by David Drake
Allenson ran back across the slippery rocks, leaping from ridge to ridge. Momentum kept him going when his fleet slipped. It was madness but he had no choice.
The Brasilian officer got in two more heavy blows. Then Allenson reached over the officer’s shoulder and ripped the mask from his face.
The officer reacted automatically by sucking in a lungful of the polluted air. He coughed and retched, gasping and twitching. Blood-flecked foam sprayed from his mouth. Appalled, Allenson tried to get the man’s mask back on. The officer panicked and fought to keep it off his face.
The man bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Mercifully it was quick. Allenson struggled to avoid throwing up in his mask. That really wouldn’t be a good idea. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve while examining the equipment.
Fortunately the officer had attacked the catapult module. It might seem the most important part of the gear but it was also the strongest. It had to withstand the dynamics of throwing heavy iron balls. The beating this one received put a few dents in the casing but it seemed operational.
He had a sudden suspicion. Surely the Brasilians wouldn’t have put in such a determined attempt merely to belt the gear with iron bars? He checked the hydraulic module but found nothing, so he moved on to the power supply.
Taped to the side of the module was a round can with a screw top. It looked like a perfectly ordinary confectionary tin. Allenson doubted there was anything sweet inside. He dug his nails under the tape and ripped the can off the power supply. As it came free a small voice in his head chided with the words “trembler switch.” Oh well, too late now.
Throwing back his arm he bowled the tin as smoothly as he could out over the marsh. It plopped into the ooze, creating a small crater that immediately filled with brown liquid.
The surviving Streamers mopped up, slitting the throats of wounded enemies and tending to wounded comrades. There were few enough of the last.
He gestured, trying to get Hawthorn’s attention, to warn him that some of the Brasilians were carrying bombs, but a large bang from the swamp deluged him in stinking mud.
“What is it with you and mud?” Hawthorn asked, not entirely facetiously while helping to scrape Allenson off. “We dress you up in nice uniforms and you ruin them. Why can’t you just stay in your office and make fancy speeches like other generals?”
Allenson didn’t deign to answer the question.
“As I am the general, perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a situation report, Colonel.”
“Certainly, sir,” Hawthorn replied, throwing a punctilious salute.
Allenson just knew that behind the mask his friend was grinning.
“One of the hovercraft got away with a few survivors. One lies wrecked, as you can see, and we have captured the other in full working order.”
“That will be useful as a ferry for the artillery shifts,” Allenson said. He turned to Pynchon who stood listening to the interplay between the old comrades. “What about the guns . . . I mean catapults?”
“Major Kiesche is checking them over.”
“Major Pynchon, I want the full battery to open up again immediately.”
“Sir . . .” Pynchon looked as if he was about to ask something but decided against it.
Allenson pointed to the escaped hovercraft, which was making all speed back to Oxford across the bay.
“Those people will hardly admit that they fled without facing us. They will have great stories to tell of their daring and achievements that might raise hopes in the minds of the Brasilian command. I want to kill any such optimism, not least because it might discourage a repeat attempt. Commence the bombardment immediately: maximum effort.”
Allenson was not required to explain his orders. Often it would not be useful to so, but he needed the enthusiastic cooperation of men like Pynchon. They were not regulars in a Home World army. They would perform better if they knew why he insisted on an apparently dangerous order.
“The target, sir?”
“Anything that catches your eye, Colonel Pynchon, it doesn’t really matter as long as the battery is seen to be in full operation.”
Iron balls bombarded the port, most falling once again on the syncrete apron. The odd lucky hit struck an installation. Kiesche hovered over his babies anxiously.
Allenson began to relax. A sharp twang like a shotgun fired from inside a metal drum jolted him out of his complacency. One of the thick metallic stays holding a recoiling catapult parted under tension. The cable recoiled like a cracked whip.
The stay slapped Kiesche across the head with a noise like an egg struck by a hammer. He spun around and flopped onto his front. The cable expended its final energy by smacking against the rock between Hawthorn and Allenson. It struck hard enough to break off a chip.
Allenson reached Kiesche in three giant steps and gently turned him over. The engineer’s mask had gone. Worse, his face had gone. The front of his head was a bloody ruin exposing brain and skull fragments.
Allenson rose.
“That’s not your fault,” Hawthorn said.
“I know,” Allenson replied.
“That’s not even the catapult that was damaged,” Hawthorn said.
“True,” Allenson replied.
“That could have happened at any time to any of us,” Hawthorn said.
“Indeed,” Allenson replied.
The battery was still. The men had stopped firing. Allenson walked slowly and carefully over to the damaged catapult. He casually rested his foot on one of the stays.
“Recommence shooting with our two remaining machines, Major Pynchon,” he said.
Allenson stayed with the catapults until the men’s nerves settled, then he and Hawthorn departed with the shift change as planned. He slept like a log that night and most of the rest of the next morning. After a substantial brunch, he felt almost human.
A note from Ling awaited him on his datapad inviting, General and Lady Allenson to dine at his villa outside Oxford. Allenson was tempted to refuse, citing the work that had built up in his absence but, in truth Trina, Todd and his staff had handled most of it already. The rest would keep. Trina had taught him the importance of seemingly pointless social conventions. If Ling wanted to meet privately in an informal setting, it probably indicated that he wished to convey some informal message. That evening Allenson and Trina duly set out in their finery in a tolerably functional frame carriage that Boswell had scrounged from somewhere.
Boswell had been vague about the carriage’s provenance and Allenson thought it best not to inquire too closely. He strongly suspected that somewhere in Oxford was a garage with an insecure lock, a lock that may or may not have been insecure before Boswell discovered it.
Ling lived in a small comfortable home on the outskirts of a village that served the local agricultural community. His villa looked as if it had been converted from a farmhouse, since it was structured around a central two-story building with bedrooms on the top floor above functional rooms at ground level.
A one-story wing at right angles to the main structure may once have served for animal husbandry and equipment storage. Now it made a pleasant suite for guests and entertainment. A low wall from wing to building enclosed a triangular frame park and small formal garden. Allenson suspected that the wall had once been much higher. What remained was far too substantial to be a mere ornament. He also noticed that none of the buildings had ground floor windows onto the outside.
In less settled times the farmhouse would have doubled as a castle. Now it was a gentleman’s residence.
A log fire warmed the interior of the dining room. The meal commenced after the usual convention of welcoming drinks in front of the flickering flames.
Ling’s wife, Alphena, was a willowy lady who overtopped her husband by at least ten centimeters, although she wore flat-heeled shoes to disguise the height differential. She said little through the formal dinner but listened intently.
After dinner, Ling escorted Trina into the formal garde
n beside his villa to show her some exotic blooms he had been cultivating in controlled environment greenhouses. Allenson was left alone with Alphena. They settled into comfortable chairs and Alphena kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her.
“Bring us some tea, Lily,” she instructed the maid, who appeared to be the only servant in the house.
Allenson wondered what the purpose was behind the evening, pleasant though it was. Chiefs of staff commonly invited their commanders to dinner, but the way he had been separated from Trina seemed a little contrived. Trina had clearly thought so too, as she indicated by a raised eyebrow to Allenson when Ling ushered her out. Allenson had expected the ladies to retire, leaving him alone with Ling. Clearly this conversation was to be very informal.
Alphena made small talk about the price of tea and the merits of various suppliers until the maid left the room. That was unusual in itself. Normally the maid stood unobtrusively against one of the walls in case further service was required. She had obviously been given prior instructions.
Allenson waited patiently, making polite conversation while sipping his tea. Something sensitive was about to be touched on. Prodding the lady would not expedite matters. No doubt she would get around to the matter in her own time.
“You are not quite what I expected, General,” Alphena finally said.
“Indeed, what were you anticipating?” Allenson asked.
Alphena smiled.
“I’m not sure. Someone more . . .” she paused, selecting her next words carefully, “. . . authoritarian and ambitious perhaps. Someone more interested in politics and less involved with his family and farm.”
“We call them demesnes,” Allenson said.
He smiled, “Although they are just farms, albeit on a large scale.”
“That’s it exactly, that self-deprecating humor. That was not what I expected.”
“I’m afraid that I’m poor martinet material,” Allenson replied.
“Yes,” Alphena said seriously.
There was a pause in the conversation.
“What made you imagine I might be?” Allenson eventually, asking an open-ended question to get her talking.
“You came to us with a great reputation, Sar Allenson, not just your record as a war hero but as a powerful businessman and a key player in Manzanitan and Stream politics. It’s difficult to reconcile that image with the man. People who have never met you have some strange fancies.”
“Really?” Allenson replied, merely to keep the conversation going.
She chose her next words carefully, like a lawyer recalling the terms of a verbal contract.
“Many of the radicals, particularly the younger men, and some of the army officers, are frustrated at the slow progress of the Assembly and their inability to come to any decision. There is talk in such quarters that we would be better off with a strong-man in charge. Someone who gets things done . . .”
“. . . and makes the frames run on time.” Allenson interrupted.
She laughed.
“Precisely!”
“And these hotheads imagine me in the role of captain general, dictator and all-round grand supremo of the Cutter Stream?” asked Allenson, shaking his head in amusement.
Alphena looked serious.
“Put like that the idea is ridiculous to anyone who’s met you or bothered to take a close look at your decisions. You don’t act like a supremo and your actions are hardly calculated to set up a military dictatorship.”
“But there is still a problem,” Allenson said flatly.
“These’re troubled times. Many people have not met you and are too frightened or ignorant to analyze the situation logically. There are several people horrified at the idea of a military dictator for every individual who likes the idea.”
“A view I share, Lady Ling. I assure you that my only intention is to get this unpleasant business over as soon as is practical. I’m impatient to return to my demesne on Manzanita and get on with my life. My personal plans have no room for ridiculous coups.”
“I believe you, Sar Allenson, but not everyone will. Not all your enemies are on the Brasilian side. I urge you to watch your back.”
From there the conversation returned to trivial matters.
Allenson was inclined to dismiss Alphena’s warning as understandable paranoia. Everyone was nervous and inclined to see plots behind any chance remark. There would be losers whoever won the confrontation with Brasilia. Some people were going to be labelled loyal patriots and others traitors, but at this stage it was not clear which was which.
The trooper reeled and waved a glass of plum brandy.
“Another bol, barkeep. Plum brandy, only the best for me and my mate. If it’s good enough for the bloody nobs it’s good enough for us.”
He turned to his drinking companion, waving an arm for emphasis.
“Whatdaya say your name was again?”
“You don’t like nobs much then,” said his companion, deftly putting out an arm to steady the drunken trooper before his expansive gesture caused him to overbalance.
The bartender opened a fresh bottle of branded plum brandy and poured the first glass. The drunk tossed a Brasilian twenty crown onto the bar. He used far too much force so the coin skated off the other side. The barman, who was used to dealing with drunks, caught it one-handed.
“Keepsh the change, my good man,” said the drunk waving his hand in what he clearly fondly imagined was a display of liberality to the lower orders.
The barman examined the coin carefully. In his considerable experience drunken troopers rarely owned twenty crown pieces, let alone threw them around. The coin must have passed the barman’s expert scrutiny because he put it in the till.
“You don’t like nobs,” repeated the drunk’s companion.
“Feckin’ Manzanitan snobs,” the drunk said reflectively. “Come here to a civilized world like some cock o’ the walk. Captain of Militia I was, properly ’lected by my peers.”
He thrust his chin out and raised his voice.
“Wasnae good enough for Him though was I? Busted me he did for being more popular with my men than he was.”
“Bloody liberty,” said his companion, raising his refilled glass to his lips.
An observant person might have noted that the level in the glass had not perceptibly changed when he set it back down on the bar. The drunk was far too deep in his cups for such levels of perception.
“Liberty, yeah, liberty’s coming mate,” said the drunk. “Feckin’ snob’s turn will come. Gonna be a reckoning, though, or my name’s not Prat.”
“A reckoning! What are you going to do.”
The drunk tapped his nose conspiratorially.
“Wait and see, mate, wait and see. Gonna be a reckoning soon. Whatya say your name was again?”
His companion looked at something over the drunk’s shoulder.
“Krenz, my name is Krenz,” his companion said.
“This the man?” drawled an upper-class voice from behind the drunk.
“Yes, gov, he’s come into money suddenly and been making threats against the boss.”
The drunk frowned, his fuddled brain processing the information slowly that a third party had joined the conversation. When it did, he turned.
“You’re a feckin’ snob as well.”
The drunk threw a sudden swinging punch. Hawthorn leaned his head back three inches, so the blow expended on empty air. This time Krenz made no effort to effect a catch, so the drunk crashed to the floor.
Hawthorn looked down at the drunk dispassionately, like a taxonomist who had discovered yet another new species of parasitic roundworm doing all the usual things one expects such creatures to do.
“Hose him down and detox him until he’s reasonably sober, then we can have a little chat. You recorded the conversation?”
“Yes, Gov.”
Krenz’s face showed an unusual expression. Actually any expression was unusual for Krenz.
“Something on yo
ur mind?” Hawthorn asked.
“Well, Gov, you know recordings can’t be used in trials,” Krenz asked, adopting the tone one uses when a normally reliable superior appears to have overlooked the obvious.
Krenz and the criminal justice system of the Stream were old acquaintances. He had a working knowledge of court procedure that would not have disgraced a professional advocate.
“Trial?” Hawthorn asked, genuinely astonished. “This man’s not going anywhere near a court.”
“Good of you to see me, Jem. I realize that you have many calls upon your time,” Trina said.
“Not at all,” Hawthorn replied.
In truth he was curious why Trina should suddenly demand his attention. They were hardly intimates, so why did she want a private meeting?
“Would you care to take tea?” Hawthorn asked politely.
“As you are busy, I will get right to the point,” Trina said, showing a most unnatural directness for a Manzanitan lady.
“That would probably be for the best,” Hawthorn replied neutrally.
“I understand that you have arrested a man for threatening the life of my husband.”
Hawthorn blinked.
“Possibly you should be running security rather than me, Trina. We only picked him up a couple of hours ago. The matter is not supposed to be public knowledge. I would be curious to know your source of information.”
“Oh, one hears things,” Trina replied vaguely.
Hawthorn wondered who inside his organization was spying for her. It didn’t really matter that Trina had a pipeline into Special Security, but he was concerned that he hadn’t known. It was professionally annoying and it raised the possibility that other more unfriendly principals had planted double agents on him. He resolved to have a purge. No one had yet adequately resolved the conundrum of “who will watch the watchers?”
“Was it a serious threat or just a drunken blowhard?” she asked.
Hawthorn regarded her curiously.
“I have reason to believe that we should regard it as serious.”
“Have you told Allen yet?”
