Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  “You could say that. I was an officer in the Paras until a suspensor failed,” Mansingh said.

  He gave a tight little smile and gestured towards his legs, which were missing below the knees.

  Allenson winced. Paras in the Home Worlds were drop regiments, the drop in question being from a transport frame at a higher altitude than could be reached by point defense weapons. Drop infantry were slowed to a landing by suspensors, wire spools that used similar technologies to frames. They had just enough power for the drop, so it was very easy for the technicians to get it ever so slightly wrong.

  Paras were elite assault infantry. They expected to suffer fifty percent casualties in a drop onto hostile ground, but that was better odds than for an infantry assault in frames. Once down, paras were tasked with suppressing the defenses so reinforcements could debus from transports.

  Fortunately, a servant arrived with the rifle so Allenson did not have to think of a reply.

  “This is an FN2 assault rifle,” Mansingh said. He expertly stripped it in front of them.

  “It’s a ceramic coil gun firing rigid-carbon pellets with a samarium-cobalt or neodymium core to give the gauss field something to work on,” Mansing said.

  “As you know, sar, neodymium has a stronger magnetic field and so neodymium pellets have a theoretically higher velocity than samarium-cobalt, but I nevertheless recommend the latter for your needs. Neodymium contains iron which adds to Continuum drag. Also, samarium has a higher temperature stability, which means the ammunition is cheaper to manufacture. The pellet cartridge fits in here and is good for fifty shots. The battery goes here and should power two hundred shots, more if you don’t use rock and roll. The gun can be set to full auto but I recommend presetting it to single shot or three round bursts. The trouble with rock and roll is that it gets through a lot of ammo and power cells. In my experience, sir, only veterans can be trusted to use full auto productively.”

  “Like your Paras?” Allenson asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Mansingh replied.

  His eyes flickered and his mouth twisted. The thought of his old regiment still drew strong emotions. Allenson noticed that somewhere in the conversation he had gone from the civilian “sar” to the military “sir”, which was probably an upgrade in Mansingh’s opinion.

  Allenson took the rifle and examined it, unloading and trying the trigger mechanism. The gun felt solid and well machined. It was the sort of weapon to give a man confidence.

  “How much are these rifles,” Allenson said.

  Mansingh named a figure. It was only twenty percent more than Redfern’s shotguns.

  “I think we have a deal, Master Mansingh,” Allenson said, shaking his hand.

  “One thing, sir, I would like to be a member of the expeditionary force,” Mansingh said.

  Allenson’s eyes went hard.

  “Is that a condition of the sale?” he said.

  “No, sir,” Mansingh replied stiffly. “It is a request, sir. Let me join the militia. They have always refused me.”

  Allenson’s eyes softened. “The force is mobile, Master Mansingh.” He looked down at Mansingh’s legs, which were missing above the knee.

  “I have legs, sir. Top quality prosthetics granted to me on discharge. As good as the real thing, sir.”

  “Then why?” Allenson gestured at the wheelchair.

  “I only use my legs when I have good reason, sir. They have to go back to a Home World for servicing after so many hours use. No one in the ’Stream has the skills.”

  Allenson intended to refuse. The Hinterland was no place for cripples, even with synthetic limbs but something in Mansingh’s eyes stopped him. He told himself that Mansingh was the first honest man he had met in Manzanita and he was an experienced soldier, but the real reason he changed his mind was the desperation in those eyes.

  “I believe we have need of a weapons’ officer. Welcome aboard, Mister Mansingh, we have an army to raise and equip.”

  CHAPTER 17

  On Campaign

  “I don’t know what effect they’ll have on the Terrans, but they frighten the hell out of me,” Hawthorn said, surveying the paraded ranks of the New Model Militia.

  Avery huffed but forbore to comment; Allenson made a note that the man had no sense of humor. Allenson wore the dress uniform of a Lieutenant Colonel of the Cutter Stream Militia. That technically made Colonel Avery his military superior in the Militia, but Inspector General Allenson was Avery’s political superior. It made for an interesting arrangement. As Allenson’s aide, Hawthorn had been commissioned with the rank of captain.

  “Half of them are drunk and the other half are sobering up,” Hawthorn said.

  “Yes,” Allenson said. “But they will dry out and harden on the march.”

  Paying the Militia a campaigning salary had attracted somewhat better recruits but they were still a collection of life’s misfits. They included those who had lost everything due to gambling, drink or sheer bad luck.

  “Are you sure it is wise to split our force, Inspector General?” Avery asked. “Is there not a possibility of defeat in detail?”

  “I don’t think that’s likely, Colonel,” Allenson replied, making a mental note to look up what “defeat in detail” meant when he was alone. “No, we will stick to the plan. I will take an Advance Force of 80 men, Rutchett, and some lieutenants to Nengue to negotiate the addition of Rider auxiliaries to our strength. It’s best that I talk to the Viceroy as he knows me and it‘s best to negotiate with Riders from a position of strength. You follow, leading the main body.”

  “Very well,” Avery said, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “If you will excuse me then, I have matters to attend to,” Avery said stiffly, ignoring the salutes he received.

  “Have you received written confirmation of our orders from Fontenoy?” Allenson asked.

  “Actually no,” Hawthorn replied. “I will chase it up.”

  “Don’t bother,” Allenson said. “Fontenoy gave me clear verbal instructions—fortify and garrison Larissa, if necessary dislodging any Terrans squatting there by whatever means necessary. He probably does not want to tie us down by second guessing the situation. Having freedom of action suits me fine.”

  “The Advance Force could overnight on Wagner, if you wished to visit Destry,” Hawthorn said.

  Allenson looked at his friend sharply, wondering what Hawthorn knew, or guessed, but Hawthorn kept a neutral expression.

  “I think not,” Allenson said. “The sooner the men get used to camping out, the better.”

  “Or you could divert on your own for a day or two,” Hawthorn said, persisting. “I can look after the column for a couple of days and, given the lack of fitness of our troops, you will soon catch us up.”

  Allenson was tempted, oh so tempted, to see Sari, but he shook his head.

  “It sets a bad example to the men to see their commander deserting his duty for personal reasons. I intend to lead from the front.”

  * * *

  The expeditionary force was a purposeful bustle. Perhaps not quite the smoothly organized military machine that Allenson would have liked, but not an ineffectual shambles, either. He remembered their first overnight camp with a shudder. Some of the men never did get their tents up that night.

  He walked around the camp, making sure that the men saw him. Each section was responsible for erecting their own tent and throwing up their section of a low berm for defense. The berm was to prevent outsiders having a clear line of sight to shoot into the camp but, with the accompanying ditch, it also made an obstacle to impede an assault. Allenson had no expectation that the berm would be needed but it was good practice to always put one around a camp. At least, that is what it said in the Brasilian Tactica that had become his Bible. The men were looking sharper and fitter. Four days of exercise and no tonk had worked wonders.

  The force was still too slow through the Continuum. The problem was the baggage train of two transporters, which were already
showing signs of mechanical faults. He headed over to where they were parked in the center of the camp. Lieutenant Frapes was in charge of the train. Allenson found him standing on top of a transport frame looking down and whistling a tune. Frapes threw a hurried salute when he saw his CO.

  “Do you think this frame will make it as far as Nengue, Mister Frapes,” Allenson said.

  “Oh yes, sir, Marks has found the problem and is fixing it. He used to service the ones in the docks before he lost his job.”

  “Really,” Allenson said, wondering who Marks was. He could not remember hiring a mechanic. Something else he would have to put right next time. God knows how much he would have to pay a competent mechanic to get him to accompany the militia into the Hinterland. It had been difficult enough getting anybody with even a modicum of medical experience.

  A head popped up and gave him a gap-toothed smile. He remembered Marks now. The man had been so drunk that a corporal had to hold him up when he signed The Articles.

  “He’s a pretty fair hand with a tool kit when sober, aren’t you Marks?” Frapes asked.

  “That I am, sir,” Marks replied, disappearing back under the machine.

  Frapes seemed to have the matter in hand so Allenson decided to leave him to it.

  “Very well, carry on, Mister Frapes,” Allenson said touching his hat.

  Most of the frames were two man machines. The officers had servants to do the pedaling. At the moment that was satisfactory, as the most of the enlisted men were appallingly unfit, but they were drying out and hardening so there would come a time when the officers would have to pedal as well, so their frames could keep up. Allenson and Hawthorn preferred to use their personal single seat rides.

  Allenson sought out Captain Rutchett. “Have you carried out a roll call, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir, all present and correct.”

  “Really?” Allenson asked, astonished. There had been a trickle of desertions on the first couple of days, although less than he had expected. It was so very easy for a two-man section to slip away into the Continuum.

  “The men’s morale is quite good, sir. No tonk was a bit of a shock but they have got used to the idea now. Many of them are better fed and clothed than they have been in years.”

  “Good,” Allenson said. “I want every single man’s feet checked by an officer before we eat, no exceptions. I expect blisters to be forming about now. I have bought some antiseptic and regrowth patches. You will find them in my personal baggage. I have also brought spare socks. Give them out as necessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rutchett said, saluting.

  Allenson had read that units on campaign in the wilderness could lose more men to injury and disease than enemy action. He was determined that this would not happen to his men. The officers had been a bit mulish when they discovered that he would not allow them to eat the food prepared by their servants until their men had eaten first, but he had forced the point. Obviously, he did not try to insist the officers to eat with their men, or even the same food. He had no wish to ignite a well bred mutiny.

  Generally, it had turned out easier to persuade the officers to care for their men’s well being than he had feared. Recruited from the landed gentry, they were used to being responsible for the condition of their estate workers and livestock. They came to regard their responsibility to their men in the same light. They were not required to consider the troopers to be equals, that would have been ridiculous, but they were required to conserve them as a valuable asset.

  One anomaly was that Payne ate with Allenson. As a civilian guide he was out of the line of command, and Allenson had grown used to relying on the man’s advice. The other person to regularly dine with Allenson was Hawthorn, in his role as the CO’s aide. Protocol meant that Allenson could only dine with the other officers when they chose to issue an invitation.

  Allenson was jolted out of his thoughts by the hovering person of a young lieutenant. He invited the man to speak with a nod.

  “Sir, my sergeant reports that one of my men is not pulling his weight on the pedals. He is slowing down the whole platoon. He wonders whether to discipline the man.

  “Is he lazy, is he just not trying?” Allenson asked.

  “I don’t think he‘s lazy, sir. The sergeant said that he pedals until he throws up with exhaustion.”

  “I doubt if punishment will improve him then,” Allenson said, dryly. “Swap him with a man on the baggage train.

  Allenson secretly hoped that the officers and NCOs would stop coming to him with trivial issues as they gained experience but, for the moment, he would rather they sought his guidance than do something stupid.

  * * *

  “I sent word ahead that I was coming to Nengue so where is he?” Allenson said, anger showing.

  “The chiefs say that the Viceroy is away on important matters but will be back soon,” Payne translated.

  “How soon is soon?” Allenson asked.

  “I could ask, sar, but I don’t think you’ll get a reply. Soon to a Rider generally just means in the future, maybe.”

  The rest of the Advance Force had landed by the Nengue Trading Post. Allenson was pleased to see that they maintained a combat-ready march order, with a rearguard protecting the baggage train.

  “Right we need to keep the men occupied doing something useful, Captain Rutchett.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Extend and refortify the Trading Post so that it is a useful asset and throw up a berm beside it for a military camp. I want the men restricted to camp. No one is to leave without my personal approval.”

  “The Viceroy may not take to us building new stuff,” Payne said, diffidently.

  “Too bad,” Allenson said. “If he doesn’t like it he will have to lump it.”

  As it happened the Viceroy reappeared the next day with some dispiriting news. The conversation that followed was difficult, as Payne found translating hard going. However, it seemed that the Riders had been on a scouting mission to Larissa and found the Terrans present in force. The viceroy’s garbled description suggested that they had built some sort of fortification.

  * * *

  “Are you completely mad?” Hawthorn asked, rhetorically.

  “I am open to suggestions,” Allenson replied, “but I can see no alternative to scouting Larisa personally.”

  “I could go in your place,” Hawthorn said.

  Allenson shook his head.

  “I need to reconnoiter their defenses,” Allenson said. “I cannot decide whether to commit the advance force or wait for reinforcements before attacking until I can assess what we are up against. If the defenses are incomplete, or weakly defended, there they may well be an advantage in an immediate assault but I need to see with my own eyes.”

  “OK, why not go as a diplomatic mission? There is less likelihood of them gunning you down as soon as you materialize.”

  “And then attack them? That would be dishonorable.”

  “Oh, honor,” Hawthorn said, “And where will your honor be when you are dead and the entire Cutter Stream Expeditionary Force is stranded on Nengue without orders or leadership?”

  “Avery will be in charge,” Allenson replied, defensively

  Hawthorn did not bother to reply to that. He simply raised an eyebrow.

  This was a new experience for Allenson. Generally, he considered that getting killed while doing one’s duty absolved one of further responsibility. To act, regardless of the outcome to oneself was almost a definition of honorable. The idea that he had a greater obligation to survive was disconcerting, but Hawthorn had a point.

  He glanced around the camp, searching for a way out of the impasse. The Viceroy was still present, arguing with Payne. He found it difficult to grasp that the humans had brought no tonk. The Rider overlord had an escort of chiefs who seemed to act as courtiers. Allenson recognized one who had accompanied them to Stikelstad. An idea germinated in his mind.

  “The Riders reconnoitered Larissa without any proble
ms,” Allenson said.

  “Yes, but you will be on a frame, not a beast. Any automatic defenses at Larissa are probably set to ignore the odd Rider beast or two, but they may be set to blast any unauthorized frame upon materialization. Even if you escape, you will have alerted the Terrans to our presence.” Hawthorn said, sarcastically.

  Allenson grinned at him, “Why shouldn’t I ride pillion on a beast?”

  “You are mad—completely barking, bloody mad,” Hawthorn said, restating his original opinion.

  * * *

  Any other time, Allenson would have been fascinated by the ride inside the beast, but today he had another dish to cook. The Rider took a degree of persuasion to semi-phase close enough to the Terran base for observation. Allenson resorted to threatening him with a spring gun. The beast veered in a loop, making a pass a klom or so above the base, Allenson recording the scene with his datapad

  Allenson was shocked at what he saw. This was no temporary camp, or even an armed fort, but a fully functional firebase that could easily hold a thousand combat troops or more. The Terrans were making Larissa their primary stronghold in the Brasilian hinterland.

  The main camp was a levelled circle of yellow oche soil, a greasy sheen showing that it was artificially stabilized. A high berm topped with razor wire surrounded the area. The single entrance through the berm was guarded by sand-bagged emplacements around crew served weapons. The outer berm slope was studded with pillboxes, from which projected the barrels of more crew-served guns. The interior of the firebase seemed largely devoid of buildings, although Allenson saw tents, transport frames and equipment.

  A moving shadow in the center of the firebase caught his eye. He keyed his data pad to magnify and used the screen as a telescope. What he saw made his mouth go dry. The firebase was protected by a three gun automatic defense battery. One of the guns tracked the Rider beast, the shadow from its barrels flickering as the gun traversed. Allenson had no idea how vulnerable a semi-phased beast was to a point defense lascannon and had no intention of finding out the hard way.