Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  He watched the engineers making adjustments to the solar arrays on a beacon around an unnamed yellow-white star. The next segment of trackway was up and stable but the captain of engineer was not entirely happy with the regularity of the power input. It took surprisingly little power to create the trackway. It was one of those technologies that used persuasion rather than brute force.

  Allenson had asked the captain how it worked but had not entirely grasped the somewhat confused explanation. Essentially, the broadcast signal changed the probability of interactions between the currents in the Continuum to create a highly unlikely, but possible, high-entropic state where everything cancelled out. It sounded like the efforts to create antigravity by changing the probability of the behavior of space time between two masses, except that antigravity had never worked. Of course, one did not need to understand the scientific principles behind a technology to employ it successfully, but Allenson found it fascinating. Not for the first time, he wished he could have had a better education in stochastic maths.

  The engineers had a sort of workshop array that could extend its fields in part phase to allow the men to work on the beacon. The escort had already started phasing out to move down the trackway, platoon by platoon at a spaced distance to avoid both collisions and caterpillaring in the limited space. Allenson reluctantly tore himself away from the engineers. He pedalled down the column, overtaking each section of regulars in their ten-man frames. The colonial militia moved in small groups, largely ignoring their theoretical order of battle.

  * * *

  The trackway stretched before him like a tunnel filled with orange mist. He pedalled towards the head of the column, overtaking trooper frames that appeared first as purple shadows, details only becoming recognisable at close range.

  He spotted silver flashes ahead. They looked like sunlight reflecting off broken glass on a far hill. There was no shape or form to the irregular disturbances. This was new and, in the Hinterland, the novel could be dangerous. He increased his speed, making his bodyguards pedal frantically to keep up. Hawthorn must have threatened them with some dire punishment if they lost him. Flashes continued to light up the orange mist, metallic purple flashes as well as silver. He overtook troop-frames that, from their markings, were at the rear of the front platoon.

  A half dozen Riders burst through the edge of the trackway right beside Allenson. Crystal beasts resonated as they crossed the boundary, energy bleeding away as flashes of silver light. The lead warrior was on him, hurling a spear. Allenson turned tightly. The spear crossed his front, leaving a purple trail. One of his bodyguards fired a spring gun. The Riders jinked away from the ’Streamers. Allenson cursed and groped for his spring gun.

  The Riders rapidly regrouped and pounced on the ten man troop frames, ignoring Allenson and his escort. The disruption to the Rider attack bought the troops time, but they panicked, squandered the brief window of opportunity. Riders flowed down the line of troop frames, bombarding them with spears, slingshots and even one or two bolts from spring guns. There were two or three Riders per beast and all were armed. Men fell. Allenson saw a splash of blood where a trooper took a missile in the face.

  The Riders turned their beats and came back up the line repeating their pass. Allenson found his spring gun but it was unloaded. He dropped it in his haste. Cursing, he mounted a frontal charge on the Riders, hoping to split their formation. A silver flash marked where a bolt fired by one of his bodyguards struck the lead beast. It recoiled into its compatriots, forcing them to evade. The sounder soldiers on the troop frames shot their spring guns. The Riders broke off as soon as they came under fire, disappearing back into the Continuum.

  The Brasilians attempted to close up into a defensive formation. Allenson watched where the Riders had exited the trackway, expecting them to reappear. They did, but not from there. Three Rider beasts dropped from above onto the rear frame, whose occupants had their spring guns pointed in the direction of the previous attack. Allenson gestured frantically, but the Brasilian troopers just gaped at him. The Riders closed to point blank range and unleashed a stream of projectiles. Half the men of the frame were casualties before they fired a shot. The Riders fled back into the Continuum when the troops on the next frame took them under fire.

  In two attacks, the Riders inflicted nearly a dozen casualties on the platoon without losing a man.

  * * *

  Allenson waited but no new attacks materialized. The platoon slowed down to allow an understrength troop frame to keep up, reducing their advance to a crawl. Allenson pedalled hard towards the front of the column, loading his spring gun as he went. More silver and metallic purple flashes marked the head of the column.

  Frames were piled up nose to tail, some broadside on. A troop frame tried to turn in the narrow tunnel, colliding with a compatriot to his rear. Their fields interacted in a bright flash of metallic purple light. Locked together, the frames disintegrated into shimmering colored fractals when their fields failed and they winked back into realspace. The frame behind braked sharply, threatening more collisions.

  It never seemed to occur to the troops to leave the trackway.

  Allenson and his small flotilla of bodyguards attempted to intercept Riders, but it was all too much a ratfuck for coherent action. Small groups of Riders zoomed through the tangled mess, sometimes chased by colonials on one and two-seater frames.

  A young officer stood up in his frame—a lieutenant as it was a two-seater. He waved his arms vigorously to rally his men. Three beasts englobed him. When they swept away his frame was gone. A missile must have damaged the energy field projectors or power supply.

  Three ’Streamer light frames attacked a beast from different directions. They got in each other’s way and it escaped.

  A beast flew into a coordinated salvo from a troop frame. Silver flashes marked bolt strikes. It disintegrated into crystal polygons, shedding its Riders. The polygons must have maintained a field for a few seconds because the Riders thrashed and struggled before disappearing.

  * * *

  The surviving troop frames managed to turn and began to make their way back down the trackway. Allenson tried to get ’Streamers to formate on him, but the pilots were excited. He eventually organized the militia into a shield around the retreating troop frames. They tried to intercept each Rider lunge but the initiative lay with the attackers and some inevitably got through.

  Retreat turned into rout, with each troop frame fleeing at its best speed.

  The ’Streamers stayed with the stragglers—the ones limping along at half speed after taking heavy casualties or mechanical damage. They had to abandon an immobile troop frame, with nothing but casualties left aboard. Its field flickered as the power ran down. One of the wounded on board watched Allenson pedal past. His face registered resignation, not than anger nor fear, as if he accepted his fate and just wanted it over.

  Suddenly the attacks stopped, as if someone had thrown a switch to bring the curtain down in a theater. There were only human frames visible. Allenson rotated his head as if it was on gimbals—but nothing. One of his bodyguard frames had disappeared. Allenson had no idea what had happened to it. The other clung on to his rear. Minutes passed and he began to hope that the Riders had broken off.

  Silver flashes ahead showed his optimism was misplaced. He accelerated, overtaking the retreating frames, taking his ’Streamers with him.

  A huge pile up blocked the trackway. Routing transports had crashed into those still advancing. A troop frame had hit another amidships and both rotated slowly like a giant “T”. Somehow, their fields had interlaced without shorting. The crews tried to push the frames apart but the interlocked fields held the frames tight. The crews were dead; they just had not yet accepted the fact yet.

  Troop frames were piled up all over the trackway like a log jam. Rider beasts weaved between them creating chaos. Troopers firing wildly at the beasts caused havoc on other Brasilian frames in the line of fire. An officer frame raced for the shel
ter of a troop transport, chased by a beast. The men on board fired a salvo that drove off the beast but killed the officer’s pedaller. Allenson’s last sight of the officer was his frame spiraling out of control as he desperately tried to climb into the pilot’s seat.

  Allenson and his colonials swept into the battle, killing a few beasts and driving off the rest, but the relief was momentary. He could not control his men so many ’Streamers followed Riders out into the Continuum. Rider squadrons lapped around the flanks to renew their assault on the troop frames. Allenson made for the center to locate Chernokovsky. He was easy to find as the command frame was marked by banners to identify it to his men. Unfortunately, it also identified him to the Riders as a “chief”. Warriors swarmed around him like wasps to a jam pot.

  Chernokovsky stood high on a command deck at the back making circular movements with his hands. He seemed to be trying to get his men to form a defensive globe. A Rider spear took him through the stomach and he sank down. One of his aides panicked and swung the command frame around. That signalled a general rout. Two more frames collided, vanishing in metallic purple fire.

  A panicking trooper pointed a laserifle at attacking beasts. Allenson swerved to put distance between himself and the troop frame. The trooper fired. His frame exploded in a massive conflagration of white streamers. The trackway twisted and rocked. More troop frames collided, adding to the confusion.

  Fortunately, the blast scared off the Riders and attracted back ’Streamers that had been decoyed away by retreating Riders. Allenson formed them into a shield behind the remaining troop frames. Riders made a few tentative passes but sheered off when intercepted by the manoeuvrable and fast ’Streamer frames. After a few more half-hearted attacks, the Riders vanished back into the Continuum and did not return.

  Allenson checked his ammunition. He had only three bolts left for his spring gun. Where had the other seven gone? Had he fired them? He had no memory of shooting. He worried that his men must be running low on bolts. Normal practice was to carry just ten per man on the small frames. It occurred to him that the Riders must also be short of projectiles. They probably carried less than the militia. Maybe that was why they had backed off, or perhaps it was simply that they shied away from a battle of attrition with the militia because of their inability to replace casualties. For whatever reason, there were no more attacks.

  * * *

  The column retreated back into the star system where they had set up the last beacon, and made for the habitable planet. The colonials mounted top-cover until the last troop frame had landed. Allenson did not intend to try to get the exhausted troopers to fortify a camp. Riders would not challenge laserifle armed soldiers on the ground, and the Brasilians would have no choice but to surrender if attacked by Terrans in strength. They were in no condition to defend against a serious ground attack. And they could surrender to Terrans without getting their throats cut.

  He found the command frame and landed alongside. Chernokovsky lay on a palette. His aides had removed the spear and sealed the wound with an anesthetic patch. None of them would meet Allenson’s eye

  “Why haven’t you got the Brigadier proper treatment?” Allenson asked, shocked. One could not just patch up a spear stab. The internal bleeding alone would kill Chernokovsky.

  “The medic frame was lost,” an aide said. “We have done the best we can with first aid kits.”

  “Allenson is that you?” Chernokovsky asked. He coughed up blood.

  “Yes, sir,” Allenson replied.

  “Come closer man, I can’t see you in this gloom.”

  It was bright sunshine.

  Allenson knelt down beside the Brigadier.

  “I’m here, sir,” Allenson said.

  “I was damn glad of your colonials back there, Allenson. Without you we would have been wiped out.”

  “Everybody did their best, sir,” Allenson said.

  “Get my men home, Colonel Allenson. Promise me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Allenson rose and saluted.

  CHAPTER 22

  Phoney War

  Chernokovsky’s aides were squabbling over who was in command when Allenson sought them out the next day. They were occupied comparing notes on dates of commission and seniority. It was a form of displacement behavior; devoting their time to who would give the orders meant that they did not have to worry about what the orders should be.

  “You are wasting time, gentlemen,” Allenson said. “If we just sit here, we risk attack by a Terran military unit. Brigadier Chernokovsky placed me in command. You all heard him.”

  “But Chernokovsky is dead. You are just a militia officer,” an aide said. “Your rank has no standing in the chain of command.”

  “Neither does yours,” Allenson replied. “So my nominal rank of colonel trumps yours of captain.”

  The aides were gentlemen, chosen for their administrative and social skills. Their function was to assist the brigadier not command troops in combat.

  “Your orders, sir,” a young lieutenant said, coming to attention and saluting Allenson.

  Allenson checked the lieutenant’s uniform. The flashes on his badges of rank showed that he was a combat infantry officer, albeit one without any campaign medals.

  “You are?” Allenson asked

  “Lieutenant Stretter, sir,” he replied. “I am the senior ranking officer in the chain of command left alive. I propose to place myself under your command in obedience to Brigadier Chernokovsky’s last order.”

  And that was that, the issue was decided. The men would follow Stretter.

  “How many officers are left?” Allenson asked.

  “Two junior lieutenants and three cadets, sir,”

  Allenson caught his breath. The carnage among the officers was shocking. Those damned officer frames stood out like the proverbials on a dog. They were too slow to run and too weak to fight. Not that any of the officers had attempted to escape. They had fought bravely to the last. If only they had been less ineffectual.

  “Very good, Mister Stretter, please get the men ready to leave within three hours. I want each frame fully manned so we can travel fast. Disable and abandon the rest. Dump everything except essential supplies, ammunition, and the men’s personal weapons to make room for the wounded. Officers are to pedal on the troop frames with the men. Dump the command frames.”

  The aides looked scandalized but kept their mouths shut, which was just as well. Allenson was in no mood for half-witted arguments about status.

  “Yes sir, what about the dead?”

  “Put them in a burial pit.”

  “And the brigadier?”

  “The same,” Allenson replied.

  “You can’t do that,” an aide said in horror. “We must take his body home to Brasilia.”

  The aides still shied away from grasping the desperate nature of their situation. Perhaps they clung to the norms of peaceful society to block out the horror of the reality.

  “We have no embalming materials and, even if we had, we have no time. Brigadier Chernokovsky fought valiantly alongside his men. It is fitting that he should lie with them in death,” Allenson said.

  “I want to leave in three hours time, Mister Stretter,” Allenson said. “Anything not done by then stays undone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Allenson checked on the militia. The list of dead and missing, the latter undoubtedly dead, was fortunately few, barely twenty men. But around a third of his men were wounded to a greater or lesser degree. He reorganized the militia so that every wounded man was allocated to a two-seater frame crewed by an uninjured soldier. He made sure his men were instantly ready to move and then had them eat. He was finishing his own meal when Stretter reported.

  “We are ready to move out, sir,” Stretter said.

  “Have your men had a meal?” Allenson asked.

  He had forgotten to pass on that order to the regulars.

  “Yes, sir,” Stretter said, unperturbed. “I had the men eat i
n shifts.”

  Allenson looked at the clock on his datapad. Barely two hours had passed. He had given Stretter a three hour deadline, hoping he would be ready in five. The young officer was proving to be gratifyingly competent. Give him an order and he carried it out without any fuss or argument. He also knew when to use his initiative.

  “Then we are ready to leave,” Allenson said. “I intend to retreat back on the main force in one jump. Gentlemen, we will stop for nothing, and may the Devil take the hindmost.”

  * * *

  The survivors of the debacle made it down the trackway to the main force without further incident, casualties being restricted to some of the wounded dying and a troop frame going missing. It could have been lost to mechanical failure or the crew could have deserted. Allenson did not really care either way. His main feelings were the two he had begun to associate with military campaigns, not fear or excitement, but mind numbing exhaustion and the constant anxiety of making the wrong decision.

  A couple of frames had fled from the battle all the way down the trackway to the main force, inciting panic with wild tales of the whole vanguard being massacred.

  Allenson insisted on an immediate Council of War. Looking around the assembled officers, he was shocked at the paucity of numbers. The vanguard may have been a case of too many commanding too few but the reverse now applied.

  “Where is Lieutenant-Colonel Ravid?” Allenson asked.

  Ravid was the commander of the 12th.

  “He went hunting, with the other company commanders, leaving me in charge,” said Major Brown. “A scout found a world with interesting wildlife up the trackway, so they thought they would give the hound pack some exercise.”

  “Oh dear God,” Allenson said. “Up the trackway, towards the vanguard?”

  “Yes,” Brown replied.

  Brown was old for a company commander. He had obviously been passed over for promotion many times, a man lacking either the talent or the family influence to take him higher. The fact that he had not resigned his commission meant that he had nowhere else to go. He would be the obvious choice for an aristocratic hunting party to leave behind. No doubt he always undertook the unpopular tasks without complaint, thankful to still have a position that granted him money and status.”