He tried to decide if the camp had been softened up sufficiently for an assault. How could he know, except by trying? If he went too soon and enough Terrans manned crew-served weapons still functioned . . . hell, they were dead and at least he would get some rest without that bloody rash itching. Bugger it! He couldn’t bloody care anymore. He just wanted it over.
He stood up and examined the base with his datapad. Lights winked at the bunkers where Terrans shot at him. Bugger them as well!
He walked towards the Terran base, rotating his gun off his shoulder and firing a short burst in the general direction of the enemy. Hawthorn, Destry and the other company commanders followed. Man by man the Militia got up and followed without a word. Soon the whole regiment was on the move, men rising from concealment like rabbits from a warren.
Destry caught up with him, offering a cigarette. For once, Allenson accepted, pausing for Destry to give him a light. He drew a lungful of smoke and examined the blue sky.
“Going to be another nice day, Destry,” Allenson said. “Do you think it ever rains here?”
“I suppose it must, sometimes,” Destry replied. “Or all the plants would die.”
“Good point,” Allenson said.
They walked on. Terran fire picked up, becoming more accurate with every meter they covered.
A Terran shot caused a patch of grass near Allenson’s foot to blacken under a hit. He noticed that it burnt with blue and green flames. There must be some interesting biochemistry in the plant oils. No wonder it irritated his skin. He made a mental note to take some back for proper analysis after the war.
Hawthorn’s companies dropped prone, returning fire into the bunkers. After they had gone another hundred meters, Allenson’s troops dropped to give covering fire and Hawthorn’s advanced through them. Allenson remained standing. He told himself that it would steady his troops but actually, he just couldn’t be bothered to drop down only to get up again. It would only set the bloody itching off.
Two or three of Hawthorn’s troops were hit. It was never like the theater. Shot soldiers never died gracefully or fell in acrobatic dives. They just dropped, like cutting the strings on a puppet. The actors never got it right.
At a hundred meters to go Allenson started to gently jog, firing from the hip to intimidate the defenders. The whole regiment trotted behind him. At twenty meters he broke into a run and started to scream. He headed for a bunker. A light winked on and off in the firing slit. His world contracted until there was just the bunker, then just the firing slit, then just the flash of laserifle fire.
He put his rifle barrel though the slit and fired a burst. There was another flash and something burnt his hip. He fired again, a long burst this time, swinging the barrel from side to side.
He stopped to reload his rifle. He did not want to find out the hard way when the battery was empty. With careful deliberation he ejected the old charge and rammed another home, double checking the latch.
A man pushed past him, climbing over the bunker. A second later he slid back down on his face, arms and legs loose. Another trooper fired a long raking burst into the bunker, setting something alight.
Allenson walked around the bunker, penetrating the defensive ring Militia troopers moved in front of him, scuttling forward, bent low, guns held out like magic talismans to deflect laser bolts.
The ground was peppered with foxholes and open-topped dug outs. Troops checked a pit in front of him, pointing guns over the edge. Someone down in the dugout shouted something Allenson did not hear. The troops hesitated for a moment, then passed on. Allenson rechecked the dugout when he reached it. Personnel huddled at the bottom, some in uniform, some not. None presented a threat so he left them unharmed.
The assault pressed on. Troops fired into next dugout. Allenson ran to join them. Three men lay at the bottom of the pit, all dead from repeated laser hits at close range. One had his hand on a gun. Maybe he meant to use it, maybe he didn’t. Whatever, he had doomed both himself and his unarmed companions.
The ’Streamers spread out, moving through the base.
A woman in civilian clothes popped out of a bunker and shot a young lieutenant.
Allenson aimed his gun. She dropped her pistol and raised her hands in the air. Allenson hesitated. A trooper shot her down with a sustained burst. She fell back into the dugout with her clothes alight. Other troopers ran to the dugout and fired down into it on full auto, raking the pit until the screaming stopped.
Allenson checked the lieutenant. A tiny wound in his forehead marked where a pellet had entered his skull. He was very dead, killed by a woman with a popgun. The round could have gone anywhere.
* * *
That was the way they cowed the camp. They spared the harmless but shot everyone where they encountered resistance. Possession of a weapon was resistance.
Allenson approached a dugout, carbine at high port. A rifle flew out. He peered carefully over the edge, gun ready. A Terran soldier lay unconscious at the bottom, the back of his head bleeding. A bloodied stone lay nearby. A woman nearby clutched a child.
Allenson gave her what was supposed to be an encouraging smile, but she regarded him with horror. He picked up the abandoned laserifle and pushed it muzzle first into the dirt, ruining its optics.
Bodies lay unburied across the base. Most had been killed during the bombardment, but not all. Most were Terrans, but not all.
A ’Streamer ran up to one of the bases point defense guns with a whoop of glee. He fired at point blank range into the mechanism. Reflected back-blast burnt off his face and blackened his uniform. He ran around wildly, screaming, until someone shot him. A sergeant with more sense thrust a combat knife into the automatics innards, shorting out its mechanism in a shower of sparks.
Men ran into the nearest transport, some reappearing with civilians. Troopers pushed the prisoners down into a dugout. There was the sound of an exchange of fire from the second transport and only ’Streamer troopers came out
Allenson kicked down the door of what he took to be the command bunker. An elderly, bald man in a senior officer’s uniform looked at him in dismay. He had a pistol in a sealed holster on his belt but made no move to extract it. Allenson gestured him away from the signals gear. The old man soiled himself but didn’t move.
Allenson pushed him away. Backing up, he fired a burst into the communications, angling the gun so that the reflected blast went upwards, setting fire to the wooden roof. A hologram of a pretty young woman with children sprang into focus above the burning equipment.
She smiled at Allenson. Was she the commander’s daughter and grandchildren? Something knowing in her smile suggested that she was more likely to be his mistress. The console exploded in another shower of sparks and the hologram winked out. He dragged the old man out by the collar of his uniform, leaving him sobbing by the burning bunker.
Smoke swirled across the camp. One of the transports was on fire. The sun lit up the tip of a silver fin that projected out of the smoke, catching his attention. Allenson forced himself back to the battle, to assess the overall situation. It took an almost physical effort to do this.
The base was overrun with Militia. No Terrans were visible, well, no living Terrans. Anything that could be smashed had been. It was time to go before the enemy realized that they still outnumbered the raiders two or three to one and some hero organized a counterattack. He got out his datapad and gave the withdrawal signal to his officers. ’Streamers withdrew in small groups as they got the word, one man always walking backwards to cover the group’s rear.
The precaution proved necessary when a “body” sat up and reached for a gun. Fire from a dozen rifles turned him back into a body. A trooper stopped to fire another round into the corpse at close range, kicking away the corpse’s rifle, just to be on the safe side.
* * *
Allenson relaxed somewhat when they left the enemy base. He waited to see his men safely out, watching them stream back across the prairie. One or two were assist
ed by comrades. The last trooper had withdrawn and he was about to follow when the hum of a vehicle caught his attention. A small transport frame rose over a bunker. Allenson lowered his weapon when he recognized the driver. The frame settled down beside him.
“Wanta lift?” Hawthorn asked.
“You silly sod, I nearly shot you,” Allenson replied.
“You’d have missed,” Hawthorn said, crushingly.
Allenson climbed aboard but did not deign to reply, not least because he probably would have missed.
“Where on earth did you find this?” Allenson asked, as they lifted.
“It was dug in round the back of one of the transports. The previous owner kindly said I could have it. At least, he didn’t say I couldn’t.”
Hawthorn gave one of his trademark innocent boyish grins.
“What have you got there?” Allenson asked gesturing at some boxes in the loading rack.
“Who knows? Some decent plum brandy would be welcome,” Hawthorn said.
They opened the boxes back where they had left their frames. It wasn’t plum brandy. They had a fine selection of motivational posters extolling the might and glory of the hereditary Chancellor of terra, a box of garden ornaments, and several cases of prophylactics.
* * *
The ’Streamers took their time going home to Fort Crag. They world hopped, stopping to rest, and hunt. The first stop was for several days to give the wounded and exhausted time to recover. The regiment was a spent force. Allenson could do no more so he did not want to lose any of his people pointlessly in a forced march. He did not bother to do a head count to work out the casualties. The lost were lost. The mission had been successful. He told himself that was all that mattered. He also told himself that he was a liar.
They returned to find Fort Crag in an uproar. Men were openly drinking and dancing around the base. Allenson discovered a male and female trooper locked in an intimate embrace outside the command tent. A trooper shoved a bottle of something disgusting in his face. He shoved the man aside.
“Major Rutchett, what the hell is going on here . . .” He began.
Rutchett was with a guest, a lieutenant dressed in the uniform of the Perseverance Regiment, who threw him an enthusiastic salute.
“Despatches from General Levit, sir,” said the lieutenant.
Allenson gave him a blank look. He was so tired that he just could not bother to speculate.
“We’ve won, sir, victory. The General has captured Fort Revenge and the Terrans are retreating up the chasm,” said the lieutenant.
Hawthorn stuck his head through the tent flap. “You did not bring any plum brandy with you, by any chance?”
· Epilogue ·
The victory parade in the Plaza at the heart of Manzanita City ended. Militia soldiers in their resplendent dress uniforms, designed by Allenson a lifetime ago, broke into clusters surrounded by their friends and relatives dressed in formal clothes. It was astonishing how easy it was to persuade the legislature to vote the money for dress uniforms for a victory parade, when Allenson considered how difficult it had been to get them to fund decent weapons. Everyone loved a party. Everyone loved a winner.
Vice-Governor Fontenoy presented new colors to the regiment, adorned with battle honors won in the campaign, and medals had been liberally distributed. Allenson had the Freedom of the City, allowing him to graze sheep within its boundaries if he so desired, assuming he had any sheep.
Manzanita was in for a night of celebration.
“I think that went rather well,” Fontenoy said to Allenson. “What are your plans for the future?”
“I intend to resign my commission,” Allenson said. “I’ve done enough soldiering for one lifetime. I intend to retire from public life and devote myself to family business. Talking of which, if you will excuse me, governor—I intend to start immediately.”
Leaving an open mouthed Fontenoy, Allenson walked briskly to join a colorful group that included the Destry family, and Trina Blaisdel with her children and their nanny. He drew Trina to one side for a private conversation. It had taken him a great deal of nerve to initiate this conversation so he dived straight in without preliminary small talk. After all, Trina had said she liked him to be himself.
“Lady Blaisdel,” Allenson said. “If you approve, I propose to send my representatives to meet yours with a view to drawing up a marriage contract.”
Trina gave his hand a squeeze. “With all my heart,” she said, simply.
Allenson looked over her shoulder. Sarai had buried her head in Royman’s chest while he tried to comfort her. Linsye looked him in the eye and nodded slightly, like one who put her money on a promising young horse in the three-thirty and seen her judgement confirmed.
Allenson looked into the sky. The setting sun was blood red. Steam venting from an interworld ship twisted across its disc, looking like the black shadow of a figure—a figure dancing in flame.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
Interlude
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
· Epilogue ·
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 42
