Valiant Dust

25

Tanjeer, Gadira II

Five weeks later, the gardens of El-Badi Palace still showed the scars of the fighting. Sikander could see ugly bare patches where mortar bombs had scythed down flowering shrubs or blasted away century-old trees, and one of the more handsome fountains was now missing its centerpiece sculpture; as he understood it, the leaping dolphins had been deliberately riddled with mag-rifle fire by insurgents who could find no other way to express their anger at the sultan after occupying the palace grounds. He wondered if the sculpture would be repaired, replaced, or perhaps redesigned entirely.

“I am glad they allowed you to come down and say good-bye, Sikay,” Sultana Ranya Meriem el-Nasir said to him, and drew herself closer to his side. They strolled slowly through the least-damaged part of the gardens, surrounded by vigilant guards who kept a respectful bubble of space around the two of them as they walked. “I was worried that I would not get a chance to see you before you left.”

“A request from a planetary sovereign requires attention. Commodore Thompson really had no choice but to comply.” A small Aquilan squadron now orbited overhead: Pandarus and Paris had arrived shortly after the Dremish withdrawal, along with a commodore and his staff to establish a temporary Commonwealth station in what had clearly become a sensitive system. Hector herself had departed ten days ago with the aid of a fleet tug, returning to Caledonia for repairs … and leaving Sikander behind, since Acting Captain Chatburn had thrown him off the ship at the first opportunity. Now a courier ship prepared to depart for Caledonia in a few hours, and Sikander had been ordered to be on board.

“Are they really going to charge you?” Ranya asked. “From what I have heard, you are the hero of the day.”

“The board of inquiry has not even begun its deliberations,” said Sikander. That, of course, was why he was no longer serving aboard Hector. Officers facing accusations of the sort hanging over his head couldn’t remain in their billets, especially not when their commanding officers had drawn up the charges. Consequently, Sikander and Darvesh had been temporarily assigned to the Fourth Cruiser Squadron staff while the Commonwealth Navy tried to decide what to do with him. “Commander Chatburn filed serious charges against me, but I’ve heard that Commodore Thompson is something of a poker player. Apparently he was quite impressed by my so-called bluff against the Dremish, and it helps that I was right.”

“I once read that back on ancient Terra, there was an empire that had a military decoration for officers who won battles by disobeying orders,” Ranya said.

“The Military Order of Maria Theresa, from ancient Austria. I ran across that story just a few days ago when examining my own situation. It turns out that it’s a little bit of a myth that it was only awarded for disobeying orders.” Sikander looked back at Ranya and smiled. “But it was awarded for officers who exercised their own initiative, especially for acts ‘that might have been omitted by an honorable officer without reproach.’ If this were ancient Austria, I’d like my chances.”

Ranya laughed. “I will see to it that you leave with a Gadiran decoration, by the way. Your superiors may have a hard time censuring you after the Sultanate of Gadira publicly thanks you for your intrepid actions.”

“For that reason only I would be honored to accept. There are others who deserve recognition more than I. Captain Markham, for example.” Sikander paused to study a flower bed full of spectacular yellow-orange blooms—Gadiran sunroses, perhaps? He was not entirely sure, but he thought that it might have been the very spot where Sultan Rashid had captured Elise Markham during his garden party on the day he’d met Ranya. The memory of Captain Markham brought both a smile and a shadow to his face; far too many of his shipmates had joined her in death. Chief Torpedo Mate Maroth had been killed by a grazing hit near the torpedo room. Pilot Second Class Long had died in the hangar conflagration, Lieutenant Isaako Simms when sick bay was smashed by a direct hit from a K-cannon. Many more had been injured, some severely: Magdalena Juarez had lost most of her hand to a bad electrical burn, but remained on her station without even acknowledging her injury for twenty-four hours straight as she fought to keep the Old Worthy under power and patch the worst of its damage. Hiram Randall had survived a fractured skull and severe concussion, but it would be months before he could return to active duty. The engineering experts on Commodore Thompson’s staff doubted whether Hector herself was worth repairing; at the very least, she’d be in the yards for the better part of a year.

Ranya recognized that his thoughts had turned to more serious matters. She merely stood and waited by his side for a long moment while he gazed over the tropical flowers and thought about the men and women he knew who would not be going home. Finally, Sikander gave himself a small shake and smiled for her sake. “I saw the intel reports this morning,” he said. “Congratulations on the capture of Salem el-Fasi. That must come as a great relief to you.”

“It does,” Ranya replied. “He didn’t really pose a threat, not after the insurgents stood down and allowed the Royal Guard to retake Tanjeer, but there is much he must answer for. Weeks of pointless fighting around Meknez, for example.”

“Any sign of his friend Bleindel?”

She shook her head. “As far as we can tell, he disappeared in the Sidi Marouf after the Dremish withdrawal. I suppose he saw no reason to prop up a puppet if that puppet wasn’t actually on the throne. Which reminds me: Please let the Commonwealth authorities know that Gadira would be greatly interested in extraditing him if he turns up again.”

“I will,” Sikander promised. He doubted that Otto Bleindel would present himself for apprehension any time soon; as far as he could tell, it was still an even chance whether the Empire of Dremark would go to war with the Commonwealth of Aquila over “the Gadira incident,” as it was being referred to in general newscasts. The diplomatic furor almost defied description, but the fact that both sides seemed unwilling to push the issue to general hostilities struck him as a hopeful sign. The Dremish had gambled on bold action to improve their position, and lost: The whole business of being caught backing coups and launching small invasions had left them with little support from the other great powers in the Coalition of Humanity. Sikander had heard that Dremark might disavow the whole thing as a case of local commanders exceeding their orders, in exchange for which the Commonwealth government would pretend to believe them.

They walked on, moving around the palace toward the seaward side. Sikander noted that the arbor he’d managed to crush under the combat flyer’s tail had been rebuilt. “So what happens next?” he asked her. “Will the caids accept you as sultana? Will the peace hold?”

“It’s not the caids I’m worried about,” Ranya replied. “It’s the beys. They have the most to lose when change comes to Gadira. Yes, the caids are socially conservative, but there is nothing in the Quranist tradition that prohibits a female ruler.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“There is a surprisingly large gap between what people think is in the Tharsisi Quran and what it really says. The Martian scholars who examined the old suras were quite moderate in their outlook. Attitudes on Gadira are founded in our culture, not our faith. And culture can change.” Ranya reached out to take his hand. “The caids and the urban classes want a sultan who looks out for their interests, not the beys’ fortunes. I mean to give them one, and then build a constitution to make sure it stays that way when I am no longer on the throne.”

“The beys will fight you,” Sikander observed.

“Not for a few years.” Ranya smiled a little. “Salem el-Fasi’s defeat should serve as a warning to the others, at least for a time—perhaps even long enough for my reforms to take hold.”

Sikander’s comm unit chimed softly. “Sir, I apologize for the interruption,” said Darvesh over the link. “The captain of CSS Merope wishes you to be informed that departure is drawing near.”

“Thank you, Darvesh,” he answered. “I promise I will not keep him waiting.”

“It seems you must be on your way,” Ranya said.

“I am afraid so,” said Sikander. He looked into her eyes, and raised his hand to brush her lustrous black hair from the side of her face. “Will you be all right?”

“Have no fear for me,” she said. “There are many long days ahead, but I’m the daughter of Sultan Kamal. I am equal to the test. And, as you said about your own challenges a moment ago, it helps that I am right.” She glanced over at Captain Zakur, who stood a few meters off watching over the two of them. The big officer inclined his head, and turned his back to studiously examine a potted plant that suddenly caught his attention. Other guards in sight followed his lead.

Sikander smiled, and bent down—only a little, since Ranya was almost as tall as he was—and kissed her for a long, perfect moment. Then he straightened again. “Good-bye, Ranya Meriem el-Nasir,” he said in a soft voice. “I wish you knew how sorry I am that we did not meet under other circumstances.”

“I wish you knew how glad I am that we met at all,” she replied. “Good-bye, Sikander Singh North. You will always be welcome here; may the stars steer your path back to me someday.”

He embraced her one final time. Then he let her go, and strode away without looking back.