CHAPTER 5
Gathering Clouds
Syma shone. No, that didn’t do it justice. Syma glowed with a thousand hues and colors. Once it must have been a desert, a wilderness covered in wind-blown dunes. Then a serendipitous catastrophe intervened. A vast flare of energy that fused the sands into a crystalline sheet exploded in the sky.
The learned savants from the Home Worlds still squabbled over the exact sequence, timing or even structure of events. Every few years a new expedition ventured forth to put a new hypothesis to the test. Perhaps a comet exploded in the upper atmosphere. If so, it must have been one of almost unique composition to release such a burst of heat with so little blast. The strangely focused solar flare hypothesis also had adherents, although they failed to agree on the cause of such a phenomenon.
And then came the crackpots, the conspiracy theorists and the plain madmen. Syma allegedly marked the site where, to take the suggestions in no particular order of unlikeliness, an alien faster-than-light starship had crashed, aliens had tested a giant energy weapon, a Home World had tested a giant energy weapon, a secret society . . . well, fill in with your own bogie men of choice.
The catastrophe, whatever it was, changed the regional climate, bringing water to the desert. It seeped into the glass, cutting riverlets, caves and canyons. It washed in colored minerals and pigments. Researchers loved expeditions to Syma not just because it was unique but because it was so hauntingly beautiful. Academia constructed a port on the edge of the glass sheet to the delight of wealthy tourists.
An autobeacon landed Allenson’s carriage on the reinforced pad. The sun was high in the reddish sky and it was hot. He adjusted the coverage of his eye shade to keep the worst of the rays off his head and neck. Syma’s air smelled dryer than the dust on a corpse.
The pad was completely bare of buildings or fences. The carriage rested by a low rectangular box about a meter long and half a meter high. It was made of some sophisticated reflective white ceramic, featureless except for a chip slot. Allenson noted similar structures dotted around the pad.
Nothing lived on the surface in Syma, human or otherwise. No one met them: no customs officials, no hawkers, no beggars. Allenson’s datapad chimed. A holographic arrow appeared, directing him around the back of the box where a hatch opened. A ramp spiraled down into the syncrete surface. The travelers descended and the hatch slid noiselessly closed behind them.
The air in the tunnel was noticeably cooler. Only dim illumination seeped around the spiral, so Allenson turned off his eye shade. He rounded a bend in the corridor to enter a wonderland of glass and light. His body cast many soft shadows tinted in a kaleidoscope of colors. Multiple images of the sun shone through the glass ceiling, each a different color of the rainbow as every frequency of light found its own unique path through the layers of glass.
Vitrified glass lined the walls in frozen raindrops and rivulets. In some places he could see deep into the layers, but elsewhere the glass was near opaque, stained with mineral streamers. Allenson found himself rubber necking like a country bumpkin on his first visit to town.
Buller pushed past him.
“Are you going to serve us or what?” Buller asked an elderly white-haired man sitting unobtrusively on a stool in the corner.
“Your pardon, sar, but I have found that most of our guests prefer to be given a period of reflection to enjoy the ambiance when they first enter Syma,” the lackey replied, quite uncrushed. “My name is—”
“I don’t give a tinker’s fart what your name is,” Buller interrupted. “I want to know where I can get a room and a decent meal.”
The receptionist waved a hand.
“If you would care to register.”
Buller looked on uncomprehendingly.
“Your datapad,” Allenson said softly.
Buller pulled out his pad and stabbed at it viciously.
“Hmmph! You have to do everything yourself in this one-frame dump.”
Allenson used his own pad to check in. He winced at the prices. He wished to conserve the Brasilian Crowns he carried in case of unexpected demands on his purse. One of the handicaps to interworld commerce was that information could only be carried through the Continuum inside a frame field. Places more than a few days light speed apart relied on packet ships to exchange funds and other information.
“I have an arrangement with the PanStream Bank, Master . . . ?”
“Sederer, sar,” said the receptionist.
Allenson didn’t catch what the receptionist did but he opened a holographic screen. The man touched a series of icons and Allenson’s datapad chimed to remind him that it was downloading information.
“The local branch of PanStream confirms your membership, Sar Allenson. A map to your room is on your pad.”
“And an adjacent room for my aide charged on my account,” Allenson said, gesturing to Todd.
The receptionist made the necessary arrangements.
“I’m with Colico,” Buller said.
The receptionist looked at him without moving.
“I regret that Colico have no branch on Syma, Sar.”
“Then I’ll have to send you a tab to cover the bill when I get home,” Buller said.
The receptionist made no move to accept Buller’s booking.
“We accept Brasilian or Terran coin, sar, if that is convenient.”
Buller thrust his chin forward. He looked for all the world like a guard dog straining at a chain.
“See here my man, are you questioning my honor.”
Allenson moved to defuse the confrontation.
“Charge Sar Buller’s room to my account.”
The receptionist made the necessary connections.
“Certainly, sar.”
Buller nodded complacently.
“Good man, Allenson, we’ll settle up back on Manzanita.”
Allenson mentally wrote off the money.
“As you find convenient.”
“And you need to improve your attitude when dealing with your betters,” Buller said, wagging his finger at the receptionist. “Think yourself damn lucky Sar Allenson chose to get you off the hook.”
“Oh I do, sar,” said the receptionist.
Buller looked at the man suspiciously but the receptionist stared back with a bland countenance as devoid of any hint of sarcasm as it was of concern.
“My carriage needs recharging,” Allenson said.
“Yes, sar,” The receptionist fluttered his fingertips over the display. “It will be fully charged in two hours.”
He stared closely at the screen and sighed.
“As fully charged as the system in your carriage can take at any rate.”
“I didn’t see any mechanics on the surface?” Allenson asked.
The receptionist replied without looking up, still busy with his display.
“No, sar, the surface is hardly the sort of work-environment to attract skilled employees except at exorbitant rates of pay. We find it cheaper to use automatons. You may have noticed the storage unit by your carriage.”
“I see,” Allenson replied.
Syma used astonishingly high technology. Perhaps he should have anticipated that at a Home World university research station. He glanced at his datapad and winced anew at the cost of the recharge. Sophistication had its downside.
Allenson’s room was splendid but tiny—not something that bothered him unduly as he usually traveled light. One-man frames lacked generous luggage facilities. The glass walls and floor opaqued for privacy but the ceiling let in glass-filtered sunlight. He discovered a control that polarized the glass. After darkening the room he managed a short nap. Something he had learned in the army was to sleep whenever you could for you never knew when the chance might come again.
When he woke up he splashed some water on his face. Then he buzzed Todd through his datapad to invite him to dine in the restaurant. Todd was only next door but Allenson did not want to wake him if he was still asleep. The receptionist had placed Buller way down in the complex below the sunlit level. Politeness may or may not be its own reward but it cost nothing and did no harm in dealing with people who could exact petty revenge. Never be rude to waiters unless one likes spit in one’s food.
Todd replied immediately with enthusiasm. After a moment’s refection Allenson also sent a note to Buller although he extended the invitation without enthusiasm. Fortunately he did not get a reply. Todd found the restaurant using his datapad, which projected a holographic arrow to show the route down through a maze of corridors.
The restaurant itself was a circular bowl with terraced seating under a ruby-red ceiling fluorescing from spotlights projecting up into the glass. Streams flowed down from the edges of the bowl. The water meandered around the tables to drain under the kitchen hub in the center. Few staff assisted the diners. One found a table, ordered via datapad from the menu and collected the food in person from automaton dispensers in the hub. It was all rather egalitarian in a high tech sort of way.
Allenson chose a seat up on the bowl where each table was made from a different colored mineral marbled with various contra-colors. The seats were likewise constructed. Allenson scored them ten for fashion but minus several hundred for comfort.
The restaurant was almost empty. Allenson checked his pad and found it was an odd time for dinner on local time. That was the problem with frame travel. The local time zone was usually never convenient but here it had worked in their favor.
Allenson ordered a stew more or less at random from the hologram over the table while Todd chose something complicated from the Terran section. Todd trotted off to get them a couple of beers while their meals were prepared. Allenson was pleased to see that the boy returned with simple lagers only mildly flavored with elderberry.
“I don’t understand how Colonel Buller can hope to be put in command of the colonial militia regiments,” Todd said, when they had slaked their thirst. “Surely you already hold that position?”
“Indeed, no,” Allenson replied. “True I was the last inspector general of Colonial Militia until my retirement but that position was never refilled.”
“Why not?” Todd asked.
“Well, as it’s a gift within the control of the Brasilian Colonial Office, you would have to ask them. I’d imagine that they saw no useful purpose in a unified military command this side of the Bight once the Terran colonies were defeated.”
“But Mother said you were elected colonel in chief of the Colonial Militia Regiments.”
“Not exactly, I was elected colonel in chief by each regiment, which is not the same thing at all.”
Todd looked at him blankly, clearly not understanding.
“It’s not a unified command.”
“Sorry, Uncle Allen, you’ve lost me.”
“Maybe an example would help,” Allenson said. “Suppose I wanted the Wagener, Manzanita and Prato Rio Regiments to go to, say, Leyland. I would have to give the commanding officer of each regiment a personal order as his superior. Now further suppose I want to conduct a military operation on Leyland in brigade strength. How would I do that?”
“You would have to be present at Leyland to order each regimental CO personally unless the operation was so simple that you could send them out with fixed orders,” Todd replied slowly.
Allenson was pleased to see that Todd grasped the problem immediately, not that he expected his brother and Linsye’s child to be slow.
Allenson continued.
“In my experience everything is simple in warfare but to do the simple is extraordinarily difficult. In my experience if the enemy has only three different choices of reaction to your plans you may expect it to take the fourth, the one not foreseen in the original orders. Now assume I also want other militia regiments to conduct a simultaneous brigade operation deep into the Hinterland.”
“You would need to learn to pedal really fast,” Todd said with a grin.
Allenson laughed. “And then some. Sure each regiment will take orders from me personally but only a proper military organization can conduct a prolonged campaign, let alone a war.”
“One might almost think that Brasilia planned it that way,” Todd said.
“Never assume the enemy, I mean the opposition, is stupid,” Allenson replied, remembering his conversation with Trina.
The table hologram flickered and chimed.
“Ah, I think our meal is ready and here comes Buller.”
“Oh joy,” Todd replied.
The first bite of winter lay on the steppe and a thin smear of frost on the thick grass hinted at the cold to come. The coating was a prelude to the main symphony of thick snow and iron-hard ground. Hawthorn pulled back the heavy wooden door. The chill steppe wind swept gleefully into his workshop. It pried playfully into the nooks and crannies including some rather personal to the owner. He shivered and made a mental note to search out his furs. When he walked back to the counter he limped slightly on his left leg.
Hardwood was at a premium on the steppe so it was only used for the skeletal frame of the building and the doors and window shutters. The walls were made of a lattice of interweaved stems generously coated in a sticky mix of mud, dried leaves and animal dung. The smell wasn’t too bad once it had dried. In winter, anyway, things got a bit whiffy in high summer.
A small collection of Riders waited stoically outside, their skin turning blue with cold under their furs and trade-cloth blankets. The first in line was a Rider woman, looking about eighty but probably nearer thirty. Riders aged quickly because life in the wilderness was brutal and short. Those who praised the noble ways of the simple savage from the depths of a comfy armchair would be shocked by the reality.
The woman produced a small statuette, a crude representation of a Rider on a Rider beast. Hawthorn examined it, turning it over in his hands. It had probably been hand-carved by a blunt trade knife wielded by a Rider male too old to hunt. Ivory from the tusk of some animal provided the raw material. In short it was just the sort of one-off unique item that would appeal to a collector in the Home Worlds, where rarity was at a premium. Home Worlders prized imperfect uniqueness, conditioned as they were by the cheap availability of automaton mass-produced perfection.
He offered the woman ten trade tokens using Kant, the lingua franca Riders used for inter-clan communication. The fact that “foreigner” and “enemy” were the same word in Kant spoke volumes about the nature of most interclan communication.
Her eyes widened. Ten was a good price, worth twenty in goods from his own store. Each token was valued at an exchange rate of a few Brasilian pennies. The work would sell for several crowns in a Brasilian art shop specializing in the primitive provided it was accompanied by a certificate of provenance signed by every dealer along the trade route, but that was there. Here, at a trading post deep in the Hinterlands, ten tokens was a good price.
The “box-people” astonished Riders. Why would anyone so imaginably rich in possessions want to exchange valuable items like knives and blankets for a piece of old tat that anyone with two thumbs could knock out in an hour?
The woman elected to take half the payment in a bottle of tonk and some cloth. Hawthorn carefully measured out the length from the roll chosen by the woman. The material was bright red with black zig-zag patterns. Riders liked loud colors, but who was he to criticize their taste? After all, his people paid ridiculous prices for “primitive art.”
“Tonk” was the universal word for rotgut gin. Riders had no access to alcohol before humanity crossed the Bight so the human word had found its way into Kant. A little went a long way with a Rider but, in its way, tonk was as useful for keeping out the cold as furs or trade-cloth.
The word originally came from a shortening of Tollins Superior Berry Distillation. Tollins was still a popular brand in the Stream for those with shallow pockets but deep thirsts. Hawthorn drank it himself when he was out of plum brandy. The only thing superior about Tollins product was that it was guaranteed not to actually blind its customers provided they didn’t drink too much or they didn’t get a dodgy batch rushed through on a Friday afternoon.
Hawthorn served his little band of customers. He traded cloth, tonk and ceramic tools for furs, gem minerals and curios. Eventually he worked through the queue of Riders and was left alone with his thoughts. That was nowhere he wanted to be so he used a trick he had perfected of clearing his mind and just being.
A soft chime switched his intellect back on. He retrieved his datapad from a shelf under the counter. An icon flashed red, activated by a solar powered instrument package on the roof that monitored ripples in the Continuum.
Hawthorn picked up the heavy laserrifle that he kept by the pad. He opened the flap on the counter and made for the door, automatically checking that the weapon was powered up before sloping it across his right shoulder. He held it by the pistol grip, forefinger alongside the trigger. These were habits that had kept him alive but then, life itself was just a habit these days. He had as little to die for as to live for. He just went on, clicking through the subroutines of his existence like an automaton.
His trading post attracted a small shanty town of Riders as trading posts always did. He ignored the Riders’ hovels to search the skies. A low, gray cloud base made the sledge phasing in easy to spot. It maneuvered slowly, giving him a good view of the occupants. The driver was a midget of a man but the spare passenger space in the front was more than taken up by the girth of his companion. He was large in every sense of the word. The lemon-yellow padded shell suit covering his ample figure multiplied the visual impact.
He looked like a barrage balloon advertising custard tarts.
“You’re early, Shrankin,” Hawthorn said to the trader when the sledge had landed.
“Yeah, well, you may have noticed that the weather is closing in early so I made Jem’s Shop the first on my circuit this year. Don’t wannabe hauling goods through snow.”
“Jem’s shop?”
“That’s what they call this world nowadays.”
“I’m flattered,” Hawthorn said.
Shrankin, the name of the man worn by the shell suit, jumped out of the vehicle.
“Buggers, get the stuff off the wagon and take it inside,” he said to the driver, who climbed into the back without a word.
“Is he really called Buggers?” Hawthorn asked, mildly curious.
“No idea,” Shrankin replied. “It’s what I’ve always called him. I’ve never asked to see his birth certificate ’cause he probably ain’t got one. Does his name matter?”
“Suppose not,” Hawthorn replied, losing interest.
He took the trader into the back room where he kept his purchases. They dickered over a price to be paid partly in trade goods and partly in Brasilian crowns. The negotiations were desultory as both men knew what price they would finally agree upon. It was simply a matter of honor to put up some show of bargaining even if they were both just going through the motions.
A loud bang of wood on wood sounded from the shop, followed by a yell and another slam. Hawthorn flew through the door, lips pressed close together. A young male Rider glared at him from the other side of the counter. The Rider insolently lifted the counter hatch and slammed it again so hard that it tore off its hinges. Two of his friends standing in the entrance laughed and said something in their secret clan language.
“Quiet beastspawn or I’ll gut you,” Hawthorn said in Kant, angling his laserrifle and caressing the trigger so that an orange sighting dot glowed on the Rider’s chest.
“Want tonk,” the Rider said. “Got tokens.”
The rider swayed slightly as he fumbled in a cloth bag tied to a greasy loin cloth. Hawthorn was amazed he could stand given the stench of stale tonk on his breath. The Rider extracted rectangular purple and gray trade tokens and tossed them on the counter.
Purple and gray were the Mark of the Stream Administration. Hawthorn picked up one of the tokens and ran a thumb along the edge. A pattern code identified which trading post issued the token. It was not one of Hawthorn’s but that didn’t matter. Hinterland traders had an agreement to honor each other’s credit.
“Shrankin, know anything about O’Zhang’s post?” Hawthorn asked, without taking his eyes off the Rider.
“Got burnt out, three, four months ago,” Shrankin said from behind him. “O’Zhang lost his hands.”
Riders collected hands from their victims as religious trophies. The term was used by people in the Hinterland as a euphemism for dying but in this case Hawthorn suspected that Shrankin meant it quite literally.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Hawthorn replied, putting his laserrifle carefully under the counter.
He tossed the token back at the Rider. The man fumbled the catch and the plastic rattled on the stabilized earth floor. The Rider attempted the catch with his right hand, which was odd as Riders were invariably left handed. This Rider held his left hand behind his back.
“Token no good, maker dead so power gone. No tonk, feck off,” Hawthorn said.
There was a dead silence. The Rider stared at him slackly as if his booze-sodden brain had trouble understanding that he had just been dismissed.
“Women’s piss,” the Rider screamed and launched his body through the gap in the counter. He thrust upwards at Hawthorn’s lower torso with the flint knife that he had concealed behind his back.
It was a beautifully timed strike despite the Rider’s apparent intoxication. If Hawthorn had recoiled the blade would have eviscerated him all the way to the rib cage, possibly nicking his heart or aorta before stopping.
Hawthorn anticipated the attack and stepped forward.
He deflected the knife strike with his right arm and pivoted, rabbit punching the warrior in the back of the neck as the man flew past. The Rider smashed head first into a cupboard and went down. Hawthorn put the boot in before he could get up. He kicked the rider in the side of the head and twice in the ribs. Something broke with a sharp crack after the last blow.
Grabbing the Rider’s ankles, Hawthorn dragged the unconscious warrior back across the shop. His head left a trail of blood on the floor. Barging past the warriors at the entrance he dropped the wounded man in the dirt outside.
The warrior’s two friends looked uncertain. One fingered a hatchet looped to a belt around his waist.
Shrankin loomed like a bright yellow mountain behind them, waggling the discharge end of an ion pistol for emphasis.
“I don’t think so, boys.”
Hawthorn ignored them. He stomped back into his shop followed by the trader. The Riders disappeared carrying their out-of-it mate.
“You took one hell of a chance,” Shrankin said, holding out a flask of plum brandy. “Why didn’t you just shoot him?”
“And start a Blood Feud?” Hawkins replied before taking a pull of the liquor.
It stung his tongue and burned all the way down his throat, reminding him that he was still alive. He took a slower slip, savoring the tangy fruit aftertaste.
Hawthorn grinned and handed back the flask.
“Besides, where would be the fun in shooting the bastard.”
Shrankin joined him by sinking a generous measure. Hawthorn found a couple of glasses and the trader filled them.
“There may be plenty of shooting soon enough,” Shrankin said.
“Really, why?” Hawthorn asked.
“The nobs are meeting at Paxton—”
“On Nortania?”
“You know of another one?”
“No, just surprised at the choice of location. Why not meet at Manzanita or Trinity?” Hawthorn asked.
“How the hell do I know? Do you want to hear about this meeting or not?”
“Sorry, okay, continue.”
Shrankin looked mollified.
“As I said, the nobs are meeting at Paxton to organize a joint response and give Brasilia an ultimatum over taxation.”
“Why, most of us don’t pay taxes?”
“The nobs do,” Shrankin replied, refilling the glasses. “I’ve a mate who knows some guys in the militia. They reckon there’s going to be a war.”
“I see,” Hawthorn said.
“The Colonel of Militia is going to Paxton,” Shrankin said, tapping his nose to convey his subtle grasp of colonial realpolitik.
Hawthorn started and put his glass down.
“This colonel, your mate didn’t mention his name?”
Shrankin shook his head.
“Didn’t have to. Same colonel we’ve always had. The one who was a hero in the Terran War, Ballysin or something.”
“Allenson?”
“That’s the bastard.”
Hawthorn put his laserrifle over his shoulder and headed for the door.
“Oy, where you going?” Shrankin asked.
Hawthorn turned.
“Have you ever heard of amalgamated vertical business administration?”
“No,” Shrankin replied, clearly confused.
“Well, you have now. The trading post is all yours, an outlet for your distribution business. Just think, in a few years they could be calling this place Shrankin’s Shop or lemon-yellow land.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“I have,” Hawthorn said, “to see a man about a war.”