Valiant Dust

3

Tanjeer, Gadira II

The parade grounds of El-Badi Palace broiled slowly under fierce morning sunlight. Groves of moon palms at the far end of the field floated in the heat shimmer, while dazzling flashes of light danced on the waters of the Silver Sea to the south. The legendary summer heat in Tanjeer, the planetary capital of Gadira II and the seat of the sultanate, routinely reached 40 degrees Celsius before noon, but Ranya Meriem el-Nasir paid little attention. She was the descendant of thirty generations of Gadirans, and the colonists who had first settled the planet had been carefully selected from desert-dwelling peoples of Old Terra; sweltering heat rarely bothered her. Besides, the lethal mass of the Léopard grav tank resting on the field before had her full attention.

She studied the grav tank, carefully noting its various features and armament. The vehicle rested on its landing skids, hidden behind the tough dura-weave skirts of its plenum chamber. Not strictly a hovercraft, it was designed to take advantage of ground effect to maximize its speed and maneuverability under the weight of its thick armor and heavy weapons. A dual-barrel kinetic cannon—one barrel for high-velocity armor-piercing rounds, the other for lobbing low-velocity explosive shells—made up the Léopard’s main armament. Two small cupola-mounted autocannons furnished more than enough firepower to deal with soft targets such as enemy infantry or unarmored vehicles, and its turret boasted a variety of sensors and accessories. Ranya slowly walked around the tank, admiring it from all sides. She noted that the vendors had finished the armored vehicle in a striking black-and-scarlet paint scheme that matched the house colors of the el-Nasirs, and smiled to herself at the impracticality.

Major Cheney of the Republic Marines took her amusement for approval. “The finest Montréalais military technology, Amira,” he said proudly. Ranya might not have noticed the heat, but perspiration darkened the craggy offworlder’s dashing uniform. “Just like the legendary Terran predator for which it is named, the Léopard is fast and lethal. Nothing short of heavy antitank weaponry or naval fire support can scratch it. Your uncle’s Royal Guard would make a splendid sight mounted in armored vehicles such as this, no?”

“Yes, they would. And they would be seen from twenty kilometers away in such a ridiculous paint scheme,” Ranya replied. “A broken rock-and-sand camouflage would make a lot more sense for desert operations. Or do you think I know so little about military equipment that a forty-year-old tank painted like a grav racer is sufficient to impress me?”

Cheney couldn’t help exchanging a quick glance with Ambassador Nguyen and the other Montréalais from the embassy’s military mission who stood nearby. Ranya waited patiently for the handsome officer to collect himself; it wasn’t the first time she had caught someone off-guard with her knowledge of military affairs. Gadira’s armed forces limited women in uniform to a handful of specialties that theoretically kept them out of direct combat roles, and few women of high station looked on military service as socially acceptable. It didn’t help that Ranya happened to be wearing a light, flowing rose-colored caftan with delicate embroidered flowers, and left her blue-black hair in a long cascade of gentle curls. It almost doesn’t seem fair. However, she wondered why Paul Nguyen hadn’t warned the new military attaché that she was more interested in such matters than her uncle, Sultan Rashid.

She looked over at Ambassador Nguyen, and noticed a distinct twinkle in his eye. That explained it, then—Major Cheney, fresh off the ship from Montréal, was receiving a little lesson from the ambassador. No doubt the enthusiastic and dashing young major had arrived in-system with a boundless store of energy and dozens of grand ideas for showing the poor, backward Gadirans just how lucky they were to have Montréal for their friend. Paul Nguyen would have offered a few words about patience and circumspection, which Cheney would have ignored, so the canny old ambassador stepped out of the way to let the young major learn some things for himself.

“You are terrible,” Ranya told Ambassador Nguyen.

“I am afraid I don’t know what you are speaking of, Amira,” the ambassador innocently replied.

Major Cheney finally rallied. “It is true that the Léopard is an older design, Amira Ranya. But it is highly reliable, cost-effective, and more than adequate for the threat environment your uncle’s forces may encounter.”

Ranya decided to take pity on Major Cheney, since it wasn’t entirely his fault. Montréalais were overly sensitive to the fact that Gadira could be very traditional, since most of their troubles in the sultan’s realm came from the highly conservative elements of society, but their predeployment briefings seemed to make little distinction between the urban classes and the more narrow-minded desert tribes. While it was true that Gadiran women did not ordinarily engage in male-dominated trades or studies, her people usually made room when extraordinary women defied those expectations. More important, wealthy Gadirans of both sexes enjoyed more personal freedoms—exercised with discretion, of course—than offworlders sometimes realized. As the daughter of one sultan and the niece of another, Ranya had benefited from a first-class education and the freedom to pursue any field of study she took an interest in. Seven years ago, she’d discovered that she needed to know more about military affairs and politics than any proper Gadiran princess ought to, and she’d thrown herself into acquiring that knowledge as efficiently and thoroughly as possible. Ranya couldn’t command troops in the field—Gadira simply wasn’t ready for that—but she’d instead made herself an expert on the Royal Guard, the military aid provided to the sultanate by the Republic of Montréal, and the forces and tactics of Gadira’s urban radicals and restless tribal chieftains.

“You make a good point, Major,” she told Cheney. “The Caidists have no armored vehicles at all, and few antitank weapons. Your Léopard is certainly sufficient to control any battle space we establish. The difficulty is that rebellious tribesmen won’t oblige us by engaging our tanks.” She turned back to the grav tank, found the handholds and footsteps built into its armored flanks, and scrambled up on top of the vehicle. She knew that she looked ridiculous standing on top of a tank in her gauzy pink-white robes, but she wanted a closer look. The driver’s hatch stood open, so she set her hands on the deck—hot enough in the sunlight to singe her palms—and dropped into the seat below, disappearing from sight.

She examined the controls, rubbing her hands absentmindedly as she noted the field of view from the armored ports and the access to the rest of the vehicle. Outside, she heard someone quickly scramble up the side of the grav tank. A moment later, Major Cheney appeared above her open hatch. “Be careful in there, Amira!” he said. “Please don’t start the vehicle, it can be difficult to control if you are not trained in its operation.”

“Have no fear, Major. I’m not going to drive off with your tank.” Ranya settled herself into the seat, and identified the principal controls without touching anything. “These seem straightforward enough. I assume you’ll provide trainers for our crewmen and maintenance personnel?”

“But of course, Amira. The basic instruction course takes about six weeks. Advanced tactics and maintenance qualifications require additional training regimes.”

“What is its operational endurance?”

“The onboard reactor only needs to be fueled about once per six months in operational use. It takes a few liters of a deuterium fuel mixture.” Cheney seemed to be a little more comfortable on ground he knew well. “The real limitations are onboard ammunition storage, and the crew’s endurance.”

“Do we have the ability to produce the deuterium fuel mix in-system? Or the ammunition, for that matter?”

“Not yet, Amira. We will provide ample stores of both for any foreseeable operations. However, you will probably want to contract with SGS Industries—the manufacturer of the tank—to build a fuel plant under license, if you feel that local production of fuel is important.”

Only if we want tanks that we can use when we need to without begging for fuel. Well, the ability to produce advanced fuels was something Gadira needed anyway. If her uncle’s generals wanted tanks, she would have to convince them that maintenance and logistical support were just as much a part of buying a tank as picking out something with heavy armor and a big gun. Unfortunately, the Montréalais had figured out soon after Sultan Rashid’s succession that the easiest way to secure friends close to the throne was to shower them with toys—the bigger, the better.

“Amira!” From outside she heard the voice of Captain Tarek Zakur, the commander of her personal guard. “Bey Salem approaches!”

Ranya glanced out the viewport that faced the palace. Two figures were indeed making their way toward the parade ground. Well, she had seen most of what she needed to see of the Léopard, and she had probably done enough damage to her daily calendar by taking the time to educate herself on the newest addition to the sultan’s arsenal. She scrambled out of the driver’s seat, using her loose sleeves to protect her hands from the broiling black-painted hatch rim.

Major Cheney offered his hand, and she allowed him to help her up out of the hatch. “Thank you, Major,” she said.

“My pleasure, Amira,” the Montréalais officer replied. “Would you like to see the gunner’s position?”

“Not right now.” Ranya brushed her hands on her robes, and turned her attention to the two men walking up the palm-shaded arcade leading from the palace. Salem el-Fasi she’d known all her life; he was a rotund little man of middle years dressed in a modern Montréalais-style white silk suit, with a blue fez as a nod to Gadiran tradition. The other man she did not recognize, but he appeared to be an offworlder. “Captain Zakur may want a look, though.”

“Indeed I do,” Tarek replied. He was a huge man, easily two meters tall and at least 120 kilos, with a fierce-looking black beard and a plumed turban that added another fifteen centimeters to his height. For all his size, he was a superior athlete, quick and nimble, and if his dress uniform was just as impractical as the Léopard’s parade paint scheme, the mag pistol holstered at his hip was not just for show. He helped Ranya down from the grav tank, and climbed up to take her place. At once he and Major Cheney fell into an animated discussion.

Salem el-Fasi approached Ranya and salaamed when he reached her. “Good afternoon, Amira Ranya,” he said. “Did my eyes deceive me, or were you climbing on top of that tank just a moment ago? That hardly seems like the sort of thing that would interest a princess of the royal house.”

“I wished to educate myself on my uncle’s next major purchase, Bey Salem.” She returned his salaam. The bey pretended to disapprove of her involvement in military procurement, but he’d long ago given up any serious hope of shooing her into the sorts of pursuits he thought more fitting for a princess of the royal house. “What brings you to the palace today?”

“Business, my dear,” Bey Salem replied with a wide smile. Ever since her parents had been assassinated by extremists, seven years ago, Bey Salem had insisted that she could look on him as her special protector. He had been one of Sultan Kamal’s political allies and a key figure in the old regime, although Sultan Rashid had installed his own favorites after assuming the throne. Ranya had gradually developed the sense in the years after her father’s death that he hadn’t particularly trusted el-Fasi; as a class, the beys had always been quite wealthy, and contact with foreign powers had benefited Gadira’s nobles more than anyone else on the planet. The beys practically bathed in offworld money these days, and Ranya was sure that some had foreign patrons who might someday want to put a different puppet on the throne. Of course, the fortunes of Salem el-Fasi were closely tied to those of the el-Nasir sultanate.

Bey Salem motioned toward his companion. “This is Mr. Otto Bleindel. He represents Dielkirk Industries, a major manufacturer based in Dremark. We are discussing importing and licensing arrangements for establishing a plant to build Dielkirk power cells here in Gadira. Mr. Bleindel, may I present Amira Ranya Meriem el-Nasir, niece to Sultan Rashid and Crown Princess of Gadira?”

Bleindel refrained from offering his hand, and bowed from the waist instead. Evidently he had been briefed on Gadiran etiquette about introductions to women of high rank. “Amira,” he said in accented Jadeed-Arabi. “I am honored to meet you.”

“Welcome to Gadira, Mr. Bleindel.” She studied the offworlder with interest. Bleindel was a young man, probably not more than thirty standard years or so, with a slim build and refined features. He had the brownish-amber skin tone common among the offworlders from the great powers of human space, with dark blond hair and a pair of spectacles shaded against the bright sun. Seemingly without effort, he projected an aura of confident competence. “Why don’t we walk under the palms as we speak? Our sun can be harsh for those who are not used to it.”

“I am grateful for your consideration, Amira,” Bleindel replied.

“Just one moment more,” Ranya told him. She turned to Ambassador Nguyen. “Thank you for arranging the inspection, Ambassador. Have your military attaché forward the proposed terms for the purchase to my secretary. I will review them and speak with my uncle about how many Léopards we need.”

“Our pleasure,” Nguyen replied. “We will send you all the information by the end of the day.”

“And thank the major for me when Captain Zakur finishes with him.” Ranya glanced up to the grav tank’s turret, where Major Cheney and her guard captain were still discussing armament. “Perhaps we can arrange for a firing demonstration soon. I don’t think Tarek will be satisfied until he sees the cannon blow up something.”

“I’ll have the major set it up. Until next time, Amira.” Nguyen bowed.

Ranya nodded to him, and turned back to Bey Salem and his Dremish friend. She noticed Bleindel studying the grav tank with a thoughtful expression while waiting for her to finish. A soldier? Something in Bleindel’s pose suggested that he had a more than casual interest in the armored vehicle, but she could not see his eyes beneath his dark spectacles.

“Are you a military man, Mr. Bleindel?” she asked as the three of them strolled beneath the palms, trailed discreetly by two of her guards. The shade felt quite pleasant after the baking heat of the dusty parade ground; the noise and bustle of the surrounding city subsided as people settled down for the midday qaylulah, the time for rest or quiet work indoors to escape the heat of the afternoon.

“Ah, no,” Bleindel said. “My education and experience are all in business matters. But as the bey remarked, it struck me as unusual that a Gadiran princess would be knowledgeable in modern military technology.”

“Have you met many Gadiran princesses?” Ranya asked him. Bleindel hesitated, perhaps trying to determine whether he’d offended her. That’s two offworlders skewered in the space of ten minutes, Ranya, she told herself. If you keep that up, no one is going to come to you about anything. She gave the businessman a small smile in an attempt to soften the sting of her words, waving away the question. “Forgive me. I understand that visitors from the Coalition worlds aren’t sure what to expect when they learn that Gadira is a sultanate with a planetwide religious tradition. However, our Quranism is derived from the reformation movements of the twenty-second century, not the hadith teachings that gave rise to the Terran Caliphate. We are a good deal more liberal than you might think.”

“I see,” said Bleindel. “You are correct, of course. I have some familiarity with Caliphate worlds and I assumed Gadira would be similar.”

“You might be surprised by how things work beneath the surface even in the more restrictive Caliphate worlds, Mr. Bleindel.” Ranya had never visited them herself, but her family had ties to aristocratic houses in the Terran Caliphate. Over the years, she’d had some very interesting conversations with visiting relatives. “But, to answer your original question, it’s true that few women of my station are familiar with military affairs. Unfortunately the house of el-Nasir has a distinct shortage of princes, which means that the events of the last few years have compelled me to take an interest in such things.”

“The rise of the caids?” Bleindel stumbled a bit over the Gadiran word.

Ranya nodded. “It’s ‘cah-eeds,’ not ‘ky-yeeds.’ But yes.”

“My apologies, I am still learning, Amira,” Bleindel said with a small smile. “My company’s security consultants provided me with only a basic overview. The desert chieftains do not like your uncle’s dealings with the Montréalais, correct?”

“The Republic of Montréal isn’t really the problem,” said Ranya. “It’s the explosion of interstellar commerce. In the past, Gadira sometimes went decades without a starship visit. But since Montréal reestablished regular contact a couple of generations ago, our people have seen their native industries wiped out by the flood of cheaper, better goods from other worlds. They’ve seen their financial system swallowed up by interstellar banks. They’ve seen the popular culture of the great powers overwhelm their entertainment, drowning their children in what they regard as borderline pornography. Montréal is simply the face of the modern world to Gadira’s more traditional people, and they don’t like what they see.”

Bey Salem snorted. “They want to turn back the clock, and they are frustrated because it can’t be done.”

“Can you blame them?” Ranya said. “Interstellar commerce has enriched some Gadirans—the beys, for example. But the rural people and the less-educated urban workers have seen few of the benefits. They’ve lost lands and livelihoods to foreigners who appear to show contempt for their values.”

“That may be true, at least in part,” Bey Salem said. “But it is not the whole story, Ranya. Standards of living are improving around the planet. Some people have lost jobs, true, but others have found better jobs, and more are coming. The working classes have no rational reason for their anger, and they certainly have no excuse for acts of terrorism.”

“You need not remind me of that, Bey Salem,” said Ranya. She glanced at the palace, gleaming in the white sunshine. It had been her father’s until the day a Caidist suicide bomber had slipped past the Royal Guard. “For the record, I suspect the people of the working classes do not share your rosy view of their economic prospects. But whether their anger is justified or not, it is real. If the Caidists get their way, Gadira will close its spaceports to all contact with non-Islamic powers and ban most modern technology. I can think of no better way to guarantee centuries of poverty and backwardness.”

“I can see why the Montréalais are so interested in supporting the sultanate,” Bleindel said. “If the radicals have their way, they’ll lose fifty years of investments and development here.”

“Exactly,” said Ranya. She did not add that the more the sultan leaned on the Montréalais for support, the more caids became radicalized. Helping an offworld investor to understand why the Caidists were upset was one thing, but laying bare the harsh paradox of the sultan’s weakness was another thing entirely.

“How much of a threat do the Caidists pose?” Bleindel asked.

“They have already made several attempts to seize control of outlying cities and destroy offworlder facilities. They are not well organized or well armed, but they enjoy a good deal of popular support in some quarters, and they are quite determined.” Ranya nodded back in the direction of the grav tank. “There is a reason we are modernizing the Royal Guard.”

“An excess of caution, Mr. Bleindel,” Bey Salem quickly pointed out. “The attempts the amira refers to were unsuccessful. I assure you that protecting foreign investments in Gadira is of utmost importance to Sultan Rashid. You need have no concerns about doing business here.”

“Indeed. I am sure that your caids”—this time Bleindel got the pronunciation correct—“will come to terms with the futility of their position soon enough. But it occurs to me that an army strong enough to deter the Caidists is probably strong enough to simply put an end to the unrest altogether. How long before your new tanks are in service, Amira?”

Ranya paused in their stroll and turned to study the Dremish businessman carefully. A small fountain played nearby. “Is Dielkirk’s investment contingent upon the suppression of Caidist unrest, Mr. Bleindel?” she asked.

Bleindel hesitated. “I am only here to gather information for my company’s executive leadership, Amira,” he said. “That would be up to my superiors. I simply wish to provide the most complete report possible so that they can make good decisions.”

“Many beys support Sultan Rashid in dealing sternly with the unrest, Mr. Bleindel,” Bey Salem said. “Our taxes pay for his army, after all, and we too would like to see a good return on our investment. I have been urging the sultan to consider more stringent measures for some time now, and to settle the question once and for all.”

“Why does the sultan hesitate, then?” Bleindel asked.

Because he leaves everything to his ministers? Ranya wanted to say. Or because he does not trust the army and worries they might turn on us? But once again those were not the sorts of concerns to share with an offworlder she had just met. Instead, she shrugged. “The sultan is not eager to turn heavy armor loose on our fellow Gadirans, even the most defiant ones,” she said. “Ultimately, we can buy all the grav tanks we want from Montréal, but tanks won’t change minds. Good jobs and a little more sympathy for Quranist sensibilities are the weapons that will defeat the Caidists. Companies such as Dielkirk can bring the jobs to Gadira. If their representatives are careful to pay attention to cultural concerns, so much the better.”

Bleindel bowed. “The sultan’s restraint is commendable. Forgive me if I have been impolite in my questions, Amira.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Ranya replied. She glanced toward the palace’s west veranda, which was only a short distance away. “Shall we go inside and perhaps have some lemonade? I would like to hear more about your company’s plans—and why Bey Salem is so enthusiastic about them.”

Salem el-Fasi laughed softly. “A healthy percentage, of course,” he replied. “But I am sincere in my belief that Mr. Bleindel’s company represents an opportunity all Gadirans should welcome.”

“At least you are honest about your venality, Bey Salem,” Ranya said, but she gave the businessman a small smile to make light of the remark. She had to be careful about whom she trusted, and if she couldn’t count on Salem el-Fasi to always do the right thing, at least she could predict how he might act in his own self-interest. So long as he saw that his fortunes would flourish alongside those of House Nasir, he could be counted on.

She motioned toward the veranda. “This way, Mr. Bleindel. And, while we walk, I hope you’ll allow me to tell you a little about the palace and its gardens.”

“I would be delighted, Amira,” Bleindel replied, and followed her inside.