“That is a staggeringly incompetent way of constructing anything,” Allenson said.
“The ditch will get dug eventually,” Hawthorn said, casually. “And what else would the convicts, or Private Pratt, be doing?”
“At one level, I am glad to see that the Terran colonial system is at least as inefficient as ours. On another, I despair. This is no way to build a civilization.”
Allenson became aware of a rhythmic chugging.
“What on earth is that noise?” He asked.
“Steam generator,” Hawthorn replied. “They have a manufactorum complex, over there.”
He pointed further down to where the path wound into some trees.
The wood was only a few meters deep and beyond it was a set of one floor wooden buildings, thrown up roughly from local timber. Steam drifted from a chimney. Under a lean-to, three men sliced up timber into building planks using a power saw. An artisan controlled the machine and two convicts pushed wood through manually.
“Good grief, there are no guards on that machine. The accident rate must be awful,” Allenson said.
“Plenty more convicts where they came from,” Hawthorn said, cynically. “Especially after that revolt on Unteranglia.”
Unteranglia was a Terran province on the Home Worlds side of the Bight. It had an eccentric orbit and was barely capable of supporting human life but was an important mining center. The workers had formed a guild and stopped production to demand better food and living standards. The resulting riots had been ferociously put down by the Terran security lictors and the guild members sentenced to an indefinite term of hard labor at the state’s convenience—which usually meant life.
Allenson opened his mouth but shut is again without commenting. It was not so different from Brasilia’s system of indentured servitude, and he would not play the hypocrite.
Hawthorn pointed at the largest building, which was the size of a warehouse.
“You need to see what’s in there,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson wondered why his friend was being so mysterious. He soon found out. The warehouse was filled with assembled and part-assembled transport frames, large enough to be useful but small enough to navigate the chasms around Stikelstad. Allenson wandered among them, noting troop transports, baggage transports and load carriers.
“Larissa,” he said to Hawthorn. “They are going to fortify Larissa. That must be what this is all for.”
“If they control Stikelstad and Larissa . . .” Hawthorn’s voice trailed off.
“Then they control the Hinterland all the way to Nengue,” Allenson said, flatly. “We can’t let that happen.”
CHAPTER 15
The Short Way Home
“Sar, sar,” Payne was waiting for them at the fort gate, hopping from foot to foot in agitation.
“Calm yourself, Master Payne. Take a deep breath and tell me the worst,” Allenson said.
This morning, after you left, I saw someone sneaking out of the fort. I know him, sar,” Payne said.
“Yes,” Allenson said, encouragingly.
Payne took a deep breath.
“His name is Lars Costeen, sar. He’s a Terran, or at least he says he’s a Terran. No one knows, really. Don’t suppose he knows either. I ’spect he made up the name.”
Payne paused again. Allenson resisted the urge to snap at the man. Showing irritation would only unsettle Master Payne further, which wouldn’t help.
“Costeen was raised by Riders, you see. He was the only survivor from a village.”
“What!” Hawthorn said. “You must be bloody joking. Riders don’t adopt human children. I never heard of such a thing.”
Payne shrugged. “Well they did. Costeen was old enough to speak human when he was taken so he sort of became a half and half, Rider and human, a foot in each camp, you see.”
“This Costeen isn’t left handed is he?” Hawthorn asked.
“Left handed? No, I dunno.” Payne considered, looking at his hands and turning around to work out the mirror image of a left-handed person. “Yes, he is.”
“That might explain it,” Hawthorn said.
“You saw this Costeen sneaking out of the fort,” Allenson said, in an effort to get Payne to the point.
“Yes, sar, and I wondered what he was up to so I followed him. He had a frame hidden out where the shanty town is.”
“What shanty . . . ?” Hawthorn asked.
Allenson stopped him with a glare. They would be here all night if he kept asking Payne questions.
“I couldn’t follow him, because my frame was back at the fort, but he must have gone to Larissa.”
“What makes you think that?” Allenson asked, sharply.
“Because he’s come back, and he’s brought our Rider escort with him,” Payne replied.
* * *
The party for Allenson’s escort was in full swing when he went down into the Courtyard. There were at least a dozen Riders present. Presumably, others had come in from the shanty town to add to the gaiety of the throng.
The Terran Captain in charge, Bateman, had insisted the Riders leave their beasts and weapons outside the fort walls, but otherwise allowed them to camp in the corner of the courtyard. He had even piled up some wood for them to have a fire. The courtyard was lit by spotlights on the inner walls of the buildings. Allenson looked carefully, shielding his eyes from the glare. He could just make out the silhouette of armed guards at open windows behind the lights.
Bateman looked like the sort of aristocratic young fop that does a stint in the regular army before taking his rightful place in politics. However, looks could be deceptive. Bateman was fluent in Kant and exchanged shouts with the Riders. Each Rider had a bottle of tonk, and judging by their behavior, had already imbibed liberally.
“Good evening, sir,” Bateman saluted. “Glad to see you came down to join us. Our Rider friends have already entered into the spirit of the thing.”
“So I see,” Allenson said tonelessly, casually touching his hat
“Would you care for a drink?” Bateman asked.
“Tonk isn’t really a favorite of mine,” Allenson replied.
“You jest of course, sir,” Bateman said. “I have reserved plum gin for the gentleman.”
Bateman raised his hand in the air and clicked his fingers. All the time he kept his eyes on Allenson. A Terran private soldier hurried over with a glass for Allenson. He slipped on something unsavory and spilled the drink.
“Sorry, sir, sorry sir,” the soldier said. He looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
For just a moment, Bateman forgot he was a fop and silenced the soldier with a reptilian glare. “Get another one, now.”
While Allenson made small talk with Bateman, he remembered Trina’s advice and was just himself, a minor Brasilian colonial gentleman. It was useful camouflage when Bateman tried to pump him about the Cutter Stream’s military capabilities. He even started to enjoy the game as he tried to pump Bateman in turn.
“Big men, all big men,” The Viceroy said, putting his arms around Bateman’s shoulders and breathing tonk fumes. Bateman winced but managed to keep the smile pasted on his face.
“Terra box-men boil my father, eat him,” the Viceroy said. He laughed until he doubled over in tears.
Allenson could not help but notice that the Viceroy seemed more familiar with Terra as a political concept than he had let on during their negotiations at Nengue. The Viceroy was either a very fast learner or he was playing a deeper game.
The interruption gave Allenson the chance to disengage from Bateman. He discovered Payne on the edge of the party, staring morosely at a fizzy drink that looked grey-green in the dim light.
“I’m sorry, sar, if I hadn’t suggested that we ask the Riders to wait for us at Larissa this would never have happened.”
“Not at all, Master Payne, you advised—I decided—and I take responsibility for my decisions. I am not even sure it was a bad decision, just an unlucky one. We could not have
foreseen that this Costeen fellow would be here. Talking of which, is he here? Could you point him out to me?”
Payne indicated a shrivelled up runt of a man. Allenson moved determinedly in his direction. Costeen shied away but Allenson would have none of it.
“Costeen, I believe,” Allenson said.
Costeen grunted, not looking at Allenson. Allenson gripped him by the left arm and turned him round, so the man had to face him. Costeen had rough scar tissue on his face, passing right through the right eye socket. The remains of the eye looked as if cauterization by fire had been used as treatment. Allenson was unmoved. He had seen worse inflicted as the result of agricultural accidents and knife fights.
I understand that you lived with Riders, Costeen,” Allenson said.
Costeen grunted again. Allenson stared at him eye to eye until Costeen looked away.
“Yes, sar.”
“That’s better Costeen, I dislike communication by grunt,” Allenson said. “Have you ever ridden a Rider beast?”
“Yes, sar,” Costeen replied.
“Have you controlled one?” Allenson asked.
This was the big question. Human attempts to tame and ride beasts had not been entirely successful as the beasts inevitably crushed any human who climbed inside their crystal arrays. Beasts would be so useful if tamed. They could carry up to four riders, and without all that exhausting pedaling. The first people to control beats would own the Hinterland and beyond.
“No, sar. A Rider did the controling. I just went along as a passenger.”
“I see,” Allenson said. “How does a Rider give instructions to a beast?”
Costeen looked directly at Allenson, meeting him eye to eye for the first time.
“I don’t know. I wish I did. Sometimes the Rider talks to his beast, sometimes he prods it and sometimes he just ignores it—it all works, just the same.”
Allenson accepted Costeen’s ignorance. Indeed, he had anticipated it. Why would the man use a frame if he could control a beast? But he had to ask. He tightened his grip on Costeen’s arm until the man grimaced in pain.
“One last thing, Costeen. You interfered in my business today to my disadvantage. I will overlook it this time but will not be so tolerant if it happens again. Do we understand each other?”
Payne said nothing so Allenson squeezed a little.
“Yes, yes, let go of me.”
Allenson released him and he scuttled off rubbing his arm. A drunken Rider reeled past screaming, clawing at Allenson for support. He pushed the Rider away. The man fell over and vomited, rolling in his own spew. Sickened, Allenson walked away. Bateman intercepted him.
“Leaving, Inspector-General Allenson? The night is yet young,” Bateman said.
“I have not yet developed a taste for partying with Riders,” Allenson replied, trying not to sound provincial.
He handed Bateman his empty glass and went to bed.
* * *
In the morning, the Rider party had restarted. Perhaps it had never stopped. Allenson found the Viceroy sitting back against a wall clutching an unconscious Rider woman in one hand, and a bottle of Tonk in the other.
“We go now,” Allenson said, pointing to the sky.
“Go, now?” The Viceroy looked blearily at him, trying to focus.
“We go—now,” Allenson repeated, gesturing with greater exaggeration.
“Plenty Tonk,” the Viceroy waved the bottle. “Plenty food, plenty women.”
He squeezed the woman’s breast for emphasis. She stirred and moved against him but did not open her eyes.
Allenson knew a losing proposition when he saw one. He went in search of Hawthorn, bumping into him at the courtyard door leading to the officer’s mess.
“The Viceroy won’t budge,” Allenson said.
“Yah, the Riders will stay there until the booze runs out,” Hawthorn said. “Which I suspect will be not until it suits the Terran’s purpose.”
“They want to strip of our Rider protection, you think?” Allenson asked.
“I don’t think it would unduly upset that weasel Bateman if we pedalled off and were never seen again.” Hawthorn replied.
“The Commandant wants us to get back to the Cutter Stream. He is relying on us to report that the Terrans are unassailable,” Allenson said.
“The Commandant is a gentleman: Bateman is, I suspect, something else. Look at it this way; heads we survive and the Terrans win, tails we don’t so we lose.”
“Whatever, we go anyway. Where’s Payne?”Allenson asked.
“He’s, ah, getting ready,” Hawthorn replied.
Something in Hawthorn’s manner alerted Allenson.
“What are you keeping from me?”
“Payne took it so hard that he let us down, at least in his own mind, by the Costeen business that he had a little slip,” Hawthorn said, making a rocking motion with his hand to imitate a man drinking from a glass.
“How bad is he?” Allenson asked.
Hawthorn considered. “He is stuffing himself with antitoxins and stimulants. I guess he is OK.”
“I had better have a word with him and see if he is fit to travel,” Allenson said.
“I wouldn’t,” Hawthorn said, catching Allenson’s arm. “He is beating himself up already for his weakness. He does not want you to know. For some reason, he thinks a great deal of you and wants your good opinion. Can’t see why myself.”
Hawthorn grinned, to show he was joking.
“That’s why you are just an aide and not a leader-of-men,” Allenson said, striking a pose.
Hawthorn slapped him on the back. “Let’s have a leisurely breakfast, oh leader-of-men, if you can bring yourself to eat with a mere aide, and give Payne a chance to get his act together.”
“Lead on my man,” Allenson said. Actually he was glad of the diversion. He needed to think.
* * *
Payne looked awful. His eyes were yellow, and shone with feverish intensity.
“The situation, gentlemen, is as follows,” Allenson said. “Our baggage and porters are back at Nengue. Someone has to go and pick them up. I am prepared to lose the baggage but I cannot leave our porters to the mercy of the riders. At the same time, we have a duty to inform Fontenoy of our findings as fast as possible. Nengue is not on the direct route home so we will have to split up.”
“Back up, a minute,” Hawthorn said. “I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t understand why a few days one way or the other matter over-much? Why don’t we all go back via Nengue?”
“You saw that flotilla of frames. The Terrans are almost ready for the next strategic advance. My guess is that they intend to fortify a base on Larissa. Once they do, we will have the devil’s own job winkling them out. We need to get in first. I think a few days could make all the difference. Or is there something I have overlooked?”
He waited, but neither Payne nor Hawthorn spoke.
“Very well, Hawthorn, you and Master Payne will go home via Nengue whilst I shall take the direct route.”
“Out of the question, Allenson,” said Hawthorn, firmly. “I will go with you. Master Payne will be quite all right alone.”
Allenson looked at Hawthorn and then looked at Payne. The man’s hands were shaking.
“I will be alright, sar,” Payne protested, thrusting his hands in his pockets.
Allenson and Hawthorn ignored him.
“You don’t know the route or its hazards,” Hawthorn said. “The frame’s navigation won’t be able to cope.”
“I won’t be entirely running blind,” Allenson said, defensively. “There is some useful navigational data from the Rowland expedition.”
“Yah, and look what happened to them,” Hawthorn said, snorting.
Actually, no one knew exactly what had happened to the Stenson-Rowland expedition, but pointing this out might not entirely help Allenson’s argument.
“Anything could happen,” Hawthorn said. “Just one little accident in the wilderness, like a twisted an
kle, and you would be as good as dead on your own.
Payne coughed.
“Yes, Master Payne,” Allenson said.
“Sar Hawthorn is right, and he hardly needs me to hold his hand,” Payne said. “Why don’t I go with you?”
Allenson paused. Why not, indeed, Payne might not have firsthand knowledge of the Continuum zone they would be traversing, but he was an experienced Hinterland hand.”
“Very well,” Allenson said. “That’s decided then.”
* * *
By the third day of travel, Allenson was feeling the strain. He was even more concerned about Payne’s effectiveness. The binge at Fort Rivere had done the man no good. Nevertheless, he kept up and never complained.
They repeatedly were forced to detour around unfavorable energy gradients and once had to retrace their path completely, to avoid a chasm that would have swept them away. He looked at his inertial navigator and cursed quietly under his breath. Their progress in a straight line towards the Cutter Stream was painfully slow. An unmapped world lay close by and the minimal information on his chart indicated that it might be habitable. He decided to make their third stopover early. They needed to rest and forage for food. Their food packs were disappearing at an alarming rate and additional calories would be useful.
Once in the world’s atmosphere he triggered the frame’s biocheck. It came up clean so he went down to land where a stream ran across a grass plain. It seemed a likely place for animals to come to drink.
They spent eighteen hours on the world, mostly eating and sleeping. Allenson located a herd of six legged herbivores and Payne brought one down, after Allenson missed. Its flesh tasted rather like goat.
They had barely started to break camp when a beast phased in nearby. The Rider guided it to their camp and landed. He jumped off the beast, which closed its crystals and settled down, twisting like a bolt pushed into a socket. Allenson noticed that the Rider limped.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 21