Hawthorn joined the table, covering a slice of toasted bread with fruit spread. Allenson found rather to his surprise that he was desperately hungry so he joined Hawthorn in taking the more substantial dish and also added some cheese and ham slices to his plate. Destry toyed with the oatmeal.
The friends had reached the stage where they were drinking a second cafay and toying with the sweetmeats when Rimmer joined them. Destry pushed the biscuits in his direction.
“Thank you, no.” Rimmer said, wistfully. “Well perhaps just a cafay and a small snack. I have a favor to ask of you, sars.”
“Indeed,” Allenson said.
“We have been plagued by Rider raids over the last few years.
“We saw the bounty notice,” Hawthorn said. “I am surprised that Riders are a problem this close to the Cutter Stream.”
Rimmer shrugged. “We rarely catch any Riders. The bounty is mostly unclaimed. It serves more of a political than a practical purpose. One must be seen to be doing something however useless. I lack the budget to recruit decent lictors so have to rely on watchmen, who are little more than the town drunks, and volunteers.”
“You mentioned a favor,” said Allenson, dragging Rimmer back to the issue.
“Ah, yes. I have just had a report of another raid on an outlying island. Some of Master Taproot’s men are organizing an armed band to pursue the Riders. I wondered if you gentlemen might spare the time to accompany them?” asked Rimmer.
“Of course, we will,” Destry replied. “What an excellent way to repay your hospitality. I haven’t been on a decent hunt for months. It will be an adventure.”
Allenson could have cursed him. A wild goose chase back into the Hinterland was about as welcome as a slipped disc at this stage of their expedition. He arranged his features into a polite smile.
“It will be our pleasure,” Allenson said.
Hawthorn poured himself another cup of cafay.
* * *
Rimmer escorted the Survey Team to where the armed band was assembling in the compound. They divided quite noticeably into two groups—the Watch, older, unfit men in cheap town clothing and Taproot’s men—younger, leaner, hungrier, and dressed in Hinterland gear.
The watchmen were equipped with three-man tricycle frames and cheaply stamped out shotguns with thick metal barrels that would act as a significant drag in the Continuum. Their uniforms consisted solely of a yellow armband bearing the Cutter Stream logo of five stars in a cross. One had an additional yellow sash, marking him as the sergeant in charge.
Taproot’s men had personal frames similar to those used by the Team and were armed with an assortment of rugged pellet guns made largely of imported ceramic components. The only significant mass of metal in them would be the pellets and magnetic coils.
“These gentlemen will be accompanying you,” Rimmer said to the Watch sergeant, gesturing at the Survey Team.
“I don’t know about that. Master Taproot said nothing about no gentlemen,” said a surly individual who Allenson recognized from the night before as one of Taproot’s minders.
The sergeant stepped back, looking nervously from Rimmer to the minder.
“Sar Rimmer was giving you an instruction, not asking your opinion,” said Hawthorn.
The minder stood his ground, glaring at Hawthorn.
“Mind your manners, Williamson,” Taproot said, from the open rear window of a luxury Ramanda ground effect car parked to one side of the compound. “The gentlemen are welcome, of course.”
Allenson had noticed the vehicle earlier but had assumed that it was the official car of the Agent. Transporting such a machine to a Hinterland colony would be ruinously expensive.
Taproot’s minder shrugged and turned away to adjust his frame. The Ramanda’s tinted window slid up; the car rose thirty centimeters above the ground with barely a whine from its ground effect rotors. It slid out of the compound, bottoming with a clang on the uneven surface between the gate and the road.
The car raised a cloud of dust when it slid onto the road, manoeuvring slowly and with difficulty along the narrow streets. The dust settled to reveal a new bright silver scar where the car had grounded.
“He would be far more comfortable in a Rover,” Hawthorn said, with a grin.
“I suspect comfort is not the issue,” Allenson said, thoughtfully. “The Ramanda is a statement of wealth and status. It speaks volumes about Taproot’s personality and ambitions.” He raised his voice, “Williamson!”
“Sar,” the minder replied.
The minder had completely lost his truculence. Clearly, Taproot ran a tight ship.
“Brief us, if you please,” Allenson said.
“We got a ’phone call. Smoke is rising from Greenfey. It’s a small island in the ’pelago. The Svenson family farm it.”
“Very well, Williamson. Lead and we shall follow,” said Allenson.
Nobody asked the sergeant’s opinion, an omission for which he seemed grateful.
* * *
They made poor time through the Continuum, the tricycles were slow and their occupants unfit, but it was barely a hop to Greenfey. The armed band materialized directly at the farmhouse. A thin curl of smoke still lifted from the burnt out building. There was no sign of life.
“Spread out and see what you can find,” said Williamson. Men rushed in all directions, seemingly at random. Allenson doubted they would find much. The raiders must be long gone.
The plasticized farmhouse walls were non-combustible but their blackened surface indicated the ferocity of the fire. The roof had burnt out and fallen in. Two charcoal human-sized objects were presumably the Svensons. A smaller body in the corner might have been a child or an animal. It was too burnt to be certain. Allenson moved the body with his foot and discovered the remains of a small shoe. Charcoal flaked off the remains releasing the sweet smell of roast meet. It reminded Allenson of the Rider encampment. He forced down the urge to gag and put his handkerchief over his mouth.
Allenson methodically examined the remains in and around the building, moving the ashes aside with his boot. The men drifted back in twos and threes, Destry and Hawthorn among them. Destry was white-faced and seemed to be in shock. Hawthorn was deceptively calm but Allenson knew him well enough to sense the fury pent within him.
“The family are inside,” Allenson said. “Two adults and a child.”
“There was a teenage girl as well,” Hawthorn said. “They took her away from the fire.”
“Did they kill her?” Allenson asked, knowing in his heart the answer but clinging to a faint hope.
“Eventually,” Hawthorn replied.
“Right men, let’s go,” Williamson shouted. “We will follow the current into the Hinterland. Let’s see if we can find the trail of the murdering bastards.”
The men ran for their frames, mounted and disappeared one by one. Allenson watched them go without making any effort to follow. His friends looked at him curiously.
“It occurs to me,” Allenson said, “that there is a distinct lack of any sign of high value portable property among the debris.”
“They were only poor farmers,” Hawthorn said.
“True, but over there is the remains of a solar tracking dish. Someone has taken the capacitor.”
“Maybe it had been removed before the raid—for maintenance or somesuch,” said Destry.
“Maybe,” Allenson agreed “but what’s left of the steam generator is in that wooden annexe.” Allenson pointed. “I can find no trace of the control module. There surely would have been something ceramic that would have survived the fire. Why would Riders want to steal a control module?”
“No reason at all,” Hawthorn said, his voice cold and hard. “Renegades did this.”
“It explains why the armed bands never catch anything,” Allenson said. “Renegades are hardly likely to flee deeper into the Hinterland. They will need to fence their loot, which means someone is laundering it for them.”
“And the best place
to do that would be here on Laywant.” Destry finished the argument for him.
“Right,” Allenson said. “If we carry out a spiral search over the world surface from this point, we may yet pick up their track.”
* * *
It was Hawthorn who found the trail of course. He had an instinctive insight into human behavior that Allenson envied. Allenson thought in complex ways and often made the mistake of projecting that world view onto other people’s behavior. Sometimes that meant one missed the obvious. By unspoken agreement, Destry and Allenson let Hawthorn lead. They followed his frame at a good distance to minimize the chance of the Renegades spotting they were being followed.
Hawthorn paused at intervals to match phase with realspace. After a longer stop than usual, he dropped back into the Continuum and pedalled back to where his friends waited. He signalled them to follow him closely. Hawthorn veered off to the left, circumnavigating the faint shimmering ball of silver left by a group of frames dephasing from the Continuum.
They emerged onto a narrow ribbon of fine sand that separated the sea from the trees. The sun was low on the horizon. Something in the atmosphere tinted the light, illuminating the sea so that pink froth rode on top of violet water.
Allenson jumped out of his frame and looked around to get his bearings. Their frames stood on the shore of a small bay. Trees blocked his view of what lay beyond. A low tree-covered island was separated from the end of the nearest promontory by a sliver of water.
“The renegades debussed on the far side of that island,” Hawthorn said, rifle in hand. “I kept my distance so I did not set off any alarms. I suggest we cross the creek on this side and move in on them through the trees.”
Allenson realized that Hawthorn’s plan put the sun at their backs. He would not have thought of that tactic. He made a mental note for future reference. The sun’s position gave them a small edge but no advantage was to be spurned. He estimated that there could be up to a dozen renegades, going by the size of the track they left in the Continuum.
Allenson unclipped his lasercarbine from his frame. He switched it on and ran the test diagnostic. The holographic sights flashed green showing complete functionality. A side bar indicated a full charge.
Hawthorn took point, covering the ground at a brisk walk. He carried his laserifle. It was a more powerful weapon than the carbines used by Destry and Allenson with a longer range, greater accuracy and harder punch but it suffered from a slow rate of fire.
Allenson and Destry moved out to either flank such that the team was far enough apart to prevent a single burst taking them all out. The instinct to huddle together for safety had served mankind well for most of the species’ evolution but the invention of rapid-fire weapons made such behavior suicidal.
The creek was shallow, barely boot deep. Allenson splashed through. He stumbled into a pothole where the water reached up to his waist, soaking his clothes. The sudden chill on his fundamentals made him inhale sharply.
A curse and splash announced that Destry had also found the pothole. He had gone in up to his neck. Destry raised his carbine above his head. The guns were guaranteed waterproof but a firefight would be a bad time to find that the manufacturer lied.
Allenson could not help chuckling as a response to the release of tension. Destry glared at him before also seeing the funny side.
“I expect dinner at a restaurant of my choice as an apology for that smirk, Allenson,” Destry said in mock anger.
Allenson waved a hand to indicate acquiescence.
“Gentlemen, if you have quite finished,” Hawthorn said, standing on the island. He managed to cross the creek without incident. Allenson sighed. He did not, of course, wish his friend any harm but, just occasionally; it would be nice to see Hawthorn fall into a bog.
* * *
The island was covered in trees in copses, as if they had been coppiced by someone in the past. Line of site varied enormously. The low sun cast long shadows that further confused the brain’s pattern recognition system.
The three friends advanced slowly through the trees in line abreast, staying within sight of each other. Hawthorn gave instructions by hand gesture. He held one hand palm out, indicating that they should halt. Allenson slid into the cover of a copse and stared hard but could see nothing.
He heard people arguing about something. One voice raised in indignation until silenced by a snarled curse. Three men appeared suddenly in a sunlit avenue between copses. Allenson slid off the safety catch of his carbine and set the gun to fire short bursts. He laid his holographic sight on the targets and waited.
The renegades got closer and closer until it seemed certain that they must see the ambushers. The leading renegade held a shotgun casually in one hand.
Allenson shifted position slightly to keep his carbine aligned. He momentarily lost balance, catching a branch and causing it to shake. The lead renegade reacted with lightning speed, raising his gun.
There was a flash of light on the renegade’s jaw. His head was hidden by an explosion of red steam. A piece of skull spun lazily out of the cloud, trailing hair. The renegade’s hand tightened on the trigger in a muscle spasm causing it to discharge heavy shot into the branches over Allenson’s head.
Allenson fired a burst at the second renegade who danced sideways towards cover. The shots fell behind the man, igniting ground litter. Allenson cursed his lack of skill with a gun. His carbine whined as it transferred energy from storage up into the quick-discharge capacitor.
Destry fired a three shot burst at the diving man. Destry came from a class whose primary recreations were gambling and hunting. He had shot much smaller prey on the wing. He tracked the target through the burst. Two flashes lit up the man’s torso. He crashed heavily onto the ground and lay still, legs sprawled out at uncomfortable angles.
The third renegade favored a strategy of discretion rather than valor. He dropped his gun and fled. Allenson tried to lay his sight on the running figure but kept loosing contact as the man weaved between the trees. He fired a burst but missed.
The renegade dodged sideways and for a split second was clearly illuminated. His back flashed and exploded, throwing him to the ground. This time Allenson heard the deep hum of Hawthorn’s rifle recharging.
They checked the bodies. All were very, very dead and none carried identification.
* * *
Allenson smelt the renegade encampment before he saw it. A rather delicious smell of burning charcoal and roast meat filtered between the trees making him salivate. He was suddenly felt hungry. A great deal had happened since breakfast.
The three friends filtered quietly through the thinning cover. The renegades had built their encampment just up-shore from a narrow beach in an area cleared of vegetation. A long, narrow, one story wooden barracks ran at right angles to the shoreline. It was raised up about a meter on wooden posts presumably to avoid tidal floods or the local wildlife.
Wooden steps led up to a single door. Wooden shutters protected glassless windows. Many were thrown open. Some had fallen off and not been replaced. The group of renegades stood and sat around a long pit of burning charcoal, passing bottles of tonk from hand to hand. A cook turned over strips of meat barbecuing on metal griddles over the fire.
Two men worked on a multipedal transport frame. One unloaded while another carried items into the barracks.
Hawthorn signalled a halt. Allenson counted at least eight renegades. The friends were horribly outnumbered and there would be no cover once they left the trees. He expected Hawthorn to back off and lead them around the camp to make an approach behind the barracks. Instead, Hawthorn stepped out of cover and ambled nonchalantly towards the barbecue, making no attempt at concealment. Allenson followed, feeling like a man heading for his own funeral.
Renegades noticed their arrival but otherwise paid them no heed. Allenson felt stupid as he grasped what Hawthorn had already realized. Three men had left the encampment and three men returned, three men who were mere silhouettes agai
nst the light.
A burly man in an orange waistcoat finally noticed them. “I thought I told you to check the fish traps,” he said. “What are you doing back so quick?”
Hawthorn ignored him and continued to close the range.
Orange waistcoat put his hand up to shade his eyes and studied the friends. “You’re not . . .” he said, reaching for a weapon in a chest holster.
Hawthorn swung his rifle up to the shoulder and fired. The renegade went down in a burst of steam, his orange waistcoat on fire.
Destry fired a single shot from his carbine, dropping a renegade. He fired a second time, catching a man in the shoulder and spinning him around. A third shot took the man between the shoulder blades and he fell.
Allenson fired a single shot at a renegade aiming a weapon. He missed but the man ducked, triggering his shotgun into the sky. Hawthorn’s next shot punched a hole in the man’s skull.
Allenson cursed his poor marksmanship. This was hopeless. He was never going to hit anyone at this range. He ran at a diagonal, closing down the range but moving out to a flank to draw fire away from his friends. He pushed the selector on his carbine through the gate to continuous.
Slowing to a walk and locking the carbine in to his hip, he held the trigger down, walking laser bursts across the encampment. Several shots hit the fire, adding to the mayhem by tossing burning embers into the sky. Few, if any, renegades took a hit but they ducked and fired back wildly. A detached part of Allenson’s mind noted the “whap” of passing shot and something plucked at his jacket.
The recharger on Allenson’s carbine howled in protest at the energy demand. Red lights winked on his hologram display. He ignored them, triggering another sustained burst. Hawthorn and Destry fired coolly and steadily, dropping renegades as if they were shooting targets on a practice range.
Allenson’s gun shut down with a click, refusing to tolerate more punishment. He gave up on it and charged towards the renegades, yelling and swinging the carbine around his head.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 9
