“Delegation is also a useful device,” Allenson said, glaring at Hawthorn. “Particularly when some member of the awkward squad sticks their head above the parapet. I have divided the tasks into groups, according to the solutions needed. I propose to delegate business and contractual matters to Lady Blaisdel.”
Nobody disagreed.
“The military logistical chain will be managed by Major Rutchett and Captain Mansingh. I suggest you appoint deputies to take over your Militia administrative duties.”
Mansingh and Rutchett treated suggestions from their commanding officer as orders.
“I will run political interference for you,” Allenson said.
“So, nothing for me to do.” Hawthorn said, brightly, starting to rise from his chair.
“On the contrary, I have a special task for you,” Allenson replied.
Hawthorn sat down with an exaggerated sigh.
“Some of the trade guildmasters have decided that government supply is a license to print money and are sabotaging delivery times unless we pay them off. They put the matter differently, of course, but that’s the crux of it. They scared the wits out of the accountant Lady Blaisdel sent to negotiate. I believe they stripped the poor man and hung him from his heels from an upstairs window of the Jolly Stoker tavern.”
“So you want me to go into low drinking dives and persuade rough men to be more reasonable?” Hawthorn asked hopefully.
“Do you think you can manage that?” Allenson asked.
Hawthorn gave a cherubic grin that had melted many a female heart. “Can a fish swim?”
Allenson was saved from answering by a chime from his datapad.
“I told Preble that I was not to be disturbed save for the direst emergency,” Allenson said, in annoyance. He touched the pad and a hologram of Corporal Preble, his clerk, appeared.
“There is a lady to see you, sir. She insists that it is a matter of the utmost urgency,” Preble said.
“Show Lady Blaisdel in,” Allenson said.
If Trina said the matter was urgent then it would be. She was not a woman given to hyperbole. It was convenient that his immediate officer cadre was present if something solid had hit the fans.
“It’s not Lady Blaisdel,” Preble said.
“Ah,” Allenson replied, the penny dropping. “Show her to my office and I will join her shortly.
Preble vanished. The officers around the table showed a sudden interest in their data pads or, in one case, the ceiling.
“If that is, ah, all, I will bring the meeting to a close,” Allenson said.
He was probably imagining it, because they said nothing, but he felt frozen disapproval from his comrades. They should disapprove, by God. He would in their position.
* * *
“What the hell are you doing here, Sarai,” he asked.
She sat on the edge of his desk, swinging an elegant leg that was clothed in the proper dress for a “Lady Going Up To Town”. It was a chaste style but she made it sexy, but then, Sarai would look hot dressed in workman’s overalls.
“What a greeting, Allen, and I have come all this way to see you.” Sarai said, playfully.
“Look Sarai, it is wholly unsuitable for you to be here,” Allenson said.
“You invite that matronly Blaisdel woman,” Sarai said, spitefully. “She is welcome, so why am I an embarrassment?”
Allenson saw no point in pursuing that line of conversation. Whatever he said would be wrong. Fortunately, he did not have to answer as she was far from finished.
“You never come to see me, you don’t return my calls, and you won’t even attend my parties. I suppose that now you have lost interest now that you have had me,” she said.
“That’s not true. I care for you,” Allenson said.
It was true. He really did care for her and was shocked to see genuine tears in her eyes. Sarai was hurting.
“I am not rejecting you. It’s just that I am very busy with work, Sarai,”
He went to comfort her but she pushed him away, mistaking the gesture.
“I did not come here for that. If you want a whore to slake your lusts then hire one. Don’t fob me off with excuses for avoiding me. You could hire a deputy to do the donkey work. We could entertain. That would be perfectly proper—we are family.”
He realized that to Sarai, his rank was social, an honorary position that would enable him, and the lady he escorted, to shine at the top of Manzanita society, not an excuse to grub around in warehouses. He would never convince her. Trina also did not really understand why it was so important to reorganize the military but she did grasp duty and responsibility. He touched his datapad.
“Preble, the lady is leaving now. Escort her personally to her carriage and make sure she leaves safely.”
He did not look at her when she left because his datapad chimed on the urgent channel.
“The war’s started. I have reports of Rider raids on our outer mudtrotter settlements,” Fontenoy said.
CHAPTER 23
Hornet’s Nest
“You started this war. What are you going to do to stop the raids?” Fontenoy asked.
“I started the raids?” Allenson asked in exaggerated surprise. “I was only obeying your orders.”
“You exceeded your orders, egregiously,” Fontenoy said.
“You have written evidence to prove that?” Allenson asked.
Fontenoy glowered at him but quite unexpectedly he smiled. “You are becoming quite the politician, Colonel Allenson.”
Now there was an unsettling thought. Fontenoy touched a desk icon that ran thorough the color spectrum before turning green with the logo of a well known security company, indicating that the room was sealed off from prying ears. This was the only sure way to have a confidential discussion.
Fontenoy could record the meeting, but Allenson doubted if he would bother. Virtual constructs were indistinguishable from honest recordings and, hence, useless for any political or criminal process. It was all too easy to produce a recording showing a political opponent taking bribes or sodomizing fleeks, according to one’s taste in smear campaigns.
“Very well, we have a problem,” Fontenoy said. “We both know that the attacks will only get worse as word spreads amongst the Rider clans that there are good pickings to be had.”
“It’s worse than that,” Allenson said, relaxing. “Captain Mansingh was a field officer in the Beezlebub Paras on insurgent suppression duties on Carmen.”
“What?” Fontenoy asked, confused by the shift in the conversation.
“Carmen was a colony with close ties to Beezleburb companies. A coup degenerated into gang warfare and Beezlebub sent in the Paras to safeguard economic investments. Mission creep left the Paras trying to suppress semi-political criminal activity across the whole colony.”
Fontenoy opened his mouth but Allenson was into his stride.
“Once one gang made a successful raid other gang leaders had to do as much or lose face. Losing face is terminal in gang culture. Mansingh is of the opinion that Riders are the same. He predicts we will face waves of attacks. Each success will incite escalation with more attacks on bigger hamlets.”
“And when that happens the public will call for heads,” Fontenoy said, adding for emphasis, “yours and mine.”
“Beezlebub eventually abandoned Carmen. By the time the Paras had neutralized the gangs there were no assets left to defend,” Allenson said dryly. “We can’t spread ourselves out all over the Hinterland to defend every little settlement. And we can’t stop the Terrans bribing the Riders to raid us without ejecting Terra from the Hinterland. So far our attempts in that direction have been less than totally successful. In short, Governor, I can’t stop the attacks.”
“I am not asking you to stop the attacks,” Fontenoy said carefully, “I am asking you to do something to save our heads. The government must be seen to be responding decisively. We have to do something. It doesn’t have to be successful.”
“Ah, in tha
t case, I do have a plan,” Allenson said.
“I thought you might,” Fontenoy replied, dryly. “As I said, you are becoming quite the politician.”
“We re-equip the Militia as a highly mobile Hinterland assault force to intercept Rider clans as reprisals. It won’t stop attacks but it will train the Militia.”
“Yes, we must be seen to fight back. That will work. But what do you mean by re-equip?” Fontenoy asked, suspiciously.
“I mean, military grade laserifles and one man combat frames—for starters,” Allenson replied. “Two seater frames are not manoeuvrable enough to deal with Riders. We will also need to double or treble the size of the Militia. It’s just not big enough to keep a reasonably sized force in the field.”
“I don’t understand. Surely you take all the troops into the field?” Fontenoy asked.
“I thought that until I grasped how the military work,” Allenson replied. “Putting everything in the shop window is fine for parades, defense or even one-off emergencies. But you need three troopers to have one always available for offensive deployment on a continuous basis. At any one time, one third the force is resting and one third is training. And that doesn’t include sickness, accidents and so on.
“I see. But where will you find recruits?” Fontenoy asked.
“According to Mansingh, the recruits will come, once refugees start pouring in,” Allenson replied, bleakly.
“The recruiting sergeants pray for famine in Ireland,” Fontenoy said, softly.
“What?” Allenson asked.
Fontenoy shook his head. “Nothing, just thinking out loud. It might be useful for my staff to draw up contingency plans for an influx of refugees into the stream. With regards to new equipment for the militia, you must be reasonable, Allenson. How am I supposed to get the expenditure act through the Assembly?”
“As, I see it, Fontenoy,” Allenson replied, using his name now they were apparently on informal terms. “You lay my plans before the Assembly and let them veto the necessary tax rises. Then when the inevitable disasters happen and the hue and cry starts, you present the plans again, with a warning that the delay has already prejudiced the Militia’s ability to stem the Rider raids. That usefully provides us with an excuse for not being able to do the impossible. This time the Act will pass and you will be seen as prescient and dynamic.”
“And your own position and political power will be enhanced,” Fontenoy said, in a “don’t imagine I don’t know what you get out of this” tone of voice.
“Meanwhile, I will train the Militia for their new role and place the necessary equipment orders using promissory notes,” Allenson said.
Fontenoy winced. “I didn’t hear that.”
* * *
Allenson rode through the Continuum at the head of a company of ’Stream Militia. Frames spread out in a funnel formation behind, loosely grouped around their platoon and section leaders. They rose and fell in the loose conical formation, which allowed good visibility ahead to all clock numbers. However, the formation left a trail through the Continuum like an interworld ship. They had not seen a single Rider, or even the trail of a rider, but that did not mean that Riders had not seen the Militia patrol—God knows, they stood out like a dog’s bollocks.
Apart from training, the point of these exercises was to show the flag and reassure the mudtrotters. The militia were like a watchman doing his night round. No one expected him to see, let alone catch, a criminal, but it reassured the town burghers to know he was there.
They stopped briefly at each settlement to obtain intelligence about Rider raids, and intelligence was to be had in plenty. The problem was that much of it was contradictory.
Sometimes they came across tragedy. A rumor took them to an unnamed world. Thin smoke rising from woods guided them to a settlement or, to be more exact, the wreckage of a settlement. Allenson wandered amongst the remains of the Rider sack. It had been a pitiful place of a dozen wooden dwellings. Now they were nothing but smoking charcoal and ash.
The inhabitants had been at the subsistence-agriculture level. The under-capitalized settlement would probably have collapsed with the first crop failure but it never got a chance to become something more. Body parts of the inhabitants lay around. The corpses were mutilated and hacked to pieces. Allenson noticed that there were no hands. He gave the order to bury what was left.
“I joined the Militia to kill savages, not to become a bloody gravedigger,” said a militiaman, attacking the soil with an entrenching tool.
“Shut up, Perkins, you do what you’re bleedin’ well told. If the colonel says dig an ’ole, you answer “how fekking deep”, got it?”
Allenson pretended not to hear. He could hardly blame the man for voicing what they were all thinking. He was burning with anger, but kept a stoic appearance for form’s sake.
* * *
From the air, it was clear the tent city of refugees around Port Clearwater had expanded. Parts were taking on the shape of a shanty town of semi-permanent buildings erected from discarded packing material.
The governor’s Lictors manned a checkpoint at the entrance to the causeway to prevent refugees flooding into Manzanita City. Seen from the air, they were a thin line of purple uniforms. Armed or no, they would be ground under if the refugees rioted. No doubt Fontenoy would then call out the Militia. Allenson did not relish the prospect of gunning down desperate plebs.
New recruits were parading at the Militia base when he landed
“God’s blood, what a sorry lot of wankers. I’m supposed to turn you tossers into soldiers, am I?” the instructor sergeant asked, rhetorically. “I don’t rate my chances but I intend to try. One of us may die in the process and it won’t be me.”
Allenson ignored the NCO’s welcoming address. Hell, it was probably unchanged since the Primus Pilum inspected the latest batch for Caesar’s army. He noticed that nearly half the recruits were women; a novelty for the militia.
“Sergeant,” Allenson said.
“Colonel Allenson.”The NCO turned on the spot and came to attention with a high knee parade ground stamp and snapped out a crisp salute. Some of the recruits tried to copy him.
“Don’t embarrass yourselves, me or the officer,” the sergeant said, witheringly.
Allenson returned the NCO’s salute with a casual motion and walked up to one of the female recruits.
“Why did you join, mistress?” Allenson asked the somewhat brawny woman.
“Well, it’s like this. My man didn’t get out of the village before the Riders came, and Mavis’ man, she’s my friend you see, is drunk most of the time so I kicked him out. Mavis has a chest and ain’t too well so she is looking after my kids while I go soldiering to earn some money. It seemed better than going on the game.”
“I see,” Allenson replied, taken aback by the frankness of the explanation. He had expected pious comments about duty and patriotism.
“You say, sir,” the NCO screamed at her.
“Sorry, sir,”
“Not to me, to the officer.” The NCO turned puce.
Allenson decided that this was no place for a CO.
“A fine batch of men, ah, recruits, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, without much enthusiasm.
“I am sure you will soon get them into shape. Carry on, sergeant.”
Allenson had learnt that three word phrase was one of the most useful orders than an officer could give.
* * *
He needed to clear his mind. The current strategy of fighting patrols was an utter failure as they never found anyone to fight. He needed a new strategy—a game changer. Talking his problems through with Trina helped. She had mentioned visiting a first aid center in the shanty town funded by one of her charities.
The exit from the base was guarded, to stop refugees stealing everything not actually syncreted in.
“You should not go out there alone, sir. It’s not safe. Let me get you an escort,” The guard NCO said.
“I shall be quite all right, sergeant,” Allenson answered.
The sergeant looked doubtful, but it was not his place to contradict his colonel. If a Rupert, Militia slang for an aristocratic officer, wanted to get mugged then that was up to him.
The refugee camp stank of human waste and rotting materials. Sewage pooled in the open spaces between dwellings. Allenson was transported in his head to the Militia fort on Larissa. He could see corpses piled around a tent made of plastic sheeting. He shook his head and looked again. The corpses were just sandbags, anchoring the edge of the sheeting. He had to get a grip. There were bodies lying around the camp, but they were still alive, just out of their minds on locally distilled rotgut.
He stood out because he was expensively dressed and well fed. Bully boys, guarding a large tent, eyed him up, as if they were assessing his suitability as a mug. His height, the width of his shoulders, or possibly the ion pistol holstered across his chest caused them to look away when he stared back. Maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it was more the look in the eyes of a man who saw a figure dancing in the flames.
The tent was open at the front. Inside was a makeshift bar that reeked of vomit.
The only person to approach him was a young woman clutching a baby in one arm. Her face was hollow and she still had a black eye and bruised cheek from a blow.
“Want a good time mister, only a shilling? My tent’s just over there.”
She gestured, losing her grip on the baby, nearly dropping it. The child was listless, head lolling.
“Where’s your man,” Allenson asked.
She shrugged. “Dunno. He stayed behind to get the crop in. He was supposed to join me but never came.”
She had been abandoned, or maybe her man was dead.
Allenson pulled some florins from his pocket and passed them to the woman. He palmed the coins so the bully boys could not see.
“Buy some food,” he said, suspecting that much of it would probably go on tonk.
The woman scuttled away, her head down, eyes darting from left to right and back again. She reminded Allenson of a rabbit he had owned as a child. When offered a treat, the pet grabbed it and shot off, in case the giver wanted it back or it was stolen by a jealous rival.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 34
