Into the Maelstrom - eARC

by David Drake

  “So you always intended making a procession through the countryside,” Hawthorn said sarcastically, throwing Allenson’s words back at him.

  Allenson smiled.

  “I anticipated it might be necessary.”

  He turned to Boswell.

  “Let’s go and inspect the vehicle.”

  “Yes, sar.”

  They went behind to where Boswell had parked a large flat rectangular box about ten meters long and colored olive green. Scrapes on the hull revealed the livery of many owners during its no doubt long and eventful life.

  “Don’t tell me that’s it?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Ah, yes sar,” Boswell replied nervously.

  Steps with a single handrail were mounted on the front. Allenson pulled himself up.

  A well contained a cycling position on each side and a raised pulpit in the center for the driver. He or she navigated the barge from a standing position so had an excellent view out to all sides. The middle section was filled in but most of the hull was given over to a cargo bay at the rear. Walkways and handrails ran down the sides.

  Boswell used one of the handrails to swing up besides Allenson.

  “The tail gate comes down for easy loading, sar. But the real reason I chose her was this.”

  He shuffled over to the center section and unclipped a concertina-hinged inspection panel. A series of wired-up control modules and three large cells filled the compartment. The registration plate had a series of letters indicating a Terran military source.

  “The previous owner wanted something reliable for trading out to the Hinterland colonies so he acquired this power pack from a sort of friend of a friend who was also a cousin of mine.”

  Boswell dropped the inspection panel, which slammed shut with a sharp click.

  “It’s yours if you want it. I know she ain’t pretty but she’ll do the job.”

  “That she will. This will do nicely, Boswell, very nicely indeed,” Allenson said. “Add ten per cent for yourself as a finder’s fee and charge the Assembly.”

  He turned to look down at Hawthorn.

  “Might as well start as I mean to go on.”

  Boswell jumped down. “I can get seats put in the back and even a food dispenser. It wouldn’t take much to rig up a canvas cover and foldaway beds in case you need to camp out.”

  “Good idea, can you find someone to undertake the task within twenty-four hours?”

  “Of course I can, General. I know just the man.”

  “A cousin?” Allenson asked.

  Boswell grinned.

  “Nephew, sar, the brother of the hotel receptionist. I find it pays to keep business in the family. That way I can keep an eye on things. Make sure they’re done right if you follow.”

  “I do indeed Boswell.”

  “Captain general?” asked a voice behind Allenson.

  He half turned to find a slim man of indeterminate age and swept back oiled hair. The man tilted his head to one side and studied Allenson forensically.

  “Carry on Boswell,” Allenson said, turning to face the newcomer squarely. “And you are, sar?”

  “Timmons Redley, at your service, sar. I practice at the Nortanian Bar.”

  Which in plain language meant he was a local lawyer.

  “The Nortanian delegation at the Assembly believed I might be of some use to you as a special political advisor as I have some little experience of the legal and social customs of the Upper Bight colonies.”

  Redley wore a sober gray suit of modest cut quite unlike the normal flamboyant Nortanian dress.

  “You are not Nortanian born then?” Allenson asked.

  “Indeed, no. I went to college in Port Trent. I obtained a masters in law on Brasilia although I spent much of my early life on Trinity.”

  Port Trent Law School had only been open for a few decades so Redley must be in his early thirties. Theoretically it conferred degrees recognized by Brasilia but in practice no Brasilian academic institution would accept a colonial certification on terms of equality. There were Brasilian colleges that specialized in “quicky” masters for colonials as a way of sanitizing their qualifications.

  Allenson shook Redley’s hand.

  “Well, I confess that now I consider the matter an advisor with local knowledge would be helpful but we will be leaving almost immediately for Trent.”

  “Yes, General, I know. With your permission I shall come with you.”

  “So be it. You will need a military rank to be taken seriously, say, colonel. I have the authority to appoint you but not, I regret, to pay you a salary.”

  “I have no need of one, sar.”

  “In that case, welcome aboard Colonel Redley. May I introduce you to my aide, Lieutenant Todd Allenson, and Colonel Hawthorn who is my head of SP.”

  “I see,” Redley said, looking up at the massive figure of Hawthorn standing hands on hip on the barge. “SP?”

  “Special Projects,” Hawthorn replied.

  “Special Projects,” Redley repeated, pursing his lips.

  Allenson noted that he ignored Todd’s outstretched hand. Clearly mere lieutenants flew below Redley’s radar horizon even when they shared the same surname as a general.

  “I heard about that cock-up you made of siting a base at Nengue,” Buller said. “Really Allenson, on a flood plain in the rainy season and overlooked by hills as well.”

  Buller chuckled and shook his head.

  “Have I ever told you how I took Castle Aikan by storm?”

  “No, I never heard that,” Redley said, gazing at Buller in admiration.

  “Quite a pretty problem it was. Aikan is sited on two hills with fortified walkways linking half-buried bunkers. A river looped around three sides leaving only one possible line of attack. Of course they had that covered by all their heavy weapons.”

  Buller arranged bits of the meal he was eating to represent the layout of the battlefield.

  “I think I need to check how Boswell is getting on,” Allenson said.

  He climbed over the engine compartment of the barge using the handrail to steady himself and looked around.

  The Brasilian Military constructed The Great North Road at the end of the Terran wars to link the First Tier colony worlds and provide a jump off into Terran controlled worlds. It pacified the Continuum so the ride was reasonably smooth even for such a wallowing transport.

  Allenson helped build a road into the Hinterland as part of Chernokovsky’s ill-fated expedition. A chain of solar powered satellites in real space created the calmed path through the Continuum. This eased travel, extending the speed and range of frames. More roads like this could open up the Hinterlands to colonization and industrialization. Unfortunately, Brasilia had lost interest once Terra had been driven back across the Bight. Indeed, they weren’t even maintaining this route properly. The barge had already crossed a bumpy section probably caused by a malfunctioning satellite drifting out of phase. Another couple of decades and the road would fall into disrepair, triggering something of a recession in the colonies.

  The large trans-Bight ships were too big to use roads so there was no particular pressure from the large Brasilian merchant gens to expend taxes on its upkeep. It was only the local Stream traffic that would suffer.

  Boswell stood in the driver’s pulpit, steering the barge into energy eddies along the road that ran in the direction they were traveling. Dull work but a human pilot could drive the barge so much more efficiently than automatics could. They passed a container truck steered by an automatic pilot that smacked the bow into every stray wave of turbulence. Allenson was so glad that he had hired Boswell for the trip. Smooth sailing was less wearing on the barge’s mechanics. More importantly it stopped Allenson from having to swallow motion sickness suppressants or throw up every hour or so.

  “Everything okay, Boswell?” he asked, moving to stand beside him.

  “”She’s a real honey, General,” Boswell said, waving his left hand to encompass their vehicle.

>   “Good, good, how long to Samson’s World?”

  Samson’s World had a market town serving the local community so possessed facilities to recharge the barge.

  Boswell ran a finger across the control panel, flicking through pages of data.

  “Not more’n two hours, sar. But we have plenty of power remaining. We could press on to Forty-Three. There’s a station there where we could stop.”

  “Forty-Three?”

  “The world’s navigation almanac number.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Don’t rightly think it’s got an official name, General. On Nortania it’s just called Icecube. Never been there so I don’t know why.”

  Allenson considered. It would be useful to press on while they could but Samson’s World was a known quantity. He checked the navigation almanac on his datapad. Forty-Three was listed as a way station not a town or farming community. Oddly enough it was the latter that tipped the balance in his mind. They had already made one stop at a farming community of small villages on a world called Arcadia.

  Word of his arrival had spread like wildfire and by evening local time throngs of villagers in dance clothes arrived to throw flowers. They insisted on escorting him to the best, indeed the only restaurant, in the village. He was not sure whether the good people of Arcadia were ardent separatists or simply desperate for any excuse for a party.

  Whatever, it was possibly the most excruciatingly embarrassing moment of his life. Certainly up there with the time a girl with whom he was currently besotted persuaded him to sing and play the ukulele in an amateur dramatic performance. Todd, his brother not his nephew, had declared his performance the funniest thing he had seen since someone tried to teach a fleek to ride a bicycle. If Icecube was simply an industrial center, he doubted anyone would have the time or inclination to acknowledge his presence let alone throw flowers.

  “I thought I might get some exercise,” Todd said, edging past Allenson on his way to a pedaling bay.

  “There’s really no need, sar,” Boswell said. “We have more than enough power in the cells.”

  “Nonetheless, that’s my intention,” Todd said, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

  “That bad,” Allenson said, sympathetically, to Todd.

  “Buller’s now explaining how he brilliantly ambushed the Syracusan armor at Kesserine Pass using prunes to represent tanks. I don’t think I can take any more.”

  “He’s certainly talented as a commander,” Allenson said.

  “And doesn’t he know it?” Todd replied. “Do you intend to go back and avail yourself of more of his wisdom?”

  Allenson looked over his shoulder. Buller was on his feet waving both arms and gesturing.

  “You know, I believe I could also do with some exercise.”

  Wherever there is civilization there is a bar like The Leaping Frog. It may be in an inn, a public house, a hotel or even a temple but behind the façade it is always the same: the same barman, large, taciturn, seeing and hearing nothing, the same smell of stale booze and staler breath. The original had probably been located in a stone-age cave with bad drainage. Hawthorn possessed a talent for sniffing out such places. Why he went to them and what he did there was not something he felt moved to share with his friends.

  The Leaping Frog squatted in a narrow alley between two warehouses. A dirty flickering neon sign in the form of a two-legged lizard advertised its location. Steel shutters perched on pegs above grimy windows that permitted little inspection of the interior. No doubt the pegs could be withdrawn from the inside, dropping the shutters to seal off the building. The closed door was surfaced with peeling layers of plywood painted blotchy green. Hawthorn suspected it was far more substantial than it looked, probably incorporating mechanisms that could bar it against anything short of a battering ram. The Leaping Frog was not an inviting hostelry but then it probably neither wanted nor expected passing trade.

  Hawthorn unceremoniously kicked the door with a toecap reinforced with crystallized silicon carbide. When nothing happened he kicked a bit harder. A hatch at head height opened and a face peered out. It was not the sort of face that would give comfort to small children or swooning maidens—too many scars and contusions for that—but the Frog was not a nursery and any maiden who swooned within its interior was unlikely to retain her maidenhood for long.

  “Whaddaya want,” Pug-Ugly asked.

  Hawthorn gave a name that was not his own to gain entry. The door opened. He walked into the dimly lit interior, ignoring the doorkeeper’s hopefully outstretched hand. The bubble of sound in the bar died away.

  He stopped in the entranceway and removed a cigarette case from an inside pocket. Selecting one of the contents, he placed it in his mouth, swapping the case for a small disposable lighter with which he ignited the fag. The pause gave him time to take in the bar’s clientele although he did not seem to take an interest. They also studied him with equal phony nonchalance.

  What would they have seen? A stranger, a tall man, heavily built without much sign of fat, dressed in casual, functional but expensive well-tailored clothes that failed to tally with the scar on his head. They would have noticed that the battered cigarette case was made of a ceramic inlaid with precious minerals. Some might have wondered how such a desirable item might be transferred into their own possession.

  A glance at his eyes would dissuade such ruminations. Piercing blue and as cold as church charity, they lacked any trace of gullibility or fear. These eyes would not gaze sympathetically on men with treasure maps, sick aunts or knives held out at threatening angles.

  Hawthorn took a deep drag and exhaled, adding his own small contribution to the murky atmosphere formed by people smoking herbal concoctions more potent than the imported tobacco he favored. He quite deliberately swept his eyes around the room. Most of the incumbents developed a renewed interest in minding their own business. A group of men who sat around a table in one corner stood out in that they ignored him, carrying on with some game that involved slamming wooden counters down in front of stacks of coins. Hawthorn ignored them in return and headed for the bar.

  Background sound slowly refilled the room.

  “Tonk, double,” Hawthorn said, flipping a quarter crown down onto the plasticized surface.

  The barman put a glass on the counter and poured him a generous measure from an unlabeled bottle. He collected the quarter and dropped it into a pouch in his apron. He didn’t offer change or utter a word of thanks. The Leaping Frog would not rate highly for service in any tourist guide.

  Hawthorn lifted the glass with his left hand. He took a gulp of the Tonk and grimaced. God knows what they cut it with. He threw the rest down his throat in one go so he didn’t have to taste the stuff.

  “Again,” he said to the barman, resting his empty glass on the counter.

  The man filled it with another measure.

  “I’m looking for a man called Bishop.”

  Silence, complete silence, instantly cloaked the room.

  “I understand he drinks here,” Hawthorn said, unperturbed by the shock he had inflicted on the locals.

  The barman gave him a look of utter contempt and turned away, busying himself with something behind the bar.

  “We don’t like people asking questions. Maybe you’d better piss off before you get hurt.”

  Hawthorn turned around to locate the speaker.

  One of the players had left his seat.

  Hawthorn leaned back, both elbows on the bar. The speaker glared at Hawthorn truculently, waving a fist that looked as if it could be used for hammering in nails. The bully had a broken nose and a cauliflower ear suggesting boxing was not entirely foreign to his nature.

  Hawthorn sighed. He considered going through the preliminary ritual of exchanging insults but, decided it would be a waste of breath. He came off the bar astonishingly quickly for such a heavyset man and threw his Tonk into the bully’s eyes.

  Whatever they cut Tonk with in this bar clearly s
tung, because the bully screamed and raised both hands to his face. This left his midriff invitingly exposed. Hawthorn was not the man to look a gift horse in the mouth. He dropped his right shoulder and punched his fist a good six centimeters into the bully’s relaxed stomach muscles.

  The creep folded, releasing a woomph of air like a large ruminant passing wind. In doing so he stuck his chin out at waist height. Hawthorn, drew back his fist.

  “Good night,” he said, and struck.

  He put his full one hundred and twenty kilos behind the punch. The bully’s head rocked, not fast enough to stop his jaw deforming and breaking with a sharp crack. He flew across the room into a sitting customer and the two cartwheeled in a crash of breaking wood.

  Hawthorn clenched and unclenched his fist to restore the blood flow. He was, he thought, getting too old for this. He sauntered over to where the gamers sat and took the vacated chair. After all, the previous owner had no further use for it.

  “Who feckin’ said you could sit down?” a youngish thug on his right said.

  Hawthorn ignored him. He carefully observed the small man sitting opposite him. Dark hair flopped down over one eye. A small forked goatee beard without moustache lent the man a satanic appearance. Without taking his eyes off the small man Hawthorn inclined his head to indicate the thug.

  “I didn’t see your hands move. Are you working that dummy with your foot?” Hawthorn asked.

  The thug stood up. His hand hovered in what he no doubt took to be a menacing manner over the hilt of a knife worn in a sheaf fastened ostentatiously to a strap across his chest. The knife would no doubt serve to intimidate mild mannered shopkeepers and bespectacled clerks. Hawthorn worried more about weapons that he couldn’t see.

  The knife-bearer sat down when none of the rest of the party stood up to back him.

  “What’re you playing,” Hawthorn asked, examining the hand of the man he had replaced.

  The counters were stood up on one end so the other players couldn’t see the symbols on them.