“I see,” Broch said. He stroked the beard on his chin. “I am afraid that won’t be possible.”
“What? Why not?” Allenson asked, taken aback.
“The Isfahan Militia are gazetted as regulars in the Brasilian Army,” Broch said.”
“So what?” Allenson asked sharply, fast losing patience.
“Regulars don’t do construction work. That’s SEP.”
Allenson must have looked puzzled because Bloch explained.
“Someone Else’s Problem, Colonel. My men would dig in, if in contact with the enemy but I cannot possibly order them to work as skivvies. They would be within their rights to refuse and I don’t blame them.”
Allenson had heard enough. “I am not asking you, captain, I am giving you an order.”
“You can’t,” Bloch said.
Padget sucked in his breath.
“Regular Brasilian Army officers outrank all colonial militia officers,” Broch said, smugly. “So I am your superior officer, Allenson. By rights, I should be in charge of this force.”
“You come here with thirty men and a captain’s commission in the Isfahan Militia and think you outrank a Cutter Stream Colonel with two hundred soldiers under his command. You make too much of yourself, sar. Either you put yourself under my command or you get the hell out of here and take your chances on your own,” Allenson said.
Broch stroked his beard again. Allenson already found the habit irritating and he had only known the man five minutes. He looked carefully at Allenson and clearly decided that this was not an idle threat, so he was not entirely stupid.
“I take your point, Colonel Allenson. Perhaps it would be better if I put myself under your command—for tactical purposes. But my men will only take orders from me and won’t work as laborers,” Broch said, stubbornly.
“Very well, Captain Bloch, but your company will be responsible for your own accommodation. My men have better things to do than build them bunkers. Lieutenant Padget will introduce you to the other officers.”
Allenson turned his back on the man and read his correspondence. Much of it was from contractors querying payments, future orders and similar matters. Allenson leafed through them briefly to see if there was anything there that actually mattered. A letter from the wife of his business agent assured him that her husband was on top of things and that he should ignore any direct communications from contractors. He was happy to take that advice and tossed the lot into the stove that powered the bunker’s steam generator, keeping only a letter from Trina Blaisdel.
The papers at the bottom of the bundle lit up with yellow flames that caught his eye. Flames had always held a fascination when he was a little boy. He remembered them as friendly and warm, a symbol of good times on camp with Todd. Now he saw a dancing shadow that screamed.
He was about to look away when he noticed the end of a lavender envelope attached under the flap of the report from his business agent. He flicked it quickly out of the fire. The envelope was intact except for some slight charring. On it was written simply Allen, in a writing style that he recognized: Sarai’s hand. That explained why his agent’s wife had written rather than the man himself. Sarai would have cajoled her.
The letter started by calling him her true love. It was written with an intensity that was chilling. She used the words that she had whispered into his ear when they made love. She begged him to be careful and let the common soldiers take the risks. She insisted that he held her heart in his keeping and he must, therefore, hold himself safe, lest he slay both of them through recklessness. Finally, she demanded he write soon reassuring her of his affection. She has arranged for the wife of the agent to act as go between, and he should conceal his response in a reply to the wife. She explained that the wife was entirely trustworthy.
Allenson sat looking at the letter for a long time, then he very deliberately dropped it in the fire, watching it burn until not a scrap remained. It was too dangerous to be allowed to exist. Digital media could be denied, as it was easy to fake, but a handwritten note was difficult to explain away. Sarai was insane to take the risk of writing but she would feel that only a note in her own hand could properly convey her feelings.
Allenson would not reply. Suppose the wife, or one of her employees, betrayed them? Sarai would not destroy his letter after reading, even if he told her to. The danger would add to the romance. She would want to keep it close, to hide it somewhere idiotic where a servant might find it. He would not reply; he could not reply. It would be like priming a bomb and sitting on it. No, much worse, now he thought of the matter. At least the bomb would be quick.
He opened Trina’s letter and read it. Although cordial, she referred to him as Inspector General Allenson throughout. She hoped he was well and that the expedition prospered. After these preliminary niceties, she mentioned that he would be pleased to hear that Councillor Rubicon had recovered from his unfortunate accident, as she knew that he had been concerned for the Councillor’s health.
Allenson laughed out loud at that. He had not told Trina that he had tossed Rubicon out of a window but no doubt she had heard.
She continued that he would no doubt also be pleased to hear that the good Councillor had resumed his service to the ’Stream in the legislature. He had been proposed for the budgetary committee that oversaw security spending, including the militia. The chairman of the committee was a cousin of hers, so she had taken the liberty of inviting said cousin to tea, where they could discuss Councillor Rubicon’s application. She was sure the Inspector General would wish her to convey his concern that the Honorable Councillor should not overtax himself so soon after leaving hospital care.
“You clever, clever girl,” Allenson said, admiringly.
There was nothing in this letter that would sound untoward if it were to be leaked, but it told him quite clearly that Rubicon had tried to work himself into a position to harm Allenson, and that she had used her family connections to block him. The rest of the letter was filled with social gossip, really useful social gossip about whose star was falling or, more importantly, rising in Manzanita’s political and commercial arenas. She repeated what she had heard about the public response to his victory; it was favorable.
She informed him that the Terran prisoners were soon to be repatriated. That brought Allenson up with a jerk. He could not quite decide what that meant, politically speaking. Were the Terrans not prisoners of war? Trina’s letter finished with conventional wishes for his well being. She signed herself, Lady Blaisdel. Allenson put her letter carefully away. He would read it again later, to make sure he had grasped all the subtexts. Meanwhile he penned a report back to Manzanita, requesting reinforcements, and a letter to Trina, which underneath the formality said “Thanks, keep up the good work”.
The next day, he half wished he had kept Sarai’s note as well as Trina’s, but her words were burnt into his memory. He would not, could not, forget them.
* * *
Payne set up a meeting with the Viceroy. As a matter of protocol, Allenson agreed to visit the Clan Chief’s shelter on Nengue, rather than insist that the Viceroy came to him. It probably gave the man points in some complicated Rider social status, but Allenson was the supplicant, and the ride to Nengue would be useful exercise. Pedaling through the Continuum cleared his head and allowed him to think. On Payne’s advice he took a platoon with him as an honor guard.
The Viceroy sat on his plastic box in his lean-to. He failed to rise to greet Allenson, in fact, he ignored him. Allenson halted a few paces away and tapped the barrel of his carbine against the top of his boot. Other than that he said, and did nothing. The Viceroy blinked first and spoke. Payne translated.
“The Viceroy says that you built defenses on Nengue and extended the Trading Post without his permission,” Payne said.
“Tell the Viceroy that it was a temporary arrangement and that he was not here to ask. Add that I knew he would not mind given the close alliance between the ’Stream and him,” Allenson said.
There was an exchange between the Viceroy and Payne.
“He says that he has decided to give you permission now,” Payne said.
“Thank him for his courtesy,” Allenson replied.
Rider politics was not so different from human. Claiming ownership of any successful fait accompli was not unknown in the Council, usually as a last resort to save face.
“Ask the Viceroy how many Riders he can bring in support, should the Terrans attack,” Allenson said.
The Viceroy gestured at Allenson’s platoon during the conversation with Payne.
“He says you have plenty of men, and don’t need his warriors,” Payne said.
“Remind him of the treaty and alliance,” Allenson replied, tight lipped.
There was a brief conversation then the Viceroy got up from his box and walked out, ignoring Allenson.
“It’s no good, sar, he has orders from his bosses. This is to be a human fight only. The Riders will not get involved.”
“His bosses?” Allenson asked.
Payne shrugged. “The Rider council, sar, you remember I mentioned them when I was interviewed.”
Allenson had forgotten. The Viceroy made himself scarce. Other Riders showed no hostility, but they simply ignored the ’Streamers, as if they were not there. There was nothing he could do but go.
* * *
“Well gentlemen, it seems we have problems.” said Allenson, to the council of war. “Let me summarize. We have fewer men than I had hoped, our Riders allies have suddenly decided they are neutrals and will offer us no support and, to cap it all, Captain Hawthorn’s scout platoon has detected a large Terran force advancing on us down the chasm. The good news is that our fortifications are about as good as they will ever be, given the limitations of our equipment. Comments please?”
“How many Terrans do we face?” Rutchett asked.
Hawthorn shrugged. “At least five hundred, maybe more. They are using those transports we saw at Stikelstad, Allenson”
Hawthorn must be keyed up. He was normally punctilious about using Allenson’s rank in public.
“I could not get close enough to get a clear count. The transports are slow and in convoy, moving in close order. They have good discipline. I considered trying an ambush in the Continuum, as I reckon we had a mobility advantage with our two-man frames, but it was impossible.”
“Why?” Allenson asked, puzzled. Hawthorn was not known for his reluctance for a fight.
“They had Rider auxiliaries as escorts. We would have got embroiled in skirmishes with the Riders and been sitting ducks for concentrated fire from the transports if they brought them up in support. I reckoned it was more important to get back with the news than take out a few expendable savages.”
“Quite right,” Allenson said.
That was what had been bothering Hawthorn. He worried that his friend might think him cowardly for taking the pragmatic decision. Actually, Allenson thought the contrary. Any fool could blindly attack. It took balls to think clearly in the face of a superior enemy force and withdraw without loss.
“I thought the Riders had decided on neutrality,” Broch said.
“Yes, so did I,” Allenson said, sourly.
“They will be able to seal us in, cutting our communication,” Hawthorn said. “I am beginning to feel like a rat in a trap. I suggest that we retreat and conduct a fighting mobile defense.”
Allenson shook his head. “We can’t retreat without triggering a political crisis. The Rider clans around Nengue will defect, probably harassing us as we withdraw. And we have unblooded troops. I can’t take the risk that they might panic and rout in a running battle. If there is a risk of losing the whole expeditionary force then I would rather do it here, defending Brasilian territory. We have the advantage of position and so should inflict losses on the enemy even in defeat, and at least some political good would come from the sacrifice.”
Broch stroked his beard, a sign that he was about to interject. Allenson braced himself but was pleasantly surprised.
“I agree with you, Colonel,” said Broch. He still refused to refer to Allenson as sir, but that was hardly of importance. “We have a strong position here and I think we could hold it indefinitely.”
“We don’t have to hold indefinitely, only until reinforcements arrive,” Allenson said. “I have already requested more men and we should send another messenger to Manzanita immediately, appraising Fontenoy of developments.”
“In that case, I think we should stay and fight, sir,” Rutchett said. “I would not like to have spent my whole military career doing nothing but training.”
“You’re all bloody mad,” Hawthorn said, with a grin, “but I never intended to live forever. Count me in.”
At that point the Continuum alarms went off with a wail. Allenson waited for the IFF chirp indicating friends. It never came.
“It seems that events now out of our hands, gentlemen,” Allenson said, rising. “The enemy is upon us.”
CHAPTER 19
Siege
“So if it wasn’t a Terran invasion force, what the Hell did trigger the alarms? Allenson asked.
He searched the skies again, but they remained just as empty.
“Any movement on the perimeter?” he spoke into his data pad on the command group.
There was a pause while the Rutchett checked with his subordinates. “Nothing, colonel.”
“Nothing moving overhead,” Broch reported.
Broch’s men had laserifles, which had a longer range and harder punch than his men’s coil guns, so he had delegated air defense to the Isfahan contingent. This also neatly solved the political problem of their semi-independent status.
“Maybe, a Terran scouting force came to close,” Hawthorn said.
“Um, colonel?” Rutchett asked.
“Yes, captain,” Allenson replied.
“A couple of frames are missing. I anticipate that a roll call will uncover some missing names,” Rutchett said.
“Deserters?” Allenson asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Rutchett replied.
“Desertion in the face of the enemy. I could take out a platoon and bring them back,” Hawthorn said, angrily.
Allenson considered. It was very tempting to authorize retribution, but what would he do with the deserters if Hawthorn caught them? A trial and execution would tie up too much time and he had more important matters to attend. He could not bring himself to order Hawthorn to shoot them on sight. He could just arrest them and hand them over to a civil court on Manzanita, but he was loath to waste men as prison guards. He triggered the command group to talk to his officers.
“Explain to the men that a couple of cowards have run for it. Say I am glad to see the back of the gutless scum and that they will never be able to show their face in the ’Stream or anywhere else in Brasilian territory—assuming that the Riders don’t get them. Stress the last point as highly likely.”
Allenson took a walk along the river with Hawthorn. Only with his friend could he speak openly, sharing his fears and doubts. For the first time he properly understood the cliché “loneliness of command”. Hawthorn’s commitment to Allenson was personal, the colonel and aide personas simply something they put on for outside consumption.
“The river is remarkably swollen,” Hawthorn said, stopping to look along the length of the bank. He pointed, “Look, the roots of those shrubs are submerged. I am sure that they were clear of the water yesterday.”
Hawthorn turned and looked at the western horizon. “Does it seem to you that there are storm clouds over the mountains?”
Allenson shaded his eyes and looked. The western mountain range was a purplish smudge on the horizon. He used his datapad to take a closer look. The resolution was awful but the pad cleaned it up to show peaks obscured by cloud and rain.
“So there are,” Allenson replied.
“That explains why we have been having communication problems with scout and hunting parties,” Hawthorn said. “
That must be one hell of an electrical storm.”
“Yes,” Allenson said, dismissing the matter from his mind.
The next day a front passed over the base, dropping a quick burst of rain. It left the air fresh and clean, taking down the dust created by the Expedition Force’s activities. Hawthorn had the men rig up catchers to refill their freshwater stores. Sterilized river water was perfectly safe but it had a high mineral content, giving drinks a tart taste that could not be entirely overcome by flavoring.
The fronts continued to pass over day by day, turning the base into a muddy skating rink. The stream overflowed, fortunately on the bank opposite the base, meandering across the meadow in riverlets.
Allenson received a report of flooding. A huddle of soldiers stood around their trench. It didn’t look too bad to Allenson. The bottom was muddy, Hell, everywhere was muddy, but the duck board was still visible. He jumped down for a closer look.
“No, sir,” A soldier tried to grab his arm, succeeding only in throwing him off balance.
His feet hit the duck board, which turned out to be floating. It submerged and shot out from under him like a badly ridden water ski. Allenson fell back, arms windmilling, into the filthy water. When he sat up it reached almost to his waist. He wiped his eyes. A cluster of horrified faces looked down at him.
“You appear to have fallen in the water, colonel,” Hawthorn said.
Allenson began to chuckle, He laughed at the sheer foolishness of the situation. The alternatives would be to lose one’s temper and blame someone else, or pretend he wasn’t sitting in a mud bath. The first was intolerable and the other undignified. Laughter at his misfortune was by far the best response. Besides, it was genuinely funny.
“There’s no fooling you, Captain Hawthorn, is there?”
The soldiers began to laugh as well, albeit somewhat nervously. Hands hauled him out.
“Joking aside, we may have serious flooding if it carries on raining,” Allenson said to Hawthorn, when they were alone.
“Could we put in drainage?” Hawthorn asked, doubtfully.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 27