Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  “So I discovered,” Allenson said. “I was required to intervene.”

  “I heard about that.” Mistress Cantona smiled broadly. “Not before time, in my opinion. The word has gone around that serving Clement alcohol is inadvisable.”

  Allenson laughed. “It would appear there is some value in gossip.”

  “I suggest you eat your pudding, sar, before the englaze congeals.” Mistress Cantona got up from the table so Allenson also rose. “Leave Clement Payne to me, sar. I’ll feed him up.”

  * * *

  Allenson met Hawthorn at a frame hire, whose advertising spoke most highly about their vehicles. The adverts showed a plush showroom featuring attractive young ladies swooning over highly polished conveyances. The reality was a dirt floor yard with canvas screens overhead to ward off the endless Manzanita rain. No attractive young ladies were in evidence, swooning or otherwise, but there was a salesman in a cheque jacket, the fur of some unidentifiable animal decorating the collar.

  “Yes, gents, what can I do you for?” He laughed. “Just my little joke, you understand.”

  “We are looking for a functional four-man luggage frame in good condition. We will need crew as well,” Allenson said.

  “Of course gents, of course, come over here.”

  The salesman showed them to a large object covered in a plastic sheet, which he pulled off to reveal a baroque carriage decorated with silver and gold cherubs blowing horns.

  “Only the best, for gents like you. I can see that you are men of quality,” the salesman said.

  “I believe I used the word functional,” Allenson said, patiently. This was clearly going to be a long haul.

  “Right, nothing gaudy then, I have just the thing,” said the salesman.

  They wound through the yard to another plastic mound. The salesman removed the sheet with a flourish

  “A Saxo Speeder,” he said with pride. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

  The Speeder was a low slung frame equipped with completely unnecessary fins on a streamlined blue and white body. Painted fireballs rolled down the hull. It probably was fairly fast in the Continuum because it boasted a four-man power system and large batteries on a vehicle that had barely the luggage capacity of a lady’s handbag.

  “What part of the phrase “functional luggage frame” are you having trouble grasping?” Allenson asked.

  “All right, all right, keep your hair on, squire, if you want to go downmarket—how about the Lardu, there.

  He pointed to a frame that was upended against the yard wall. At first sight it certainly looked like just the sort of light transport frame that would suit their needs. Hawthorn pulled it down and examined it closely, checking connections and motors. He rejoined the others, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “That frame would be a perfect choice, if I wanted to commit an insurance fraud,” Hawthorn said. “When Sar Allenson asked for a functional vehicle he meant one that might have a sporting chance of surviving a trip through the Continuum. My patience is exhausted. Do you have such a frame for hire or not.”

  “This way, squire,” said the salesman.

  He showed them to a Rover, which survived Hawthorn’s examination. They dickered for some time over the fee, until Allenson had got it down to something almost reasonable.

  “At that price, I expect you to throw in four crewmen,” said Allenson.

  “No problem, squire, I will get you four servants,” said the salesman.

  “I prefer employees,” Allenson said. “They have more incentive to return.”

  The salesman’s smile didn’t slip.

  “That can be arranged. Shall we say a ten percent surcharge?” he asked.

  “We shall not,” Allenson replied firmly. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Done,” said the salesman shaking his hand.

  “Tell the employees that I will give them a bonus on successful completion of the journey.

  “You can pay it all to me and I will pass it on,” said the salesman.

  “I think not,” Allenson replied.

  “Can’t blame a man for trying, govnor,” said the salesman, with a grin.

  Allenson could not help grinning back. “Govnor” was obviously a step up from “gent” or “squire” in the salesman’s vernacular.

  As they left the yard Allenson said to Hawthorn, “You know, I think I am getting the hang of dealing with Manzanita people.”

  “Let’s hope it works with Riders,” Hawthorn replied, puncturing his smugness.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nengue

  Payne personally checked that the porters properly secured the luggage vehicle once their camping gear had been offloaded, and that its motion detectors were functioning. He then dispatched them to fetch wood for the campfire but first insisted that they reload every item not immediately needed back onto the luggage frame.

  The porters were willing enough workers, once Allenson had explained his bonus system, but were a sorry crew. Various inadequately treated injuries and infections had severely damaged their health. None could write so he had been obliged to use DNA prints on their terms of employment rather than signatures.

  “You were right, he really is quite competent when sober,” Hawthorn said, sipping his mug of cafe and watching Payne.

  Payne joined them after checking the tension on a retaining strap with a final tug. Allenson handed him a cafe.

  “The vehicle will have to be repacked in the morning, before we move on,” Allenson said.

  “Yes, sar,” Payne replied, “but it never hurts to be prepared for a quick getaway. The more gear we have loaded, the less we will leave behind if we have to run for it.”

  “You think we might be attacked?” Allenson asked.

  Payne shrugged. “No idea, but this area is thick with Riders.”

  “These Riders are supposed to be on our side,” Allenson said.

  Hawthorn snorted but kept his council.

  “In my experience, sar, Riders are only ever on their own side,” Payne said, politely.

  Payne drank his boiling hot cafe in gulps, seemingly oblivious to burns. His hand was steady and his eyes had lost the worst of their yellow tinge.

  “You look, well, Master Payne,” Allenson said.

  “Yes, sar, I often do when I dry out,” Payne said, with brutal honesty. “I suppose one day I won’t—dry out, I mean. There’s only so much deotox pills can do.”

  “Dammit, I like a drink and a party as much as the next man, but why does someone like you with useful skills debase themselves in that way?” Hawthorn asked. “You could be respected instead of the town drunk.”

  Allenson winced.

  “No, it’s alright, sar,” Payne said to Allenson. “It’s a fair question seeing as how you are paying me.”

  Payne stared into his cafe. “I’m not much one for thinking about things. Everyone drinks, where I come from. I used to drink plum brandy to help me sleep. Not much to do going backwards and forwards through the Hinterland. When I ran out of brandy there was always plenty of tonk on the frame, for trading, see. It sorta creeps up on you. Then the detox pills don’t work so well in the morning and you need a sip o’ tonk to pick you up. I think that’s where you cross the line. When you first find out that a nip of the hard stuff in the morning gets you going. You think you have got on top of it, found a magic solution, like.”

  He paused and stared into the fire. Allenson and Hawthorn didn’t interrupt. After a while, Payne looked up.

  “But it’s a trap, innit? You need a bigger nip every morning until you can’t work at all without a ton of booze aboard,” Payne said.

  There was another pause.

  “Then you can’t work even with it,” Payne said, softly.

  There was nothing you could say to that so conversation faltered.

  Allenson emptied out the rest of his cafe. “We might as well turn in and get an early start. I want to make the trading post on Nengue before local nightfall.”


  * * *

  Allenson checked the receivers on his frame and cursed under his breath. There was no sign of a locator beacon on Nengue. Finding the trading post would be like locating a single leaf in a jungle. He glanced over to Hawthorn in the hope that he had a signal, but Hawthorn gave the universal wash out sign.

  The two friends pedalled one-man frames. Payne rode in the luggage frame with the four porters; Allenson had been pleased to see that the guide had taken his turn on the pedals. The porters were not the strongest of men and rotating them allowed the small convoy to maintain a decent pace.

  Payne moved to the front of the luggage frame to see what the holdup was. His image shimmered and pixellated. The frame’s field was badly balanced, distorting light passing through. It took much hand waving before he grasped the problem

  Payne phased the luggage vehicle partly into real space above the planet, handling the unwieldy machine with great skill. The contrast with the reeling drunk of a few weeks before was startling. They materialized over a continent obscured by turbulent smoke. It was brightly lit from below. As Allenson watched, something exploded in the atmosphere with a flash. Sparks burst out from the explosion like an opening flower, before falling and being lost in the haze. Allenson had seen simulations of strategic plasma bombardment in plays. The effect was disturbingly similar.

  Payne steered the luggage vehicle down towards the planet, maintaining partial phase. They headed for the coast, descending gently. Glowing lava ran into the sea, setting off explosions of steam and spray. The sea spat and boiled but the heat-plasticized plastic rock pressed on relentlessly.

  Allenson wished they could loiter to watch, but Payne pressed on out to sea. Nengue was in the grip of a continental-scale tectonic event. No wonder there was so little to hunt here. It had nothing to do with the Rider presence and everything to do with volcanism. Nengue must be experiencing a mass extinction of animal and plant life like the Permian disaster on Old Earth, when the Siberian Traps covered a million square miles in lava.

  The geological catastrophe offered a likely explanation for the trade in gems: unusual minerals brought to the surface under conditions of great heat, massive pressures and sudden cooling was ideal for gemstone formation. The Riders probably did no more than comb through the debris along shorelines on the edge of lava-flow regions. This planet was ripe for industrial exploitation. The traders were just pecking at the edges of its commercial possibilities. Allenson was also willing to bet there were large, minable, reserves of rare earth metals and other elements.

  For the first time, Allenson could visualize Todd’s dream. Nengue would never be a clean environment for human beings but it was a treasure trove, a veritable dragon’s hoard. This could be the economic powerhouse to open up this whole region for colonization. Somewhere close by would be better worlds for human life. Nengue would need food supplies and logistic support. Colonization would start with farms, but then rapidly proceed to industrialization. An administrative and economic center could develop in the Hinterland to rival the Home Worlds.

  A nagging thought crossed his mind. There were many vested interests in Brasilia that might not smile at such a development. That, though, was a problem for another day. The immediate issue was to keep Terra away from Nengue. He was dropping behind the others. He turned his attention back to pedaling, but visions of a new home world kept dancing through his imagination.

  * * *

  “You big man, box people,” said the Rider. He hit his chest with his fist. “Me Viceroy, big man, stone people.”

  “Sar Allenson,” Allenson said hitting his own chest.

  The Viceroy’s body bore multiple scars and he looked about thirty, a great age for a Rider. He was dressed like all the other savages except for a fluorescent orange waistcoat. When the Viceroy hit his chest, the waistcoat projected a purple hologram asserting thathe was a friend and ally of Brasilia.

  They met under the chief’s shelter, a hut open on three sides with a sloped roof so that the rain drained off. It was made from cut down local saplings, twisted together to form a continuous structure supported by branches resting on the ground. It would not withstand much of a wind. The Rider encampment consisted of similar temporary shelters, only the trading post was a permanent structure.

  The Nengue climate was ghastly. It was hot, the air so humid you could chew it. The high carbon dioxide concentration forced the party to take a geneadjustor to prevent tachycardia and respiratory disruption. Every breath stank of sulphur compounds, the foul smell of rotten eggs cut by the sharp tang of dioxide.

  The Viceroy’s beast shifted, moving its crystal spears with a grating noise, like a knife against a whetstone. The Viceroy made a low crooning sound and the beast twisted and settled down like a labrador finding a sleeping place. It had never occurred to Allenson that beasts could hear, but he supposed that there was no reason why crystals could not detect vibrations.

  The meeting started with an exchange of gifts. Allenson presented the chief with a ceramic chopper, colored bright yellow. The Viceroy’s return gift was a withered hand that had belonged to a clan chief who had transgressed in some way. Allenson received the revolting item with a great show of pleasure.

  A Rider woman appeared with two plastic storage boxes. The Viceroy sat on one, and indicated that Allenson should sit on the other. Everyone else was expected to squat on the floor. The woman left without speaking or being spoken too. Everyone in and around the shelter was male.

  The Viceroy launched into a long list of his ancestors and their more notable deeds, using a mixture of Kant, his local clan dialect, and human speech. Riders arrived and left during the Viceroy’s speech. If this was a court, it was a very informal example. The list of names ended with the Viceroy himself. Apparently his deeds of valor and cunning surpassed even those of his noble ancestors. He completed his account and looked expectantly at Allenson.

  “You should recite the deeds of your forefathers, sar,” Payne said.

  Allenson took a deep breath and started with his family’s key role in the subjugation and colonization of Brasilia. He stopped at the end of each paragraph so that Payne could translate. The break gave him a chance to think up the next outrageous lie. Hawthorn watched with admiration, clapping when Allenson recounted how his ancestor, Long John Allenson, had slain the jabberwocky in single combat while crossing the Bight. Allenson recanted his own deeds and the trail of corpses he had left. He finished with an account of how he had charged an entire clan of heavily armed men single handed with a useless gun, putting them to flight.

  “I was there. I witnessed that,” Hawthorn said, repeating the statement in Kant.

  Allenson was perturbed to be reminded that the last story was actually true. What did that indicate about his character? He prided himself on being a rational, enlightened man, not some sort of savage or berserker. He suppressed the thought. This was no time for introspection.

  The Viceroy stood up, indicating that the interview was over.

  “We have not yet discussed anything useful. I need to know about Terran activity,” Allenson said quietly, to Payne.

  “There will be time tomorrow, sar,” Payne said. “You cannot appear too eager when dealing with Riders or it will be taken as disrespect or, worse still, desperation and weakness.”

  Allenson bit back his frustration. There was no point in hiring an expert advisor and then ignoring his council. The diplomatic party returned on foot to the trading post. They wore sashes of purple and gray. Allenson had been assured on Manzanita that this would grant them immunity from attack at Nengue. However, he and Hawthorn placed far more faith in Payne’s additional suggestion that they be very visibly armed at all times. Hawthorn carried his rifle and Allenson a carbine. They also wore shoulder belts with spare batteries and ionization pistols. Payne had a short barrelled combat shotgun. It would be useless at more than ten meters but utterly lethal at short range.

  The trading post was in far better condition than Allenson antic
ipated. It was surrounded by a stockade that showed signs of recent repair. Firing loopholes were positioned above head height, so that an attacker on foot could not use them. Ceramic razor wire was twisted in loops along the top of the stockade. The traders might let items like the signal beacon fail through lack of maintenance but they were far more assiduous about the post’s defenses.

  Payne tapped a code into a keypad by a small double door in the stockade wall. There was the thump of solenoids engaging and an alarm went off. The doorway was so low that the friends had to stoop to enter. Payne shut the doors and wooden bars dropped down automatically blockading the doors and the alarm went off.

  “The system also bolts the doors if the power goes off,” Payne said, noting Allenson’s interest.

  Dirt was piled up against the stockade walls under the loopholes to make firing platforms. The single building inside was strongly built of logs. It also had firing loopholes, but no windows. Someone opened a loophole to examine the arrivals. They stood perfectly still. After what was probably a few moments, but felt subjectively longer, the loophole closed.

  The expedition’s luggage vehicle was parked between the stockade wall and the blockhouse. The porters sat cross legged beside it playing a dice game. A smaller two-man frame was parked nearby. Iron tipped posts were spaced at intervals, mounted on stands so they could be moved to provide additional parking space.

  “What’s to stop Rider beasts landing on the roof?” Allenson asked.

  “We have more spikes up there,” Payne replied. “There is also a trapdoor that leads up to a fortified firing point.”

  “You don’t place much faith in the Rider’s truce, then,” Hawthorn said.

  Payne looked at him uncertainly.

  Hawthorn grinned. “I am joking, of course.”

  “Yes, sar,” Payne said, smiling dutifully at the boss’ quip.

  “What’s to stop Riders overflying the post and lobbing in rocks and torches?” Allenson asked.

  “Nothing really,” Payne replied, “except that they would make great targets.”