Valiant Dust

6

Tanjeer, Gadira II

Otto Bleindel sat in the shadows of the coffee shop, sipping at a strong Gadiran roast and idly watching the crowd. The only bars on Gadira were tucked away in offworlder districts, but coffeehouses served as a cultural replacement. There were hundreds upon hundreds of cafés in Tanjeer, each serving up its own particular décor and conversation. Just like the nightlife of less modest societies, café culture acted as the social outlet for students, young professionals, and both rich and poor alike. Bleindel had little use for the cultural traditions that shackled Gadira to archaic social norms, but he found that he greatly approved of Tanjeer’s coffee shops. He appreciated the rich and complex flavors of Gadiran-style coffee, but he also enjoyed the free-ranging discussion and polite debate of public issues that characterized the café crowd. Even the tension between cultural liberalization and Quranist modesty was a permissible subject in coffeehouse conversations, although Bleindel noted that Gadirans universally supported—or at least claimed to support—the place of religion in civic life.

This is an intelligence agent’s bonanza, he decided as he studied the crowd. Talk that would be considered seditious or shocking in other settings was openly aired in Gadira’s cafés. All a sultanate spy needed to do in order to identify malcontents and potential revolutionaries was to wander into a café, order a cup of coffee, and listen attentively. Of course, as one of the top special agents in the Security Bureau of the Empire of Dremark, Otto Bleindel noticed things that others might miss. For example, while coffeehouse philosophers never argued that their world would be better off if people abandoned their antiquated faith, Bleindel could see that better-educated individuals guarded their feelings about the outsized influence wielded by Gadiran allamehs and imams and their so-called schools. It would be an interesting question for a future colonial administration; economic development and the adoption of Coalition cultural norms would be greatly accelerated by making mosques into museums, but of course few things provoked people like efforts to suppress their religious beliefs.

A man in dark trousers and a sky-blue shirt entered the café, surreptitiously sweeping the room with his eyes. He had a young man’s beard, thin and scraggly, with surprisingly light-colored eyes set in a broad, open face, and hair that was a shaggy mass of dark ringlets. His gaze rested briefly on Bleindel; then he turned to another table and struck up a conversation with a group of professionals. Bleindel picked up his dataslate and resumed his study of the local news features, waiting patiently. After a few minutes, the young man came and joined him at his table.

“Salamu aleikum, Mr. Hardesty,” he said as he sat down. “I am Alonzo Khouri. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“None at all,” Bleindel replied. Khouri did not look like a Gadiran rebel; he’d half expected to meet a stern desert tribesman in a robe and keffiyeh. “Extend your hand, please.”

Khouri took a sip of his own coffee and set it down, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rested his hand on the table within easy reach. Good tradecraft, Bleindel noted. He made a show of reaching for his own coffee, and quickly brushed a small skin sampler against Khouri’s hand. A quick glance at the indicator confirmed that he was indeed speaking with the man he was here to meet. “Very good, thank you. Do you wish to see my bona fides?”

“No need, Mr. Hardesty.” Khouri nodded at the café around them. “You have been under observation for some time now.”

Bleindel affected a look of mild surprise. He’d known as soon as he entered, but he didn’t want to look too confident. “Well, I suppose that explains why you’d feel comfortable discussing our business in such an open setting.”

“We can account for everybody here. Offworlders often patronize this particular shop, and discuss business here with Gadirans who deal with their companies.” Khouri smiled. “Hiding in plain sight attracts much less attention than trying to not be seen.”

“I am sure that your knowledge of the local conditions exceeds mine, Mr. Khouri. If you say we’re safe to talk here, then I believe you.”

“Safe enough,” Khouri replied. He leaned back in his chair, adopting a casual pose, but his eyes remained cold and intense. “I understand that you have come to Gadira to offer us help with our present situation. Excellent—we can use all the assistance we can get, especially since the khanza Montréalais are selling tanks to the sultan’s army now. But I need to know who you are and why you want to help us, Mr. Hardesty. If I am not satisfied with the answers, this café may not be all that safe after all.”

“A reasonable precaution,” Bleindel said. “Hardesty is not my name, of course.”

“That we knew already. Salem el-Fasi seems to be under the impression that you are a Dremish businessman named Bleindel.”

“A cover identity. Bey Salem deals with offworld interests, and I needed a plausible reason to come to Gadira, travel more or less freely, and meet lots of people.”

“Does el-Fasi know the true nature of your business on Gadira?”

“Not exactly. He does, however, know quite a lot about moving cargo to or from this planet, so he is useful as a conduit.” Bleindel sipped at his coffee. This was potentially tricky; he didn’t want Khouri and the caids he represented to become too curious about el-Fasi’s role in this whole business. “If I were you, I would not assume that Bey Salem’s assistance implies any particular zeal for your cause. He’s interested in getting paid, and we plan to pay him handsomely to ignore some shipments that will soon be arriving at his port facilities in Meknez.”

“Trust a bey to close his eyes and fill his pockets,” Khouri said with a sour look. “That is exactly the sort of corruption that must be rooted out.”

“In this case, Salem el-Fasi’s greed will prove very useful to both of us. There will be plenty of time to convince men like el-Fasi to mend their ways after your revolution succeeds.”

Khouri thought for a moment, then nodded. “Perhaps. So why are you interested in helping us, Mr. Hardesty?”

“I’m a mercenary, Mr. Khouri. My employers are devout and wealthy emirs in the Terran Caliphate who look for opportunities to support various Islamic movements throughout Coalition space. Important people in the Caliphate remember that Gadira was settled by the Faithful. They are offended by the influence secular powers such as Montréal hold over this world, and they want to see similarly devout men come to power here.” That, of course, was not remotely true, but Bleindel’s superiors in the Imperial Security Bureau had carefully arranged the necessary background elements if Gadira’s rebels were inclined to investigate more closely.

“Are you a Believer?” Khouri asked him.

“No, I am not. Your cause isn’t my cause, Mr. Khouri. But I am a professional, and my services have been retained to provide you with the very best assistance I can render.” Bleindel sipped his coffee again, allowing Khouri to digest that for a moment. He had considered the idea of posing as a fellow Quranist—after all, many Muslims throughout Coalition space came from non-Arabic phenotypes and cultures—but ultimately he’d settled on the mercenary approach as the simplest. In the first place, he’d been afraid that even with weeks and weeks of study, he might find himself unable to successfully pass himself off as a devoted follower of the Prophet. More importantly, he hadn’t wanted to. Quranism struck him as fundamentally irrational, obsolete, even in the rather moderate consensus that had emerged from the Martian schools a few centuries ago. “Is that a problem?”

“I am a revolutionary and a socialist.” Khouri smiled without humor. “Yes, I am also a Believer, but we are not interested in imposing some form of medieval law, Mr. Hardesty. We only want to protect our culture, and put an end to the offworld plundering of our economy.”

“What about the desert caids? Do they feel the same way?”

“They’re more concerned with the cultural questions, and less conscious of their economic interests. The fact that you are a mercenary and an infidel will trouble them.”

“The caids are, of course, free to decline my services. But I hope you’ll hear me out, and let me prove my reliability. I am being paid very well to help you, and I’m anxious to deliver on the contract.”

Khouri snorted. “I suppose a man working toward a large paycheck has a certain dedication to the task,” he admitted. “Very well, then. What sort of help can you provide us?”

No one nearby seemed to be listening closely, but Bleindel lowered his voice anyway. “I have a shipment of Cygnan mag rifles, antitank weapons, and antiair missiles. I can also offer my own personal expertise in how they should be employed.”

“The Kingdom of Cygnus is involved in this, too?” Khouri asked, frowning.

“No, it’s not—my apologies for the confusion. It just happens that my contacts can get their hands on Cygnan surplus weaponry, and that’s the best match for your needs.”

“How big of a shipment are you talking about?”

“Four full standard cargo containers.” Bleindel leaned close. “Two thousand rifles, two hundred disposable antitank missiles, and one hundred surface-to-air missile launchers. The arms lag a generation or so behind current leading-edge military tech, but they’re as good as anything Montréal shares with the sultanate, and far ahead of anything your people have employed so far. And they’re in-system now. I need to coordinate with your people to ensure they get into the right hands.”

The young revolutionary could not keep the surprise from his face. He simply stared at Bleindel for a long moment. “We can arrange continued support for the foreseeable future,” Bleindel added. “Shipments that size every three to six weeks, plus medical supplies, communications gear, some transport assets, maybe even a handful of combat flyers, although those will require special arrangements…” Bleindel noticed that Khouri was still staring at him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Khouri?”

It took a moment for Khouri to gather his thoughts. “Our mythology is full of tales of foolish men who accept gifts from jinn without asking the price,” he finally said. “Mag rifles and antitank weapons would be a great help to us, there is no point in denying it. But I must know who is aiding us, because this seems too good to be true.”

“Well, on a personal note, I hope to establish a profitable relationship with the revolutionary government that assumes power after defeating the sultanate and evicting the Montréalais. That is my price.” Bleindel leaned back again, and adopted a thoughtful expression. “Regarding the patrons who provide the Cygnan arms, I’ve been instructed to maintain their confidentiality. But I will be glad to convey to them any message you care to send. If you ask for more information about their identities they may choose to tell you more, but due to travel times, it will be five or six weeks before you get an answer.”

“You say that the arms are already in-system?”

“Mr. Khouri, they are currently about ten kilometers from where we are sitting. The sooner we can arrange delivery, the better. You may have a need for the antitank weaponry soon.”

Khouri’s eyebrows rose. “The containers are in Tanjeer? Very well, Mr. Hardesty. I will consult with my superiors and pass along your offer.”

“Excellent.” Bleindel handed Khouri a slim card. “This is my private contact information. It’s a secure channel. I will await contact from your people to coordinate the delivery.”

“I understand.”

“Also, tell your people to find a place well away from prying eyes where we can conduct live-fire training. I’ll need to instruct some of your fighters in the operation of the weapons.”

“Our fighters are quite skilled with rifles, I assure you.”

“Then they’ll love their new Cygnan mag rifles. And they’ll still need instruction on the heavier weaponry.”

“I will see to it,” Khouri promised.

“I’ll speak with you soon.” Bleindel drained his coffee, reached into his pocket and pulled out a few credits for the drink before leaving. When he reached the street, he took a ground taxi to a nearby shopping district, circling the stores several times to ensure he was not under observation before he walked over to his hotel. Attention to everyday precautions might someday spell the difference between life and death, after all. It always took time to do things right, but Otto Bleindel was nothing if not meticulous about his own survival.

The call came in the morning. Bleindel worked out the arrangements for the meeting, exercising all due care. Naturally, the insurgents had no reason to trust him, but they needed arms badly, and they recognized that they needed to take a chance that his offer might be genuine.

He spent the day making a show of attending to Dielkirk business in the capital, but three hours after sunset, he made his way over to the city’s port facility in a battered old ground van and drove up to a darkened warehouse. The huge bulk of a star freighter rested in the water alongside the pier. On more developed worlds, spaceships rarely landed on the surface and did all their cargo handling in orbit. Gadira simply didn’t have the orbital infrastructure for that, but as it turned out, basins suitable for large oceangoing transports worked well for spacegoing freighters, too. The existing cargo cranes and maglev rails meant that cargo containers could be quickly distributed through the planet’s ground transport systems instead of waiting for lighterage service in low orbit.

Bleindel got out. A modern lock secured the warehouse door. Keying the combination, he let himself in. The cargo containers and a pair of heavy ground transports waited inside the otherwise empty interior; no one normally used the place, which was why he’d appropriated it. Bey Salem’s mercantile empire included port facilities, ground- and water-transport lines, rail networks, and warehouses in half the cities on the planet. As it turned out, the best place to hide a container full of contraband arms was in the middle of a facility handling thousands of containers, especially one where the inspectors and police could easily be directed away from sensitive areas by el-Fasi’s managers.

A single dim light illuminated the cavernous interior of the building. Ahead of him, five men stood by one of the containers, apparently engaged in a vigorous debate. Bleindel quickened his pace. He recognized Alonzo Khouri and two men from the coffeehouse, but the others wore the plain uniforms of el-Fasi security guards. Khouri and his men seemed agitated, but the echo of their voices died away as they noted his approach.

“What seems to be the trouble?” Bleindel asked as he walked up to the group.

“Customs inspection,” Khouri said, nodding at the two security guards. “They wish to examine the cargo and assess the appropriate duties. I have explained that these arrangements are not needed in our case, but they insist.”

“We understand you wish to arrange private inspections instead of making use of the normal clearance procedures,” the older of the two security guards said to Bleindel. “We are of course happy to comply, but there is a special customs fee. Your drivers refused to pay the fee, so we’re going to have to open the containers and confirm the manifest.”

Bleindel studied the scene. The guards stood a short distance from Khouri and his fellows, pistols holstered at their hips in plain sight. Most likely they were simply freelancing, hoping to collect a decent bribe from an offworlder and his local hirelings clearly trying to dodge an inspection. After all, scores of watchmen worked in the cargo facility, and it was unlikely that they were all in on contraband operations. For whatever reason these two had not gotten the word to stay away from this particular warehouse—or they had received that message, and decided to exercise a little initiative and see if they could shake down some smugglers.

“Open the containers for the inspectors,” he told Khouri. The tall rebel stared at him in surprise for a moment, but Bleindel gave him a reassuring nod. “Go ahead. I don’t mind a reasonable fee.”

“As you wish,” Khouri replied. He turned and unlocked the heavy door at the end of the cargo unit.

The instant the two guards glanced at the container, Bleindel drew a mag pistol from his coat pocket, aimed deliberately, and fired. The weapon coughed once with a harsh, buzzing chirp as its internal coils hurled the dart out of its barrel. The younger guard’s head snapped sideways with a gruesome spray of blood and brain matter; he crumpled to the concrete floor.

The older guard gaped for half a second in astonishment before he went for his own firearm. He never got it out of the holster; Bleindel smoothly swung his weapon over and fired again, taking the second man in the throat. The guard spun half around, reaching for the gaping wound in his neck with clumsy fingers, and then he collapsed to the ground. The echoes of Bleindel’s two shots slowly died away.

The three insurgents stared at Bleindel, shocked. In the sudden silence, he calmly walked over to the second guard and made sure of him with one more shot to the head.

“God is merciful,” one of the other rebels murmured, his voice shaking. “This is bad, very bad. Those men will be missed, Sidi.”

“Not for another hour or two, and by then you’ll be well on your way,” Bleindel told him. He thought it over carefully for a moment, studying the bodies in their spreading pools of blood. “I think it’s very likely that no one knows that they are here. After all, would you tell your supervisor or your colleagues that you’re going to collect a bribe from someone?”

“Wouldn’t it have been better to simply pay them?” Khouri asked.

“The money is nothing. I do not want witnesses.” Bleindel looked around for security cams, and spotted one pointed at the vehicular door at the other end of the building. All the recorders in this warehouse were supposed to be turned off, but it might be for the best to make sure of that before they left. “Go ahead and put the bodies in the container. You can take the bodies with you and find a good spot to dump them outside the city.”

Khouri and his friends looked a little sick at the idea. Strange that they think nothing of taking up arms against their government, but they shrink from handling dead bodies, Bleindel reflected. It must be a cultural predilection. Well, it was a little more work he’d have to do before he left Tanjeer. Salem el-Fasi’s people might be helpful in making sure that no one became too curious about the missing guards and collecting any awkward security footage.

He noticed that the three Gadirans were still staring at the bodies on the floor. “Go on,” he urged Khouri. “It has to be done.”

Khouri nodded at the other two men, who picked up the bodies with distaste. “What next?” the tall rebel asked.

“I’d like to take a few minutes to talk about how you’re going to use these weapons to make this revolution of yours successful. I have some specific operations I think you should consider, now that you’ve got the firepower to execute them.” Bleindel glanced down on the floor, and frowned at the amount of blood pooled on the concrete. “But first, let’s see if we can find a mop.”