A number of Councillors muttered their agreement. Allenson had been warned to expect something of the sort from Fontenoy. He held up a hand for silence.
“Councillor?” he asked.
“Councillor Roofer,” she replied.
“Inspector General is an important position, Councillor Roofer,” Allenson said. “And I can well understand your concern that the right candidate be appointed, especially since we face a military crisis. I suggest I am that man. I am the brother of the current Inspector General.”
There was a murmur from the Councillors. Allenson held up his hand again.
“That in itself is not a qualification, but it does have the advantage of continuity of authority. No, my real qualification is that I have led expeditions deep into the Hinterland. I have negotiated face to face with the chiefs of our Rider allies and won their confidenc. I have seen the Terran military machine with my own eyes and spoken to their commanders. I think I can confidently state that there is no other person in the Cutter Stream who can match my experience.”
Allenson meant that no other gentleman who could match his experience. It went without saying that the position was only open to a gentleman. One could not expect soldiers, let alone their officers, to take orders from just anybody, no matter what their abilities.
“I also suggest that my youth is a positive advantage, given that the new Inspector General is likely to involve physically taxing duties,” Allenson said.
Councillor Roofer looked at him thoughtfully before nodding her head.
“You’ll do for me sonny.”
Allenson was pleased to see that a number of the other Councillors seemed willing to follow her lead.
“Well, if there are no more questions . . .” Fontenoy said.
Councillor Rubicon climbed to his feet and began to clap, a slow sneering handclap. Some of his supporters took up the rhythm. Fontenoy stopped speaking, looking flustered.
“You have a question, Councillor Rubicon,” Allenson said, politely.
“I sure do, sonny,” Rubicon said, sticking out his jaw.
One or two of his cronies sniggered. Other Councillors looked embarrassed.
“You are matey with the Destrys, right?” Rubicon asked.
“I have that honor,” Allenson replied.
And the Destrys own a chunk of the Harbinger Project. In fact, they made you their surveyor so you are on the payroll.”
“That is hardly a secret,” Allenson said.
“So you can be relied upon to do their bidding like a good little boy. This whole Terran story is just a scam put about by the Destrys to get support for their business interests in the Hinterland. They want to expand their landholding at our expense using taxes raised from us. I say they already own too much around here.”
Allenson found that he was also on his feet, which was odd as he did not remember getting up from his chair.
“Good grief, man. You have seen the evidence with your own eyes.”
“And what evidence do we have that these so-called records aren’t just a colossal fraud?” Rubicon asked.
“You have my word,” Allenson said, quietly, expecting that to end the matter.
“And what worth should we put on your word,” Rubicon sneered. “With you, hand in glove with the Destrys.”
Allenson was incandescent with rage.
“By God, master, I am not used to being called a liar to my face. I would call you out but . . .”
“But you won’t dirty your hands by dueling with oiks like us,” Rubicon finished the sentence for him. The man spread his hands to encompass his fellow councillors.
That was true but Allenson perceived that he had allowed Rubicon to goad him into a political trap.
“I was about to say that I believe dueling to be a stupid way of settling disagreements,” Allenson said, biting back his anger.
“Ask around, everyone knows my views on the matter,” Allenson spoke directly to the other councillors in the room.
“That’s true, his dad was the same,” an elderly councillor remarked.
Allenson could have kissed him. He made a note to get the man’s name and see what he could do to return the favor.
Rubicon must have felt the moment slipping away because he pushed just a little too hard.
“You gentlemen,” Rubicon managed to turn the word into an insult, “don’t duel with commoners because you haven’t got the balls to face a real man.”
“You think not?” Allenson asked.
He launched himself off the platform. The Councillor swung a roundhouse punch that was so slow that Allenson could have brewed a cup of tea while considering his options. He ducked under the blow and, putting his hand on Rubicon’s elbow, gave him a push, adding momentum to spin him around.
Allenson took a grip on the back of Rubicon’s collar with one hand and grasped his belt in the small of his back with the other. He hauled Rubicon up by his trousers, until the man danced on the tips of his toes. The he pushed forward, faster and faster, until they were both running. When they reached the end of the room, Allenson gave one last heave and threw Rubicon through the window with a thunderous crash of breaking glass.
There was dead silence in the room. Someone outside screamed.
“If no one has any further questions, I declare the meeting closed,” Fontenoy said, as if nothing had happened. “Please consult with your factions, Councillors, and be ready to vote in one hour.”
“Sar Allenson,”
He turned to face Councillor Roofer.
“Possibly you forgot we are on the second floor?”
“Oh dear,” Allenson said. “I hope I have not killed him.”
“We should be so lucky,” Councillor Roofer said, with a broad smile. “No doubt Rubicon will bounce back like a bad penny. He usually does. Still, we can but hope that his injuries are not too trivial, eh?”
Allenson had no idea how best to answer that so he restricted himself to a short bow and hurried after Fontenoy, catching him up in the corridor.
“Will the vote go our way?” Allenson asked.
“I think you’ve crossed the Rubicon,” Fontenoy replied.
* * *
“This is the ’Stream Militia,” Allenson said to himself, appalled.
He walked down the lines of wheezing old men and concave-chested boys in ill-fitting uniforms, many of which still showed evidence of previous owners. At least half of them were unfit for duty. They shouldered a variety of weapons from ancient laser carbines to single shot bird hunters.
“Is this all?” Allenson asked the embarrassed captain who was senior officer on parade.
“Well, there should be another fifty or so we could muster but the roll call has not been updated for some little while, so some of the troops may have moved away or died.”
They passed an old man with white hair and a stoop. The trooper next to him appeared fitter until one noticed that one of his feet was a cheap prosthetic.
“Where are the other officers?” Allenson asked. Only the captain and a cadet had attended the parade.
“Some are back on their estates and I couldn’t get word to them in time. We don’t normally have parades at short notice, sir. Others may be here in Manzanita. I have sent runners around the clubs and societies,” the captain replied.
“Very well, captain . . .” Allenson looked enquiringly at the young officer.
“Rutchett, sir, of Tynsdale Mountain,”
“Very well, Captain Rutchett, you may dismiss the men. I think I have seen enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rutchett saluted, which Allenson acknowledged by touching his hat, and gave the necessary orders to the NCOs. The Cutter Stream Militia shuffled off in small groups, most heading for a conveniently sited row of bars.
An elderly man hurried across the parade ground. He was dressed in a uniform that was half a size too small around the midriff despite having been let out. On reaching Allenson he saluted.
“Colonel A
very, sir. Sorry I am late but I was lunching at my club when the muster was called and had to go home to change. You gave us no warning, sir.”
“Indeed not, but this is supposed to be a rapid reaction force, is it not?” Allenson asked.
“That is true, we are a mobile force in theory, sir,” Avery replied.
“In theory?” Allenson asked, raising an eyebrow.
“We are short of transport. We only have a lift capability of thirty men at a time,” Avery replied.
“I see,” Allenson said.
Clearly there was nothing to be gained by pursuing that line of enquiry. Allenson had taken the trouble to look up Avery’s background, learning from the experience of his first meeting with Fontenoy. Eos Avery had once been an officer in the professional Brasilian, Army but for many years he had been headmaster of a military-style school for the sons of the aristocracy.
“I am not familiar with soldiers, colonel, but I have to say that I am disappointed in the quality of the men,” Allenson said, with masterly understatement.
“Yes, sir,” Avery agreed, gloomily.
“I have already inspected some of the local reserve regiments. I have to say that all of them gave a better impression of a fighting force than this,” Allenson said.
“Yes, sir, but they don’t have our disadvantages,” Avery replied, somewhat defensively.
“What disadvantages?” Allenson asked. “They have to attract volunteers but these men are drafted. I had expected better.”
“Yes, sir, but the draft has so many exceptions,” Avery replied.
He began to tick them off on his fingers.
“Men who own their own land are exempted, men who own their own businesses are exempted, men in full time employment are exempted if their employers confirm that they are too valuable to be drafted, men in reserve regiments are exempted, men in full time education are exempted, and men who pay a fine are exempted. The payment per day for mustered men is intended for expenses only. Frankly, sir, it is miserable.”
“So broadly speaking, the draft consists of the poor, the unemployable and the disabled,” Allenson said.
“Exactly, sir, there are one or two who sign up for adventure but they tend not to last long when faced with the reality.”
“So the Militia consists of the dregs of our society. I could tolerate that if they can fight. Can they fight, Colonel, in your opinion?”
Colonel Avery would not meet Allenson’s eye.
“I thought not,” Allenson said. “What about the officers?”
“Good men, sir, they just need something to work with.” This time Avery met Allenson eye to eye.
“Very well, Colonel, you have had longer to think about this than me. What do you recommend? How do we fix the draft?”
“Well, sir, I have tried to get the draft exemptions stopped, or at least curtailed, but the Lower House won’t wear it, so we have to find a new way of recruiting.”
“From the reserves?” Allenson asked.
Avery shook his head.
“Won’t work sir, they can only be mustered for use by special order of the Legislature, which could take months. They will only operate in their own regions in defense of their own communities. They are typically made up of smallholders or trade guilds and see themselves as guarantors of the rights of common people. They are so egalitarian that they elect their own officers, who are often members of the Lower House. Frankly, sir, you may as well try to draft the great land-owners’ bucellarii.”
Bucellarii were the security forces of the great demesnes, like the Destrys. Some were the size of small private armies.
“So the draft is unfixable,” Allenson said.
“Yes, sir, we need an all volunteer force as a professional Mobile Army. That means better pay, so we can choose from better quality applicants, and we need better equipment so we can fight. The recruits will still probably be the dregs but they will be fighting dregs.”
Colonel Avery shrugged. “I know what needs to be done, sir, but I lack political clout.”
“Write a report for me detailing your plans. I will worry about the politics.”
Avery coughed. “As it happens, sir, I have something already prepared, just in case our conversation took this turn. I will drop it on to your data pad.”
“I think we are going to get along famously, Colonel,” Allenson said.
* * *
“It has always puzzled me how intelligent educated human beings are capable of ignoring a logical train, if they find the conclusion unattractive. Indeed some seem it easier to hold two mutually exclusive ideas held simultaneously. Fontenoy wants the Terrans dislodged but he is reluctant to expend political capital by taking unpopular decisions, like raising money to produce a decent fighting force,” Allenson said.
“So how did you wear Fontenoy down,” Trina said.
Allenson laughed. “I am naturally stubborn. Apparently in politics, as in most things, persistence is the secret to success. Eventually, he gave me the money to make me go away.”
Trina’s maid put the tray down and gave the pot one last stir before pouring a cup for her mistress and Allenson. He took a sip.
“How do you find the tea?” Trina asked.
“The tea?” Allenson looked down at his cup. “Oh it’s, um, nice, thank you.”
“Nice,” Trina chuckled, hiding her mouth behind her hand. “Now you have upset my maid.”
The maid gave Allenson a look that would have boiled water.
“Thank you, Sasha, That will be all,” Trina said.
The maid curtseyed and left them alone.
“The tea is Twyning Special Blend and Sasha considers herself something of an expert in its preparation,” Trina said in explanation.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Allenson said, cheeks burning.
Trina held up a hand. “Don’t be. I like your indifference to social pretensions. It’s part of your charm.”
Allenson was astonished that this sophisticated woman should consider him charming. He wondered whether she was making fun of him and looked at her sharply, but she met his gaze guilelessly. He decided to change the subject.
“My next problem will be purchasing suitable equipment,” Allenson said.
He had found himself using Trina more and more as a sounding board. Hawthorn, despite his other sterling qualities, was useless in that role. Trina was intelligent with no personal axe to grind. Her observations inevitably clarified his thinking.
“I received a number of business cards at the Redfern party, if you remember?” Allenson asked.
“Of course I remember, that’s where we met,” Trina replied.
She tasted her tea and added a smidgeon more whitener.
“I suppose I could buy from them,” Allenson said, doubtfully.
“That would certainly be a most satisfactory solution for the Redferns and their clients,” Trina said. “On the other hand, you could meet a friend of mine.”
* * *
Trina and Allenson took a hop in a light carriage frame to Clearwater. They parked in the industrial district and she took his arm when they walked to a large lock-up that displayed no advertising sign.
Trina pressed an intercom by a small door.
“Yes?” a voice said.
“Lady Blaisdel, with a visitor, to see Master Mansingh.”
The door clicked open and they went inside.
The interior was a large open-plan warehouse filled with rows of container racks that reached up to the roof of the two-story building. The whine of a container truck drifted from the innards of the building. Trina followed a green holographic track of arrows that meandered sinuously around the racks. She climbed steel stairs up to a first floor building within a building that had windows of blank glass.
She knocked on the door and went in without waiting for a reply. A man in a motorized wheel chair moved to greet them.
“Lady Blaisdel.”
“Master Mansingh, may I introduce Inspector General Allenson?
”
“A pleasure,” Mansingh said.
“Master Mansingh was in business with my father,” Trina said.
“I had that honor,” Mansingh said.
“What business would that be?” Allenson asked.
“The security equipment business,” Mansingh replied.
They followed Mansingh down a corridor into a large office. One way windows looked out into the warehouse.
“Sar Allenson has to equip an expeditionary force of about three hundred men for an expedition into the Hinterland,” Trina said. “I wonder if he could benefit from your advice.”
“Redfern Dealing and their associates have suggested shotguns to me as the primary infantry weapon,” Allenson said. “They have a Brasilian supplier.”
“Shotguns have their uses,” Mansingh said, pursing his lips. “Clearing buildings or shooting grouse, for example, but I would hardly recommend them as a general purpose weapon in the wilderness. Their range is far too short for one thing.”
“Obviously laser weapons would be my first choice but my budget will not run to military specification Home World weapons. And I am not sure troops could be trained to use them effectively in the time I have available,” Allenson said.
Mansingh swung his chair around, controlling it with a small joystick. He touched an icon. “Bring up an FN Rifle please.”
Allenson could not place Mansingh’s accent. It was clipped suggesting he originated from a Home World, but not Brasilia or Terra.
“Where do you come from, Master Mansingh?” Allenson asked, for the sake of making conversation as much as curiosity.
“Beelzebub,” Mansingh answered.
Things began to make sense. Beelzebub was one of the Old Colonies. It supported a much smaller population than Terra or Brasilia so was not usually ranked among the major Home Worlds, but it was of equal wealth and sophistication. It had a lucrative arms trade specializing in inexpensive but reliable medium technology weapons made to a high quality standard. A Beelzebub military weapon might not have the complexity of a Terran or Brasilian gun, but it was said you could park a ship on one and it would still work afterwards.
“You were in the security business there?” Allenson asked, wondering what the man was doing in the Cutter Stream.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 23