Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  Hawthorn had a mercurial personality that veered abruptly from driving optimism to labyrinthine despair. He would emerge when he was ready. For their different reasons, neither of Allenson’s friends paid much attention to their palette and that was a shame because the drink was real tea. The strain was unfamiliar to Allenson, it might even be novel, but it undoubtedly was genuine tea from a genetic ancestry that traced back to old Earth.

  Tea was a luxury food in the Cutter Stream. It was transported across the Bight from Brasilia and subject to substantial import taxes. Only imported Brasilian tea could legally be drunk in the Cutter Stream so the drink was eye-wateringly expensive.

  This was an arrangement that suited everybody, at least everybody who mattered. The proprietors of the Brasilian tea plantations and merchant shippers enjoyed high profit margins and prospered. Import duties raised the monies that paid for the Governor’s office and other Cutter Stream officials. The only other sources of tax in the Cutter Stream were the compounds of the local gentry and the sale of indentured servants’ contracts, which amounted to taxing much the same people since only the gentry used servants. There was only so much that could be squeezed out of the gentry before they stopped co-operating with the colonial authorities.

  All aristocracies needed some way of spending money pointlessly to demonstrate their status. Brasilian politicians organized vast entertainments for the masses. Terran landholders sponsored baroque and decadent arts whose subtleties appealed only to other aristocrats. Cutter Stream gentry drank tea.

  Allenson now knew why Gupper had met them and guided them directly to the compound. Somewhere, hidden in the forest, the Lakesiders were growing tea cultivar. This was the cash crop on which the community based their hope of prosperity.

  Taking tea took some time as the more important members of the community managed to find some reason to visit Gupper’s house and be introduced. Allenson suspected that Gupper himself had put the word out that he was extending hospitality to Sar Destry and two friends.

  Dinner was fortunately a quieter matter. They were joined by Gupper’s three sons and a daughter. The boys ranged from about ten years old to late teens with the daughter somewhere in the middle. Destry was on fine form, entertaining the table with stories about his time on Brasilia. Fara was keen to hear about the balls and fashions, as well as gossip about the private lives of the ruling families. Destry was a polished raconteur who brightened any dinner party. Allenson sometimes found that irritating but today he was glad of the fact as he had much to reflect on after his conversations with Todd and Linsye.

  * * *

  The survey team left the next morning after breakfasting on a locally made porridge. Gupper came to see them off. Allenson intercepted him so that he could talk to the man in private.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Master Gupper, and thank Mistress Gupper for the tea,” Allenson said.

  “Ah yes,” Gupper replied, his expression suddenly blank.

  “Expensive stuff, tea,” Allenson said.

  “Fara had been saving it for a special occasion,” Gupper said, defensively.

  “Indeed,” Allenson replied. “People do serve it when they have guests. It would be much cheaper if we grew it here in the Cutter Stream but that would threaten the Governor’s monopoly.”

  “Yes,” said Gupper, obviously wondering where the conversation was going.

  “That’s why the law against illegal tea plantations is so rigorously enforced,” Allenson said. “One of my family’s tenants was tempted to grow tea in secret. He cleverly hid the crop inside a sunflower field but the problem with selling illegal tea is that it is enjoyed publically. What is the point of taking tea if you can’t impress your friends with a cup? Someone always gets jealous and talks. When it comes down to it, everyone informs on the person higher up the chain in return for immunity from prosecution.”

  “What happened to your tenant,” Gupper said.

  “One day the Lictors came and burnt his fields. They sized his goods to pay the fines and import taxes. Of course, he had little of much cash value so they arrested his family and sold their contracts as indentured servants to make up the difference.”

  Allenson looked meaningfully across the settlement to where Fara was shepherding her children out to the fields. Gupper went pale.

  “But this is an unhappy conversation,” Allenson said, mounting his frame. “Be thankful such a disaster will never happen to you or me, Master Gupper.

  Allenson pedalled vigorously for a few moments to charge the systems. Gupper retreated to a safe distance. Allenson waved to him and switched on the frame, phasing into the Continuum.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kalimantan

  Allenson was pleasantly surprised by the sheer number of beacons tagged by his frame’s navigation. The Kalimantan colony must be prospering. Many of the beacons were simple location identifiers but a few had recognition systems with auto-landers. He locked on to one of the latter, identified as KPS19, and let it guide him in.

  The team phased onto an extensive grassed area outside a substantial high-walled compound. Bushes planted in straight lines stretched away in all directions towards the horizon, except for one small area that seemed to be a mixed farm surrounded by green hedges and low walls. A cool wind blew steadily over the flat ground, offering some relief from the yellow sun that shone unrelentingly from a cloudless sky.

  Guards patroling along the top of the walls watched the team dismount. They wore wide-brimmed hats that left their faces in shadow. Their body language oozed boredom. Possibly they were more effective than they looked but Allenson rather doubted it.

  “Visitors from the Cutter Stream to see the manager,” he said to the guard who lolled above the gate.

  “Door’s open,” the guard replied, laconically, his attention focussed on lighting a cigarette.

  “That sod would get the toe of my boot if he worked for me,” Hawthorn said, none too quietly. The guard must have overheard but he chose to ignore the comment.

  A small doorway was cut into the larger wooden gate. Allenson pushed and it swung open. Inside, the compound was laid out according to a classic Brasilian colonial pattern. One floor buildings lined the walls, their flat roofs providing a parapet for the guards. A three-story villa dominated the back wall. An array of communication equipment and a multi-barrelled automatic cannon were built into the roof.

  The center of the compound was clear of buildings except for a nodding derrick. Various stores were piled up in crates and there was a tractor park. Men and women in servant’s clothes hurried about various chores, largely ignoring the survey team.

  “This is amazing,” Destry said. “We might almost be back in the Cutter Stream itself. I had no idea how well this colony is capitalized.”

  “Indeed not,” Allenson agreed. “I suppose we should try the main building, as no one has had the curtsey to greet us.”

  Up close, it could be seen that the villa was roughly finished, although robustly built. It had the feel of a commercial building rather than a family home. This impression was reinforced by a sign on the wall which sternly ordered visitors to report to reception. An arrow indicated that they should enter through the main door.

  Inside the portico, Allenson walked through a cold air curtain that significantly lowered the temperature. A desk to one side sported a sign boasting that it was the reception. Allenson dinged a bell. Nothing happened so he dinged it two or three times more. A middle aged woman with an impressive moustache walked as slowly as possible down the corridor and seated herself behind the desk. She made a great show of adjusting the display on her screen. When she was quite satisfied she deigned to raise her eyes.

  “Sars Destry, Allenson and Hawthorn of the Harbinger Project,” Allenson said. “Who is in charge here?”

  “Sar Fullbrite is the General Manager,” she replied reluctantly, as if the information had been tortured out of her.

  Allenson kept a grip on his temper. He recognized
a middle management bureaucrat when he saw one. They only got more mulish if you leaned on them. The trick was to bend them to your will with the minimum effort.

  “Then kindly inform Sar Fullbrite that we are here,” Allenson said.

  “Do you have an appointment,” the receptionist said, playing another obstructionist card.

  “We do not but I fancy he will wish to see us,” said Allenson.

  The woman sniffed as if to say that she thought it unlikely and touched her screen. After a few seconds she spoke into it and listened to a reply. Allenson could hear nothing, which meant that the screen must be equipped with a sophisticated tight sound suppressor, not something one would expect to encounter in a Hinterland colony.

  The woman rose, “Follow me,” she said.

  She guided them up the corridor to a door, which she opened without knocking. An astonishingly young man in expensive casual clothes stood up behind a desk and gestured them in.

  “Come in sars, would you like some refreshment after your journey.”

  “That would be welcome,” Allenson said.

  “Gladys, make some cafe,” Fullbrite said.

  “Who me?” Gladys asked.

  “Yes, you, are you my bloody secretary or not?” Fullbrite asked in frustration.

  Gladys seemed to consider the question. “Personal assistant, not secretary,” she finally replied.

  Fullbrite wiped his forehead. He said, “Just get us some cafe, Gladys.”

  “I thought you told me to check the Arundel invoices?” Gladys asked.

  “And now I am telling you to make us some cafe,” Fullbright replied, wearily. “Just do it, Gladys, and stop giving me a hard time.”

  She exited the room, her expression indicating that she considered drink preparation well beneath her dignity.

  “Sorry about Gladys, gentlemen,” Fullbrite said. “She is the only person who properly understands the accounting system.” He sighed as if that explained everything, and perhaps it did.

  “Competence is at a premium in Kalimantan. Gladys would not have to work here if she boasted social skills to match her administrative talents.”

  “And what brings you here?” Destry asked, rather rudely. He was obviously a bit nettled by their cavalier treatment.

  “Very large bonuses,” Fullbrite replied, spacing the words for emphasis. He spread his hands as if to indicate the generous scale of the remuneration. “I am the younger son of my father’s second mistress, which means I inherited good breeding but damn all else.”

  Destry laughed, good humor restored. He gave a rueful smile of empathy with Fullbrite.

  At that point Gladys ushered in a servant, whose role was to carry the tray. She passed around the refreshment while Gladys supervised. Fullbrite winked at Destry. Allenson made the introductions after the staff exited.

  “I didn’t notice a name over the compound gate?” Allenson asked, more to make conversation than anything.

  “We are officially Kalimantan Product Supply Number 19, or KPS19 for short, of the Feel Rite Health Cooperative, a division of Home & Colonial Supplies, which is I believe is currently owned by Macrakrunch Arms & Riot Control. You know their motto—“Don’t just stop’em, MARC’em. It’s all a bit of a mouthful to hang over the door and no one gives a damn what the compound is really called.”

  “No doubt the staff have their own version,” Hawthorn said.

  Fullbrite smiled. “They think I don’t know.”

  “I still don’t understand why Brasilian Corporations have poured so much capital into Kalimantan,” Allenson said.

  “To farm kali bushes, the fibers fluoresce in a magnetic field and emit light,” Fullbrite said.

  “So I understand,” Allenson said, “but there are many processes that produce light far more cheaply and efficiently than kali fibers.”

  “Yes, but synthetic machines produce synthetic light,” Fullbrite said, “not like kali fibers that produce blueish natural light thought to have psychic healing properties and to enhance sexual potency. It’s the latest fashion in Brasilia.”

  “And does the light have recuperative properties?” Destry asked, delicately.

  “It’s certainly tinted blue,” Fullbrite said, with a cynical grin.

  “I wonder if we might make camp here for a night?” Allenson asked, politely.

  “Most certainly not,” Fullbrite replied. “You shall stay as my guests in the management suite. It will be a pleasure to have gentlemanly conversation for a change. You can tell me the latest gossip.”

  “That is most civil. We accept with pleasure and we shall certainly sing for our supper but I fear we are some weeks out of the Cutter Stream so our gossip will be out of date,” Allenson said.

  “You can’t be more out of date than we are here,” Fullbrite said, with feeling. “If you listen carefully you can still hear the echoes of the Big Bang from KPS19. I can’t wait for my contract to finish so I can get back to civilization.”

  Allenson noticed that there were two hand drawn wall charts in the office. One showed KPS 19’s production figures; the other ticked off the number of days before Fullbrite could go home to Brasilia.

  “If you will excuse me gentlemen, I had better go over those invoices with Gladys or she will sulk with me for days. Would you like a guided tour of our operation here?”

  “Very much,” Allenson replied.

  “So be it. I will arrange it.”

  * * *

  The wheels jolted over a pothole. Allenson gripped the handrail tightly feeling slightly nauseous. The four wheeled trailer was designed to carry weight and its suspension was woefully underloaded with just the survey team aboard. They sat on a bench clamped longways onto the flatbed. Their guide drove the four wheeled tractor unit. He had a sprung bucket seat that bounced up and down.

  The tractor was powered by alcohol, judging from the smell of the exhaust. The motor spun at high fixed revs emitting a constant whine that got on Allenson’s nerves. He was not used to engine noise. The tractor was small with large balloon tyres. Each one appeared to be independently powered by torque units in the hubs as they often ran at different speeds as each one gained and lost traction.

  To Allenson’s relief the guide pulled over when they reached a small clearing in the rows of purple kali bushes. The team climbed gratefully off their transport. Hawthorn rubbed life back into his buttocks and grimaced. Allenson would have loved to emulate him but thought it unseemly.

  In the center of the clearing derrick pump nodded away. Allenson pointed to it.

  “What are you pumping?” he asked their guide.

  “Water, Sar Allenson,” he replied. “Kali plants like their heads in the sun and their feet in the water. There is no free water on the plateau so we pump it up from the ground and it runs out along underground pipes. We have a pump every tenth of a klom or so. When they dry up we sink a deeper shaft.”

  “The water table is dropping then?” Allenson asked.

  The man shrugged, “I guess so.” It was clearly not something that concerned him.

  Destry wandered over to the Derrick and poked around it, flipping over covers. He had a curiosity about technology. The supervisor looked a little alarmed. “Is there anything I can help you with, sar?”

  “I just wondered what this outlet did. It seems somewhat complicated for a tap.” Destry said.

  “Ah,” the supervisor said. “We have sprayer machines to keep the bugs and weeds and suchlike down. That box there controls them. The machines dock on that spigot to fill up with water and stuff. Something is wrong with the controller on this derrick and the sprayers started to run wild.”

  “The plants look healthy enough,” Destry said.

  “We have hand-sprayers. Spray duty is used as a sort of punishment for the field servants. It’s hot unpleasant work. Truth is we never have enough working sprayer machines to go round anyway. Shall we move on? There’s a station nearby with a water cooler.”

  They reluctantly climbe
d back aboard their makeshift carriage and lurched up the track into an area where the bushes were taller and bluer. They looked as if they had been bleached. Long fibers hung down, flapping in the continuous wind. Teams of female servants cut them down using long armed secateurs, catching them and dropping them in sacks slung over their backs. Noting Allenson’s interest, their guide stopped their tractor.

  “We harvest the plants pollinators for processing into kali fibers,” he said.

  A tractor and trailer moved slowly between the harvesters. A female servant took the opportunity to empty her sack into a bowl on the side of the trailer. A screen briefly flashed up some numbers before the bowl emptied into the trailer.

  “The servants have daily targets to achieve. They get bonuses for exceeding their targets that can be put towards paying off their contracts or used to buy small luxuries from the company shop,” the guide said.

  “Do any of the field servants pay off their contracts?” Destry asked.

  “It is theoretically possible,” the guide replied.

  “The female workers all wear the same ankle bracelet. Is that some sort of Kalimanatan fashion?” asked Hawthorn.

  Allenson had not noticed because he thought it ungentlemanly to pay too much attention to the servant’s legs but now Hawthorn had raised the issue he studied the ornament on the leg of a nearby girl. It was made of thick silvery cables twisted into a braid. The girl, noticing his interest, tossed her head and turned her back.

  Allenson felt his cheeks burn. He hastily turned his attention back to their guide. The man had twisted on the tractor seat and put his right foot on one of the wheels, causing his trouser leg to hitch up. Allenson saw that he also wore one of the bracelets.

  The guide chuckled, “Not exactly, they are servants’ tags. Sar Fullbrite likes devices to be pretty as well as functional.”