On the Frontier

On yesterday, August 14th of this year of our lord, 1886, a column of seven companies of the first battalion of the East Yorkshire Regiment, a total of nearly 1,500 men, officers and other ranks was set upon by a large force of local Lionos, in overwhelming numbers. It is with great shame that I must report, a complete and utter defeat of our own British fighting men upon the Tulankni grasslands. From what little information could be gleamed from the survivors, that rotter and self-titled “Grand King” Iskeso is responsible for this tragedy.

In sorrow, I must also report that the township of Little Brook, from which we got this terrible news, along with several other towns, was overrun just hours after telegraphing the solder’s accounts and we must assume all of the colonists there to be dead or enslaved to the bestial Kajmar.

The Viceroy, George Morley, of British Sulenia has issued ordered for the Sulenia Native Contingent to be raised at the different battalion’s staging points, along with ordering the Yeomanry to join in suppressing this aggression….

Edwin Rowley sighed softly, as he folded by his copy of the reprint of the New Bedford Post, which was already a few days old when it had been delivered the week before at his father’s farm (along with orders from the Viceroy to form his battalion of the SNC at the Mountain Armory).

As he tucked the folded up newspaper into his brown jacket, the ringing of the ninety-two horses hooves on the road, and ridden by twenty-three Sikh men, whom had been sent by the elder Mr. Rowley to accompany his son into battle. In a few more minutes, they would reach the valley in the Border Mountains that was home to the armory and the garrison posting of a company of the 1st Queens Galactic Expeditionary Rifles

“To think” he muttered under his breath, as he pulled on the strap across his chest, which kept the double rifle on his back, “I would see the day, when war came to the planet Ceto. A shame really, those Kajmarian fellows couldn’t see the good we were trying to do for them. Civilization and tea for God’s sake.”

The wind stirred lightly in the pass, as the morning sun already started to blaze hotly. Soon, it would get to a point, were travel was no long an option and the party would have to stop until the long shadows of late afternoon stretched over the land to resume their ride. Not that it mattered much, as the walls started to open up into the valley.


(want to know more or join up for this space colony game, set in the Late Victorian era? Please see the OOC thread and submit a character profile for acceptance: the-frontier-ooc-t29218.html )

Damn....

It's so freaking hot. What time was it? Obviously only about five minutes after he said the same thing before. His Szabla was rather heavy at this point, and he was already perspiring slightly. He trudged along, grateful for any breeze that might be so good as to brush against him as it passed. Unfortunately, with the mass of bodies he walked with the wind would often break and those in the outer fringes get the best of any cool breeze that might come by.

It sucked.

§

The wind whistled through the tall Ruuma grass. The dust blew. One of the Chojaja gunbearers sucked some of it up and broke out into a coughing fit. Bugs nibbled on him.

Raleigh Cooper noticed none of it.

He lay on the ground, the stock of the Sharps' rifle pressed tight against his shoulder, the other end braced on a sandbag, and looked down the Malcolm scope. The Greenbacks were two hundred yards away, but he saw them perfectly, enhanced by the six-zoom magnification of the scope: emerald-green, and shining like stained glass when the sun hit them just right. The bull was coming closer to the cow. It was the time of year for it. Soon they would be -

Soon they would be nothing. Cooper set the cross-hairs on the bull, just behind where the ear would be if he had ears, squeezed the last half-pound of pressure out of the trigger and the big-bore gun roared and jumped back, slamming his shoulder harder than any mule he'd ever been kicked by. It always left him numb for a few seconds; afterward, the shoulder would be bruised purple and tender to the touch. The scope returned to target almost immediately. The bull was staggering and trying to run but nothing seemed to be working right for him. With a screeching noise that, Cooper knew, was a death wail, the bull fell and did not rise. The cow didn't know what had happened to her would-be mate, but she didn't like it and raced into a big patch of brush and stunted trees, too fast for the gun-bearer to take the gun, let alone reload it.

"Damn," Cooper said, jumping to his feet and handing the nineteen-pound rifle off to the Chojaja.

This was a problem. He had shot the bull first, because a bull Greenback could be dangerous when provoked, but the females had the best scales, by and large, and now she was where he couldn't reach her, at least not without moving. He could wait, and hope the female came out again, or he could go in after her. Waiting was not his style.

"The forty-five, boy, quick," Cooper said, in the testy tone he reserved for the natives. For their part, they mostly tuned him out.

The other Chojaja handed him one of the lighter Sharps'. Cooper checked to be sure it was loaded - the thought that they might try to send him in with an unloaded gun had occured to him; it had happened to Bollinger, back in eighty-five, and though they'd hanged the rotters who did it, no one knew where his bones lay - then dialed the ladder-sight down to one hundred yards, the minimum. This would be up-close work, and shooting too high would be more of a worry than shooting low. The price for its lightness was that it shot a marginally lighter bullet at a slightly slower speed. Still, it ought to be enough for a cow, if he hit her right.

"Come on," Cooper said. "Bring the other forty-five. Let's do it fast."

The walk down to the brush was a long one, in more ways than one. Cooper wasn't a man who placed too much value on his own life, but even he was smart enough to be a little uncomfortable with going nose-to-hose with a creature more than ten times his weight. He'd done it before, but it was never fun and sometimes it was downright hazardous. He'd had a couple of close stops in the past, and each one hung around his neck like an an anchor as he prepared to do it again.

They got to the edge of the brush and Cooper paused for a moment, marshaling his nerve. The dead bull was nearby, so huge and irreperably broken that he was like a fallen monument, Stonehenge or something. Chojaja looked at Cooper with a mixture of fear, confusion and curiosity.

"What the sweet Christ d' you think you're looking at? Come on, man, beat the brush."

The cow came out quicker than either expected. One glance was enough to know she was in a killing mood. As she picked up speed, intent on crushing them into the ground like the pitiful worms they were, Cooper raised the rifle and fired, aiming for the eyes. The bullet struck skull but didn't penetrate the thick bones, as it was unfortunately apt to do; the cow kept coming. Having to fight panic now as well as the cow, Cooper threw the Sharps' to the Chojaja and took the spare in return. He raised it, aware that this was his last chance for a stop, before she got too close and even a kill would result in her crushing him to death, squeezed, and was rewarded to see the eye explode. The cow shook her head wildly and crashed to the ground, skidding so close that Cooper had to jump back.

The Chojaja had wet himself. Well, not himself, as he wore no clothes, but there was a puddle on the ground beneath him.

"Jesus Christ, man," Cooper said in disgust, though, in truth, he had not been too far from it himself. He felt another anchor, perhaps the heaviest yet, added to his neck. This job was getting harder and harder to do.

"Well, you know what to do. Get them skinned and cut the teeth out; and clean yourself up, for God's sake."

Cooper stalked off for a smoke. In fact, he went through a pack before he calmed down, chained butt-to-tip. It had been a hell of a day.

My dearest Helen,

It's been a week since my last letter, I know, but I have been so terribly busy since arriving here that I hope you'll pardon my silence. There's been so much to do once the spaceship landed on Ceto. I know the doctor said I shouldn't overexert myself, but there have been so many crates to unload and since the locals are such horrid thieves Mr. R absolutely insisted we undertake most of the work ourselves.

He is a strange fellow, Mr. R, the way these scientific creatures usually are, and given to odd habits. During the entire passage from England the man went about the ship in a most indecent state of undress which I blush even to mention to you now. Now that we are upon firm land again he has, Thank God, returned to wearing his clothes, but his garments are of such unusual color and construction so that there exists a crowd of amused locals about him wherever he goes.

And yet although I doubt Mr. R's sanity, I cannot doubt his intellect. I have seen in the last few days more pipes and plates and screws and gears than I can count and for whose purpose I could not fathom, but Mr. R has but to glance at a particular piece of his contraption and at once know its place and use.

But I prate on. I hope you are well and the boys as well. I received a letter from you dated May 9th yesterday, and I was very excited to hear about the rose bushes. Please give my regards to your sister and her husband. Write me soon -- your letters sustain me on this station like nothing else.

Your devoted husband,
-Simeon

***

Simeon Cornell shifted slightly in place, feeling a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. A few of the other Englishmen here, all that same peculiar breed of half-mad empire-builder, swore the weather of Sulenia was mild compared to India or Guyana. For someone like Cornell, who had never left England until now, it was downright tropical.

"Och, Major Cornell, are ye gaun tae staund aboot aw day or are ye gaun tae crack on wi oor guests?"

Simeon blinked, lost for a moment in Charles Randolph's expansive lowland Scots. "Apologies, Mr. Randolph," he said, well aware that he was under orders to handle the inventor as delicately as possible. "I just thinking about today."

Randolph, who was clothed in a top hat, red cut-away jacket, and a baggy pair of purple silk trousers, cocked his head. "Aboot whit war ye thinkin on, than?"

"About what could go wrong."

"Och! Blaflum! Ye haiver, Major Cornell, ye haiver!" While Simeone was left to puzzle out what a 'haiver' was, Randolph went on, "A hae nae dout that the auto-tripod will perform brawly." He gazed about happily. "An leuk tae the croud tha's here awa the day!"

He walked off, leaving Cornell to chew unhappily on his moustache.

"Do you think it will work, Major?"

It was Lucille Larbeck, the cheerful and rather pretty young wife of one the wealthy local planters here in attendance. She gestured across the field to where Mr. Randolph's monstrous contraption stood glinting dully in the sunlight. The auto-tripod dominated the scene, standing far higher than even the pavillions erected for the occasion. The crowd -- a few dozen invited guests and a hundred or so uninvited gawkers -- stood warily back from the machine and watched as the half dozen or so workmen prepared the auto-tripod for its maiden voyage on a new world.

"It'll blow up," Cornell replied darkly. He'd seen the auto-tripod walking about back on Earth, but that was before it had been disassembled and shipped millions of miles away to be reassembled in a converted haybarn.

Lucille studied the distant machine, whose stack had begun to funnel out dark smoke as the furnace was stoked. "Oh well," she said with a shrug, "It'll be terribly exciting either way." She brightened. "But it did work, didn't it? Back on Earth, I mean."

Simeon nodded. "I did, ma'am, and I can assure you that should it work you will not be disappointed. What can be said for its usefulness in war, though, I have no idea--"

She cut him off. "Ooh, it's Mr. Randolph! He's going up!"

Sure enough the colorful figure of the Scottish inventor could be seen climbing up the rope ladder to the auto-tripod's control cabin, followed closely by his two assistants. The machine would carry four soldiers, but the control of the auto-tripod and the stoking of its furnace was undertaken by civilian engineers. Simeon briefly wondered how much Randolph had had to pay the men to make risking their necks worth their while.

When he reached the top of the ladder the Scotsman turned and waved his hat at the crowd, which responded with a cheer. Once everyone was inside the ladder was rolled up and the dull thrum of the engine increased into a low roar. Cornell muttered a brief prayer as the onlookers watched with bated breath.

Nothing happened at first as the engine noise continued to grow louder, but then in a crescendo of grinding gears and hissing steam the auto-tripod's right leg half-lifted, half-rolled a few yards forward. Then the left leg did likewise, and again until the machine was moving at a shambling walk.

The crowd gasped and even Cornell, who had seen the auto-tripod in action before, felt his breath catch in his throat. It wasn't fast -- a jogging man would soon outpace the mighty steel behemoth -- but to watch such a strange and fantastic-looking automaton shuffle its way across the scrubland was at once both frightening and exhilarating.

Suddenly everyone began to cheer wildly, and Simeon couldn't help but smile when he saw the tiny figure of Mr. Randolph appear at the front of the control cabin -- where the gatling would soon be installed -- and take a bow for the crowd.

"By God," Cornell said under his breath, "The madman has done it again."

Throat parched, Lieutenant Winters sat under a rudimentary sunshade made from his jacket, poring over the single sketched map he'd managed to scavenge. His canteen was half full, the water tepid by now, but a godsend none the less. Winters was saving it for later. God only knew when they'd run across another supply of fresh.

Looking up, Winters eyes ranged over the few men still under his command, most trying to get comfortable in what little shade a few scattered boulders offered. Winters removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow, the thin cotton coming away sopping.

In the three days they'd been moving he'd already lost four of the thirty who had managed to retreat with him. Two dying of their wounds, one man, delirious after a days heavy marching, mistakenly eating a death plum, and the last simply disappearing.

This last one troubled Winters. The man had been on sentry duty. Winters himself had done the rounds that night, making sure the sentries were awake, and perhaps offering the occasional word of comfort. As he came to the last post, where Private Roberts should have been, there was no sign of the man. His rifle, still loaded and primed, leant against the rock he'd obviously been sitting on. No signs of struggle, not even a line of footsteps out into the distance. Just, nothing.

Winters looked back at the map, picking up a stub of pencil. He had a vague idea where they were, but navigating in the scrublands was a nightmare. There were no landmarks, besides the occasional rock or tree. His pencil scratched across the map, roughly circling a mark that said 'SP,' personal shorthand for spring. They needed fresh water in the next day or two, or none of them would ever make it home.

Winters mind turned back, three days ago. Damn and blast that man Stafford and his foolhardy bravado. All along Winters had attempted to dissuade the man of his foolish plan, but his mind was set. Somehow, Captain Stafford had managed to convince the Viceroy that the Kajmar wouldnt stand up to a unifed army. That Tulankni had been a result purely driven by ambush and sloppy leadership, and so a combined force had marched to meet Iskeso's forces, with Stafford at its head.

Winters had been leading the third company of the Queens First Galactic Rifles, two hundred men in all. The army around eight hundred total. Three companies of Queens infantry, a reserve company of the Yorkshires, and a single Queens artillery company. No cavalry, no support, no reserves, nothing. Eight hundred men against more than two thousand.

It had been an unmitigated disaster. Stafford hurling men into the fray with little consideration of tactics, sheer bloodymindedness preventing him from calling a retreat.

The moment Winters had seen the Colours fall, he knew Stafford had been killed. Command falling to him, he called a general retreat, pulling back with what remained of the force. Two whole companies were slaughtered that day, remnants of the rest scattering into the bush.

A cough broke him from his reverie. Sergeant Baker was standing to his right at perfect attention, as if they were back on a drill ground as opposed to stuck in the desert, running for their lives.

"At ease, Sergeant" He said, dropping the map to one side.

Baker relaxed, relief evident on his face. "Thank you sir. Privates White and Todman are back, sir."

A thin smile crossed Winters lips, almost invisible under his moustache. The men had been sent out two hours ago, when Winters had called a halt, to scout out the lie of the land. "Very good, Sergeant. Send them in."

Two minutes later, White and Todman approached, stopping several paces away and saluting, as was proper. Winters nodded at the pair, and White stepped forward. He squinted at Winters, face burned pink by the pounding sun. "Sir, we've covered about six miles all around. A mile west of here we came across something. A massive kajmar army, sir, about four miles away."

Todman cut in. "It must have been over five thousand of em, sir. Never seen anything like it in me life before. So I turns to White here, an I says, Lieutenant has to know about this."

Face impassive, heart sinking fast, Winters signalled them to go on.

"They're headed sou'west, sir. So we're safe for the moment, but there were millions o' the buggers."

Winters held up a hand, stopping Todman mid flow. Relief rose for a second, until something clicked inside his head, and panic gripped his chest like a vice.

Showing none of it, Winters spoke to the two men. "Well done, chaps. Take a few moments rest, we'll be moving on soon."

Once they'd gone, Winters stood, and started to pace. Five thousand soldiers, moving southwest. They could only be heading towards New Bedford. That city, principle spaceport of the British colonies, had to be held. If it were to fall into Kajmar hands, none of Winters men could get off the planet, and no reinforcements could be brought in.

Winters snatched up the map, plotting quickly. They were roughly two hundred miles from New Bedford. That meant the Kajmar would reach it in five, maybe six days. But first they had to get through the mountains. It was imperative that Winters send a warning to Bedford before the Kajmar got there. Possibly even get a message to the field base in the mountains. With the armoury there, they might be able to hold back the tide long enough to be reinforced.

Mind swimming, Winters grabbed his things and marched out to his men. "Ready yourselves, gents!" He barked. "We're on the march."

Edwin blinked in surprise as he gazed on the valley. Set against the eastern wall was the armory, a long barracks and a wall but that was not the surprising part. The lack of guards patrolling the wall or the closed gate and no flag flapping in the warm breeze could have taking the prize. Milling around the miniature fortress over a hundred of the local Chojajas waited, male and female and armed with steel tipped spears. In a separate group, around thirty of the local farmers (or their sons) clustered in the shade, their horses hobbled.

"Oi Ed" shouted one, a curled haired of man of twenty-six, named Adam Lewis, "Good to see you."

"Sergeant Lewis" said Edwin, as he reined in his gray gelding, "We're not in the pub, as much as I would prefer to be. Please use my rank from now on."

"Yes Sir" said Adam, trying very hard to keep a smile off his face and saluting, "Sorry Major, wont happen again Sir!"

"Thank you Sergeant" sighed Edwin, "Now, whats going on?"

"A hundred and fifty-seven of Second Battalion reporting" said Lewis, making a quick count of the Sikhs joining the rest of the Earthers, "And none of the Queen's Rifles, as far was we can tell. Foster told me that they marched out some time ago and he hasn't seem 'em since. I also saw a large number of Chos heading towards use from the south."

"Thank you Sergeant" said Edwin, chewing in his lip slightly.

Tall stalks of Ruuma grass scattered a large field, the sun shining it's bright golden rays on their leaves, making it seem as though the blades were made of yellow silk.
The day was hot, planting it's sweat-tempting rays upon one individual, laying on her stomach beneath the grass, binoculars in hand, and a dainty blue bonnet, frilled with white cloth and tied at the top with a large bow, sitting upon her head...or tied, rather. She had the black binoculars pinned to the circles of her eyes, keeping so still you'd think she were a manikin of some kind.

Alas, after long moments, Alanna Khan's red lips parted in a large gape, inhaling air quickly. Her hand shook, and she nearly dropped her binoculars.
From her dirty pair of bright blue bloomers and matching top, both frilled with white, one would have guessed she had been in the field for a while, and if one knew her well, you would not be so surprised at what she was looking at.

Somewhere far off, just at the edge of the Ruuma grass field, was a large Kumma ant mound, reddish-brown dirt apparent from the top. The mound was fresh. Alanna edged forward on her elbows, quietly, and her red curls bounced about the sides of her face. Even in this heat, she did not fan herself, though a fan could clearly be seen dangling on her wrist from a thin string. As she edged closer, a movement near the Kumma's nest made her freeze, her mouth opening in another silent gasp. She saw a broad brown back, apparent just above the grass, move ever so close to the insect's nest, but then suddenly disappeared.

Alanna frowned in disappointment. What in heavens name was going on? She squinted her eyes in the glass of the binoculars, as if she expected the grass to part and give her sight of the mound and the creature stalking toward it. Though, what can you expect? Of course such event did not happen, and Alanna pursed her lips in thought, darting her eyes to the side. At last, after good thought, she propped herself up, dirt falling off as she did so, and quietly as a human could manage, went to part the grass that separated herself and the mound.

Success, for as she did so, parting a last veil of the plant, she saw the mound only fifteen feet away. At the foot of it- oh! What glory! How wonderful a beast! At the foot of the mount was a large Yijesh. It's fur hung from thick limbs, and at the end of those were large, lacerating claws. Alanna stood at the edge, observing quietly, watching as it used a long tongue to scoop up the critters and plopping them into it's mouth with a distinct whooshing sound. Ms. Khan's eyes grew wide in excitement, and as she reached into a pocket to draw out a small notebook, whipping out a pen to do so...

"Aiiiyuh!" came the loud, painful cry form her throat, as one of the blasphemous insects had scurried onto her foot and taken a large bite. Alanna lifted a heeled shoe and stamped down onto it, hearing a grotesque crunch as a result. Yellowish ooze spilled from the animal, and Alanna backed away quickly, seeing a large amount begin to scurry towards her, never mind the Yikesh that had lifted a large, surprised head to her yelp.

Before Alanna turned heel and began to spurt into the other direction, she saw the Yijesh stand up and look around, seemingly confused. The whole image vanished in a whirl of green as Alanna ran, Ruuma grass smacking her face. The ants were close at her tail. Eventually, she made it to the dirt road and put a hand on her bonnet to stop it from falling off. Down the road she went, looking like a woman who was going for a stroll and ended up tripping into a large pile of dirt.

Her living quarters were not so far away. She slowed down, seeing the insects had abandoned their chase, and did not bother to brush herself off. The binoculars dangled from her neck and, as she walked up to the door of her small home, and scurried in quickly, an expression of being cross and another of smiling happily battled it's way across her face.

A cool breeze swept gently across the grassland, the ruuma stalks rustling slightly as it passed. James welcomed the feel of the air, pausing for a time to allow the sweat to clear from his forhead.
The moment having passed, he returned to the task at hand, carefully re-adjusting the sight of his weapon. 'An easy shot' he considered, the target not much more than 25 yards away - in the open, but close to a dense patch of tall grass. Exhaling softly for a steady aim, he squeezed the trigger back slowly, a slight shift in weight caused his foot to slip on loose earth, throwing the aim upwards, the gun letting out a deafening roar as it fired harmlessly into the air.

"Blast" he yelled

Quickly regaining composure he scanned the near distance for the bird. No sign, "such a large creature should not be able to hide so effectively" he whispered to himself.
Suddenly a noise from the foliage drew his attention, knowing there was no time to reload, he fumbled for his Gahendra rifle - much less kick than the the Holland and Holland but it would have to do. That moment the monstrous bird burst from the ruuma, charging with startling speed, vicious beak tearing at the air. Reflexively diving to the left, James winced as he felt a sharp pain, his elbow connecting with the hard, dry ground.

'That'll bruise up nicely he thought', rolling neatly into a prone position to face the direction the feathered beast had run, now out in the open. Ignoring the pain from his battered arm, he took a half second to aim, using the time it took for the bird to lumber round for another dash. There would be no room for error this time.

Lowering it's bone crested head, the animal broke into a run quickly closing ground, looming towards the small figure seemingly helpless on the ground. A loud crack filled the air, the confused animal stumbling off it's path, barely able to hold it's own weight. A second shot rings out, the great bird finally crashed to the ground, letting out a final cry before falling still.
Dusting off his clothes as he stood, James readied the gun again and moved tentatively towards the downed bird, well aware of the damage even an injured Big Bird can cause. Satisfied at it's expiry, he moved off to a nearby pool, where he had left his two companions and cooking tools.

"Meat enough to last me days there, eh Charlie" The horse simply looking up from it's drink and braying in acknowledgment of his presence. Reaching into the horses' pack, he pulled two ruuma potatoes, feeding one to Charlie. "One for you too Jasper" he said striding across to his second mount tied up nearby, himself taking a long swig from a canteen before returning to his quarry.

Not more than an hour and half later, with the bird meat prepared and the sun falling lower in the sky, the time seemed right to find a suitable camp site for the evening. It had been a wearying day and, not for the first time, it crossed the mans mind that he might just be getting too old for all this, he sighed gently with a quick glance at his arm in a temporary sling.
"Nonsense" he spoke aloud, clearing his head of such thoughts and re-focusing on the task of finding a place to rest for the night.

Not too far along his path an odd patch of raised earth caught his eye, moving towards the mound, curiosity getting the better of him, he tried to think what it might be - couldn't be a Kumma nest, wrong size and shape for that.
Noting the marking at the head of the pile it suddenly became obvious, this was a fresh grave, hastily dug and covered, not much more than a shallow pit by the looks of it. Creasing his brow in thought, familiarity stirred in his memory, this bore the signs of a quick military burial - out in the field where proper transport home was unavailable. Looking around more carefully he spied a series of tracks, from what must presumably be soldiers, leading away from the patch - about two dozen men maybe more, the footprints not more than a day old.

Taking a moment to think, it occured to James that such a group as must have buried this man can only have been in retreat from some sort of skirmish - why else would they need such a hasty funeral? With sudden invigoration washing away the tiredness of the day, James resolved to set out after the group. Patriotism and honour demanded he see what assistance he could offer, after all he had been a soldier of the British Empire himself once.