He located the first aid tent by the long queue waiting outside. Inside, medical technicians ran basic tests and slapped on medical patches. He was not surprised to find that Trina had her sleeves rolled up and was pitching in. She was so absorbed in her task that she did not notice him. He waited, watching her work. She bent over, scanning a crying child with a diagnoser and waiting while the machine went through its decision making process. It manufactured a patch with a cough. She slapped it on the child’s bare arm with a click of the trigger. The child increased its howls, as if it was being tortured.
Trina straightened up, running a hand through her hair. Allenson was shocked to see despair on her face before she composed herself.
“Oh, Allen,” she asked. “When did you arrive?”
“Just now,” Allenson replied. “How’s it going?”
A stupid question but he could not think of one more intelligent.
She sighed. “We are being overwhelmed. Refugees are flooding in. They are weak, malnourished and fall easily to disease. We are getting the first cases of cholera, but there will be more. I am not doing much good here. Walk with me back to my carriage, if you please.”
She rubbed decontamination gel on her hands and left the tent with Allenson. Her two bodyguards accompanied them. Allenson cast an eye over them, and was pleased to see that they met his gaze coolly. They carried charged batons and ion pistols, and showed every sign of proficiency in their use. One walked behind and on Trina’s left; the other ahead to the right. Their heads turned constantly and they looked away from their charge, not towards her. Trina seemed not to notice but she was surrounded by a moving bubble of security.
“This cannot go on. We must provide basic health care and food or Manzanita will have a plague on its hands. The charities cannot cope.”
“The Council will not be of a mind to vote funds for such a purpose,” Allenson said.
“The Council does not know its mind because it has not yet been properly instructed,” Trina said. “I intend to rectify that.”
Allenson chuckled. He suspected that the first Councillor to oppose her would not know what had hit him. The lady was formidable.
“And how have your enterprises prospered,” she asked, politely.
“Not well, it is impossible to intercept Rider raids,” He found himself discussing the details. Trina listened politely without interruptions.
“As I see it,” she said when he had wound down. “If it is impossible to intercept a raid then the only logical course of action left is to nip them in the bud by raiding the raiders. Fight fire with fire.”
“To do that we would have to know their locations,” Allenson said.
“Do you not have an intelligence officer,” she said
* * *
He went to see Destry. His friend had insisted on doing his bit by joining the Militia. This presented Allenson something of a problem. Destry’s social status meant that he had to be given a high rank, captain at least, but Destry was not line-officer material. So Allenson appointed Destry head of intelligence, a job of appropriate status but not in the line of command. One advantage of Destry’s presence is that it pre-empted unexpected social visits from Sarai.
Allenson thought of Destry’s position as a sinecure, and largely ignored his friend. It occurred to him that this was unfair and stupid. Destry was imaginative and educated. Who knows, he might have come up with something? The Riders could operate from anywhere and nowhere. In Allenson’s view the only solution was interception.
“The Riders are leading us around by the nose, Destry,” Allenson said. “We need to know where they will strike next so we can ambush them.”
“I thought you might ask that,” Destry said, “so I have plotted the attacks to look for a pattern.”
He keyed his datapad to project a hologram of the Hinterland. Red squares marked out Rider raids.
“I can run the data by time,” Destry said.
The red squares disappeared to reappear one at a time.
“That looks random,” Allenson said, disappointed.
“Not really. Statistical analysis confirms that there are a number of aggregations,” Destry said, “indicating that Rider clans operating independently, so I have analyzed each clump independently.”
The hologram ran through each clump.
“Unfortunately it didn’t help. The pattern of attacks for each clan is indistinguishable from random.”
“So there is no way of predicting raids,” Allenson said, getting to his feet.
“Afraid not, all I can do is pinpoint the possible location of the Rider camps,” Destry said, casually.
Allenson sat down again. “What?”
“The Rider clans must operate from somewhere,” Destry said. “They are essentially extended families with non-combatants along. So I have worked on finding their camps. Is that useful?”
“Oh yes,” Allenson said, somewhat faintly. “That could be very useful.”
“I can only make statistical estimates of probability,” Destry said, didactically. “Riders move their camps frequently, muddling the data. But I have used a system employed by criminal sociologists.”
“Go on,” Allenson said, encouragingly. He wished Destry would get to the point, but his friend had earned the right to explain his work.
“Criminals tend to commit their first crimes close to home, with later attacks spiraling outwards from where they live or work—or both. The data is also skewed by communication pathways, like roads and so on, so you have to plot the data on a communication map rather than a geographic map. Also copycat crimes mean that you can have multiple centers.”
“Like the Rider clans?” Allenson asked, more to show he was keeping up than because he needed an answer.
“Yes,” Destry replied, absent-mindedly. “As I said, the analysis is of transient value because Riders move camps frequently.”
He manipulated the screen of his datapad to show a cluster of squares indicating attacks. Another adjustment and the hologram distorted to show distances in the Continuum. Red lines tracked back from each red square, intersecting on a single point.
“But, for example, the latest attack analysis suggests that there was a Rider camp here very recently.” Destry pointed to the intersection.
“And it might still be there?” Allenson asked.
Destry turned both hands palm up. “Could be,” he replied, in a proper non-committed academic fashion.
Allenson sprang up, re-energized. “Consider yourself promoted to major,” He shouted at Destry, as he left the office.
Allenson blessed his good fortunate to be blessed with friends who were cleverer than him. He used the command channel on his datapad to link straight to Hawthorn.
“Destry has located a potential Rider camp,” Allenson said.
“I’ll lead a group of our best men . . .” Hawthorn replied.
“No,” Allenson interrupted. “I want to use a standard company, partly for reasons of training, and partly because speed is of the essence. The Riders could move on at any time. And I intend to lead the force.”
“In that case, we will use my company,” Hawthorn said. “And I will come as well.”
* * *
Allenson surveyed the assembled company.
“Three hours is far too long to assemble,” he said.
“I agree,” Hawthorn replied, grimly. “I intend to initiate a new training programme when we return.”
“We ought to have one company on standby, in rotation,” Allenson said.
He stepped forward. “Men, up to now we have taken insult and damage from an enemy that hides like cowards. Well, no longer. We know their hiding place. Who’s ready to give some back?”
A roar greeted him.
“I intend to lead the company straight in and hit them on the ground where we have the advantage. The primary target is the beasts and any Rider trying to mount a beast. After that all armed combatants will be killed but we will spare women, children a
nd non-combatants. Any man who fails in his duty from cowardice or who shows excessive brutality will be punished to the full extent of military law. They may be savages but we are civilized men. Is that understood?”
There was a mutter.
“I can’t here you. Is that understood?” Allenson asked again, raising his voice.
This time there was an answering shout.
“Mount up.”
This time the cheer was spontaneous, enthusiastic and loud.
“Destry had better be right about the location of the Rider camp,” Hawthorn said gloomily to Allenson. “The men will likely hang us if we find nothing.”
“It’s being so cheerful as keeps you going,” Allenson replied, slapping him on the shoulder.
* * *
The company moved swiftly through the continuum. It was a long haul, but there were no stragglers, despite Allenson setting a brisk pace. The militiamen were much harder than the force he had lead to Nengue. That enterprise seemed a lifetime ago.
They made the unnamed target world in two jumps. Allenson considered overnighting close by, to give the men a chance to rest, eat and assemble into assault teams. That would have been the textbook option, but he decided to attack straight from the march.
Rider camps were transient, so a twelve hour delay might mean the difference between success and failure. The persistent and very visible trail in the Continuum left by the company was also a factor in his thinking. That was not a problem when they were advancing towards the enemy at speed. But a delay raised the odds of a Rider spotting the trail and alerting the camp. Strategically, a “hasty attack” was the best option to exploit the surprise gained from his forced march. “Faint heart never won fair lady,” he said to himself. Bloody silly proverb, where had he picked it up?
He part-phased into the world’s atmosphere and started a grid search, his instruments searching for signs of habitation. The company followed, flattening its formation into an arrowhead. The first anomaly detected turned out on inspection to be a natural event, as did the second. Rider camps were not exactly high tech so were difficult to distinguish from natural processes, like forest fires.
He was closing on a third trace, when a Rider beast shot across his bow and up. The company formation rippled as the men spotted it. Allenson ordered the company to stay in formation, using the phasing of his frame’s field to signal. He did not want to see half his strength dissipate chasing after a single Rider. A stern chase was notoriously a long one.
It was third time lucky. He took the company straight into the Rider camp. He wanted his men on the ground, where they could use their energy weapons freely without worrying about getting the degree of frame power right for the field to be transparent to laser bursts but still strong enough to stay aloft. Someone was bound to get it wrong in their excitement, and a frame-field explosion could take out a whole platoon.
The Rider beasts became agitated by the appearance of the frames, clashing their crystals together and emitting monotone notes like a sound wave generator. Allenson hit the ground hard, leaping off his frame. He fired a long burst at a nearby beast, holding down the trigger and walking laser bursts across the crystals. It sang like a soprano. A long crystal spear on its flank shattered into glistening shards. The beast twisted sideways and tried to phase, flickering. More laserifle shots struck the crystals. They exploded in a flash of light, filling the air with crystal fragments and silver ash.
Troopers landed all round Allenson, spreading out to take beasts under fire. One rose into the air, attracting massed fire. It died with a shriek, emitting a noise like nails dragged down a window. Rider warriors appeared as if out of the ground. Some ran for beasts while others attacked the troopers. Allenson dropped the battery from his carbine and tried to shove in a new one. He fumbled it.
A Rider erupted from a lean-to and bounded towards him, stone axe raised high. The world slowed down. Allenson dropped the carbine and caught the haft of the axe with his right hand. It hit his palm with a firm smack. He pulled the axe towards him. The warrior refused to let go off his weapon so came with it. Allenson hit him in the face. Something broke under Allenson’s fist and the warrior went over backwards. Allenson reached down for his weapon. A trooper stepped in front of him, firing into the warrior’s chest.
A cry and movement from the lean-to caused the trooper to spin round, leveling his rifle. It was a girl. She looked about ten, but was probably a year or two older. The girl lunged at the trooper who hesitated, reluctant to fire. She punched him in the groin and he fell screaming. Bright red arterial blood poured down his legs. It pulsed in spurts in time to the trooper’s heart beat.
The girl held a long shard of plastic ground into a stiletto. Drops of blood dripped off the end, when she turned on Allenson. He pushed her away, rolling her over, and very deliberately picked up his gun and pushed home the new battery until it clicked. The girl regained her feet and lunged at him
He fired a burst at point blank range. It was impossible to miss. Laser bolt explosions blackened her flesh. One set her hair alight. She looked as if she was dancing in flames. Allenson fired until she stopped moving. She died without uttering a sound.
He checked the trooper but he was already dead in a pool of his own blood.
Allenson’s world had shrunk until he focussed only on immediate personal threats. He had lost appreciation of the wider battle and was merely functioning as another trooper. He forced himself to stop, take a deep breath and take stock.
The battle was as good as over. It had been a massacre. Every Rider able to hold a weapon had attacked the troopers, and been gunned them down regardless of age or sex. Wooden and stone weapons were no match for laserifles. Nevertheless, a few troopers were down, mostly with cuts and contusions although one or two looked in a bad way. Troopers moved from body to body, treating their wounded and shooting any Riders that showed signs of life.
A trooper discovered infants in a lean-to that seemed to have been a crèche. He clubbed one with the butt of his rifle. The child’s skull broke with an audible crunch, scattering blood and brains across the trooper’s legs.
“Stop that, you bastard,” Allenson said, downing the trooper with a back handed slap that dislodged the man’s jaw.
“Captain Hawthorn?”
“Sir!”
“Put that man on a charge. Make sure your men know that I will shoot the next trooper who kills a helpless child.”
At that point Rider beasts dropped out of the sky.
CHAPTER 24
Perseverance
Beasts swept across the dismounted militia, their Riders unleashing a hail spears, rocks and slingshots. Explosions caused clouds of thick black smoke. The bloody Riders had got their hands on grenades. They weren’t very effective, but their morale impact on soldiers unused to being under artillery fire was out of all proportion to their killing power. The militia panicked and ran about, shooting wildly into the sky.
Allenson fired a burst at a beast running down a fleeing trooper but missed. The Rider flung a spear that struck the trooper between the shoulder blades. He pitched forward, arms outstretched, head back. Allenson corrected his aim and fired again but the beast had already vanished back into the Continuum.
The more disciplined militiamen returned aimed fire but the fast-moving beasts were difficult targets. They flicked in and out of phase with a smoothness that could not be matched by machines. Smoke drifted across the battlefield, hiding the attackers and degrading laser bursts. The company were sitting ducks on the ground.
A shadow that might have been a beast or a frame flickered over Allenson. He ran for his frame, firing a long burst into the smoke above, lighting it up and attracting his company’s attention.
“Mount up,” he yelled.
Troopers ran through the hail of missiles and explosions, glad to have some direction. Allenson mounted his frame and switched on. He forced himself to count slowly to five to give enough men time to join him, using the old one-thous
and, two-thousand, convention. He reached three thousand when his face stung from a nearby explosion. He touched his cheek and his hand came away red with blood.
“Sod this for a game of toy soldiers,” Allenson said, and took off.
He cleared the smoke to find the air full of frames and a scattering of Riders. A beast slid neatly across his front, forcing two militia frames in pursuit to pull up to avoid a collision. He drew his spring gun and gave chase. The beast turned through ninety degrees and dropped, presumably to begin another attack run across the ground. Allenson cut the corner, gaining fast on the enemy. Taking careful aim he fired his spring gun at close range, aiming at the Rider. The shot was low. The bolt missed the Rider, but knocked crystal chips off the beast causing it to sheer off and phase into the Continuum.
Allenson took his hand off the control stick to cock the spring gun, his frame flying on in a straight line. A slingshot struck him on the shoulder, numbing his whole arm. His fingers lost their grip on the spring gun which fell away. He grabbed the stick with his good hand and yanked it viciously, causing his frame to corkscrew. A spear flew through where his body would have been if he had flown on straight and level. He had a beast on each flank, attacking as a team. He would evade one, simply to run into the other. He dodged frantically, knowing his luck would run out sooner or later.
A frame burst out of the Continuum in front and above him. The pilot turned off its field and dropped under gravity. Allenson was momentarily blinded by the scattered light flash of a heavy hunting rifle aimed in his direction. An explosion rocked his frame as one of the beasts on his tail disintegrated.
He yanked back on the stick, assuming that the other frame would continue to drop. Bloody Hawthorn had cut his rescue attempt very fine. He twisted his head desperately, trying to locate enemies or friendlies on a collision course. He still had dark blobs in his field of vision where his overloaded retinal cells had gone on strike.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 35
