Valiant Dust

21

Royal Yacht Shihab, Silver Sea

This day cannot end soon enough, Ranya el-Nasir told herself. There was simply too much to take in: uncertain alliances, unexpected betrayals, revolutions and coups and invasions … the whole planet was mad today, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine what it all signified in the end. She steadied herself with one hand on the seatback of the specialist manning Shihab’s main communications console, rocking with the gentle motion as the yacht lolled in the heavy swells, and tried to understand what the orbital vid feed showed her. She could make out small slivers of light against the blackness of space and tiny bursts of light erupting around them, but its meaning was beyond her.

“Can someone explain what we are seeing here?” she asked the soldiers around her. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“I beg your pardon, Amira,” the technician said. “Let me see if I can improve the image.” He adjusted the controls, and the view suddenly shifted, zooming in on one of the blurry slivers. It was a warship painted in white and buff, maneuvering frantically as its turrets swiveled to remain trained on target.

“It’s the Aquilan cruiser,” Tarek Zakur said, studying the image alongside her. “They are fighting the Dremish warships.”

Sikander! Ranya drew in a deep breath, doing her best to master her sudden surge of worry. Regardless of what she felt for the Kashmiri officer, she had many more important things to concern herself with than the fate of one man, no matter how much she cared for him. She whispered a swift prayer for his safety, and focused on what she was seeing. “Who is winning?” she asked Tarek Zakur.

“I couldn’t say, Amira. I haven’t seen many space battles.” Zakur looked to the technician. “Where are we getting this feed from?”

“The Montréalais orbital traffic-control station,” the man said. “They are watching the battle with great interest.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Ranya said. She made herself straighten up and look away from the console; she could not afford to spend time watching a battle whose outcome she could not influence in the least. In fact, she didn’t entirely understand why Hector and Panther were firing on one another. Dremark certainly indicated its hostility to the sultanate by attacking Royal Guard strongpoints in Tanjeer and providing fire support for the el-Fasi forces attacking the Khalifa Palace, but as far as she knew Aquila had no obligation to intervene on behalf of the el-Nasirs. They must see a compelling interest of their own in foiling the Dremish schemes, she decided. For the moment, she would have to content herself with the simple fact that the Commonwealth’s interests appeared to align with her own; she’d piece together the consequences once she knew whether the Commonwealth of Aquila or the Empire of Dremark controlled the approaches to the planet. “Update me if it becomes clear that one side or the other is winning the battle in orbit,” she told the technician.

She turned away from the space battle and moved over to study a holo-table map depicting the fighting going on around the planet. Shihab’s command center was a cramped space at the aft end of the main cabin, partitioned off from the luxurious living areas. Four or five people in the room would have filled it, but almost twice that many tried to cram into the room at once: sensor operators manning the yacht’s defensive systems, comm experts trying to maintain secure channels to key Royal Guard commands throughout the world, and high-ranking officers coordinating the response of the sultan’s army as they tried to simultaneously manage the street fighting against extremists in the major cities, Salem el-Fasi’s developing coup, and now the overwhelming firepower of Dremish forces landing at key spots around the planet. So far, it seemed that three major crises held equal importance: the multisided battle for control of the capital, the attack on the Khalifa Palace, and a bold assault against the Royal Guard base in the city of Nador by Caidist forces out of the Harthawi Basin.

Nador does not matter, she decided. Tomorrow she could worry about whether or not Gadira’s second-largest city was under the control of Caidists or not. Nor could she do much about the standoff around the Khalifa Palace. That left Tanjeer. The Royal Guard regiments stationed at the Abdelkadar Barracks seemed to be paralyzed by conflicting orders; perhaps that was something she could sort out—

“Amira, Sultan Rashid wishes to speak with you,” Captain Zakur said, interrupting her train of thought. “The situation at Toutay is becoming more serious.”

More serious? she wondered. There didn’t seem to be much room left for things to get any worse. She steeled herself to maintain a calm demeanor, and simply nodded. “Of course. Which channel?”

“Here, Amira,” Zakur replied. He guided her over to a seat by one of the comm consoles and handed her a headset so that the din of alarms, signals, and people talking loudly all around her wouldn’t drown out her conversation.

Ranya adjusted the headset, and looked into the screen. Her uncle gazed back at her from what seemed to be the passenger seat in a transport; the image shook and bounced, most likely from the hand of whoever held the mobile comm unit. A small trickle of blood from a cut at his hairline streaked the dust on the side of his face. “Ah, there you are,” he said over the channel, and gave her a small smile. “Are you safe, Ranya?”

“For the moment,” she told him. “Where are you? What is happening?”

“General Mirza has informed me he can no longer defend what is left of the Khalifa Palace. We are attempting to withdraw through the mountains above Toutay. The decision has been made to shift command to Ben-Daleh. I am told that it remains in loyal hands.” Someone spoke to Rashid from off the comm unit’s camera; he nodded before looking back into the screen. “We may be out of communication for a while; Shihab will be our primary command center until we reestablish ourselves at Ben-Daleh.”

“I understand, Uncle,” Ranya said. “Go with God.”

Rashid nodded. He looked weary, more exhausted than Ranya had ever seen him. He had made a life of avoiding difficult things, and now that they had found him anyway, he was not ready to meet them. “There is something more,” he said, and his face seemed to crumple as she watched. “Your aunt Yasmin is dead, Ranya. She was in the Blue Tower when one of the orbital strikes made a direct hit. No one … no one survived.”

Ranya felt a dagger of grief in the center of her chest. “Lina and Sabrina?” she whispered. Her cousins were only children!

“Sabrina was with Yasmin,” Rashid said. “Lina is alive, but she was trapped in a different part of the palace and the guards couldn’t get her to my transport. They’re going to try to get her out on foot.”

“Uncle—” she began, but then her voice caught in the throat. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

A sudden jarring movement made Rashid grasp his seat restraints as he shook from side to side. Ranya heard voices shouting in panic and warning. When the image steadied again, he had to raise his voice to make himself heard. “It seems that there are Dremish combat flyers in our vicinity,” he told Ranya. “We may not be able to continue this conversation for long.”

Ranya finally found her voice. “Get to safety,” she urged the sultan. “We will find a way to fight back. This will not be the end for us, I promise you.”

“Fighting back is the only thing Gadirans know how to do,” Rashid said sadly. “We are a contentious race. Our great tragedy is that all our power of defiance is spent on the wrong targets. The caids are not wrong to—”

The screen went black. Static burst in her ears, and then images flickered across the screen—fire, smoke, a startling blue glimpse of tumbling sky and mountainside—accompanied by a terrible roar. Ranya snatched the headset away, and stared at the screen. “Uncle Rashid!” she cried. “Uncle Rashid!”

Around her, the command center erupted into chaos. Shouts and cries of panic filled the room. Desperately, Ranya tried to restore the connection. “Captain Zakur!” she called. “I’ve lost the sultan!”

Zakur didn’t answer. In fact, the whole room fell silent a moment later. Ranya looked up, and found every man in the command center staring at one small screen. It showed the wreckage of a transport scattered over the barren shoulder of a mountain; a heavy flyer of a design unfamiliar to her orbited the crash site lazily, and then drifted away. “What is it?” Ranya demanded. “What happened?”

“The sultan’s transport,” Zakur said. “It’s been shot down.”

Ranya stared at the screen, hoping for some hint of a miracle. Perhaps he’d somehow been thrown clear of the wreckage, or perhaps there was a mistake and he wasn’t actually on board that transport, but in her heart she knew that she gazed on a scene of grim finality. There would be no miraculous escape this time. “He is dead,” she said slowly—a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Amira,” the guard captain said. He covered his eyes and looked away, the first time in her life that Ranya had ever seen Tarek Zakur flinch from anything. “He is.”

Slowly, Ranya got to her feet. She felt the eyes of the soldiers in the crowded command center shifting to her, and suddenly she felt the overwhelming need to get out of the room. Somehow she retained the presence of mind to walk deliberately instead of running, brushing tears from her eyes as she fled out to the yacht’s aft deck.

The daylight dazzled her eyes after the dim illumination of the vid displays and comm screens. Shihab was far enough out to sea that even the tallest buildings in Tanjeer were not visible over the horizon, but she could easily make out the jagged brown rampart of the coastal mountains east of the capital. God, lend me strength, she prayed as she gazed out over the bright sea. Her own fate didn’t concern her, but there seemed no end to the grief and sorrow that had been laid in store for the people around her. She thought of the gardens her uncle Rashid had tended so diligently on the grounds of El-Badi, and suddenly found herself filled with an overwhelming grief for her homeworld. The cycle of death and rage had to be ended, but how? If she somehow survived the day and defeated Salem el-Fasi, the caids would still be her enemies. And if she did not survive the day, then the caids would fight on against el-Fasi and the Dremish until they forced the offworlders to burn half the world in order to pacify them.

The caids … She thought about what Rashid had said just before the missiles hit. Was that what he was suggesting? She took a deep breath, examining the idea taking shape in her mind. It couldn’t possibly work, but what other choice did she have? Her own fate meant nothing when weighed against the fate of the whole planet.

Tarek Zakur approached slowly, hesitant to intrude on her. “Sultana, I am sorry,” he said in a ragged voice. “Your uncle was a better man than most people knew.”

Sultana? Ranya wondered. The title sounded ridiculous to her, almost disrespectful; she couldn’t make any claim to the throne. Someone would have to be chosen, there would have to be a logical decision about the succession … but she realized that she held the throne, whether she was ready for it or not. Ranya took a deep breath, and turned to face Zakur. “Thank you, Tarek. You served him well. What happened was not your fault.”

The captain bowed deeply, acknowledging her words. He straightened, his face once again impassive. “There are new reports of heavy fighting in Nador between Caid Ahmed el-Manjour’s people and our garrison there. And the Dremish have secured the Tanjeer spaceport. We are too close here; we need to set a course and get farther away from the capital before our enemies figure out where you are, Sultana.”

“If the Dremish cruiser remains in orbit, then nowhere on the planet is safe,” Ranya told Zakur. She glanced up at the sky; there was no hint of the furious battle raging overhead. “Pick the course that seems best to you.”

“Yes, Sultana.” Zakur hesitated. “What do you mean to do?”

“Am I that transparent?” Ranya asked.

“Only because I know you well, Sultana. You have decided on something, and you think I will not like it.”

“I think I will not like it,” she replied, and allowed herself a small ironic smile. “Contact all Royal Guard formations under our command. Order them to cease operations against Caidist forces and disengage to the best of their ability. We will turn our full force against Salem el-Fasi and his Dremish allies—they are the only enemy that matters. In fact, broadcast the command openly, and authenticate it as needed with our field commanders. I want everyone to know who we are fighting and why.”

Zakur nodded. “At once, Sultana. Our forces may need to defend themselves if the Caidists and insurgents continue their attacks, though.”

“Only to the minimum degree necessary,” Ranya said. “As for the Caidists, let me see what I can do about that. Put a call through to Hadji Tumar ibn Sakak.”

“The scholar?” Zakur frowned, a puzzled look on his face.

“Yes. It is my hope that he can help us.”

“As you wish, Sultana. I will have your orders relayed and I will have our communications specialists find Hadji Tumar for you.” Zakur bowed and went back belowdecks, heading for the command center.

Shihab turned toward the southeast and accelerated; the distant brown haze that marked the location of Tanjeer swung around slowly until it was directly astern. Evidently Tarek Zakur had some destination in mind, although Ranya doubted whether the yacht could get far enough away from the enemy forces in the capital to gain any measurable degree of safety. Even at her best speed, Shihab could not outrun Dremish assault shuttles—or kinetic strikes from orbit. Their best defense was looking innocuous. She moved to the lee rail and stared out over the waves, deliberately pushing her grief for her uncle and his family out of her mind, and thinking carefully about her next move.

A few minutes later, Captain Zakur summoned her back to the command room. “We have Hadji Tumar, Sultana,” he told her.

Ranya followed him below. One of the communications consoles had been cleared for her use; she sat down and activated the screen. She found the lean, spectacled visage of Hadji Tumar regarding her from what appeared to be a cluttered and disorganized private office. “Good afternoon, Amira,” he said to her.

“Thank you for taking my call, Allameh,” she replied. “I hope you are safe from the fighting.”

“As safe as anyone can be today,” the old scholar said. “But I have a feeling you did not call me to inquire after my safety. How may I be of service?”

“I have a favor to ask of you. I need you to speak to the Caidist leaders on my behalf, and ask them to hear me out.” Ranya gestured helplessly at the air. “We all face a very dangerous new enemy, and I do not believe they understand the threat. I have to try to convince them.”

Tumar studied her through the screen. “Are you speaking on behalf of the sultan, Amira Ranya?”

Ranya steeled herself. “Sultan Rashid is dead. His transport was shot down near the Khalifa Palace.”

The old scholar flinched. “God is merciful,” he whispered. “I see. This has been a terrible day—I am sorry for your loss. What do you wish me to convey to the caids?”

Ranya told Tumar what she meant to do. When she finished, the allameh looked dubious, but he nodded. “I will ask, Amira,” he said. “I cannot promise that they will agree, but I believe they will at least listen. Give me half an hour.”

* * *

It ended up taking almost an hour to make the arrangements for the next call. Ranya spent the time rehearsing what she meant to say, while doing what she could to keep up on the military developments. She lost track of the battle between Hector and Panther; the orbit of the Montréalais traffic-control station carried it out of sight of the fighting, leaving her to wonder if the battle had concluded, which ship had won, and whether Sikander had survived the day or not. The Dremish troops finished securing the spaceport in Tanjeer and turned their attention on the Abdelkadar Barracks on the outskirts of the capital, heavily damaging the base with airstrikes. Whether they knew it or not, the Dremish might have aided her there, since many of the troops at Abdelkadar were under the control of commanders who had refused the sultanate’s orders, declaring for Salem el-Fasi. But not all of them, Ranya reminded herself. Many of the men would be confused or torn by their conflicting orders, and every Gadiran who died today, loyal or disloyal, was one of her people.

Finally Captain Zakur appeared and led her to one of the yacht’s conference rooms, hastily refitted with comm gear to provide her with more privacy than the crowded command center. She sat down, composed herself for a moment, then activated the vidscreen.

In one panel of the divided conference display she saw Tumar ibn Sakak, still working out of his old-fashioned office. In three additional panels she faced two sun-darkened, gray-bearded men in the traditional garb of the desert tribes, and a younger man with olive skin and black, curly hair, who wore a keffiyeh over the dirty jumpsuit of an urban laborer. She recognized the first of the gray-bearded men as Harsaf el-Tayib, but she didn’t know the other two. All three started in surprise as they realized who she was.

“Hadji Tumar, you have deceived us!” the desert chieftain she didn’t know protested. He was a short, round-bodied man, and it appeared that he was taking the call from a mining pit or quarry somewhere in the deep desert. “This is the amira!”

“Forgive me, Caid Ahmed,” the old scholar said. “She asked to speak with you, and I did not think you would agree if I told you first. I would regard it as a great personal favor if you would consent to hear her out.”

“It is not fitting for a man of God to employ falsehoods,” the chieftain said with a scowl.

“It is not fitting for servants of God to kill one another, and there has been far too much of that of late, especially when their strife profits the godless,” Tumar answered. The protesting chieftain’s scowl deepened, but he fell silent. “Amira Ranya, this is Caid Ahmed el-Manjour. The other men you can see are Caid Harsaf el-Tayib and Alonzo Khouri. Several others are listening in but do not wish to reveal themselves at this time.”

“I remember Caid Harsaf from the time when my father was sultan,” Ranya said. She looked at the lean, bearded chieftain. “I thank you for hearing me out.”

“It is only because of my respect for the allameh that I am listening,” Harsaf el-Tayib replied. “Where is the sultan? The allameh said he wanted to warn us of a danger threatening us all.”

“Sultan Rashid el-Nasir is dead,” Ranya said, keeping her voice even. “His transport was shot down a little more than an hour ago as he left the Khalifa Palace.”

“Rashid is dead?” Caid Harsaf said, surprised. He glanced at the others in his display. “Who is sultan now?”

“I am now the eldest surviving heir of Sultan Kamal, and the head of House Nasir,” said Ranya.

“A woman cannot be sultan!” Caid Ahmed blustered.

“No, but she can be sultana,” Ranya replied. “I do not claim that title yet, however. It is my hope to serve as regent only until the proper succession can be determined, and today is not the day to do that.”

Caid Harsaf gave el-Manjour a humorless smile. “You see, Ahmed? Hadji Tumar did not lie. He promised the head of state, not Sultan Rashid by name.” His eyes shifted to the allameh. “But I must wonder if the amira can be regent.”

“There is precedent,” Tumar answered. As a scholar and jurist, his view on that question carried a good deal of weight. “Speak your mind, Amira.”

“We share a common enemy,” she told the rebel leaders. “I told you that Sultan Rashid is dead, but I did not tell you who killed him. He was shot down by a Dremish assault shuttle, after the Dremish warship in orbit over our planet launched a kinetic bombardment that destroyed much of the Khalifa Palace. I understand that Sultana Yasmin and at least one of her daughters were killed in this bombardment, too. One of my cousins may still survive—I simply do not know.” A surge of anger and grief welled up in the core of her being at that thought, but she fought it down and continued. “You all know by now that Salem el-Fasi is attempting to claim the throne. What you might not yet realize is that Dremark is backing him with troops and warships so that they can seize control of Gadira and install el-Fasi as their puppet.”

“Montréal, Dremark, what is the difference?” Alonzo Khouri asked, speaking for the first time. “Any of the Coalition powers would be happy to be our master. They will still get rich from our labor while we remain buried in poverty.”

“The difference is that it’s been twenty years since a Montréalais garrison occupied Gadira,” Ranya answered. “Yes, they provided my uncle with military aid and investments, but they gave up on stationing troops here a long time ago. Today Dremark’s soldiers saw fit to obliterate a six-hundred-year-old planetary treasure with bombs from orbit and assassinate my uncle. How do you think they will deal with riots and protests in the poor neighborhoods of our cities?” She shifted her gaze to the desert chieftains. “Or open rebellion by the free desert tribes?”

“If they think they can crush us under their heels, they are fools,” Caid Ahmed snarled. But Caid Harsaf said nothing, shifting in his seat and reaching up to stroke his beard.

“There is something else I need to show you,” Ranya said. She linked her dataslate to the vidscreen and brought up an image to show the others—a slender, sandy-haired offworlder, captured in midstride by a security cam near the parade ground of El-Badi Palace. “This is a man who calls himself Otto Bleindel. He is the Dremish consul in Gadira.”

To her surprise, all three rebels showed signs of recognition. Caid Ahmed leaned closer, and muttered something under his breath. Caid Harsaf paused in stroking his beard. And Alonzo Khouri frowned. “I know him. He told us his name was Hardesty, and he said he was a mercenary.”

“He has been supplying you with your modern Cygnan weapons, correct?” said Ranya. “He was spotted in Meknez with the latest arms shipment, which the Royal Guard intercepted. It turns out he has also been arming Bey Salem.” She adjusted the footage, expanding it to show Salem el-Fasi walking beside Bleindel on the palace grounds. “I think he has been playing us all for fools. While he was giving you the firepower you needed to attack my uncle, he was also arming Bey Salem’s forces.”

“To what purpose?” Khouri asked.

“So that Bey Salem could overthrow the sultanate,” Hadji Tumar answered for Ranya. “This offworlder armed you so that you would weaken or defeat Sultan Rashid, and make it possible for Bey Salem to seize power and sign a treaty of cooperation with Dremark. I know little about such things, but it appears to me that his plan is well on its way to succeeding.”

“Can you prove this?” Caid Harsaf asked Ranya.

“You know where your weapons came from. As for Bey Salem’s exact bargain with Dremark, I admit that I am guessing. But Salem el-Fasi’s troops are now sitting in El-Badi Palace, and Dremish troops are firing on the Royal Guard. What other explanation is there?” Ranya allowed the question to hang in the air.

There was a long silence as the three men considered her words. Finally Caid Harsaf spoke again. “Assuming everything you say is true, Amira, what exactly do you propose?”

“I am ordering the Royal Guard to disengage from all actions against your forces,” said Ranya. “We are turning our full strength to putting down el-Fasi’s coup attempt and fighting back against Dremark. I beg you for your help in fighting our common enemy, but if you cannot bring yourself to fight alongside the Royal Guard, I hope you will at least stand aside and let us fight for you.”

“For us? You fight to keep yourself in power,” Alonzo Khouri observed.

“That may be true today,” Ranya replied. “Tomorrow, it will be up to you. I will not reign without the consent of the people. Assuming I am not killed by Salem el-Fasi or his Dremish allies, I promise before God that I will convene an assembly to decide whether Gadira should have a sultan, what place our Quranist beliefs should have in our society, and whether we will welcome or shun offworld contact. But if you do not help me now, you’ll have to ask the Emperor of Dremark what kind of world he will allow you to live in.” Ranya looked at each of the men in turn, and then back to Khouri. “Gadira for Gadirans, isn’t that your slogan?”

The rebel leaders looked away, perhaps trying to gauge each other’s reactions or listening to people who were not on Ranya’s screen. The silence stretched on for long seconds, and then Caid Harsaf spoke. “Very well, Amira,” he said. “Speaking for the el-Tayibs, we will hold our positions if your Royal Guard does not attack us, and we will not move against you as long as you are fighting Dremark or Bey Salem. As for allying with you … I must think on it more.”

“The el-Manjouri will do the same,” Caid Ahmed growled.

“I can only speak for my own people in Tanjeer,” said Khouri, “but we have been fighting el-Fasi and his imperialist allies all day, and we will continue to do so. We will avoid engaging the Royal Guard if they do not attack us.”

Ranya let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. “I can expect no more. Go make whatever arrangements you have to; we will speak again later.” She looked at each man in turn, and gave them one small nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse me … I have an invasion to repel.”