“Quick work,” Allenson said. “I would not have thought it possible to connect the water hoses in that short time.”
“They don’t hang around. Time is money to those interworld guys,” said the chauffeur.
Container ships crossing the Bight used fusion motors that supplied an infinite stream of energy. The problem was heat build up. The ships had iron heat sinks that were chilled to near absolute zero before sailing. Heat sink capacity limited a ship’s range and speed. The further, or faster, a ship travelled, the more heat had to be stored. This required larger heat sinks. The extra iron in the larger sinks created greater drag so the ship used more energy to move, creating more heat, requiring more iron for the heat sinks and so on. It all ate into cargo capacity raising the cost of transport per tonne. The Cutter Stream current across the Bight gave just enough help to make the shipping lane economically viable. A current flowing down a similar chasm in the Continuum from the Brasilian Colonies around the interworld port at Perseverance boosted ships back to the Home Worlds.
On landing, freshwater was forced into the ship and superheated steam vented. It would take two or three days to flush the heat out of the ship and then chill the sinks using onboard systems. By that time rain would be falling all across the region. The vast military and civilian ports on the Home Worlds used closed systems to extract waste ship heat, preventing climate instability and supplying useful energy. Such expensive technology was beyond the reach of the Cutter Stream Colonies and not really required, given the limited interworld traffic.
Colonial ports required a large supply of cheaply available freshwater. Salt water would not do as it clogged ships’ heat exchangers. Clearwater port existed because Lake Manzanita offered an unending supply of free freshwater. And so Manzanita City had grown into the largest city and administrative capital of the five worlds of the Cutter Stream.
There were two empty aprons large enough to dock interworld ships. Loaded interworld ships were heavy and surprisingly fragile. They required hard stands that were perfectly flat to within a millimeter, and that stayed flat under great weight. Otherwise the stresses on a loaded hull would exceed tolerances. So the aprons were reinforced with ten meters of layered syncrete.
Military transports and pleasure yachts had reinforced hulls and self leveling landing struts capable of withstanding the stresses of soft landing sites, but this raised operating costs and severely limited cargo capacity. Even with these modifications, disasters occurred, such as when a landing strut on the cruise liner Morning Gold broke through the roof of an underground stream, cracking open the hull. Casualties were few but the wreckage had served as a useful source of luxury items for the colonists.
Worse catastrophes had occurred. An entrepreneur had tried to set up an interworld port on Wagner but had cut costs by using substandard local syncrete on the landing apron. Subsidence caused the apron to crack under the first loaded interworld ship to dock.
The entrepreneur escaped prosecution only because he was vaporized when the ship broke its back and its heat sinks failed. The builder was sued by vengeful investors who doubted his explanation for the catastrophe—a freak meteor strike. He fled Wagner the day before the court case, disappearing into the Hinterland never to be seen again.
The crater became something of a ghoulish tourist attraction. An enterprising hotelier had done quite well out of a romantic vacation lodge there until one of his competitors started a rumor that residual radiation in the crater caused impotence and acne.
Half a dozen small tramp-ships squatted on less impressive hard-stands strung along the shore of Lake Manzanita. These were short range vessels that moved goods in an around the various colonies, including Farnen Port on Wagner. One tramp had been cannibalized; the pylons were gone and a cargo door was missing.
The carriage left Clearwater and moved out over the lake, paralleling the causeway that ran to the island on which stood Manzanita City. Manzanita government buildings clustered around a plaza at the end of the causeway. The commercial district in the center of the island boasted a cluster of high rise structures, some up to five stories. Villas were dotted among gardens along the shore and town houses crowded together anywhere there was a space. At least ten thousand people lived on the island, making Manzanita City the greatest center of population in The Stream. Allenson had always found the place immensely disturbing.
The social structure on Wagner was reassuringly simple. There were only three classes, the gentry who owned the land, the middle classes who were smallholders, tradesman and employees, and the indentured servants. Allenson knew exactly where he stood in the social pecking order. But Manzanita City society had many more layers and parallel vertical structures. The agents of the shipping houses and mercantile combines were not gentry but they were wealthy and powerful, possessing a greater sophistication than any of the Wagner families save the Destrys. Then there were the technocrats who ran the bureaucracy, who were appointed from the clients of the senior gens of Brasilia. They spoke with the authority of both the Republic and of their aristocratic masters. Allenson found it difficult to navigate his way through this social minefield.
On Wagner, Allenson was a big fish in a small pool. Manzanita City was an ocean by comparison, an ocean filled with sharks and barracuda.
The friends’ carriage headed for the VIP drop-off point in the plaza, right outside the Council House. They had to wait some little time in a queue for their turn to land. Allenson found the short delay interminable and fidgeted, unnecessarily adjusting the hang of his jacket. It was tempting to tell the chauffeur to head for a less busy location but that would have sabotaged his entire purpose.
Hawthorn alighted first and deferentially held open the carriage door for Allenson to step onto the red-carpeted platform. Only Allenson saw Hawthorn’s smirk. He had an urge to giggle nervously but instead fixed his face into a bored expression, as if he had not opened a door since he came of age.
Hawthorn slammed the door shut and spun a half crown to the chauffeur. The man plucked it expertly from the air before phasing out the carriage. A maître d’affairs stood at the end of the platform watching Allenson with disinterest. Seen one colonial gentleman, seen them all, his demeanor implied.
The maître was splendidly attired in the purple and gray colors of the Manzanita bureaucracy. Of course, he made no attempt to speak to Allenson personally. Hawthorn marched across the carpet and whispered something into the maître’s ear. The man had to remove his gold-brimmed cap and tilt his head as Hawthorn overtopped him by nearly half a meter. Indigo flashed as a half crown changed hands. Allenson reflected that politics was proving to be an expensive business. Hawthorn retreated to stand by Allenson.
The maître touched his lapel to activate a microphone. “Sar Allen Allenson Of Pentire, Acting Inspector General for Military Forces of the Cutter Stream to see Sar Stane Fontenoy, Vice-Governor of the Cutter Stream.”
His voice boomed out of hidden speakers all around the Plaza, carefully orchestrated with delays so that the words arrived like a series of diminishing echoes. Allenson’s name and picture would already be logged with Fontenoy’s appointment secretary and such other officials as might need the information. The maître unclicked the catch fastening the twisted golden strands that roped of the back of the platform. Allenson walked off the platform followed by Hawthorn.
Officials, merchants and gentlemen stopped their conversations to examine Allenson. Sharp glances assessed the new player in Manzanita politics. Some did not seem overly impressed; others looked thoughtful, obviously assessing how this interloper might impinge on their own interests.
Allenson had an urge to break into a jog trot, to clear the focus of interest as fast as possible. He forced himself to ignore the gawpers and use slow measured steps. The display was all.
Hawthorn wrinkled his nose. “The air pollution over Manzanita isn’t getting any better.”
He looked around. “Impressive architecture though.”
; The dome of the Council House sparkled silver in Manzanita’s harsh blue-tinted sunlight, making Allenson squint. The Cutter Stream Legislature met in the theater beneath the structure. The dome sat atop a blockish rectangular building that was faced with a dark grey stone laced with purple marbling. It looked like a novelty cake.
“Something was lost when they resized the plans from the original,” Allenson said, shading his eyes.
“The Palace of the Council on Brasilia is more impressive, then?” Hawthorn asked.
“I have never seen it in the flesh,” Allenson replied, carefully, “but the original design looks more balanced in pictures.”
“Ah, pictures.” Hawthorn snorted cynically. “Girls always look prettier in their portraits—and men taller.”
He paused and gave Allenson a quizzical look. “Are we going in or what?”
“Yes, ah, yes definitely,” Allenson replied.
He took a deep breath and marched across the plaza.
They passed through a static field inside the portico of the Council House that cleaned and conditioned the air. It lifted their hair and rustled their clothes.
A cough sounded.
“Perhaps the gentlemen would care to refresh themselves from the rigors of travel.” An attendant in a purple and gray worksuit indicated that they should enter an atrium.
“When in Rome,” Allenson said quietly to Hawthorn, quoting a proverb whose provenance was long lost. His butterfly mind made a note to look up Rome when he had a chance. He forced the thought down and focussed on the matter at hand.
An entire team of flunkies fussed over them with brushes, polishing cloths and refresher sprays. When the attendants had finished, they walked around the friends with two full length mirrors so they could observe themselves in the round. Actually, their appearance was much improved. Hawthorn doled out more coins, threepences this time. A strict class hierarchy governed gratuities.
* * *
Spiralled grey columns decorated by purple mineral veins supported the hypostyle’s high roof. Purple and gray square flags paved the floor, reinforcing the corporate color scheme. The walls were decorated with mythical scenes from Old Earth. Cavemen armed with muskets and pikes hunted fabulous creatures such as dragons, blue whales, unicorns and kangaroos.
The hypostyle’s sound dampers were either switched off or even reversed. Footsteps could be heard clearly from all over the hall, echoing of the walls. Young women, in gray employee dresses and purple hair, manned reception podia that were scattered at random throughout the hall like a handful of pebbles thrown across the floor. Allenson picked the nearest free podium. The sounds of the hall cut the instant he entered the podium’s damper field. The girl glanced down at her screen
“Sars Allenson and Hawthorn, to see the Vice-Governor,” the girl said, before Allenson could open his mouth.
She waited patiently looking at them, her eyes lingering momentarily on Hawthorn. Allenson hesitated before deciding that her statement was actually a question and that she wanted confirmation. He havered; pretty young employees tended to unnerve him.
“Yes, Inspector General Allenson of Pentire and his aide to see Vice-Governor Fontenoy on a matter of some urgency,” Hawthorn said, cutting in.
The girl touched her screen, and frowned. “You don’t have an appointment. The Governor is extremely busy, perhaps if you could come back tomorrow?”
Allenson flushed. This was precisely the sort of run around that he had feared. His status would fall immediately if he was publically rebuffed and forced to join the end of the queue.
Hawthorn turned the full mega-wattage of his smile on the girl who visibly wilted.
“This matter is urgent and important,” said Hawthorn. “I am sure that slots are reserved in the Governor’s schedule for unexpected events. By the way, has anyone ever told you that you have the most intriguing eyes?”
The girl blushed. “Well, if it’s important.”
“Oh it is,” said Hawthorn leaning in towards her. “And if you are free while I am in town please give me a call. Perhaps you could show me the sights.”
“I can only pass you on to the Governor’s private office,” the girl said, weakly.
“That will be fine,” Hawthorn said.
The girl’s fingers dance across her screen. A tray slid out of the podium containing broaches depicting the Cutter Stream logo. She affixed one to each of their jackets, smoothing Hawthorn’s down to make sure it was properly aligned.
“The broaches will guide you. Just follow the arrows,” the girl said.
“Thank you,” said Allenson.
Hawthorn winked at the girl and passed her a coin. She blushed again and quickly looked down at her screen.
The hubbub of the hall returned as soon as they left the dampened area around the podium. A purple arrow appeared in the air in front of Allenson, curving to the right. He could not see one in front of Hawthorn, or anyone else for that matter, which probably meant that the broach hologram was tightly focussed so as to only be visible from the perspective of the wearer.
The broaches guided the friends down the hall to a set of high narrow wooden doors decorated in gold curlicues sculpted over the inevitable purple and grey panels. They were guarded by an attendant in a uniform that had seen better days. The purple had faded to the point where it clashed horribly with the surroundings.
“Inspector General Allenson to see the Vice Governor,” Hawthorn said, playing his role of aide to the full. He palmed the attendant a threepenny coin. The man checked his podium before ceremonially pulling open each of the doors. He was a somewhat weedy fellow and had to throw his full weight into the act. One of the upper hinges on the right door needed oiling. It grated in a way that Allenson found highly irritating. Couldn’t anyone in the Manzanita bureaucracy use a lubricant spray?
The friends mounted a long narrow staircase that ended in a waiting room, the central feature of which was a podium manned by a slim woman of perhaps thirty or forty years. She wore a blue business suit, a discrete purple and gray silk scarf indicating her allegiance to the Manzanita bureaucracy.
Wooden benches covered in gray leather lined the walls. A half dozen men and women sat on them. A number looked the new arrivals up and down, no doubt trying to gauge their political importance. One man had wedged himself into a corner and was clearly asleep. Another chewed his nails compulsively, inspecting them every so often. Hawthorn went back into aide mode.
“Sar Allen Allenson of Pentire, Acting Inspector General for Military Forces of the Cutter Stream to see Sar Stane Fontenoy, Vice-Governor of the Cutter Stream,” he said to the woman.
“If you would like to wait,” said the secretary motioning towards an empty bench.
“The matter is of some importance,” Hawthorn said, not moving.
He displayed his most dazzling smile, but unfortunately the secretary was made of sterner stuff than the girl downstairs.
“Of course it is important,” she said sweetly, “or you would not have got this far.”
“It is also urgent,” Hawthorn said.
The woman interrupted him. “It is always urgent.”
“And Sar Allen has but little time to devote to this matter,” Hawthorn said, doggedly.
The woman gave a sardonic smile that all but invited them to leave if they wished. Allenson’s heart sank. They might wait for days on those benches, getting progressively bumped down the list as more important supplicant’s appeared.
“On a different note, has anyone ever told you that you have the most intriguing eyes?” Hawthorn said, sincerely.
“My eyes have been much remarked on by certain persons wishing to see the Governor, also my mouth and hair,” said the secretary, cynically.
But Allenson noted that she nevertheless smiled back at Hawthorn. Women found it difficult not to.
“The Governor no doubt relies on you totally, but he must let you escape from the office eventually,” said Hawthorn.
“Oh, I sometim
es sneak out of a side door,” the secretary said.
“I was so hoping to immerse myself in some of Manzanita’s cultural life,” Hawthorn said. “But one needs a discerning guide to derive the most appreciation from sophisticated pleasures.”
“No doubt,” said the secretary, clearly enjoying the flirtation. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
“I had not really thought about it,” Hawthorn replied, furrowing his brow. “But wait, how silly of me not to think of it sooner? You, yourself, would be the perfect companion.”
The secretary tilted her head to one side and lifted her chin, showing her profile to best advantage.
“And would my husband be invited to come?” she asked.
“I see no reason to bother him on my account. Two, in my experience is the perfect number for a cultural diversion.”
The woman smiled and shook her head. Hawthorn pressed on.
“Sar Allenson really is short of time. He has just returned from leading the Harbinger Survey Expedition into the Hinterland . . .”
“Has he?” the secretary asked, interrupting Hawthorn.
The woman slipped out of flirtation mode and morphed into the perfect, efficient PA. She took a silver stylet out of a top pocket and wrote something on her screen without waiting for Hawthorn to answer. She made a series of notes, writing with her right hand and keying the screen with her left.
This was a somewhat tedious way of conveying information, but it meant that she could discourse privately without impolitely excluding the Governor’s supplicants by a damper field. Thus the Governor’s privacy and the visitors’ status were both protected.
She waited a few moments until an icon formed on the screen. “Vice-Governor Fontenoy will see you now,” she said formally.
“Hang on, I was next,” said a florid-faced man, rising from his bench.
“You were next,” said the secretary, coldly. “Now you’re not.”
“Thank you,” Allenson said, smiling an apology at the bumped supplicant. The latter sank back with an exasperated snort but forgo comment. If he annoyed the secretary too much he could find himself in the waiting room until he died of old age.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 14