“If you are into that sort of thing, I know where you can obtain a higher quality product,” Hawthorn said, drily.
Allenson blushed, provoking a wicked grin from Hawthorn.
“I was checking the battery,” Allenson said defensively. “It’s nearly exhausted. Another twelve hours and it would have died.”
Hawthorn squatted down beside him. “I doubt if it is good for more than a week’s continuous use.”
“Yah, someone was here recently, and they were probably Terran.” Allenson pointed to the manufacturer’s logo on the unit. “Let’s have a look around.”
“Good idea, but first go back to your frame and fetch your carbine,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson’s first instinct was to argue. After all, what could happen to him in this empty spot? A moment’s reflection raised several possibilities, none of them pleasant.
“Righto,” he trotted meekly back to his frame.
It did not take long to find a filled in waste pit, containing empty supply packs of the type issued to Terran soldiers. The sod had been carefully replaced over the top, but had died. Perhaps something in the waste was poisonous to the native flora.
“Someone, presumably Terran surveyors, have been to a great deal of trouble to conceal this campsite,” Allenson said. “So why leave a player running? They might as well have put a neon sign up. That’s just damned careless.”
“Hawthorn grinned. “I would imagine the scenario ran something like this. Private Pratt bunked off to give himself a treat when Sergeant Scary came to find him. Pratt clocked Scary coming and quickly stashed the player behind a tree, intending to come back for it later but never did. Scary probably kept an eye on him from then on to make sure he was pulling his weight. What’s Pratt going to do? Complain to an officer over Scary’s head?”
“Put like that, no,” said Allenson.
“It’s the little things and the little people that trip up the plans of the great and the good,” Hawthorn said. “The Pratts of this life do not share the goals of their masters.”
“I must remember that,” Allenson replied. “We may as well camp here for the night and get some rest. Tomorrow, we can go on to the Terran post when we are fresh.”
“At Stikelstad,” Hawthorn added.
“Very good, sar,” Payne said.
Allenson smiled. He had been hoping that Hawthorn had failed to analyze their path so he could casually drop the real name of their destination and be one up on his friend. He should have known better.
“What are we going to do with them?” Hawthorn nodded casually in the direction of the Riders.
“We don’t need a guide anymore, and four Riders are a fat lot of use for an escort against the Terran military—not that I anticipate any problems. Terra and Brasilia are currently at peace even here across the Line.”
It was not unknown for skirmishes between Brasilian and Terran forces to occur over the Line, as the Bight was sometimes called, even when relations between their Home Worlds were cordial.
“I am tempted to send the Riders home. I can think of several reasons why we should not encourage Riders to have dealings with the Terrans,” Allenson said.
“It certainly is not in our interests for them to become pally,” Hawthorn agreed.
Payne cleared his throat.
“You wish to make a point, Master Payne?” Allenson asked
“Well sar, it occurs to me that the Riders might still be useful as an escort on the way back. Maybe we could leave them here?”
“What a good idea,” Allenson replied. “Explain it to them, if you please, Master Payne.”
* * *
Allenson picked up a Terran beacon and rode it down to the Terran post on Stikelstad. He briefly considered trying to sneak up for a quiet reconnaissance but rejected the idea. The beacon was Government issue and he led a diplomatic mission, not a raid. It would send all the wrong messages if he was caught. Such an open signal also implied that the Terrans were confident they could defend themselves, so he locked onto the beacon and let the automatics guide him in.
His frame semi-phased into realspace four or five hundred meters out from the post, and perhaps a hundred meters up, except that it wasn’t a post; it was a fort.
It consisted of four large two floored buildings arranged around an open square courtyard. Diamond-shaped bastions projected out from the corners, making a continuous fortified structure. A field gun in the center of the nearest bastion tracked his frame as he approached.
The automatics landed the party in the middle of the yard. A young officer, resplendent in the scarlet uniform of the Terran Regular Army, sauntered to greet them.
“Brasilians?” the officer said. “We don’t usually get Brasilian visitors in this part of New Terra.”
“New Terra?” Allenson asked. “Surely this part of the Hinterland has been claimed by Brasilia.”
The officer gave an expressive shrug and pointed to the Terran flag hanging from a horizontal pole over the entrance to what Allenson assumed was the headquarters building. Possession, the officer seemed to imply, was nine tenths of the law.
“And you are?” the officer asked.
“Sar Allenson of Pentire, Inspector General of the Cutter Stream Militia,” Allenson said. “Here to confer with your commanding officer.”
“I see,” the officer said. It was obvious that he didn’t. He also appeared to have problems coping with unexpected events outside his training.”
“If you would wait here . . .” the officer began.
Allenson interrupted him. “Lieutenant, my aide and I have had a long and tedious journey and we need to tidy up before meeting the Commandant. You will show us to rooms appropriate for gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir,” the young officer said.
“And my civilian guide, Master Payne, will also require appropriate hospitality,” Allenson continued, remorselessly.
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, looking miserable. Allenson guessed that someone was about to lose their space, probably the most junior officers.
“You will also want to arrange for our luggage to be unpacked from our frames and brought to our rooms.”
“Yes, sir, if you will follow me, sir.”
The lieutenant turned.
“Lieutenant!”
“Yes, sir?” He turned back.
“Have you stopped saluting senior officers in the Terran Army?”
“No, sir.” The Lieutenant’s hand shot up in a parade ground salute.
After a brief pause, Allenson casually raised his own hand to his forehead. “Lead on.”
The young man trotted off, and they followed.
Hawthorn caught Allenson’s eye and winked.
“I thought I’d start as I mean to go on,” Allenson said somewhat defensively to Hawthorn in a low voice.
“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Hawthorn said. “Mind you, I am not sure you are properly dressed to meet a Terran commandant.”
“I will be. I have my uniform in my luggage,” Allenson said.
Hawthorn grinned. “Unfortunately I forgot to pack mine. I had best leave you to it, then.”
“On the contrary, you will be coming with me,” Allenson said. “I was concerned that your memory might fail you so I had Master Payne pack your uniform.”
Allenson felt a smidgeon of guilt at Hawthorn’s discomfiture, but only a smidgeon.
* * *
“Inspector General Allenson of the Cutter Stream Militia, and his aide, to see Commandant Bolingbrook.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, that will be all,” Bolingbrook said.
At first glance, Commandant Bolingbrook looked like the presenter on a children’s entertainment show. He was bald with elaborate waxed moustaches that projected well beyond his cheeks. They were a startling black, contrasting with an entirely bald head. A portly figure, in his scarlet uniform, he resembled a roley poley man, a children’s toy that always rolled upright no matter how hard it was struck.
Allen
son marched across the room to the Commandant’s desk, saluted and removed his hat, tucking it under his arm. The downside of having a large white feather in his cap became apparent when he nearly poked himself in the eye.
“My credentials, sir,” Allenson said, slipping his data pad out of his pocket.
Bolingbrook waved the pad away. “I am sure your credentials are in order, Inspector-General. You can download them to my clerk later. A tiresome necessity, I am afraid, but it gives the administration something to do. I always find it pays to keep them busy or they start poking their noses into other peoples’ business, what?”
“Yes, sir,” Allenson replied.
Bolingbrook conveyed the attitude of a gentleman who would not dream of questioning another gentleman’s word and so was mildly embarrassed at having to require him to jump through hoops for a load of tiresome bureaucrats. Allenson found himself warming to the man almost immediately.
“Pull up a chair and relax young man. We don’t stand much on ceremony here in the wilderness.”
Allenson did as he was bid. Taking the Commandant at his word, Hawthorn did likewise without waiting for an invitation.
“Is this merely a courtesy call or are you here on some specific mission?” Bolingbrook asked.
“I am afraid I have a demand from my government,” Allenson replied.
“A demand, eh, that sounds serious,” Bolingbrook said. His smile and easy manner implied that he did not take it seriously at all.
Allenson proffered his datapad again and just as before Bolingbrook waved it away.
“Something else for my clerk to file, I fancy. Why don’t you summarize the main points for me?”
“Well, sir, it’s very simple. This fort has been built on territory claimed by Brasilia and my government requires you to leave immediately,” Allenson said.
Bolingbrook looked at him and chuckled. Allenson felt his face reddening.
“Sir, this is not a laughing matter.”
Bolingbroke shook his head.
“I admire your pluck, Allenson. I have a fortified barracks that could not be taken by any force this side of the Bight. It is defended by one hundred armed men and four guns. You march in with one aide and a civilian guide and announce that you are evicting me. I am afraid that I take my orders from Geneva, not from some pleasant youths from a Brasilian colony. I mean no insult to you or your uniform, but it is a laughing matter.”
“I must protest, sir,” Allenson said.
“Of course you must and your protest is duly noted, but neither you nor I are responsible for our nation’s strategic policies. You may go back to your superiors in Manzanita and tell them that their request is denied. Or, better still; refer the matter back to Brasilia.”
“Some might consider this an act of aggression little short of a declaration of war, sir,” Allenson said, hotly.
“Really? I fear you are showing your inexperience, young man. Your superiors say this is Brasilian territory: mine consider it part of New Terra. I see no reason why you or I should argue. This is a matter that we can safely leave to our principals in the Home Worlds to thrash out.”
Allenson found himself at a loss. He had not considered what he would do if the Terrans were courteously obdurate. He had already pushed his instructions to their limit. He had no authority to threaten Bolingbroke and, to be realistic, had nothing with which to threaten him. Bolingbroke obviously grasped this point quite clearly.
“Come, come, Inspector-General, do not look so glum. You have carried out your duty admirably. Now enjoy our hospitality for a few days before you start the arduous journey back to the ’Stream. You may look around Fort Rivere to your heart’s content. You can convey to your superiors how much effort it has taken to build such an extensive base and how unlikely Terra is to give it up lightly. That might prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings.”
Bolingbroke stood up, indicating that the interview was at an end.
“My officers are keen to host a dinner in your honor in their mess. May I pass on your acceptance?”
“Of course, sir.” Allenson stood and bowed.
What else could he do? It would be ungentlemanly to refuse hospitality. He would not have the Terrans think Cutter Stream colonists were uncouth.
Later that night, he and Hawthorn made their way somewhat unsteadily out of the mess.
“I would be surprised if a gentleman like Bolingbroke would bug our rooms but there may be others less scrupulous,” Allenson said. “So why don’t we take a turn around the courtyard while we talk.”
“If that is the Terran idea of an informal gathering then I doubt I would survive one of their formal dinners,” Hawthorn said. “The only thing longer than the list of courses was the speeches. I did admire your address on Terran-Brasilian relations, by the way.”
Allenson winced. “Fortunately, the Terrans were drunk by the time I was called on to talk so I doubt they will remember any of it. At least I hope not. We may as well take the opportunity to look around the fort tomorrow. We will be dancing to Bolingbrook’s tune but the chance to examine their defenses is too good to miss.”
* * *
“So what are those holes in the walls for, Bombardier?” Allenson asked, with as much wide eyed innocence as he could muster. “Couldn’t an enemy fire through them into the bastion?
“Bless you, sir,” the Terran NCO replied, indulgently. “We call them, embrasures. The gun can be taken off point defense and retargeted to fire through them. Matilda here will make any enemy standing in line of sight of they there embrasures all carboneezy.”
The Bombardier patted the gun affectionately and chuckled at his own wit.
The gun was disturbing impressive close up. It was a quadruple laser that rotated, firing each barrel in turn. That allowed a high rate of fire for a weapon with low grade components and a limited power supply. Each barrel had time to cool and recharge before rotating back into the firing position. It would still be a useful weapon even if a barrel or two overheated and malfunctioned.
A set of power driven gimbals gave the gun an all round traverse and variable elevation right up to vertical so all sectors of the sky could be targeted. Handles and sights showed that the gun could still be manually operated if the power drive or automatics failed. It was a robust and practical heavy weapon, entirely suitable for a colonial fort.
“Indeed, how jolly ingenious,” Allenson said, in his persona of naive young gentleman.
He wandered over to the embrasure, bending down to look out. The embrasure splayed outwards from a narrow throat on the inside wall, optimizing the trade off between giving the gun the maximum sweep and presenting an enemy with the minimum target to shoot back through.
“I notice that the gun can only fire to the right or left. What do you do if an opponent attacks the bastion head on?” Allenson asked.
“They would be swept by fire from the bastions to each side of us, sir, all carboneezy, no worries.”
The bombardier seemed fond of that word.
“It’s better to fire down the flank of an attacking line rather than head on,” the Bombardier said. “You get more of them in a single burst, that way, you see.”
Allenson could see only too well. Every direction was covered by intersecting cross fire from two guns. A handful of men could hold this fort against a much greater number of attackers.
Earth was piled up between the embrasures to reinforce the protection offered by the log wall and to give a banquette, a platform, for troops to fire over the top. The bastions were theoretically vulnerable to artillery shells dropping inside but you would need a high rate of fire to get a shell intact through the point defense system. That was a lot of mortars and ammunition to haul through the Hinterland.
“I know what you are thinking, sir,” said the bombardier. “They are only wooden walls and one good shot from a heavy cannon would smash them to splinters.”
Actually, Allenson was thinking no such thing. How the hell would you get a siege
artillery piece as far as Stikelstad?
“But we are throwing up an earthen embankment one hundred meters out to block direct fire and give us a killing ground. Engineer-General Vorbon, himself, recommended this design for the colonies of New Terra.”
Vorbon was considered the greatest expert in fortifications of his generation. Allenson thought it unlikely that he would have overlooked anything. Fort Rivere could only be taken by a regular military force with heavy weapons.
Allenson’s data pad beeped. A message from Hawthorn asked him to come to the front gate.
* * *
“I have been on a little tour of the grounds,” Hawthorn said. “There is something I think you should see.”
He led the way, following a well trodden path. They went past a convict group manually digging out a ditch. The earth was grainy yellow ochre, almost like sand. The convicts were dressed in loose-fitting grimy orange boiler suits, presumably so they would show up from the air if they tried to flee. They dug with little energy and less enthusiasm.
A Terran soldier in scarlet uniform guarded the group. His gun lay on the ground, and sat with his back against a tree stump, smoking. He jumped up when he saw Allenson and Hawthorn, dropping the fag and scooping up his rifle with a practised movement.
“Private Pratt, I presume?” Allenson asked rhetorically, under his breath.
“Oh there will be many Private Pratts in an army,” Hawthorn replied. “At least he didn’t give his weapon to a prisoner to hold while he had a kip.”
Allenson glanced at his friend unsure if he was joking. He decided not. The soldier saluted, Allenson and Hawthorn returning the compliment by touching their hats. The convicts stopped work and gawped at the friends, obviously impressed by their gaudy uniforms. The soldier ordered them back to work but seemed not to care whether they obeyed him or not. The last sight Allenson had of the man was of him searching in the grass for his dropped cigarette.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 20