“It was not entirely done in childish pique,” he replied, smiling to keep any sting out of the words. “Fontenoy would have sacked me. Resignation seemed a better course.”
“Should you wish it, I believe your position is far from irrecoverable,” Trina said, careful not to imply she was pushing him.
“Indeed, I don’t see how?” Allenson said, “but I would be most interested to hear your thoughts.”
“I have taken the liberty of sounding out my family’s clients in the Lower House,” Trina said, a little uncomfortably. “Merely sounded them out you understand, not indicated that you did or did not want any particular course of action.”
“Please go on,” Allenson said, giving her another smile as encouragement. After the disasters of the last few months, he was way past taking offense at anything Trina might do.
“You may not realize it but you are considered something of a hero,” Trina said.
“So I gather,” Allenson said, dryly. “In my opinion, I was a bloody fool who allowed his army to be bottled up in an indefensible position by a superior force.”
“Fool and hero are not entirely mutually exclusive,” Trina said, with a smile. “Indeed, I have heard it claimed by cynics that all heroes are fools.”
Allenson laughed. “Maybe, but I played more the fool than the hero.”
“The commoners see it differently. They think you were the only sar with the, ah, balls—I believe that is the expression,” Trina said, primly, “to stand up for the ’Stream. You also cared enough about the welfare of your soldiers to eat humble pie to get them home. Some of those soldiers have relatives who sit in the Lower House. The soldiers have also brought back stories of your gallantry. Apparently, you always reserved the most dangerous tasks for yourself. I cannot think that was sensible of you, but I can see how it plays well in the political arena.”
“I don’t see how that stops Fontenoy sacking me,” Allenson said.
“Militia dismissals have to be ratified by the Lower House,” Trina said. “There is a core group that will vote against your dismissal and refuse to accept your resignation. A larger, non-aligned group, has fastened on this popular issue as a way of curbing Fontenoy. They don’t care about you, but they can be persuaded to attach a motion to the bill ratifying your resignation, one that removes many of Fontenoy’s prerogatives. It is a win-win situation for this group since Fontenoy loses face whatever does. It is my belief that Fontenoy will back down rather than accept a loss of power, so your resignation will have never happened.”
“Trina, you are a genius,” Allenson said.
In genuine enthusiasm he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Trina blushed and her maid snorted in amusement.
“More tea,” Trina said, to cover her confusion.
* * *
It was early evening when Allenson returned to his hotel.
“Have a good evening, sar,” the porter on duty in his corridor smirked at him.
What the Hell was wrong with the man? Allenson unlocked his room door and flicked the lights on. He headed for the bathroom to wash his face.
“I’m not used to being ignored.”
He turned. She lay on the bed in a diaphanous slip. A bright red dress that probably cost more than a month’s salary for the average Manzanitan lay in a heap on the floor. Her hair was bright yellow and her eyes flaming orange—the color of her letter burning in the fire, the color of a man dancing in the flames.
“Sarai, what are you doing here?”
“Royman is playing at farmer on the demesne and I was bored, so I have come to Manzanita to see my family.”
“How did you get into my room?”
“I bribed the porter,” she said smugly.
Dear God, Allenson thought, the story would be all over the hotel by morning. The Hero Allenson has a mysterious exotic lady in his room. One mystery, the porter’s smirk, had been explained.
“When I asked what you were doing here, I meant what are you doing in my room?”
She made a moue. “You really are the most annoying man, Allen. You don’t reply to my letter, where I poured out my heart, incidentally. You leave me to go on a camping trip in the Hinterland to play at soldiers, when you could easily have appointed a deputy. You don’t even come to visit me when you get back from enjoying yourself—and then you ask what I’m doing here. Many would think themselves the most fortunate of men to find me on their bed—but if you find my presence so distasteful then I will go.”
She sat up, showing every sign of storming straight out in high dungeon—unfortunately covered by little else. That would help the rumors no end.
“No wait,” Allenson said, holding up his hands.
She lay back down with a hint of a smile. Allenson thought she was bluffing, but lacked the bottle to put it to the test. You never knew with Sarai.
She ran a hand down her slip, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Poor, Allen, am I really so disturbing?”
“Actually, you are, Sarai,” he said, wishing she wouldn’t do that. “Look, I am only thinking of your reputation.”
“How sweet, Allen,” she said, getting off the bed and moving towards him like a leopard.
Allenson had an urge to back up.
“But, don’t worry, no one knows I am here.”
“Only your maid, and your cousin’s servants, and the porter, and the rest of the hotel staff,” Allenson said.
“No one who matters knows I am here,” Sarai said. “The lower orders will keep their mouths shut, if they know what’s good for them.”
She ran her hand down her slip again, her nail catching the seam. It opened, the slip falling from her naked body and fluttering to the floor.
He was lost. He no longer cared about repercussions. He didn’t care about his career. He didn’t care if he was signing his own death warrant. He had to have her, now.
* * *
Allenson was astonished at the enormity of the Brasilian force. He had been told to expect two regular light infantry regiments. He had no concrete expectation of what that might look like but had vaguely anticipated something like the colonial militia, albeit on a larger scale. The difference was a sharp reality check of the resource differential between even the First Tier colonies of the Bight and the Home Worlds.
Allenson landed in the military base, which was under construction on the edge of Port Clearwater. He approached by a circuitous route so that he could look at the base, an ant hill of activity. A protective berm and ditch had already been thrown up by earth movers. That seemed an unnecessary precaution. Manzanita was hardly enemy territory. It suggested the Brasilian commander was cautious, or maybe just thorough.
The first transport to land had included the engineering company that was building the fortifications, as well as the brigade headquarters with its attendant support platoons. The latter included mortars and air defense cannon.
Allenson was met by a young lieutenant, who looked at his dress uniform with a hint of a smirk. “You must be the colonial militia officer?” The lieutenant hazarded.
“I believe Brigadier Chernokovsky is expecting me,” Allenson said stiffly.
“Oh quite,” the lieutenant said. “Follow me.”
Chernokovsky had his HQ in a large tent near the center of the base. Allenson was left kicking his heels in an atrium for half an hour. Eventually an aide popped his head around the door.
“Brigadier Chernokovsky will see you now.”
Chernokovsky was a large stout man with a round ruddy face. He rose and greeted Allenson with a handshake. “Sar Allenson, good of you to drop by.”
“Brigadier Chernokovsky.” Allenson considered referring to the man by his civilian title of “sar” in retaliation for Chernokovsky not using Allenson’s own rank but decided against as it would have been petty. Chernokovsky was being friendly and there seemed no point in making an enemy of the man by standing on dignity.
“Sorry to keep you waiting but I have many calls on my time at the moment,
” Chernokovsky said.
“I quite understand,” Allenson replied.
“I believe you had a rough time of it at the hands of the Terrans?” Chernokovsky asked.
“It was no pleasure trip,” Allenson replied.
“Not to worry, old chap, the professionals are here now,” Chernokovsky said, with kindly condescension.
“I am sure we are all very pleased,” Allenson replied politely, hiding his irritation.
“Is this your first experience of the regular army?” Chernokovsky asked.
“I am afraid so,” Allenson replied.
“What do you think?” Chernokovsky asked.
“Very impressive,” Allenson replied, truthfully.
“I will arrange for one of my aides to show you around,” Chernokovsky said. “As you have probably been told by Governor, ah . . .”
“Fontenoy.”
“That’s the chap, Fontenoy; I would like you to be my liaison with the colony. As a Light Brigade, we are not entirely self sufficient and rely on local purchase of consumable, such as food.”
“I am delighted to assist,” Allenson said. “But what exactly would be my rank and position in the Brigade’s command structure?”
“Ah yes, that is tricky,” Chernokovsky replied. “Obviously your rank as Colonel of Colonial Militia has no standing with the regular army. If it did, I would have to make you my second in command with rank over my battalion commanders who are lieutenant colonels, and that would be ridiculous.”
“Quite,” Allenson said, keeping the smile on his face
“What I suggest is that your position in the regular army be that of an unpaid consultant, with the title of Colonial Liaison Officer. That way you are out of our command structure. You cannot give orders but, by the same token, cannot be given orders. Nevertheless you would be treated as an officer for all other purposes. Does that seem a reasonable compromise?”
Actually it did, so Allenson readily agreed.
“Would you require me to wear civilian clothes?” Allenson asked.
“As you wish,” Chernokovsky replied. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a line of people wanting something or other.”
And with that Allenson was dismissed. He had the impression that Chernokovsky regarded a colonial militia uniform as synonymous with civilian clothing.
A young lieutenant took him on a tour of the cap. The sheer quantity and complexity of the operation was even more bewildering close up. It made his expedition look like a family picnic. He was surprised at the number of women in the regular army. There was nothing to stop women joining the colonial militia, but few did.
“What do you think so far?” the lieutenant asked.
“Very impressive,” Allenson replied. “My only reservation is that it will be a challenge moving all this through the Hinterland.”
“That’s why we have an engineering company attached,” the lieutenant said. “We are going to build a trackway.”
Allenson was stunned. Trackways were roads through the Continuum used in areas where stars were clustered close together, rendering navigation by interworld ships so difficult as to be impossible or uneconomic. They involved setting up solar powered orbiting beacons in real space, about two or three hours apart. The beacons produced a charged, smoothed path in the Continuum that gave frames greater speed and range for the same expenditure of energy.
The long term strategic implications of the plan were stunning. It would open up the Hinterland to exploitation and the ’Stream would be the gateway. For the first time in a while, Allenson was optimistic about the future.
He realized that the lieutenant had said something.
“Your pardon, sar, could you repeat that?” he asked.
“I wondered whether you would like to see the men practising frame combat tactics?” the lieutenant asked.
“Very much,” Allenson replied.
The army had set up a practice range outside the berm.
“Our combat sections are on a ten man frame,” said the lieutenant. “However the minimum unit of maneuver is a company of ten to twenty sections. We rarely fight from frames so the Brigadier thought it wise to brush up our skills. Normally we transit by interworld ship and fight as infantry, just using frames to move around.”
Allenson watched a company maneuver en masse to attack a tethered blimp. The company kept a tight formation that was slow and ponderous but offered mutual support. They fired at the blimp in a single volley. The skin rippled like a child’s balloon in a hail storm. The troopers used soft nosed rounds in their spring guns for training, but Allenson could see how such tactics could bring crushing fire down on an enemy. It was very different from the whirling skirmishes for which the militia trained.
* * *
“You promised delivery within five days,” Allenson said, to a supplier on the other end of his datapad. The figure in the hologram spread his hands until they disappeared out of the focusing field.
“Yes, but that was dependent on my suppliers delivering on time. They haven’t,” the supplier said.
“What component are you missing?” Allenson asked.
The supplier told him.
“Send me the details and I will try to find an alternative vendor.” Allenson shut the connection down. His datapad immediately sounded the urgent communication chime. Sighing Allenson sipped his café and keyed it. One of Chernokovsky’s aides appeared.
“The Brigadier requests a meeting with you at your earliest convenience, Sar Allenson,” he said.
“Can’t he just contact me by pad?” Allenson asked. “I have some problems to sort out.”
“I believe he wants to show you something,” the aide replied, somewhat apologetically.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Allenson said.
He downed the rest of his drink in a gulp. The hot liquid seared his throat, which did nothing to improve his mood.
Chernokovsky had a section of camouflage netting rolled up on the table in his office.
“Have a look at that,” Chernokovsky said, gesturing towards the netting, which was made up of laminated sections, cemented together.
The sections were already peeling and came apart at the slightest pull.
“The cement isn’t waterproof,” Chernokovsky said. “The whole bloody consignment of netting is useless. One rain shower and it falls apart. Good God, Allenson, I don’t expect much from you chaps. We have brought with us anything we need that is at all sophisticated or complicated, but I assumed that you could make bloody netting even in the colonies. Is waterproof glue too much to ask for?”
“No it isn’t,” Allenson said, nettled, “but us colonial chappies have to buy in even basic materials from Brasilia. That glue was probably guaranteed waterproof by the Brasilian supplier, who would have charged us three times as much as he could have got locally. Brasilia blocks the export of manufacturing capacity to the ’Stream and taxes any imports from other Home Worlds to force us to use Brasilian goods to safeguard its home industries. And Brasilian suppliers cheat us by dumping overpriced shoddy crap on the ’Stream that they wouldn’t dare attempt to fob off on Brasilians.”
Chernokovsky looked at Allenson quizzically. He seemed more amused than angry at Allenson’s angry outburst.
“Well do your best, there’s a good chap,” Chernokovsky said, with kindly condescension.
Allenson stormed back to his office. He tried to work but was still seething and could not concentrate. The problem was not that Chernokovsky was unreasonable or overtly rude, but that he had a habit of talking to Allenson like he was some common employee. Chernokovsky was a gentleman but so was Allenson. Thus far they were socially equal in Allenson’s opinion, a view that Chernokovsky and his officers clearly did not share. It seemed that Allenson and his compatriots were expected to meet the obligations of Brasilian gentlemen, but without the concomitant privileges—and that was not fair.
“Hell to it, the bloody war can wait,” Allenson said to no one in particu
lar.
He slipped his datapad in his pocket and left his office in Port Clearwater, resisting the urge to slam the door. He decided to use one of the Brasilia Army officer runabouts to hop across the water into Manzanita. Given he was working for nothing, a ride was the least the Brasilian military could do.
“Villa Blaisdel, Manzanita City,” Allenson said to the NCO in charge of the transport pool, while climbing into the back of a two-man frame.
The NCO hesitated, unsure whether he should be taking orders from a colonial officer.
“Is there a problem?” Allenson asked, dangerously.
“Uh, no sir,” the NCO coming to a decision. “Perkins, take the officer to Manzanita city.”
“I am afraid these yokel towns don’t have a beacon grid so you will have to give the driver guidance, sir.”
“Let’s get moving,” Allenson said, not taking any offense at the implied slur on the ’Stream capital as the opinions of an NCO were hardly of import.
On the way, his datapad bleeped with an urgent message on his private channel. He refused to take the call. Right now he just could not cope with Sarai.
Trina Blaisdel took one look at him and sat him down with a pot of tea. She refused to discuss anything other than trivial gossip until he had drunk his first cup, loosened the collar on his uniform and relaxed.
“Are the preparations for the campaign going well,” she finally asked.
“Not so you would notice,” Allenson said.
He brought out his datapad and showed her his latest disaster.
“But Allen,” she said, horrified, “you are letting your suppliers dump their problems onto you, until you are trying to micromanage the whole supply chain.”
“How else can I unblock the pipeline?” Allenson asked, genuinely confused. If one had a problem preventing one from meeting one’s obligations then one dealt with it. That was how he had lived his life.
“Did you pay in advance?” she asked sharply, as if the thought had just occurred.
“No, I would have liked to but that’s against army regulations. Payment is on delivery,” he answered.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 30
