Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  He was the only man standing when he reached the fire. He lowered his weapon, feeling rather foolish.

  The long grey shape of a gun barrel poked through an open window. Blue-electric light flickered from badly adjusted magnetic rails followed by the sharp snap of a pellet gun. Allenson raised his carbine but pressing the trigger merely caused a cascade of error symbols in the holographic sights. However, the threat caused the gunman to duck down.

  Hawthorn fired his rifle at the wood below the window ledge. Wood exploded in a shower of splinters. The gunman screamed and reared up pawing at his face. A burst from Destry’s carbine lit up the renegade’s chest, chopping of his scream like it had been cut by a knife. The man dropped back into the barracks.

  “Got you,” Destry said, with satisfaction.

  Allenson turned to thank his friends. He flushed, unsure what to say when he saw the strange expression on their faces.

  “Hawthorn, should I ever chance to risk being called out by our friend here, pray do not hesitate to remind me of this day,” Destry said.

  “You can be sure of it,” Hawthorn replied.

  He cocked his head.

  “I suppose we should bind up our hero’s wounds before he bleeds to death.”

  Allenson looked down. Blood ran down his arm, soaking into his jacket.

  “I thought that last renegade had missed me,” Allenson said.

  “Oh he did,” Hawthorn said. “It was the one in the green overalls that winged you. Destry put him down before he could correct his aim. Rather a pretty shot.”

  Destry gave an “it-was-nothing” shrug. “I had all the time in the world. Our friend here had their full attention. You took one hell of a risk Allenson.” He shook his head, as if he could not decide whether to scold or praise. He decided on the latter. “Bravest thing I have ever seen.”

  Allenson felt embarrassed. He was not brave at all. He had simply felt humiliated by the way his poor marksmanship let down his friends. It was vain pride that had spurred him on, not courage.

  Allenson examined where a pellet had ripped along his forearm. A centimeter deeper and it would have caught the bone ripping his arm off.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” he said, in surprise.

  “It will,” Hawthorn said. He ripped open Allenson’s sleeve and stretched a patch along the wound. The material reacted with flesh, sealing the injury and releasing bacteriophages, analgesics and other epigenetic virions that promoted cell-growth.

  “One of them is still alive over here,” Destry said.

  The renegade lay still on his front. A round had exploded on his side, cooking the flesh just above the hip. It was a nasty wound but treatable, should someone take him to an infirmary.

  Destry looked at the renegade doubtfully. “I was sure I saw him move. Perhaps I was mistaken?”

  “Perhaps,” Hawthorn replied. “Or maybe he’s faking.”

  He kicked the renegade’s wounded hip. The man groaned and clutched his side.

  “Bastard,” the renegade said.

  Hawthorn kicked him again.

  “Mind your manners, scum,” Hawthorn said, without heat.

  “These people are just hired thugs, easily replaceable,” Allenson said. “We need to know the name of the principal.”

  “You heard Sar Allenson, scum. Who paid you? Who gave the orders?” Hawthorn asked.

  The renegade replied by suggesting an imaginative unnatural sexual act that Sar Allenson might like to try. Hawthorn laughed with genuine humor and kicked the man again. The renegade whimpered.

  “Please, no,” he said. “You don’t know what he will do to me if I grass.”

  “True,” Hawthorn replied, “but I know what I will do to you right now if you don’t.”

  “Mercy, sars,” the man pleaded.

  “Mercy will be granted if you give me the name,” Hawthorn said, remorselessly. He drew back his foot.

  “Taproot!” the renegade screamed. “Taproot gives the orders.”

  “So our local entrepreneur has a lucrative little sideline to his stores,” said Hawthorn, with a sigh. “He sells the customers goods and then steals them back. Sweet.”

  He looked at Allenson. “You don’t seem surprised?”

  “No,” Allenson replied, “I was half expecting something of the sort. It would appear that nothing happens on Laywant without Taproot’s influence.”

  “Sar Rimmer knew?” Destry asked.

  “Knew? Perhaps suspected,” Allenson replied, “but suspicion is not proof.”

  “You promised me mercy,” the renegade said, drawing their attention. “You don’t know what Taproot does to those who cross him.”

  “Mercy?” Hawthorn mused. “Why yes, I will grant you mercy. More than you showed the Svenson family.”

  He put his foot on the renegade’s neck and pulled back the man’s head, twisting it sharply. The renegade’s neck gave way with a crack and his eyes whited over. Hawthorn let the head fall with a thud that the renegade was past feeling.

  “There goes our only witness,” said Destry.

  “Can you imagine bringing Taproot to justice in a Laywant courthouse stuffed with his hired goons?” Hawthorn asked, impatiently.

  “I suppose we can file a report with the Governor’s Office back in the Cutter Stream,” Destry said. “But I doubt much will come of it.”

  “I have had enough of Laywant for this lifetime,” Allenson said. “Let’s torch the buildings and go home.”

  “Then the Hinterland Survey is officially over,” Hawthorn said. “In which case, I think I will stay on Laywant for a while. I find I have some business here.”

  Allenson could not meet his friend’s eye. He had a strong suspicion as to the nature of Hawthorn’s business but he did not want to know for certain. If he knew, then he might feel morally obliged to protest, even though the business was necessary.

  Allenson was self-aware enough to curse himself as a hypocrite. He thought back to the hands that the rider had taken as trophies. He was disturbed to find that they did not bother him as much as they should. Is this what the Hinterland did to men, turn them into savages?

  Well, maybe—but the Hinterland belonged to the colonists, not Brasilia and certainly not Terra. The colonies needed the space to grow and develop into self sufficient communities. Todd was right and so was Linsye. Todd could no longer oversee his dream but Allen Allenson could—he could and he would.

  Interlude

  Rough Justice

  Taproot turned off his account book with a slap of his hand on the screen and poured himself a generous glass of Terran gin. He favored a London Dry brand that was triple distilled with juniper berries and lemon spice. It was named after some Old Earth Imperial city. He went through the ritual of adding tonic water from a separate bottle. He sipped the mixture, savoring the bitter taste of the drink.

  His mind was on the figures. Takings were down from one of the knocking shops that serviced agricultural servants. He could think of no acceptable reason for the decline. Maybe the whores just weren’t putting their back into the work. Another possibility was that the pimp was creaming profits off the top. Taproot’s lips tightened. He could not believe that anyone would be stupid enough to cheat him. Either way, it might be time to send a couple of boys round to administer a kicking.

  It never hurt to put the frighteners on a victim, even if he wasn’t guilty. It kept everyone else in line and taught them some respect. He took another long sip, welcoming the warm glow of alcohol and spice deep in his guts.

  Respect! That was a laugh. Here he sat, the ruler of Laywant, undisputed king of a dungheap, worrying about the loss of a handful of crowns where once he had dealt in tens of thousands of Terran marks.

  He tossed the rest of the drink down his throat and poured himself another, slopping gin on the polished desk. Rage and hate was never far from the surface of Taproot’s mind. It simmered like a charcoal fire, hotter than the gin.

  Bloody aristocrats, what would they be wi
thout their inherited wealth and family influence? He had worked for every pfennig. Nobody had ever given him anything. Then the bloody aristos had taken it all away.

  He had been a big man when he ran the Dockers Union at Terra’s Firenze Freeport. Nothing moved in or out of the sheds without his approval. His power bought him a villa on The Hill, starlets on his arm and politicians in his pocket.

  Then he crossed the Fraterni clan who were the heredity owners of the land on which the port was built. Where were his tame politicians then? They had been keen to take his money, to attend his parties, to drink his vintage wines and screw the girls he provided but where were they when he needed them? Unobtainable, that’s where.

  Taproot sipped the gin, his rage boiling over into his conscious mind. It was sheer chance that he escaped when the Fraterni buccelari came. He got away with not much more than the clothes he stood up in and the marks in his pocket. He had run as far as he could but safety lay in keeping a low profile. The Fraterni had a long reach.

  He had learnt that respectable society was completely unprincipled and dangerous. That was why he tolerated that idiot Rimmer. The Agent was useful camouflage. Except that recent events made him wonder whether Rimmer was quite the fool he looked.

  The visit by the Cutter Stream gentlemen was unnerving. Why did such men come here? What was Rimmer up to? What did he know? Taproot mulled over his options. It was not in his nature to await events. The authorities would come down hard if Rimmer was murdered but suppose he had an unfortunate accident? Shit happened in the Hinterland.

  Taproot calmed himself. He had a new girl waiting for him at home, a real beauty of about fifteen years. He liked to break the young ones in himself before passing them on to one of his cathouses. He triggered the intercom on his screen

  “Brown, Rattis, get in here, now.”

  The enforcers came into his office at the run. He ignored them, letting them wait while he finished his drink, savoring the spices—and the power. He touched his screen and a curtain slid aside revealing a door at the back of his office. Another touch and the door unlocked.

  “Go out and start my car.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  The pair swung the heavy steel door open and disappeared into the darkness. The door was Taproot’s private exit onto a street where his armored Ramanda was always parked. He doubted that any of the Laywant yokels would have the skill, let alone the balls, to wire a bomb to the engine but it never hurt to take precautions. The Fraterni had a long reach.

  Taproot closed down his screen and put his overcoat on. He went to put the gin away but had second thoughts and slipped the bottle into an inside pocket. Where the hell were his men? Brown should have come back to escort him to the car. Couldn’t the stupid bastards do anything right. His anger flared and he stormed out of the door.

  “Brown, where the hell are you?” Taproot asked.

  There was no answer.

  The lights were out leaving the street in darkness. Nothing bloody worked right at Laywant. Taproot’s eyes were adjusted to the bright illumination of his office and he strained to make out details. A dark bulk indicated where his car was parked a few meters up the road. He could just hear the hum of its engine on idle.

  As Taproot’s night vision returned, he could see the silhouette of someone in the driver’s seat. That would be his chauffeur.

  “Rattis, where’s Brown?”

  Rattis didn’t answer. He seemed to be inspecting something on the dashboard. Where the hell was Brown?

  Taproot stormed towards the car, cursing as he trod in some ripe refuse.

  “You useless Laywant bastards are gonna wish . . .”

  His foot struck an obstacle. Glancing down he could just make out the outline of a body. He grabbed for his pistol but found only the gin bottle.

  Something hard slammed into his back with such force that it paralyzed his legs. Taproot dropped to his knees. He tried to call out but an arm circled his throat, crushing the windpipe.

  His attacker punched him in the right kidney. He didn’t realize that he had been stabbed until he felt hot sticky blood run down his side. The pain started then. A voice whispered in his ear.

  “The Svenson family send their regards.”

  The knife twisted in his side causing intolerable agony. He tried to scream but couldn’t breathe. He welcomed the nothingness that washed away pain.

  CHAPTER 8

  Destry Demesne

  The Destry Demesne was the largest estate on Wagner, one of the Five Worlds of the Cutter Stream. The original fortified settlement had been pulled down by Royman Destry’s grandfather and replaced by a magnificent mansion built to resemble a Brasilian country house. It boasted three stories and a crenulated tower on the east wing. There was no practical reason for such a large structure other than ostentation, but the tower came in useful as a communication center.

  The family and selected guests used a private beacon that landed frames on the front drive that ran through the ornamental gardens. Other beacons for employees and tradesmen guided frames into commercial areas.

  Allen phased in with Destry. His conversation with Todd had altered his world view and for the first time it struck him how utterly defenseless was the mansion, with its large glass bay windows and spacious balustraded balconies. A magnificent, wide stairway gave access to the main entrance on the first floor. The ground floor was pierced by many doors, so that servants had easy access to the working areas, kitchens, storerooms and suchlike.

  There had not been an attack on a Wagner demesne in living memory. The idea was unthinkable so the mansion lacked even a point defense system. The security guards standing smartly at the base of the stairs may have had lasercarbines slung over the shoulders, but the men were probably chosen more for their panache in bright yellow uniforms than for any martial skills.

  Small villas dotted the gardens for the use of family guests and visitors of similar rank. Servants were housed in less comfort in utility barracks that were out of sight at the back of the mansion.

  Allenson climbed off his frame and stretched. Servants hurried to take care of the frames. Royman led the way up the stairs ignoring the guards who stared straight ahead. It began to rain gently as the two friends entered the mansion. Water drops ran off the water-resistant yellow cloth.

  Inside the reception room a footman in blue and gold greeted Royman.

  “Welcome home, sir. Mistress Sarai awaits you in the Extempore Hall,” said the footman.

  “Very good, Jackson, and the Master and Mistress?” asked Royman.

  “The Master is out, sir, and the Mistress is taking tea in the Olive Garden.”

  “Thank you, Jackson,” said Royman, having ascertained the location of his father and mother. He stripped off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. A maid materialized to help him on with a housecoat. The maid approached Allenson with a second housecoat but he waved her away. He had no intention of staying for more than a polite exchange of greetings. The maid snatched up Royman’s discarded jacket and vanished.

  * * *

  The Extempore Hall was on the first floor, as were all the public rooms, the upper floor being reserved for the family’s private apartments. They found Sarai reclining on a couch reading something from a holographic stick, her legs tucked under her. Her hair was tinted violet today, to match her sleeveless day dress. Her hairstyle involved complex spirals, falling onto her bare right shoulder. Ever changing patterns of light and dark flowed up and down the spiral. Her eyes were outlined in a pigment that shimmered metallic blue when she turned her head. In short, she followed the current casual dress code for a lady of her rank and status.

  She glanced up only briefly when Destry entered the room, concentrating primarily on her reading.

  “Good morning, Sarai,” Destry said.

  She shut down the stick and carefully placed it on a side table before replying. “Good morning, Destry—Allen.”

  She inclined her head in Allenson’s directio
n. He gave the short bow from the neck that was appropriate for greeting an in-law’s wife. Destry went to kiss Sarai, who turned her head to offer her cheek. He seemed satisfied with such minimal intimacy. Perhaps he had little choice.

  “Refreshment, Allenson?” Destry asked.

  “Well perhaps just one,” Allenson replied.

  “My dear?” Destry asked.

  “Yes why not?” she replied. “A Rekki fizz, I think.”

  Rekki fizz was the currently fashionable party drink—an expensive dry white wine diluted by natural sparkling spring water infused with herbs and blueberry juice. By chance or design, Allenson suspected the latter, the color of the drink complemented Sarai’s dress and make up.

  “Fizz, capital idea,” Destry said. “Service—three fizzes.”

  An off-white cube, about half a meter across, lifted from where it sat inconspicuously in a corner. The automaton moved silently across the room about a meter off the floor. Dust motes swirled in the air, whipped up by its drive fields. It stopped in front of a drinks cabinet. There was a pause while it downloaded instructions and waited for the cabinet to act upon them.

  “I trust you enterprise was successful?” Sarai asked.

  “Most certainly, my dear, I believe I have data for a new paper on the evolution of the Rider-beast relationship,” Destry said.

  “Indeed,” Sarai said, without enthusiasm. “That’s nice.”

  “And your survey, Allen, did it bear fruit?” she asked.

  “I believe it will, Sarai. We acquired some valuable data on the Hinterland and now have a map of the Continuum.”

  “The Hinterland must be useful for something, although I confess that I can’t imagine what that might be,” Sarai said. “I suppose one needs somewhere to send undesirables.”

  Allenson smiled politely.

  “You did not bring that friend of yours back with you?” she asked. “The one with the striking eyes.”

  Allenson felt a twinge of jealousy.

  “No, Hawthorn had business elsewhere.” Allenson replied.