebrated their departure with another sonic contribution.

  “. . . where’s the proper cars you keep for important guests . . .” Even Buller’s booming voice eventually faded with distance.

  Allenson thought Buller the sort of fellow forever doomed be disappointed by other people’s behavior. The universe would always fail to live up to his expectations.

  Allenson discovered he was hungry so he went in search of food right after unpacking. He couldn’t be bothered to chase around to find a restaurant so he elected to eat at the inn.

  “Is it possible to get a table for dinner, mistress?” Allenson asked the Verdant Green’s receptionist.

  “Of course, sar,” the receptionist replied.

  The young woman wore a tightly cut employee’s uniform that emphasized her slim figure. Her hair was tinted green with orange highlights in shades that complimented her yellow dress. She sat perched on a stool with a holographic screen open beside her. The receptionist peered at it, suggesting her eyesight was less than perfect at close-in focusing. Presumably glasses were beneath her dignity and genosurgery beyond her means.

  “In fact we provisionally reserved a table for you—just in case. Will your aide be joining you?”

  The girl smiled for the first time. He reflected that he always seemed doomed to travel with men who elicited smiles from pretty girls.

  “Ah, no, I believe he has friends in town that he intends to look up,” Allenson said, wondering why he was explaining himself when no would have sufficed. Pretty girls tended to have that effect on him. The girl switched off the smile as if a switch had been thrown.

  “I trust your room is satisfactory?” she asked.

  “What? Oh yes,” Allenson replied. “I will need to hire a servant for the duration of my stay. Can you suggest an agency?”

  “Of course, sar, I will arrange it.”

  Allenson pointed to a double door made of the same dark wood that formed the structure of the inn.

  “Through there?”

  The receptionist nodded and he entered to be seated by a floorwalker who was another employee. Everyone he met in the public areas of the inn would be employees, which was why the tariff was high. Indentured servants would work out of sight behind the scenes.

  The menu sported a variety of Brasilian dishes. He selected one more or less at random that involved fowl covered in fruit preserve. He chose a light fizzy spiced beer to drink while he was waiting. It was so pleasant that he ordered another. The dish when it arrived was a pretty good facsimile of the original. A local white meat substituted for the native Brasilian original but the fruit sauce was perfect, which rather surprised him. Streamer restaurants with pretensions to gourmet standards tended to boast Brasilian cuisine on the menu bu
t the reality was often rather hit and miss.

  Not that Allenson cared overmuch about food as long as it was hot and wasn’t going to poison him. However, he had attended enough formal dinners to tell a patina de pisciculis from an aliter baedinam sive agninam excaldatam, a thought that made him wonder not for the first time why it was necessary to write menus in archaic languages. Admittedly aliter baedinam sive agninam excaldatam sounded better than “steamed meat.”

  The empty restaurant slowly filled. A young man brought in an even younger girlfriend who stared adoringly at him as he talked. Allenson sighed. Youth was so wasted on the young, an unoriginal thought but true nonetheless. The waiter and floorwalker pushed two tables together to seat a group of older men and women dressed in conservative business suits. In Paxton, conservative equaled dark green with pink linings.

  The party conversed loudly, each trying to outdo the other. The bottles of brandy served to their table were clearly not their first attempt this evening to quench a raging thirst.

  Allenson finished his main course and the floorwalker brought him the sweet menu to peruse. He was slightly put off by one of the women in the party flashing covert glances in his direction. He had few illusions about his power of sexual magnetism. The attention was disconcerting so he wondered what she was up to. He glanced casually across to find her in a huddle with her fellow diners. They all turned to look at him.

  He felt his face burn and had to resist checking that his clothes were properly fastened.

  “Well, I’ll do it,” a florid-faced man said.

  He climbed laboriously to his feet and made his way unsteadily to Allenson’s table.

  “General Allenson? It is General Allenson, the victor of the Terran Wars?”

  Allenson gave a small nod of assent, resisting an urge to deny everything.

  “Rosy thought so,” the man said, slapping Allenson on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “She saw you at the victory parade on Manzanita.”

  He whipped out a datapad that he had been holding behind his back.

  “Could I have a selfie? It’s for my wife, not me.”