“Thank God, for army regulations,” Trina said, dryly. “Or thank God for cynical civil servants in the procurement office.”
She picked up his datapad.
“May I demonstrate?” Trina asked.
“With all pleasure,” Allenson replied.
She contacted the problematical supplier, angling the datapad focus so that only she was visible at the other end.
“Lady Blaisdel acting on behalf of Sar Allenson, my principal,” she said. “Sar Allenson has asked me to inform you that he considers you in breach of contract for failing to supply within the stipulated five days. Accordingly the contract is void and you will not be paid.”
“Good day.” She cut the connection and sipped her tea.
“What have you done,” Allenson said, horrified.
“Trust me,” she said.
After a few seconds, his datapad began to chime indicating an urgent call on the business channel. She finished her sip before triggering it.
“Laid Blaisdel.”
“You can’t not pay me,” the supplier said, well shouted, although the datapad adjusted the volume.
“Why not,” Trina said, in a tone that indicated no more than polite interest.
“Because we have a contract,” the supplier said.
“Which Sar Allenson considers void, due to non-performance on your part.”
“There is no time stipulation in the contract,” the supplier said, with rat-like cunning.
“Sar Allenson takes the view that a time stipulation was implicit as indicated by verbal agreement on your part.”
“I’ll sue,” the supplier said.
“As you wish,” Trina replied. “However, your contract is with the Brasilian Regular Army, not Sar Allenson. I would imagine that they will demand the hearing take place in the High Court on Brasilia, but that is a matter for them.”
There was dead silence on the other end. No matter how good a case the supplier thought he had, a High Court judgement on Brasilia could drag on for years and would be prohibitively expensive. Such cases tend to be won by the party with the most money and the Brasilian Army had very deep pockets.
“Look, I am sure that there is no need for any unpleasantness,” the supplier said in an oily voice. “Suppose I can deliver in the next five days?”
“I will consult with my principal,” Trina said.
She paused the datapad and took her time about pouring herself another cup of tea. You did not rush good quality tea. Then she switched the pad back on.
“Sar Allenson was reluctant to revisit his decision, but I argued on your behalf and he has kindly agreed to regard the contract as valid if delivery is made within three days.”
“Done,” the supplier said, “but I will be losing money.”
“Good day.” Trina cut the connection.
Allenson was aware that he had just been given a master class in project management.
“What can I say?” Allenson asked. “but thank you. I feel a little bad about him losing money on the deal though.”
Trina choked on her tea. She looked at him the way his economics teacher had looked when Allenson asked why people were reluctant to do their civic duty by paying taxes.
“I think you will find that he will squeeze a few pennies out for himself, somewhere down the line,” she said dryly. “I was thinking, Allen.”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” he replied, encouragingly.
“What with the marriage settlement from my family and the inheritance of my late husband’s estate, I have been well provided for and I’m frankly getting bored leading the life of a lady of leisure. It would be nice to put something back, so to speak. Would you like me to help you deal with the administration of your duties,” she said, diffidently. “I would not interfere with decision making, of course.”
“You interfere all you like, Trina,” he said. “I would very much like your help. Suppose we give you the title of Liaison Procurement Director so the suppliers understand your correct status?”
“Thank you,” she said.
Obviously he did not try to offer her a salary, firstly, because he had not the authority but mostly because a gentleman did not try to give a lady money. He went to give a kiss on the cheek to show his appreciation but she failed to turn her head.
Trina’s maid, acting as chaperone by leaning against the wall behind her mistress grinned at him and rolled her eyes. Hell to it, he thought, and kissed Trina on the lips.
* * *
Chernokovsky arrived in Allenson’s office in a state of consternation, and plonked himself down in a chair. “We are short of baggage transports. I had expected to hire civilian vehicles locally to supplement our logistical train but there are almost none to be had, at least, none that are functional. Also, the price is outrageous.”
“I anticipated that problem,” Allenson said. He fiddled with his datapad. “Rogan Transport offered to supply thirty five transports at standard rates. Is that enough or will you need more?”
“More are always useful but that will do,” Chernokovsky replied. “By God, Allenson, how did you arrange that?”
“Mistress Rogan is on a charitable committee chaired by Lady Blaisdel, I believe,” Allenson replied. “The, ah, Programme for Encouraging Temperance among the Laboring Classes. The Rogan family have built up a thriving business in recent years”
“So Lady Blaisdel and Mistress Rogan are old friends?” Chernokovsky asked.
“Not exactly,” Allenson replied. “They would not normally mix in the same social circles. I believe Mistress Rogan has only just been appointed to Lady Blaisdel’s committee.”
“I see,” Chernokovsky said.
He probably did see. You did not get to be a Brigadier in the Brasilian Army without having a shrewd grasp of the currencies of social politics.
“On another note,” Allenson said. “Lady Blaisdel is having a soiree at her villa tomorrow evening to raise funds for the programme. She intends to extend an invitation to you.”
“Well . . .” Chernokovsky replied.
Allenson had the impression that he was formulating a polite refusal, so he interrupted. “Mistress Rogan will be attending, as a committee member.”
“In that case, we had better not disappoint the lady,” Chernovsky said, with a smile. “It will be the last chance to relax. With those additional transports we are ready to move out. Thursday we move on Larissa.”
CHAPTER 21
The Professionals
Allenson hung in the Continuum, pedaling gently, watching the two thousand soldiers of the regular battalions file past down the trackway in a continuous column. A vanguard of the ten man fighting frames moved first followed by the battery powered transports. Officers stood out because of their vehicles. They were not obliged to pedal so had to be chauffeured. The size of an officer’s frame, and the concomitant number of pedallers, was proportional to rank—from one pedaller for lieutenants to ten for Chernokovsky and his three aides. The officers also carried a prodigious amount of baggage for light infantry. Allenson had been astonished to see crystal glasses and dress uniforms loaded into the transports. The 12th had even brought their regimental hunting dog pack complete with handler.
Small gaggles of militia from the ’Stream and Perseverance flowed along the edges of the column, like water droplets running down a wire. The colonials were mostly in two-seater frames but the more experienced Hinterland travellers, like Allenson, were in single seaters. Allenson tasked the colonials to monitor the column and round up stragglers. Actually, there were no stragglers; the regulars kept disciplined formations. He had also instructed his men to watch out for Riders but none were spotted.
The trackway looked like an orange tunnel in the Continuum. It dampened local energy eddies facilitating the movement of clumsy vehicles like transports and ten man fighting frames. It was like an artificial chasm, except that there was no prevailing current to push a frame along. On the other hand, that did make trackwa
ys two-way. Turbulence at the edge acted as a barrier to seeing into the Continuum.
One problem had been solved by the arrival of an army from the Home World. Chernovsky had squashed any attempt by the Perseverance troops to claim the status of regulars. Reclassifying them as militia had put them firmly under Allenson’s operational control.
The column was impressive, impressive but ponderous. The regulars built a fortified camp at each stop, recharged their transport batteries with steam engines, and set up an orbiting beacon to project the next section of trackway before resuming the march. It all took time.
On a good day, the column made less than half the distance that Allenson’s Expeditionary Force had achieved on their previous foray. Doctrine demanded that they keep together, so it moved at the speed of the slowest transport. This became a liability as transport batteries failed, lowering speed and shortening range. Messengers were despatched back to the stream for replacements. Eventually, a stream of frames shuttled between Manzanita and the column.
Allenson became increasingly concerned about the complete absence of Riders, especially as they neared Nengue. It was not normal and that made him nervous. He made sure that he was at the front of the column so he could reconnoiter. Hawthorn made sure that Allenson was accompanied by a suitable, by which he meant tough, escort of ’Streamers that Hawthorn commanded personally.
* * *
The Rider camp on Nengue appeared empty when they made a high pass over it. On closer inspection, there were some signs of activity, individual Riders and smoke from the odd fire. The ’Streamers landed next to what was left of the Trading Post. Allenson squatted to examine the burnt debris. Rain had washed out charcoal flakes, and small invertebrates had already colonized the site. Weeds grew among the burnt timbers.
“This happened some time ago,” Allenson said.
“There are no bodies or any signs of battle,” Hawthorn said, kicking over charred wood to examine underneath. “The place was probably unoccupied when it was razed.”
“Which leads us to the issue of who destroyed the Post and why,” Allenson said. “Let’s find the Viceroy.”
The Viceroy’s shelter was empty. One side had collapsed, giving the structure a sad, dilapidated appearance. Allenson spotted a gleam of artificial color in the mud. He bent down and pulled out the handle of a yellow axe. The head was missing.
“That looks like the one you gave the Viceroy,” Hawthorn said. “Does that mean that the Viceroy had repudiated the present as a symbolic gesture?”
Both men looked at Payne.
“The Riders are practical, sars,” Payne said. “A good axe is a good axe, however you got it. I suppose it could have broke and thrown away, but the shiny yellow handle is still pretty—to a Rider.”
They left the shelter and walked through the camp. Only a handful of old men and women remained in the Rider camp. They kept their distance from the ’Streamers, which did not surprise Allenson. Only the desperate would approach a bunch of heavily armed foreigners. They tried to talk to an old man, but he put his head down and ignored them, shuffling away as fast as he could.
“We have to find someone who will give us information,” said Allenson.
“Do you want us to chase down one of the oldsters?” an NCO asked. “A few slaps and they will talk.”
“I think not,” Allenson replied. “They would be terrified and would tell us whatever they thought we wanted to hear.”
He did not add that he recoiled from offering even mild violence to an elderly civilian. The NCO would not understand. Hawthorn smiled—he understood Allenson all too well.
“Do you notice that there are no beasts,” Hawthorn said. “The warriors have gone, taking their women and children with them.”
They wandered through the camp. An old, emaciated woman lay under a low shelter that had seen better days. She watched the ’Streamers but made no move to leave when they approached. Allenson looked enquiringly at Payne.
“She’s been left to die, sar,” Payne said. “The Riders have no use for useless mouths.”
Allenson squatted down beside her. He removed some bread from his ration pack. Tearing off a small piece he offered it to the woman. She looked at it suspiciously before snatching the food and cramming it in her mouth. She reminded Allenson of a feral animal offered a delicacy, an animal more used to receiving a kick. The woman chewed frantically, as if afraid someone was going to snatch the bread back.
“She still has her own teeth,” Hawthorn said. “How old is she?”
“She ain’t really old, sar, not like people get old,” Payne said. “She’s forty, maybe.”
“So much for the life of the noble savage,” Allenson said.
The woman swallowed and looked hopefully at the bread still in Allenson’s hand.
“Ask her where the warriors are,” Allenson said to Payne.
There was an exchange in a Rider tongue.
“She says she doesn’t know, sar,” Payne replied.
“Ask her where the Viceroy is?”
“He’s dead, sar” Payne replied.
“How did he die? Was it accident, disease or did someone kill him?”
“I asked that. She doesn’t seem to know, sar.”
“Ask her who the new overclan chief is and whether she knows of any change in Rider policy towards the human war?”
“I’ll try, sar.”
There was a long exchange
“She says she has no idea.”
“I see,” Allenson said. He had no idea if the woman was lying but he gave her the bread anyway.
“I am not sure if feeding her is a kindness,” Hawthorn said, as they walked away. “It won’t change the outcome, just delay her death.”
“Possibly,” Allenson replied. “But it’s an unkindness that I can live with compared to the alternatives. Do you think the Viceroy’s death is significant?”
Hawthorn shrugged. “Who knows? Riders do die, often violently for reasons that make no sense to us. Maybe he just upset the wrong person.”
* * *
The rest of the column eventually arrived at Nengue and busied themselves setting up a fortified camp with automated defenses capable of checking an attack by a brigade of regulars, let alone a few Riders.
Allenson sought out Chernokovsky. He sat in his tent sipping tea, looking through various reports.
“Come in Allenson and sit yourself down. I must say that staff of yours in Manzanita are a wonder. They have found a supplier of high energy batteries for the transports, which should be arriving in a day or two so we will wait for them. In the long run, it will quicker to re-equip our transports before moving on. Some of the battery arrays are down to nearly half power: tea?”
“No thank you, Brigadier,” Allenson said, politely, while taking his seat. His staff consisted largely of Lady Blaisdel and her servants.
“I am concerned at our slow rate of progress,” Allenson said.
“Moving through hostile territory can’t be rushed, dear chap. It will take as long as it takes.”
“We are giving the Terrans plenty of time to react to our approach. The fact that we have seen no Riders does not mean that they have not seen us. Indeed, the fact that we have not come across any hunting groups is suspicious. I worry that the Terrans are planning something.”
“They can plot all they like, old boy. It will save us a great deal of trouble if they are foolish enough to attack us on the march. That would thin their ranks a bit before we take on their base at Larissa.”
“I suppose so,” Allenson replied, unwilling to contradict an experienced regular soldier, but he still didn’t like the situation. All his instincts screamed to him that speed was as important as strength in any sort of conflict. “Perhaps I can suggest a compromise.”
“Go on,” Chernokovsky said.
“Why don’t I take a vanguard of detachment of Engineers protected by, say, two hundred militia, to lay down the trackway in advance of the main column. That should sp
eed the main force up a bit when your transports are up to spec.”
“Yes, it would,” Chernokovsky conceded. “But I would be concerned about an ambush crippling the beacon engineering platoon. I could not afford to use them.”
Allenson noted that Chernokovsky bore the possibility of losing the colonial militia with fortitude, not so say, complete indifference. The brigadier sipped his tea; no doubt a form of displacement activity to give him time to consider his decision. Chernokovsky was not a man given to rashness.
“Tell you, what,” Chernokovsky finally said. “Your idea has merit but you must take half a battalion of regulars to provide protection, from the 51st, I think.”
Allenson groaned inside. Five hundred regulars would slow him down considerably, but he had got Chernokovsky to agree. Now he needed to make the plan work.
“The regulars will need to travel light and be logistically self sufficient,” Allenson said. “They must carry only light weapons. The extra space in their frames can be used for supplies.”
“I don’t see why not,” Chernovsky said. “They are only going as escorts. I expect you to fall back on the protection of the main column if the Terrans launch a set piece attack. Traveling light, you should easily evade a properly equipped Terran combat battalion.”
“I think I will have that tea after all,” Allenson said, his mood greatly improved.
“In fact, I like your idea so well that I believe I will come along,” Chernokovsky said. “Nothing like leading from the front, what?”
The tea was bitter.
* * *
The Brasilian expedition ground closer to Larissa. Preparing the trackway in advance speeded up the Brasilian column marginally by shortening each layover, but they still moved at the speed of the slowest transport and transport batteries still needed charging. Chernokovsky had joined the vanguard as threatened. Unfortunately, so had all the senior officers of the 51st. Never had so few been commanded by so many.
Two of the two-seater ’Stream frames stuck to Allenson like glue. He sensed the guiding hand of Hawthorn, who was back with the main body and baggage transports. No doubt they were body guards who had been told to make sure he came back alive, or not to bother to come back themselves.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 31
