Two weasels had the other soldier on the ground, slashing at his legs. The man rolled and screamed. Allenson swore. He started to raise his gun but realized that he was as likely to hit the soldier as the weasels. Hawthorn or Destry might have taken the shot, but they could shoot.
Allenson jumped down, and ran to for the soldier. He fired a burst one handed into one of the weasels at point-blank rage, almost pushing the muzzle into its hide so he couldn’t miss. A back-wash of heat seared his hand and face. The weasel exploded, body fluids converted instantly to steam.
He grabbed the soldier by his jacket and started to pull him back towards the frame. The second weasel reared up. He had an image of a head with lateral cutting mandibles like an insect. What caught his attention were the mineralized scimitar shaped claws on the forelegs. Raised high to strike at his head, they caught the sun, refracting the light like prisms.
He aimed his carbine and squeezed the trigger. The gun refused to fire, a red hologram flashed above the sight, indicating that it had over-heated and shut down. It was not designed to be fired so close to a target, but he had ignored that in the needs of the moment. Unfortunately the laws of physics don’t have a get out clause.
The claws slashed down, probably quickly but it seemed to take forever. Years later, he would still see those claws in his nightmares, waking sweating in the middle of the night.
The boom of Payne’s shotgun deafened him, and the weasel disappeared in a purple mist of blood and torn flesh. He threw the soldier onto the frame and leapt up himself. Hands reached out to pull him to safety. Payne had the transport in the air before Allenson caught his breath.
“Marks, do what you can to stop the bleeding until the medic at the camp can see to him properly. What are you gawping at? Move, man!”
Payne and Marks looked at him with strange expressions. What the hell was wrong with them? Just them the ’phone on the frame’s instrument channel chimed. Allenson reached over and tapped the screen. He noticed his hand was burnt and at that point it began to hurt. Rutchett’s face appeared on the screen.
“What?” Allenson said, grumpily.
“I think you had better get back here, sir. Rider scouts have come in. A Terran attack is on the way.”
CHAPTER 18
Contact
Allenson crouched behind a stunted bush. The warmth of his knee melted the hoar frost lying thickly across the stony ground. An uncomfortable wet patch seeped up his supposedly waterproof uniform. The air was crystal clear. Stars blazing in the night sky illuminated the ground in soft light.
He counted a dozen tents. Assuming five or six men per tent, they could be facing a Terran force of seventy men or so. He used the night sight on his carbine to search the camp again, but still could see no sentries. According to the Riders, the Terran force had avoided Hawthorn’s platoon by approaching along minor routes, avoiding the main chasm. The only explanation Allenson could think of for them taking the more arduous route was that they wanted to approach unseen. That meant they were a scouting or raiding force. Were they really so confident or incompetent that they couldn’t be bothered posting lookouts?
Decision made, he signalled for the Riders to circle round to envelop the Terran camp on each flank. They disappeared silently into the darkness. Allenson waited, watching a five minute countdown on his datapad. He had no idea whether the Riders would be ready in five minutes. The problem was, neither did they. A minute was a meaningless concept to a Rider. The datapad gave a subdued flash.
“Give the order to advance,” Allenson said to Padget, rising and moving forward
The lieutenant signalled to his men. Shadows detached themselves from the vegetation, and the whole platoon following Allenson.
“It’s very quiet, sir,” Padget said.
“Yes,” Allenson replied curtly, wishing Padget would shut up.
It was too quiet. Allenson worried that he was leading his men into an ambush. That was why he had sent Rider scouts out, but nothing disturbed the night. He felt like a ghost moving across a monochrome underworld.
The sudden rasp of a proximity alarm jerked him back to reality. The Terrans had taken the minimal precaution of setting motion detectors. There was no further advantage to be gained by creeping around.
“Fire,” Allenson said.
He triggered a long burst from his lasercarbine. It went clean over the camp. He had told the Riders to stay out of the direct line of fire but was not sure if they had understood. They seemed to regard firearms as magical devices rather than projectile weapons. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. He lowered his aim and triggered another burst. A tent exploded in flames. The outline of a man danced in the flames: danced and screamed. The agonized shrieks went on and on. He triggered another burst at the tent but missed.
Soldiers fired their rifles. The high velocity pellets made whip like cracks and the gun’s barrels glowed blue from ionic discharge around the magnetized coils. The tents jerked, as if plucked by invisible fingers. A figure shot out from a tent, raising a rifle to his shoulder. Allenson looked down the barrel. Padget fired and the man fell backwards, discharging his laserifle at the sky. It left a shimmering track of ionized air over Allenson’s head, like a meteor in reverse. He recalled that Padget was a member of the hunting, shooting and fishing aristocracy, like Destry. The one skill you could be certain such people would possess was accuracy with a gun.
Other men rolled and fell among the tents. The Terrans fired few shots in return, and none even came close to the ’Stream soldiers. Whooping Riders charged into the Terran camp from each flank to cut the throats of the Terran wounded.
“Cease fire,” Allenson yelled, cursing the Riders for getting in the way. He doubted that they had killed more than a handful of Terrans.
A few more shots sounded.
“The Colonel said cease fire, that bleeding means you as well, Caswell,” a sergeant said.
“Sorry, sir,” said an excited voice.
“Sergeant, you call me sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Terrans ran away from the Riders towards the platoon, yelling for mercy and throwing down their weapons. One sobbed loudly.
“Steady, hold your fire,” Padget said, his cut-glass accent demanding compliance.
“Take them prisoner,” Allenson ordered.
The Terrans reached the sanctuary of the Cutter Stream platoon, holding their hands out in supplication. The ’Streamers pushed them roughly to the ground, searching them for weapons—and probably anything worth stealing. Allenson didn’t want to know. He would have to punish his men if he saw looting, so he didn’t look.
Riders ran after the Terrans, whooping and waving knives. Allenson fired a burst over their heads to turn them back. A Terran officer, judging by his uniform, ran to Allenson.
“Bastards, filthy bastards,” the Terran said. He seemed more sad than angry and it was not clear who he thought were bastards. A pistol hung in his right hand.
“Your gun, if you please, mister,” Allenson said, pointing his carbine at the man.
“What?” the man looked at the pistol in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time.
Allenson took it from the officer’s unresisting hand. The pistol still had a full charge; it hadn’t been fired. Allenson switched it off and ejected the battery, before handing it back to the officer, who put it back in his belt holster.
“Lieutenant Padget.”
“Sir?”
“Leave some men to guard the prisoners then go through the camp before the Riders rip everything apart. Let them have a few knives and clothes but they are not to take weapons or personal items. Look for datapads.
“Sir,” Padget saluted and hurried off, rounding up some men
“Why did you attack us?” the officer asked, strangely calmly, as if discussing whether the correct card had been played at a bridge match. Allenson noted that his hands shook.
“You were an armed invasion force in Brasilian territory,�
�� Allenson replied, gently. “What sort of reception did you expect?”
“We were an embassy,” the Terran officer replied.
He fumbled in a pocket. Allenson resisted the urge to point his carbine again. The man was an officer and he had accepted his surrender. Certain protocols applied. The officer pulled out a datapad and showed Allenson identification protocols of a high ranking diplomat in the Terran Foreign Office.
“Where are the rest of you men?” Allenson asked. “He counted nineteen prisoners and there could not be more than a dozen bodies in the camp.
“There was only the ambassador and a small escort,” the officer replied.
“Where is the ambassador?” Allenson asked.
The Terran officer turned and looked back at the destroyed camp. The Riders were occupied lopping off hands.
* * *
His officers stood and clapped when Allenson entered the dugout that served as an officer’s mess and conference room. The Lieutenants cheered and began a hurrah in his honor. Rutchett’s initial response was to glower at them but he relented and joined in.
Allenson held up his hand for silence. “Thank you gentlemen but Lieutenant Padget and his men did all the work. I was merely there as an observer.”
“Rubbish,” Padget’s voice could clearly be heard. “We had no casualties, except for Atkins. Rontel fell over and shot him through the buttocks.”
“Thank you, Mister Padget,” Allenson said.
It was so embarrassing. Now everyone thought he was being modest and hurrahed all the louder. Allenson actually meant what he had said. He was useless as a soldier. He never hit anything he aimed at.
A shadowy outline writhed and danced in fire on the wall of the bunker. Allenson suppressed the image, pushing it down into the depths of his subconscious.
“If we could get down to business, gentlemen, no doubt word is already spreading from Rider to Rider of our victory and it can only be a matter of time before it reaches Larissa. Now, what will be their reaction, I wonder?” Allenson asked.
“They might sit back and wait for instructions from the Terran governor in the First Tier Colonies, or even Terra itself,” Rutchett replied. “But we would be foolish to count on it. We must expect an attack or, at the very least, a reconnaissance in force.”
“Agreed,” Allenson said. “That means we stay on high alert and dig in deeper. The men will complain but remind them that sweat now will save blood later.”
He paused and looked around the bunker, examining each face before him to see if they had grasped the situation, and was reassured.
“The Terran prisoners will have to be sent back to Manzanita. It was clever of them to dress their force up as an embassy,” Allenson said, ruefully. “I have no doubt that it was phony but, used properly, it could look bad.”
A small but voracious worm of doubt gnawed at his vitals. He rejected it; what was done was done.
“Protocol demands that an officer command the escort. I will need an advocate back at Manzanita who can refute any misconceptions about our attack on the Terran patrol. Lastly, the rest of the Expeditionary Force must be brought here before the Terrans have time to launch a counter-attack. The officer I send will have to be someone who is authoritative and persuasive.”
“If I may interrupt, sir,” Rutchett said.
He probably suspected that Allenson was about to nominate him, and wanted to cut in before his CO gave the order. Rutchett was right, of course.
“Lieutenant Padget’s family has a great deal of pull in the Assembly. Mister Padget has already had the opportunity to win his spurs, so it would seem unfair to send one of the other lieutenants before they have their chance.
Allenson grinned at Rutchett, who managed to keep a straight face. Rutchett meant that it would be unfair to send himself. Allenson considered. Padget had shown himself to be a reliable officer and it was true that his family was well connected. Also, he would need Rutchett should the Terrans assault the base.
“Very good, Captain, make the arrangements if you please.”
Padget left and they continued to dig in. Gradually the field defenses were turned into something more permanent and much larger, to accommodate the rest of the Expeditionary Force. They set up a sawmill, cutting planks to line the walls of the trenches and bunkers. The squat trees along the river valley had flexible fibrous trunks that cut easily, which was convenient as the silicon-filled wood of the primary forest splintered dangerously when sawed. Inevitably, somebody did try.
Allenson considered putting a berm around the base but decided that he would never have the manpower to garrison it, so it would simply block defensive fire from the bunkers and trenches.
The men toughened up under the exercise. Other than a single saw and steam generators, they had not been able to bring heavy power tools, so most of the work was done by hand. He organized a three-shift system whereby one shift rested, one built and a third learnt basic military skills. One drawback of deploying the new force right after it was raised was that they did not know how to operate as an army, rather than an armed mob.
They practised trench defense, firing by the numbers so that a continuous suppression fire was laid down on an attacker. They practised with live ammunition, and took their first casualties when some genius waiting his turn triggered a burst into the men in front of him.
Allenson deemed it necessary to use up some of his precious ammunition on the grounds that healthy ammunition stores would be of little value if his men could not defend themselves. He was appalled at how fast mock combat used up resources. Ammunition reserves was something else he would have to look at afresh in the future. The combat training slowed down the building work, but Allenson thought the trade off essential.
They were still not ready when the Continuum alarms went off. There was pandemonium. Men ran around in circles looking for their guns and trying to link up with the rest of their units. Allenson heard an agonized cry when a soldier threw himself into an already occupied fire pit. He was taking more casualties without a shot being fired, at least not by the enemy. Allenson connected his datapad to the command circuit so he could issue orders over the loudspeakers. He has a receiver behind one ear and a microphone attached behind a tooth. For some inexplicable reason the mike was known as a bluetooth. Maybe the first ones were colored blue.
“Do not fire. No one is to fire until I give the word.”
He scanned the sky waiting for frames to phase in.
The alarms cut out and were replaced by the friendly cheep that indicated that IFF had established that the incomers were friendly.
“Unload your weapons and put on the safety catches,” Allenson ordered over the ’speakers.
There was the flat crack of a short burst of rifle fire as some fool pressed the wrong control in his excitement. Allenson winced.
Frames materialized well above the base, out over the river. Allenson’s datapad indicated a contact so he triggered verbal communication.
“Sir, don’t fire, it’s us,” Lieutenant Padget said. His message was not entirely couched in military terms but it sufficed.
“Very good,” Mister Padget. “Come in on the marked landing ground. There are anti-invasion stakes elsewhere”
He watched the frames land, counting them in. A quick calculation suggested that they carried some two hundred men, less than he had hoped, but more than he expected. He had at least sixty so he could count on around two hundred and fifty ‘runners’ at any one time. With Rider auxiliary support, he now had the core of a useful light infantry battalion.
Padget hurried over to him, accompanied by a man that he had never seen before, who wore astonishingly bushy facial hair and a captain’s uniform with the orange and yellow flashes of the Isfahan militia, another Brasilian colony. Like the ’Stream, it was a First Tier colony perched on the edge of the Bight where it was in direct communication with the Home Worlds.
The lieutenant saluted but he noticed the strange captain merely nodded a
greeting.
“Where is Colonel Avery?” Allenson asked.
“Perhaps we could talk in private, sir,” Padget replied.
Allenson showed them into the command bunker which also served as his office and sleeping accommodation.
“I have despatches for you, sir,” Padget said, handing Allenson a bundle.
“And Colonel Avery?” Allenson asked taking the papers and flipping through them.
“He has resigned his commission, sir, on grounds of health.” Padget said, his face carefully expressionless.
Allenson stopped, astonished. “So who is to replace him?”
“You are, sir. The legislature passed an emergency act. It is in the despatches.”
Allenson found the right document confirming his appointment as commander of the Expeditionary Force. His orders instructed him to act at his discretion in carrying out his objectives as previously laid down from Brasilia. Presumably that meant Fontenoy’s verbal instruction to displace the Terrans by force if necessary, as he had no written orders from Brasilia. Effectively, he still had a free hand as the document gave him a great deal of latitude.
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” Allenson said to the Isfahan officer. He turned an enquiring eye on Padget.
“This is Captain Broch, sir,” Padget said, somewhat belatedly. “He commands a company of the Isfahan Militia.”
“You are all the more welcome, captain,” Allenson said.
“My pleasure, Colonel Allenson.” Broch said, casually holding out his hand.
Allenson shook it automatically, although this was surely hardly military etiquette for an officer meeting his new CO. Perhaps this lack of formality was just the Isfahan style.
“Perhaps you would confer with Captain Rutchett about where to place your men in the work rota when they debus, Mister Broch.”
“Work rota?” Broch asked.
“Yes, the fortifications are not finished and the Terrans must know that we are here. We must be ready to withstand a major attack.”
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 26