The drinks cabinet opened and placed three fluted glasses on the automaton, which extended its top surface to act as a tray. The machine moved back to Destry, who took two glasses, handing one to Sarai and the other to Allenson. Destry picked up his own drink and flipped a hand. The automaton drifted back to the corner of the room.
Allenson always found service automatons vaguely irritating. It would have been faster to pour one’s own drinks. Standing around waiting for a machine to slowly complete such a simple task seemed a sinful waste of time. That was the point, he supposed. Possession of service automatons demonstrated not just that one could afford them but that one was wealthy enough for leisure.
He sipped his fizz, which was rather good. The bubbling air and alcohol had a refreshing zing. The wine caressed the palette with flavor following upon flavor, and the herbs left a spicy aftertaste. He sipped again, hoping that this fashion would last longer than most.
Sarai uncoiled, swinging long legs out from under her bottom and stretching them in a single fluid motion. Her gown opened along the length of her thigh. She stretched, pushing her arms back, outlining her breasts under the thin material of her dress. A gentleman would have averted his gaze but Allenson was fixated.
He could not breathe. His stomach froze. Saliva filled his mouth but he could not swallow. Why did she have to do that? He had been holding it all together, treating her with the cool politeness appropriate for a friend’s wife. So why did she have to do that?
It was not her fault, it was his. She was younger than Destry, only two years older than Allenson, and she was elegant and beautiful. Why shouldn’t she relax in her own home? She was hardly responsible for his base instincts—he was. Allenson’s mind went around in a frantic loop. What a fraud he was. He had the exterior polish of a gentleman but he secretly lusted after his friend’s wife. Hawthorn was more honorable in that he was at least honest about his intentions. Hang on—what intentions—he had no intentions towards Sarai. Did he?
He was aware that he was holding his glass so tight that his hand was shaking. He forced himself to relax, letting his breath out slowly. He flashed a guilty glance at Royman. Fortunately his friend was looking out of the window at the gardens and so had noticed nothing. What had Sarai noticed? Had he insulted her?
Sarai was not looking at him. Thank God, she was oblivious to his social gaffe. The whisper of a smile played on her lips. A daemon whispered in his ear. Was she aware of his reaction? Did she enjoy it? Was she provoking him deliberately? He pushed the thought down, despising himself for even considering it. That was just another attempt to blame her for his weakness. He finished his drink with a gulp, taking no further pleasure in it.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Destry, Sarai, but I really should be taking my leave,” Allenson bowed.
“Leave?” Sarai asked, “but you have only just got here. What have you done, husband, to offend Allenson so? Can you not prevail on him to stay longer?”
“Indeed, Allen, you are very welcome to stay,” Destry replied.
“I thank you but . . .”
Sarai interrupted him. “Then it must be me? Fie, what have I done to insult you so grievously that you must rush away?”
She turned the full wattage of her gaze on him. Her irises were tinted lemon yellow to contrast against the blue shadow. He swallowed and began to babble.
“I, uh, really should get home, long time away, things to do.”
She lowered her head modestly but he could almost imagine that he saw that faint smile again.
“After all, Allen, it’s not as if anyone in the Allenson demesne has the slightest interest in you. Your stepmother could not care less where you are. Her attention is exclusively focussed on her own desires. Why not stay with more congenial company?” Sarai asked, patting the sofa cushion beside her to illustrate her point.
“Well, if you put it like that,” Allenson said.
“Excellent, then the matter is settled,” said Destry.
“Service—prepare the Yellow Room for a guest,” Sarai said.
The cube drifted out of the room through a door that opened automatically.
“Come now, Allen,” Sarai said. “Sit beside me and regale me with stories about your adventures among the mudgrubbers.”
“Well, I, ah,” Allenson replied, not moving.
“Or if you preferred you could take a turn around the demesne with me,” Destry said. “I have a new toy to show you.”
* * *
The manufactorum ran on a positive air pressure intended to keep dust out, so was entered through a double door airlock. Inside, it was gleaming white.
“Impressive, don’t you think?” Destry asked, pointing at a convoluted silver machine—a two meter cuboid; most automatons were cubic lately. The designers changed shapes every so often to stimulate sales.
“Is it working yet, Master Cruss?” Destry asked the technician who stood respectfully to one side. As a skilled employee, rather than an indentured servant, Cruss merited the title ‘master’. Cruss’s ‘skills’ would be considered slight by the standards of the Home Worlds, but this was the Cutter Stream where one had to take what one could get.
“Pretty much, sar,” the technician replied. “We had a little problem matching the manufactorum’s power fields to its inputs but I just kept fiddling with the frequencies until all the green lights came on.”
“Can we give Sar Allenson a demonstration?” Destry asked.
“Yes, sar,” the technician replied. He keyed a remote control and the faint hum of energy fields filled the manufactorum. Allenson’s hair stirred despite the still air and the metallic tang of ozone filled the air. He wrinkled his nose.
“There is still a bit of a mismatch between the power supply and the automaton,” the technician said, defensively, noticing Allenson’s expression. “But enough power is getting through to make it work.”
The automaton lifted off the ground and drifted towards the storage racks. It pulled modules off the racks and fitted them together in mid air, rotating the composite structure as necessary. The machine paused for minutes at a time, apparently inactive. However, a green flashing hologram of a turning wheel showed that it was busy establishing connections and links within the structure. Mechanically bolting the modular components together was a trivial problem—even the technician could probably do it if he had the necessary tools—but phasing matching the modules’ sensory, control and power systems was tricky.
After thirty minutes the automaton lowered the finished construct to the ground. The new machine was an agricultural tractor, a field automaton. It had four large solid wheels with scoops to get traction in mud. The elongate tubular body slung between them at axle height contained the drive and power systems. Sensory systems were contained on a rotating cylinder on the front. Mechanical arms at the rear deployed agricultural tools, such as ploughs and cutters.
The technician switched the tractor on with his remote. An orange hologram divided into squares appeared over the top. The technician pushed his finger through a large button, which began to flash. One by one, the orange squares flashed and turned green. When the whole hologram was green, it blinked and disappeared.
The technician bowed to Destry. “As you see, sar, I can make an automaton every forty five minutes or so, provided we have the modules in stock.”
“That tends to be the limiting factor,” Allenson said, drily.
“How many of these modules can you make here, Destry?” Allenson asked.
Destry nodded at the technician to indicate that he should answer.
“It varies from tool to tool. We have sufficient manufacturing automatons in house to make about half the modules used in this tractor, things like universal power plants, fuel cells and drive motors, but we have to import the more complicated control and sensory modules from Brasilia,” the technician replied.
“And some of the control components in the modules built here are also imported from the Home Worlds?” Destry as
ked.
“Yes,” the technician replied.
“How long does a tractor like this last?” Allenson said.
“Not long enough,” Destry replied ruefully. “There is no theoretical reason why we should not get four of five years out of them but something critical always seems to malfunction.”
“Could this construction automaton repair the field equipment?” Allenson asked, walking around it. “The machine seems sophisticated enough.”
“It could be upgraded, I suppose,” Destry replied. “But the intellectual property license charge on each repair would be prohibitive. It’s cheaper to make new tractors.”
“And we remain a reliable income stream for the Brasilian producer,” Allenson said, softly. “What happened to your old construction automaton?”
“It broke,” Destry shrugged. “We couldn’t repair it and it’s cheaper to order a new one from Brasilia than pay shipping costs on the old one both ways across the Bight and the cost of repairs at Brasilian rates.”
Allenson knew the answers to his questions before he asked them but he was curious to hear Destry’s answers, or to be more precise, to observe Destry’s reaction. But there was no reaction at all. As far as his friend was concerned, the system was as it was and Destry saw no reason why it should or could be changed.
“Thank you, Master Cruss, carry on,” Destry said.
* * *
Destry took out a packet and lit a cigarette, tapping the end to initiate a thermal reaction. He inhaled deeply.
“Sorry Allenson, forgot my manners,” he offered the packet to his friend.
Allenson politely declined.
“I am glad you decided to stay, Allenson,” Destry said. “Sarai enjoys your company.”
“Indeed,” Allenson said, non-committedly. He wondered where this conversation was going.
“Her family are at the center of society in Manzanita and I fear she gets terribly bored here on Wagner. I take her back as often as circumstances permit but . . .” Destry’s voice trailed off.
Sarai was a Tymbro, a wealthy merchant family with influence in the Cutter Stream legislature on Manzanita. Destry and Sarai’s marriage was an arrangement between old status and new money to mutual advantage. The Destry Demesne would have faced financial ruin without Sarai’s marriage settlement. Allenson often wondered if Sarai regretted the alliance. Her personal wishes would have been of little import, of course. House Tymbro would have expected her to do her duty.
There were personal advantages for her. Her social status as Lady Destry was considerably greater than Lady Tymbo, however wealthy the latter. Marriage status also gave her certain liberties denied to an unwed girl from an ambitious family. But Allenson had never seen Sarai show Destry much affection, let alone passion—and she was a passionate person.
“Was there anything else you specifically wanted to see?” Allenson asked, changing the subject.
“Indeed, the jaffa fruit harvest should be well underway. I may as well check their progress,” Destry replied. He examined his cigarette. “My genesurgeon says he will insist on another cancer flush if I keep smoking so heavily.”
He took another long drag before dropping the cigarette and extinguishing it with his boot.
The friends climbed back onto Destry’s quad-bike and continued their run through the demesne. Allenson rode pillion, at least the seat was more comfortable than that on a one man frame. The bike had soft balloon tyres, and an independent suspension and drive system designed more for traction than speed.
He enjoyed the ride. The rain had stopped and the Wagner air smelt fresh and new. Gusts of air carried traces of agricultural odors that hinted at the rich productivity of the farmland. Jaffa fruit had a distinctive clean sharp smell that became overwhelming as they neared the plantings. The crop required shelter from spring winds for early pollination so it was grown in ‘rooms’ surrounded by high bushes.
Early pollination meant early fruiting and the first fruits commanded the highest prices on the home worlds. You could quadruple your profit margin if you could get in before bulk of Wagner’s jaffa crop ripened. Some would be shipped home as fruit but most would be dried and reconstituted as jaffa juice.
Destry parked the quad on the edge of the fields and the friends walked into one of the rooms at random. The jaffa scent was so strong that it almost made Allenson gag. The smell was almost clinical, like disinfectant, recalling unwelcome memories.
“What in bloody Hell’s bloody name?” Destry asked.
The reason for such an overpowering smell was obvious. Jaffa fruits were scattered all over the ground. Some were sliced, others crushed into the ground. Destry tore up the aisle between the bushes. At the end, a field automaton methodically stripped the bushes of fruit with ultrasonic cutters, catching the fruit in fields and dropping them into a cargo hopper.
The beam focusing was inadequate to the task and many of the fruits fell beyond the reach of the fields. Barely half made it into the hopper unscathed. Destry hopped from foot to foot in anger.
“I gave firm instructions to use fleeks for the harvest. I even bought in extra fleeks all the way from Camphor. Our automatons are too bloody crude for this. Where the Hell is the bloody fleekmaster?”
They drove to the entrance to the next field. Inside, they discovered fleeks at work. Fleeks were size chimp-sized, but more bird-like than mammalian. They had long sturdy legs with a backward ‘knee’ joint—but only vestigial wings. A long neck and heavy pointed beak allowed them to probe the ground for the buried eggs that were their staple diet. They were covered in thin feathers colored in bright patterns of red and green.
Fleeks were no more intelligent than a chimp but they had excellent vision and manipulatory skills. Their bird-like brains could learn complex patterns of behavior so they could be trained in agricultural work, such as picking jaffa fruit. A fleek cocked its head, selected a fruit, picked it delicately and dropped in a hopper.
“The fleeks are making a better job of it,” said Allenson.
“But there aren’t enough of them,” Destry said. “The fruit will rot on the bush before they can harvest it all.”
The next field they tried was empty of both fleeks and automatons. They were about to move on when the friends heard a laugh from deeper into the crop. When they investigated they discovered a group of a half dozen servants lolling around eating the crop. One of the men was squeezing a jaffa into the open mouth of a woman lying on her back. Jaffa juice worth about five florins in a Brasilian cafe ran down her face onto the ground and she laughed again.
“Bloody Hell,” Destry said.
Allenson reflected that stress was severely reducing his friend’s vocabulary, understandable considering the circumstances.
“Who’s in charge here?” Destry asked. He had pink spots high on his cheeks and his voice shook.
The group rose to their feet and huddled together for protection.
“Well?” Destry asked, almost screaming the word, such was his anger.
“Please, sar, that would be the gangmaster,” a servant replied.
“Where is he?” Destry asked.
The group looked at each other for support. Eventually, a woman pointed towards a thick patch of bushes. The gangmaster staggered into view, attracted by the yelling. He attempted to slip a bottle into his pocket but missed, dropping it on the ground. He was followed by a woman servant who was still in the process of adjusting her clothing to cover a substantial bosom. The gangmaster stopped dead when he saw Destry and his face whitened. He sobered up faster than if he had taken a detox pill.
“You have ten minutes to get off this demesne,” Destry said, through clenched teeth.
“But I don’t work for you. I am employed by the hire company to oversee their servant teams. I can’t just leave,” the gangmaster said, pleadingly.
“Ten minutes,” Destry said, “and then my guards will have orders to shoot on sight.”
The man ran, pausing only to pick up his bo
ttle.
“Get back to work,” Destry said to the servants. “I expect to see progress in this field or I will take a whip to the lot of you.”
Allenson hid a smile. His friend was a kind-hearted soul who had never whipped a servant in his life. He did not even own a whip. But the servants were apparently convinced and attended to their task with vigor.
“I go away for one miserable trip and the entire demesne falls apart,” Destry said. “My father is getting old. He is Master of this estate in name only.”
“We all have our cross to bear,” said Allenson.
“You are thinking of your stepmother,” Destry said, giving Allenson a sharp glance. “I don’t know why you put up with her. You are well past maturity. By rights, control of your father’s estate should pass to you.”
“To Todd,” Allenson said, correcting his friend. “Todd is the elder.”
“Ah, yes, Todd,” Destry said.
Neither spoke. The sudden appearance of a quad, driven hard, spared them further embarrassment. Destry shaded his eyes.
“The fleekmaster, good, now we’ll get some answers,” Destry said.
The master was middle aged with greying hair and beard. Life had given him a stoop. He had grown to resemble the ornithoids he trained. He jumped off the quad and hurried to Destry, bowing low.
“I’m sorry, sar, it really was not my fault. I took every precaution,” the fleekmaster said. He wrung his hands together as if he was washing them. Allenson noticed that the man’s knuckles were arthritic.
“What wasn’t your fault?” Destry asked.
“The fleeks, Master Royston, the fleeks died. The new flock from Camphor had some disease. They passed it to our own birds before showing any symptoms,” the fleekmaster said.
“Didn’t you try quarantining the sick birds and dosing the rest with protective tonic?” Destry asked. “Yes, of course you did. Calm yourself, fleekmaster,”
The man looked greatly relieved, as well he might. Many a Master would have thrown him off the estate. At his age it would not have been easy to find a new home and employment.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 11