“Hawthorn said that?” Destry asked, brightening.
“He did. Ask him if you like? He added that he has said as much to anyone who will listen and he would regard any suggestion that you lacked bottle as calling him a liar.”
“Hawthorn conflated his own honor with mine?” Destry asked. “That is good of him.”
“I add my own assurance to that.” Allenson laughed. “Of course, as a civilized man I do not believe in dueling. However, I regret that I have never persuaded Hawthorn to that view.”
“No, indeed,” Destry said, grasping the point. “Very well, I will be your base commander.”
Allenson let out a sigh of relief. In theory, he could have just given Destry an order but, equally, Destry could just resign his commission if he did not like said order. He meant everything he said about Destry’s qualities, and he did need someone in charge on Slimeball, but he also feared for his friend’s safety in a mass fire-fight. Destry was not fit enough nor fast enough.
* * *
The turbulence was not too bad once they got into the main stream. Allenson’s frame shook and bounced but made rapid progress down the chasm. He attached himself to fifth squadron of the fourth company, who were to make the first attack. The squadrons were well spaced so the first Allenson knew that they had contacted the enemy was when the squadron in front of him split off to leave the chasm. The plan was for all the squadrons to plunge more or less simultaneously onto the convoy at widely spaced points, offering minimum warning to the defenders.
Fifth squadron reached the turn point. Allenson gritted his teeth and held on tight as his frame smacked from current to current in the chasm wall. The frame’s field compressed and distorted under the pressure, but held. He had every expectation that it would but, well, stuff happens.
Out in the relative calm of the Continuum, the two flights of the squadron moved apart as they raced down the outside of the chasm. Allenson rode as an extra Tail End Charlie on the second flight. The flight leader rocked his frame and pointed. Orange spiral trails indicated the presence of Riders up ahead. The flight moved into the finger five formation that was their new tactical doctrine for combat with Riders.
Two beasts swung in on the left element of the flight. The pair of frames turned to the right, moving across the back of the flight leader, just as they had practised. The Riders took the bait, following the frames. The right hand element of the flight swung left, into the slot behind the Riders. The rearmost Rider noticed them and dropped away. The first element reversed their turn, moving back across the formation to the left. This allowed the remaining beast to close rapidly on them by cutting the corner. It also dragged the beast into a perfect no-deflection firing position for the second element.
Each militiaman carried four spring guns in holsters across their chest, and the second element must have fired a good half dozen. One bolt took the Rider between the shoulder blades, knocking him off the beast. His body disappeared in a shimmer of violet energy.
The flight leader blipped his shield and the flight reformed into a tight formation and headed for the seething coiled currents of the chasm wall. The second beast reappeared out of nowhere alongside Allenson. He cursed his lack of attention, and fired a hasty shot at the Rider. It missed. The Rider ignored him and raced after the second element, obviously bent on revenge. Allenson could not keep up. He fired a second pistol without effect.
Then something odd happened. The beast swung away from the chasm wall and hesitated, before renewing its pursuit of the second element. Allenson cut the corner. He drew a third pistol and resolved to fire only at point blank range. The beast wavered again, slowing. It did not want to enter the chasm. The Rider raged and struck it with the butt of his spear. The beast stopped and closed its crystals tightly, cutting the Rider from view. Then the crystals opened, spitting out a crushed body.
* * *
The flight survived the trip through the wall, emerging right on top of a transporter. The flight leader ignored it, turning down-chasm to chase the troop train in front. They slid in under the cars. At this range the true size of the transports was apparent. They looked invulnerable, unstoppable.
Allenson maneuvered his frame to point the sight at the middle of a car’s underbelly. It was so close that even he couldn’t miss. He reached down and hit the trigger of his heavy spring gun. The bolt fired, recoil pulling the frame off course. He corrected, watching the bolt. It smashed into the floor of the car and deflected, breaking off a section of hull. He fired his second shot. This one hit more square, punching inside leaving just a small hole, but hopefully causing substantial damage to the interior.
Heavy guns discharged, the flight moved around the side of the car until they were level with the gallery windows. Terran troops leaned out, trying to see. The flight fired their spring pistols through the windows, knocking down enemy soldiers who dived for cover. A soldier fell upwards out of a window, passing through the train’s field. The seething energies of the chasm ripped his body apart before it vanished. The flight moved along the car, creating chaos. Allenson did not aim at anything in particular but just unloaded his pistols into the open windows on the grounds that they would feck up something. If there was any return fire, Allenson failed to see it.
The flight leader led them above the train, pausing so that they could reload their pistols and catch their breath. He signalled and they dropped to the other side of the car. There were met by ragged and inaccurate defensive fire. The flight weaved backwards and forwards to confuse the defenders, shooting all the time. More Terrans fell.
They slid under the car to find a safe place to reload once more, but defenders shot at them through gunports, forcing the frames to dodge. The flight leader decided that second flight had done enough that day and signalled a withdrawal. Outside the chasm, they reformed into a finger five and cruised home.
* * *
Allenson climbed off his frame. He walked over to the command tent, trying to look officerial and not like a bow-legged mudhopper.
“How many back?” he asked Destry.
“Still a couple of stragglers and a few flights to go,” Destry replied. “But from initial reports, our casualties are low. I am still assembling data into to try to get a coherent picture of the battle but, it looks like a major victory.”
Hawthorn’s men clustered around excited fourth company troopers, who were no doubt bragging as only soldiers can. It was good for morale so Allenson let it go.
“We won’t have it that easy in future. They will be ready for us next time,” Allenson said.
“Which is why I have prepared a little surprise,” Hawthorn said unexpectedly from behind, making Allenson jump.
“Your nerves are fraying,” Hawthorn said, with a grin to show he meant no offense.
“Ha!” Allenson replied. He was too tired to think up anything clever in the way of repartee.
“What surprise?” Allenson asked, suspiciously. He knew Hawthorn surprises of old.
“Our friend Destry, here,” Hawthorn gestured at the Intelligence Officer, “tells me it’s called a Molotov cocktail after some Old Earth king.”
“I have been looking up more archaic weapon systems, as we are specializing in ancient warfare,” Destry said.
Hawthorn held a plastic bottle out for Allenson’s inspection. It was filled with a light yellow clear liquid. He flipped the top and smelt it.
“It’s tonk, bloody awful tonk,” Allenson said.
“Well, you can’t expect too much from something that uses algal slime and lubricating oil for a mash,” Hawthorn said, defensively.
“But where did you get it?” Allenson asked.
“From a still, where do you think?” Hawthorn asked.
“But I ordered the regiment to be dry on campaign,” Allenson said.
“Oh do grow up,” Hawthorn replied, in exasperation. “That just means that the men are sober on duty. You can’t order them not to have a still any more than you can order them not to h
ave impure thoughts.”
“So who made the still?” Allenson asked, still annoyed.
“No idea,” Hawthorn replied. “I simply let it be known to the NCOs that I needed fifty liters of tonk. Either it magically appeared outside of my tent in the morning or I ripped the camp apart until I found a still.”
Allenson shook his head. He must be tired. He was focussing on process rather than outcome, something all too easy when you are under pressure. What did it matter whether the men had a still provided they did the business?
“So tell me what a Molotov cocktail does,” Allenson said.
“I’ll do better than that, I’ll show you.” Hawthorn said. “Let’s go down to the water.”
“You tape an igniter inside the neck of the bottle,” he said, fishing a food heater out of his pocket. “Then it’s simply a matter of setting a delay and throwing the thing.”
“Throw it,” Allenson said, disbelievingly. “What’s our next secret weapon, flint axes?”
Hawthorn did not reply. He flicked the igniter and slung the bottle out over the water, as if he were playing skipping stones. It bounced and ignited, exploding in flames that rolled across the sea, setting light to an algal mat.
“Imagine that inside a crowded troop transport,” Hawthorn said, with a grin like a shark.
Allenson did not reply; he was imagining it.
* * *
Hawthorn’s company mounted the third assault. Allenson accompanied them, riding with first squadron, led by Hawthorn himself. Riders were conspicuously absent. Hawthorn’s squadron emerged into the chasm in front of a troop transport. The defenders were waiting. A hail of bolts greeted the ’Streamers. The Terrans crouched behind crenulated shields hung on the outside of the galleries. Fortunately a fast moving single seater frame made a difficult target. Nevertheless, Hawthorn executed a rapid drop below the angle of fire and under the car. The rest of the squadron followed.
Allenson expected him to fire their heavy bolts through the bottom of the car’s hull, but Hawthorn continued to drop before reversing course and separating from the car to give maneuver room. Then he looped up level with the car’s gallery. Terrans fired but the range was too great for effective shooting.
Hawthorn slowed to allow the squadron to move into two lines, second flight echeloned behind the first. He gave the signal to charge. Allenson jammed the accelerator wide open, draining the small battery and pedaling furiously. This was no time for fuel conservation. He had no intention of letting anybody get in front of him. The range closed rapidly. Terrans fired wildly. The bolts seemed to be aimed wide, but whipped in close at the last minute as if they were actively hunting him. It was some sort of optical illusion but he still hunched down in his seat, trying to make himself smaller. Not an easy task, if you had Allenson’s build.
The militiaman on his right took a bolt in the face and rolled off his frame, which curved gently away on its battery power. Still Hawthorn held his fire. On they pedalled. After a lifetime or so, when the troop car was so close that it hung in front of them like a castle wall, Hawthorn held his arm up high and whipped it down. The first echelon fired its heavy bolts in two waves. Some knocked down the gallery shields, some smashed through the hull, dislodging sheets of ceramic, and others flew through the gallery windows to disappear deep into the car. The defenders sought cover, ducking out of sight.
The first echelon pedalled furiously, drawing spring pistols. Two more waves of heavy bolts from the rear echelon struck, scatteringthe defenders. Hawthorn’s flight was right on top of the car when the Terrans popped back up. The ’Streamers flew down the car, firing into the gallery. You drew and fired, drew and fired. Allenson concentrated on not accidentally shooting one of his own men. Experience gave him little reason for confidence in his skill with guns, but the car was a big target.
Second flight entered the fray, adding to the carnage. Hawthorn closed right up to the car until their Continuum shields nearly touched. He stood up on his pedals and tossed a Molotov through the gallery window. A fireball lit the interior. Other ’Streamers lobbed their bottles. It was difficult to throw with any accuracy from a frame and most missed the windows. But many of these still exploded within the train’s field, burning up oxygen and filling the air with smoke. Allenson’s bottle hit the top of a heavy weapon. The fireball burst over the two-man crew, setting their clothes alight. One Terran threw himself out of the car in agony. The flames only went out when his body drifted out of the train’s Continuum field.
* * *
While Hawthorn’s company landed, Chang’s waited their turn to attack, Troopers stood by their frames. Some watched entertainments, others fiddled nervously with their equipment, rechecking everything. Allenson downloaded recordings from the third attack and passed it to Destry’s datapad for evaluation, while he walked towards the command tent with Hawthorn.
Destry met them at the door. “How did it go?”
“You have the data,” Allenson replied.
“Yes, but I want your subjective opinion,” Destry said.
“Very, very well,” Hawthorn said. “The firebombs were a nasty surprise. God knows how many were burnt and choked inside the cars.” He slapped Allenson on the back. “Our friend, here, turned a gun crew all carboneezy, didn’t you?”
“Yes, all carboneezy,” Allenson said, flatly.
Outside, Captain Chang’s company climbed into their frames. They had the word to go.
“We’ll discuss it when I get back,” Allenson said.
“Back from where?” Destry asked, with a theatrical display of puzzlement.
“Chang’s attack, of course,” Allenson said.”I’m going with him.”
“No,” Destry said, firmly.
“What?” Allenson asked.
“You are not going,” Destry replied, enunciating each word clearly, as if talking to a retarded child. “You have already been on two attacks today, and that is one too many. There is no question of me allowing you to take part in a third.”
“Allow?” Allenson asked, with heavy emphasis.
“Major Hawthorn, I am base commander am I not?” Destry asked.
“Such is my understanding, Major Destry,” replied Hawthorn.
“So what part of the title “base commander” do you fail to understand?” Destry asked Allenson, politely. He continued before Allenson could reply. “Before you suggest that you do not have to obey my orders because I am merely a major, in contrast to your own exalted rank of colonel, I should point out that I would regard a refusal on your part to obey me as tantamount to undermining my authority with the other officers.”
Allenson opened his mouth to reply but Destry still refused to allow him into the conversation. “In which case, I would feel obliged to resign my commission.”
“Nothing else for it, your honor could dictate no other course,” said Hawthorn sagely, nodding his head like an elderly lawyer confirming some obscure point.
“If you two clowns would stop ganging up on me and let me get a word in edgeways,” Allenson said, mildly, “I was merely going to say “yes, sir”. I trust that is acceptable to everyone’s honor?”
As it happened, Chang’s company returned without firing a shot. The Terran convoy had grounded.
* * *
Allenson was on a dark, cold plain facing writhing towers of fire. Heads poked out of the flames, screaming at him. The flames morphed in to burning people that staggered after him. He tried to run but his legs would not work properly and the burning people surrounded him. One of them reached for him with arms of fire. It had Sarai’s face.
“Steady on,” Hawthorn said, ducking as a fist whistled past his ear. “All I did was give you a shake. No need to try to kill me.”
“What?” Allenson asked.
He was on his bunk. Hawthorn held a torch pointed at the ground to illuminate Allenson’s tent, without blinding him.
“You were making quite a racket,” Hawthorn said, helping himself to a stool. “Not good fo
r the men’s morale, hearing their commander scream, so I came to wake you up.”
“I was having a nightmare,” Allenson said, defensively.
“You don’t say,” Hawthorn replied. “I thought you might like a drink.”
He had a fire-bomb bottle in his right hand with two glasses. Allenson looked at it suspiciously.
“Don’t worry,” Hawthorn said. “This is the good stuff, without the lubricant.”
Hawthorn poured two glasses, and passing one to his friend.
“Better knock it back in one go. You would not want to actually taste it. To our wives and loved ones, may they never meet,” Hawthorn said, holding up his glass and giving the old toast.
“We’re not married,” Allenson muttered, clinking his glass against Hawthorn’s.
They downed the drink in one.
“Hell’s teeth, that is bloody awful,” Allenson said, when he had recovered the power of speech.
“Yes,” Hawthorn agreed, happily. “Fancy another.”
Allenson held his glass out for a refill. He took a sip, which was an error. Hawthorn was right. You definitely did not want to taste the stuff.
“Do you ever dream, Hawthorn?” Allenson asked.
“Oh sure, Hawthorn replied. “Only last night, in fact. I was in this bar and met this stunning girl, and she had a friend who could . . .”
Allenson listened to his friend reminisce. It was better than thinking.
“You know,” Hawthorn said, some time later, emptying the last of the bottle into their glasses. “Some people are not cut out for this type of life. It’s not a question of courage,” he said quickly, “but of conscience. Some people feel things too deeply—care too much. Me, I just go with the flow. What’s done is done.”
He gazed into his empty glass. “We seem to have run out. I could get another bottle?”
“No, we need to sleep,” Allenson replied.
“Perhaps you’re right. Goodnight, Allenson.”
“Goodnight, Hawthorn, and thanks.”
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 39
