by David Drake
His door burst open and Reese Morton exploded into the room.
“General, we’ve found the Brasilians!”
Todd followed him in.
“Captain Morton would like to see you when it is convenient,” Todd said pointedly.
“So I see,” Allenson said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Haven’t got time for all that protocol malarkey,” Morton said. “The general’ll want to hear this.”
Allenson gratefully closed the file.
“Perhaps you’d better sit down and compose yourself, captain. See we’re not disturbed, Todd.”
“Yes, sir,” Todd said, closing the door.
“He only calls me sir when he disapproves,” Allenson said.
“Oh he’s a good lad, your nephew, just a bit Brasilian, that’s all. We’ll soon knock the stuffed shirt out of him in the Stream. You see if we don’t, General,” Reese said, taking a seat.
“So you’ve found the Brasilian army. I hadn’t known you’d lost them.”
Reese colored.
“Ah well, it didn’t seem necessary to worry you with every detail, sir. We sort of mislaid them, temporarily. They fooled us by doubling back.”
A cold chill went up Allenson’s spine.
“Doubling back to where?”
“Here, General, they’ve landed back on Trent.”
“Where?”
“Insubran.”
The name meant nothing to Allenson, so he called up a map. Insubran was a small continent, large island really, to the north and east of Trent; both the world and its main continent had the same name. He flicked through a brief description of the place. Desolate, was the word most used in the briefings. A small community on the east coast serviced a harvesting fleet and scattered farming communities operating at little more than subsistence level. Barren soil and water shortages prevented profitable exploitation.
“Why would the Brasilians go there?” Allenson asked, thinking out loud.
“It’s a useful isolated place for a base,” Morton said confidently.
“I doubt the Brasilians would see it like that,” Allenson replied. “From their perspective, Insubran is a lousy place for a base. It has no local supplies and no port capable of taking anything bigger than a tramp. Sure the assault ships can land anywhere but they would need somewhere to unload decent sized freighters to supply their army.”
“Perhaps they intend to build a port,” Morton said.
Allenson considered the suggestion, but rejected it almost immediately. He shook his head.
“Not possible.”
“Why,” Morton asked, clearly not comprehending.
The remark reminded Allenson how young and inexperienced Morton was.
“With what, and how, would they move heavy building gear in starting from such a low infrastructure? The cost would be prohibitive and take months, maybe years, and what an easy target they would give us for raids and sabotage.”
Another thought occurred.
“They would have to bring in construction teams, feed them, and provide security. It would be a logistical nightmare.”
Morton looked exasperated. “So what else could they be doing?”
Allenson spread his hands.
“Any number of things. They might be carrying out repairs. They did take a few hits from our improvised artillery.”
“But are you so certain that we can afford to ignore them?” Morton asked.
That was the rub, of course. Morton deftly fed the worm of doubt that gnawed at Allenson’s confidence. Was he really so sure of his logic that he was willing to bet the future of the new state on his decision? Put like that the answer was obvious.
“No, I’ll have to find out exactly what the situation is. Put together a reconnaissance team from your people.”
Morton didn’t move.
“Well?” Allenson asked.
“Do I take it that you intend to come as well?”
“You do,” Allenson said, lifting his chin in a “so what” gesture.
“Colonel Hawthorn might have some thoughts on that,” Morton said, choosing his words with care.
“Colonel Hawthorn is on holiday,” Allenson said.
They grinned at each other like a couple of schoolboys let off the leash.
Allenson reveled in the freedom of riding a one-man frame. How long had it been, two years, three, maybe more? Morton led, then Allenson and finally three of Morton’s canary-clothed commandos. Allenson kept close to the others as he was quite out of practice at pinpoint navigation.
They slipped in and out of the Continuum in a series of short bunny hops a klick at a time so they could safely navigate a bare hundred meters above the ocean. It was impossible to judge orientation properly so deep in Trent’s gravity well, so they needed a twenty- or thirty-meter safety cushion in height even over so short a distance.
At least the ocean was reasonably flat. Over land they would have needed four or five hundred meters clearance. It took three hours of hard work to reach Insubran but there really was no acceptable alternative strategy. Sure the journey could have been done in ten minutes in a single hop but they would have had to partially dephase high overhead. The sophisticated sensors on the assault ships would have instantly detected their arrival.
They covered the last kilometer almost completely dephased at an over-land speed of barely two hundred kph. The Insubran western shoreline rose steeply out of the water, waves pounding on yellow-red rock formations. Their passage disturbed large scaly creatures twice the size of a man sunning themselves on the rocks. Some bull-males lifted their heads as the frames soared overhead. They snarled soundlessly, showing rows of needle teeth optimized for catching fish. The females and cubs slid into the sea, wriggling from side to side to get purchase for flipperlike limbs.
Once they reached the sea, they disappeared under with barely a ripple. Moving from land to water transferred them from helplessly clumsy beasts to sleek, well-adapted organisms. Allenson wondered why the passage of the frames triggered the beasts’ flight. What could possibly threaten them in this barren place?
He glanced uneasily at the sky and wished he had thought to research the local wildlife before leaving. He was tempted to get out his datapad and search for flight-capable Insubran macro-predators but thought better of it. Flying safely in close formation at low level took all of his concentration.
The frames climbed up towards the mountainous ridge immediately behind the shoreline. The terrain was a badland of broken rocks and wadis with no soil and so no plants. Flashes in a dark area higher in the peaks indicated an electrical storm. Morton altered course to give it a wide berth. Lightning played havoc with frame fields. On the plus side it would also confuse Brasilian detection equipment.
Morton slowed down to twenty kph or thereabouts when they reached the summit of the ridge so that they could follow the gullies and keep below the skyline. He dephased and landed on a ledge where they could look out over the plain below. The mountains sloped more gently on this side and scrubby vegetation had taken hold in hollows where there was a modicum of sediment and, Allenson surmised, moisture. Insubran was a desert.
The weather came in from the west. The mountains forced the airstream up. It cooled, depositing rain primarily on the barren western slopes. Heavy sheets of precipitation tumbled straight back into the ocean, washing away soil and carving out the badlands. The eastern plain was in rainshadow, baked dry under cloudless skies.
Allenson wondered how the locals farmed at all. They clearly did, as he observed tiny hamlets of square, yellow mud brick houses scattered about amid plots of desiccated vegetation. The Brasilians had landed close to the edge of the mountain slope. Using the resolution of his datapad as a passive telescope Allenson could see movement between the three assault ships and various tramps. Vehicles kicked up clouds of dust so it was impossible to work out exactly what they were doing.
“We need to get in closer,” Allenson said.
Mo
rton shaded his eyes and pointed.
“We can follow that wadi down close to the plain without being seen. ’Fraid it will be shank’s pony from here on, General. It will be hotter down there.”
“The hike will no doubt do me good. Sweat off a few kilos,” Allenson said, unconvincingly.
When they got closer to the plain, Allenson noticed perfect circles where the soil was a deeper red ochre than the yellow brown of the plain. He estimated that the circles were quite small, perhaps a meter across, although it was difficult to judge scale. The circles must be artificial, as they ran in perfect straight lines away from the mountains, each one about a hundred meters apart. Sometimes the lines bifurcated. Sometimes right-angled cross links connected the main lines.
The descent went smoothly enough. The reconnaissance team left their frames hidden in a jumble of rocks. A large plant clinging to one of the boulders marked the place. It dropped long thick fibrous roots that disappeared into the thin sandy soil.
The plant resembled a squat bulb with a woody outer integument. Straggly branches erupted from the top and flat leathery yellow leaves dangled. The dried up remains of purple flowers clung to the leaves.
Allenson ran a finger down a leaf, to find it dry and leathery.
“Curious texture, I guess that the plants are quiescent for most of the year, coming into bloom only after rainfall.”
“Suppose so,” Morton replied, looking quizzically at Allenson.
He clearly wondered why Allenson was interested in obscure botanical observations. Destry would have been fascinated. Morton didn’t give a damn.
It took the best part of an hour to walk the half kilometer to the plain through the broken landscape. The air was bloody hot but at least dry. Hot humid climates were one of Allenson’s pet hates.
Every fifty meters Morton chipped a rock with a small hand axe to mark their way back. Allenson had already locked the location of the frames into his datapad’s inertial navigation, but it never hurt not to have to rely on technology. Datapads were famously robust and foolproof, but even the best gear had a nasty habit of letting you down at the worst possible time.
Allenson noted that the chips showed as dull red against the yellow sandstone just like the mysterious circles. He nearly drew Morton’s attention to the anomaly, but decided not to bother.
The wind rose until it swirled in little eddies through the stone. Fine red dust lifted in dancing whirlpools. When they finally stood on the plain, the particles in the air were dense enough to sting their eyes.
“That’s torn it,” Morton said. “I don’t know about you but I can’t see a bloody thing. What now?”
“If we can’t see them then they can’t see us. We go on.”
Morton groaned theatrically.
“I just knew you would say that. I hate walking. Okay, men, more yomping.”
His loyal band catcalled but they followed.
“Hey don’t blame me, thank our gung-ho general. All officers above the rank of captain are mad, you know that.”
He continued sotto voice.
“You aren’t going to be out-hiked by an old man are you?”
Allenson closed his ears. Morton had an easy attitude to discipline and command but his men followed him willingly enough. Ironically, the canary yellow uniforms blended in quite well with the sand storm. Allenson used the inertial navigation built into his datapad to plot their way towards the Brasilians.
They stumbled across one of the hamlets. Doors were closed on the houses and windows had shutters fastened tight. There was no evidence anyone lived there. Nevertheless Allenson had the feeling of eyes watching between the slats. He ostentatiously switched on his carbine and checked the load and diagnostics. Morton noticed and signaled to his men to do likewise with their laserrifles.
Allenson preferred the carbine because he could get off a fusillade quickly. The burst would be largely undirected but careful aiming had never worked that well for him anyway.
There probably was no one watching and if there were they probably had no aggressive intent. However, displaying that the small group was heavily armed did no harm.
Just outside the hamlet was one of the red circles. Curious, Allenson scraped away the covering of dust with his boot. Underneath the stone was amber. Red dust blown by the wind stuck immediately by some sort of static charge. It hid the yellow layer in a matter of seconds.
Morton watched and raised an eyebrow. Allenson signaled that they should press on, unwilling to try to explain when all he would get was a mouth full of grit for his pains. It wasn’t like Morton would care anyway.
After half an hour the wind eased and the dust settled. Morton led them into a crop to give cover in the clear air. The plants were a little like chest-high mushrooms. Fruiting bodies hung in clusters under the domes. A semi-translucent cellulose shield across the top of the dome let in light for photosynthesis but gave protection from erosion and desiccation by the dry, dust-filled wind.
They walked crouched over to the edge of the crop. Allenson’s back protested at the unusual exercise. He really was out of shape for playing commando. Morton appeared to be enjoying himself. He stopped behind a hedge of some dried out plant material that acted as a windbreak and motioned Allenson over. The Brasilian ships were parked about half a klick away. Allenson glared at the ovoids with envy. To have command of such resources!
Small tractors dragged sleds around the parked ships. After a while Allenson discerned a pattern of movement between the small tramps and the assault ships. He used his datapad to create an image and magnify it, not daring to use anything other than a passive system for fear of alerting the Brasilians.
The sleds from the tramps to the ovoids were loaded with gear but they came back empty. Some tractors moved material out of the assault ships into stockpiles while others transported it back again. No troops occupied the ground apart from small security details grouped around single barreled lasercannons on tripods and other less recognizable equipment. Now that he could watch the activity in detail it was obvious what the Brasilians were up to.
He never knew what gave the reconnaissance team away, maybe leaking emissions from his datapad. The Brasilians knew the locals had no device more sophisticated than a garden hoe.
Maybe the enemy had some other sort of sensor that could pick up living bodies in a field. He should have anticipated that Brasilian state of the art military gear might have unusually sensitive properties. Whatever triggered the alarm, a security point suddenly came alive.
A trooper swung the cannon and loosed off a short burst. It wasn’t a bad shot considering that he was probably firing indirectly on estimated coordinates. The burst walked through the mushroom crop to Allenson’s right in a series of explosions. Mushrooms blazed, releasing white smoke that rolled across the plot.
“Shit,” Morton said, pithily. “Run for it.”
Allenson was already on his feet and moving. Tripod-mounted lasercannon required time for the focusing optics to cool and the capacitors to recharge. Exactly how long depended on the sophistication of the engineering. Allenson counted off the seconds in his head as he ran. He had got to three when the next shot raked through the mushrooms.
Smoke concealed the reconnaissance team, so the gun aimer fired blind. He swiveled his weapon transversely, shooting short bursts. This time he was short. Exploding mushrooms sprayed fragments that trailed white smoke trails in the air like flatulent fireworks.
Allenson ran flat out. His breath came in gasps. Acrid chemicals in the smoke seared his throat. He was probably breathing in carcinogens. He made a note to get a check-up by a genosurgeon when he got home—if he got home. It must be a sign of age to worry about your long-term health while someone was trying to kill you with a bloody big gun.
After a couple more bursts, the gunfire ceased. By then the field was a sea of fire. Everything was dry and inflammable. Fortunately the worst of the inferno raged behind them. Another minute and they reached the edge of the crop. Mor
ton stopped and looked around wildly. In front of them open semi-desert stretched all the way back to the ridge.
“What now, the fire’ll burn out quickly. We’ll never make it to the rocks before the smoke clears. We’ll stand out on the plain like a dog’s balls and they’ll pick us off easy with a lasercannon.”
A mushroom exploded, showering the men with burning fragments. They cursed and beat at their clothes. Allenson hadn’t seen a laser impact so the plants must be spontaneously combusting with the heat.
“Follow me,” Allenson said, setting out across the open ground at the run.
He angled to the left while keeping the smoke between his small force and the Brasilian guns until he came to where a line of red circles tracked towards the ridge. There he changed course and sprinted towards the nearest circle.
When he reached it he brushed away the red dust deposits from around the edge to reveal an amber stone cover. He pulled at the circle but it stuck fast. Cursing, Allenson felt around under the lip, shuffling around the circular structure on his knees.
“No doubt, you have a plan?” Morton asked hopefully.
“I find curious phenomena interesting and like to explore,” Allenson replied. “You should try it sometime. You might be surprised.”
“Indeed,” Morton said, after a pregnant pause.
“The wind’s started again, sir,” said one of Morton’s canary commandos, biting his lower lip with anxiety.
“Which will blow away the smoke all the faster,” Morton said, looking meaningfully at Allenson.
“Then we had better find somewhere to hide,” Allenson said with a grin as he flipped the lever his questing fingers had located.
The hatch popped. Allenson tried to lift it open but the ceramic was heavy and he was not well balanced. Two of Morton’s men helped him.
“Down you go,” Allenson said, pointing to a wooden ladder lashed to metal rods hammered into the sides of the tunnel.
Morton led the way and Allenson went last so he could affix the hatch back in position. The erratic wind was a two-edged sword. It might blow away the smoke but it would also blow red dust back over the hatch. That mightn’t fool the Brasilians for long but he was willing to take any advantage going. He hurried down the ladder, hoping to God it would take the weight of six men.
