Valiant Dust

5

CSS Hector, Caledonia System

CSS Hector got under way six hours after the general recall. As the mottled green-blue crescent of New Perth faded behind them, Captain Markham summoned the ship’s officers to a briefing. A few minutes before 0800 ship’s time, Sikander made his way to the wardroom. He had just enough time to pour himself a mug of coffee before Captain Markham entered the room.

“Attention on deck!” Peter Chatburn called. Everyone present rose and faced the door.

“Please, be seated,” Markham replied. She took her place at the head of the table as Hector’s officers sat down and waited for her to continue. “I suppose you’re all wondering what exactly is going on. I’ll get to that in a moment. First, a navigation report?” She looked to Chatburn.

On most Aquilan warships smaller than a battleship, the executive officer also served as the ship’s navigator. “We’re aligned for warp transit and accelerating to our ring-activation velocity, Captain,” Chatburn replied. “We expect to bubble—” He glanced down at his dataslate. “—at ten percent c, which we’ll reach at 1555 hours. That should give us a thirteen-day transit. We could boost harder and bubble at a higher velocity to cut the transit time a bit, but that will use a lot of fuel.”

“Thirteen days is sufficient,” Markham answered. “We’re supposed to be on station by the end of the month, and I don’t want to arrive with our fuel bottles empty. Transit at 1555 approved. Ms. Juarez, engineering will be ready?”

Magda nodded. “Yes, ma’am. But I confess I’m curious about where we’re going.”

“Gadira, Ms. Juarez. We are headed for the Gadira system.”

Sikander considered himself reasonably well educated on galactic geography, but he hadn’t ever heard of the place. It wasn’t within the Aquilan sphere of influence, anyway. He noticed that most of the other officers in the briefing seemed just as puzzled as he felt.

Captain Markham took in the confused looks of her officers with a small smile. “I only learned of the system last night. Yesterday the Foreign Ministry informed the Admiralty they needed a warship on station there as soon as it could be arranged. The Admiralty in their wisdom decided that the Old Worthy was just the ship for the job and called me as I got home from the Governor’s Ball.” She glanced around the table, and Sikander thought that her eyes lingered on Hiram Randall a little longer than the others. Had she heard something about his behavior at the end of the ball? “I understand many of you were still there when the recall was sent—my apologies for cutting your evening short.”

“You wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important, Captain,” Chatburn said. “The needs of the service come first, and all that.”

“Indeed.” Markham looked back to Randall. “Mr. Randall, why don’t you fill everyone in on what we know about Gadira?”

“Yes, ma’am.” As the ship’s operations officer, Randall was the most closely involved with mission planning and intelligence summaries. While the rest of the crew had been loading stores or quickly finishing routine maintenance tasks to make ready for departure, the Operations Department had been examining every detail of Hector’s orders to find out where they were supposed to go and what they were supposed to do. Randall picked up a remote in front of him, and pointed it at a screen on the bulkhead. A moment later the image of a gold-and-blue planet with a single, prominent moon appeared.

“This is Gadira—the name of both planet and planetary system,” Randall began. “Technically this is Gadira II; there’s a mercurian planet close to the star, and three uranian-type gas giants further out. Gadira itself is a temperate semi-terran world, originally colonized by the Caliphate in the Second Expansion. As you can see, its seas are small and landlocked, and tend to lie in the tropical zone. That’s where most of Gadira’s population lives. The higher latitudes are quite arid, with minimal ice caps.”

“The planet seems ordinary enough,” Markham observed. “What about the people?”

“The planetary population is a little under a billion. The system developed more or less independently, especially after the Terran Caliphate fell into decline. Contact with the rest of human space was sporadic at best for several hundred years. The Montréalais reestablished contact forty years ago; Gadira’s still catching up to Coalition standards today.”

Sikander nodded to himself—Kashmir’s story was similar. In humanity’s first waves of emigration from Old Terra, the early starfaring powers launched colony ships to many promising worlds, but the drive technology of that time meant that establishing any kind of interstellar commerce or regular communications would be impossible. The people who felt the need to settle their own world were often trying to preserve vanishing cultures; as a result, long-isolated colonies often retained stronger racial phenotypes and cultural patterns than the more cosmopolitan star nations in the Coalition of Humanity. By the time the Gadiras and Kashmirs of the galaxy had been rediscovered, they’d fallen centuries behind the leading powers of human space.

Randall continued. “Politically, Gadira is a system monarchy ruled by a sultan by the name of Rashid el-Nasir. The sultanate is allied to the Republic of Montréal with a treaty of mutual defense and support, although it should be noted that the other Coalition powers don’t entirely accept the arrangement. When contact was first reestablished, several great powers—the Kingdom of Cygnus, the Dremark Empire, and of course our own Commonwealth—believed they had interests in Gadira. As I understand it, our Foreign Ministry favored more of an open-door policy, but over the years Montréal has become the de facto colonial administration of the system. We haven’t pushed the question.”

“I can’t say I like the idea of Montréal shutting an open door in our faces,” Chatburn said. “Have they noticed our fleet is twice the size of theirs?”

“I suspect we haven’t protested too much because we wouldn’t want Montréal to push us on some of our own colonial interests,” said Captain Markham. “Or maybe it’s a quid pro quo for some other arrangement. Interstellar politics is a tangled web indeed. Go on, Mr. Randall.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Randall said. “Economically, a class of titled aristocrats controls most of the planet’s commercial interests. A good number of people in the outlying districts are actually seminomadic herders who eke out a subsistence-level existence on the verge of the high-latitude deserts. Finally, Gadira is dominated by a post-Terran tradition of Islam, Tharsisi Quranism. Religious participation is almost universal. The history of the planet is punctuated by various violent movements toward stricter interpretations of the role of religion in public life.”

“It almost sounds medieval,” Angela Larkin said.

“Mr. North should feel right at home,” Chatburn observed. That earned a couple of quiet chuckles from around the table.

Sikander kept his face impassive. He’d already had enough of Hiram Randall’s barbs, and he was in no mood to let more wisecracks go unanswered. But Chatburn was his superior, and he had to be careful about how he responded. If he reacted with anger, the situation would be escalated right in front of the entire wardroom. If he laughed at himself to show that he fit in with his Aquilan colleagues, he would only be inviting more gibes in the future—and he would hate himself afterward. Don’t let them see an emotional response. But don’t let it pass without comment, either.

“If you mean that I feel like I understand the Gadirans, sir, then yes—I do,” Sikander answered. “They find themselves at the mercy of foreign cultures that have little respect for their most cherished traditions. You should not underestimate the injury of wounded pride, especially in systems that are controlled by less … enlightened powers than the Commonwealth.” He measured his sarcasm very carefully, allowing just a hint to color his tone and make his point; most of the officers at the table frowned or looked away. Then he continued on. “I believe I am not just speaking for myself when I say that I don’t yet see why our presence is required. What’s on fire in Gadira, and what are we supposed to do about it?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Captain Markham. “Why don’t you skip ahead a little, Mr. Randall?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Randall looked down the table at Sikander. “The short version is this: Sultan Rashid’s government faces serious unrest driven by economic distress and native xenophobia. The tribal groups openly defy the sultan’s authority, and the poor urban classes resent the fact that the beys are the only ones profiting from interstellar trade. Montréal is propping up the sultan, which of course makes the sultan even more unpopular with the xenophobic elements in Gadira. Our diplomatic agents in Tanjeer—that’s the planetary capital—believe the sultanate may fall, which means the Montréalais may lose control of the system.”

“That seems unfortunate for the Republic, but perhaps Montréal shouldn’t have grabbed the whole system or backed an unpopular ruler,” Magda said. “Picking winners in local politics is certain to inflame resentment from the losing side.”

“And I don’t understand why an Aquilan presence is important,” Chatburn added. “Isn’t this a problem for Montréal?”

“It is,” Captain Markham answered. “But Montréal is not the military power they were forty or fifty years ago, and there are strong sentiments in their domestic politics for getting out of their colonial responsibilities. When or if the sultanate falls, there will be a significant power vacuum in Gadira. The Montréalais will be out, but there will be other great powers anxious to bring Gadira within their sphere of influence.”

“Specifically, the Dremish,” said Randall.

“Exactly.” Markham leaned back in her chair. “The Foreign Ministry’s learned that the Empire of Dremark informed Montréal that it is very concerned about the ongoing unrest in Gadira and worries that its interests in the system are under threat. They will take steps to protect their own citizens and property. It seems clear that if the Montréalais are thrown out, the Dremish intend to move in.”

Sikander nodded again. Even if he hadn’t heard of Gadira before, anyone serving in the Aquilan navy knew the strategic situation of the Empire of Dremark quite well. Dremark was a powerful state but had been slow to organize when the era of great power expansion began. As a result, other powers established control over territory that now hemmed in Dremark’s natural avenues for growth. Dremish strategists and statesmen constantly called for access to sectors with better prospects, but the question no one had yet answered was who exactly would surrender territory to satisfy Dremark’s ambitions.

“How long do we expect to remain on station, ma’am?” Magda asked.

“Until relieved or recalled. Unofficially, I’ve heard that we can expect to be spelled by Paris or Memnon two to three months after we arrive.” Captain Markham looked around the table. “Any other questions? Ms. Larkin, what’s on your mind?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Larkin said. She sat up straighter and collected her thoughts. “You said that we wouldn’t want to see a power vacuum develop in Gadira, and I can see that. But a squadron of Montréalais warships above Gadira ought to guarantee that the sultanate stands, or at least make sure the Dremish don’t try to seize the system. I don’t see what we can do that they can’t. If anything, I’d imagine they would prefer us to mind our own business.”

A good question, Sikander thought. He’d come to think of Larkin as the sort of officer who didn’t volunteer anything she didn’t have to. It didn’t help that most of their interactions in Sikander’s first month aboard Hector had revolved around the issue of the lost torpedo and the lack of progress in determining the cause. It surprised him now to see that she was following the discussion and speaking her mind.

Captain Markham gave Larkin an approving nod. “Two or three years ago, I think that would have been exactly how Montréal would have handled the situation,” she said. “At this particular moment, the Republic needs to tread lightly. Fleet Intelligence thinks there may be a deeper strategy in play here. I’ve seen some analysis that suggests Dremark may be looking for an opportunity to confront Montréal and wring concessions out of them.”

“I think I understand, ma’am,” Larkin told the captain. “If the Dremish force Montréal to surrender a strategic system like Gadira, they gain a valuable new possession. If Montréal chooses to fight for Gadira, the Dremish gain the opportunity to start a war they know they’ll win.”

“That’s the idea. Montréal can’t afford a direct confrontation with Dremark—and we have no interest in allowing Dremark to push the Republic into one.” Markham looked around the table. “I think that covers the bases. Transition to warp at 1555; department heads, I’ll expect your readiness reports by 1300. Dismissed.”

The assembled department heads and junior officers rose as Captain Markham stood, and waited for her to exit. Then they began to gather up their dataslates, finish their coffees, and head for the hatch. Sikander quickly organized his own materials, thinking about what he needed to do next. Then his eye fell on Hiram Randall, who was topping off his own coffee. That business is unfinished.

“Mr. Randall, a word,” Sikander called.

Randall stopped and turned as the others filed out of the wardroom. “Mr. North?”

Sikander waited for the rest of the officers to leave, then shut the door behind them. He and Randall were alone in the wardroom. He studied Randall in silence for a moment; Randall regarded him coldly. “I have a lot to do,” he finally said. “What is it?”

“We did not finish our conversation at the Governor’s Ball,” said Sikander. “I am available to resume the discussion at your convenience.”

“I don’t think I have anything else to say to you, North.” Randall started to push past him.

Sikander threw out an arm and stopped the Aquilan. “Then perhaps we could meet in the gym tomorrow. We’ll pick a quiet time so that we can have the place to ourselves, and finish that conversation.”

Randall narrowed his eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“No, Mr. Randall. It’s an opportunity for you to shut your mouth and show me who’s the better man.” Sikander let his arm drop. “You were full of opinions last night. I’d like to hear what you might say to me in the gym when no one else is around.”

The operations officer glared at Sikander, but he did not back down. “All right, North, but you ought to be careful what you wish for. I won the Academy’s silver belt for kickboxing three years running.”

Sikander simply held Randall’s gaze a moment longer, then yanked the hatch open and left the room. He set up the gym reservation on his dataslate before he reached the Gunnery Department office and returned to the transit preparations.

* * *

Hector activated her warp rings precisely on time, and the ship settled into its FTL routine. A bubbled ship was a strange little island universe, cut off from outside communications and events. The gym was naturally popular during warp transits, so the first free time Sikander could schedule was late in the evening. That suited him just fine. He skipped dinner, and used the opportunity to retrieve vids of Randall’s Academy kickboxing bouts from the ship’s extensive files. If Randall was proud of his record, then Sikander was more than happy to study his technique ahead of time.

Sikander found Hiram Randall waiting for him when he arrived in the ship’s gym a few minutes before 2200. The Aquilan officer wore long athletic trunks and light striking pads on his fists, elbows, and feet; he bounced on the balls of his feet and threw quick punches in the air as he warmed up, until his torso was gleaming with sweat. Chief Petty Officer Trent, the ship’s master-at-arms and the supervisor of all hand-to-hand combat training on board Hector, stood nearby, watching with her arms folded. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a studied lack of curiosity in her posture, and any kind of sparring or other use of the gym was under her purview. There was simply no way that Randall and Sikander were going to be able to fight without Chief Trent standing ready to intervene if things got out of hand.

Randall gave Sikander a single contemptuous glance and went back to his warm-ups, but when Darvesh followed Sikander into the gym, he scowled and lowered his hands. “What the hell is this?” he demanded of Sikander. “Is your butler going to step in and take your beating for you?”

“Mr. North has instructed me not to interfere, Mr. Randall,” Darvesh told him. “I must caution you that I will be forced to do so if I see you make use of a lethal technique or continue to strike Mr. North after he has been rendered defenseless.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” Randall snarled. He looked at Chief Trent and jerked his thumb at the valet. “Make sure he stays out of this.”

Trent shrugged her heavy shoulders. “I kind of agree with Chief Reza, sir. I’ll step in if I see either of you make this any stupider than it has to be. For that matter, I’ll step in if either of you cries uncle, because the XO will have my head if I don’t. But we’ll both stay out of it as long as you two gentlemen keep it clean. Right, Chief Reza?”

Darvesh nodded to her. “As you say, Chief Trent.”

“Fine,” said Randall. He turned his back on Sikander and went back to his warm-ups.

Sikander peeled off his workout gear, stripping down to sparring trunks. He ignored Randall and began his own warm-up routine, a set of standing yoga exercises mixed in with plenty of stretching and some shadow-boxing. For his own part, Sikander preferred Kashmiri bhuja-yuddha. It was a mixed style that emphasized locks, throws, and close-in strikes. Every North received a decent amount of training in both armed and unarmed combat as soon as they were old enough, and it had been one of the few interests he’d developed as a young man that his parents approved of.

When his muscles felt loose and warm, he allowed Darvesh to strap on his striking pads. He would have been happy to dispense with them, but this was ostensibly a friendly sparring session—the equipment was required. He tested the snugness and fit of the pads, then looked over to Chief Trent and nodded. Randall was already waiting.

The master-at-arms motioned for Randall and Sikander to step onto the mat. “Okay, gentlemen. You know the rules—no lethal techniques, otherwise unlimited. We’ll observe three-minute rounds. If you step out of the ring, I’ll issue a warning the first time, and stop the bout if it happens again. No contact after the bell or outside the ring. If I call a stop for any reason, you will immediately break contact and return to your corners. Understood?”

Sikander nodded. “I understand,” he said. Randall just nodded.

Trent looked at each one in turn. “Three rounds enough?”

“Two more than I’ll need,” Randall said.

“Three rounds are fine,” Sikander said. He didn’t think it would last that long, either.

“To your corners. Mouth guards in, and wait for the bell.” Trent retreated out of the way as Sikander and Randall waited. She studied the two fighters for a moment, then pressed the signal device at her belt. The ring’s bell chimed sharply.

Sikander settled into his fighting crouch and advanced. Randall came out to meet him, light on the balls of his feet. They circled warily for a moment, as Sikander studied his opponent’s stance and compared it to what he’d seen in the vid records. Close, but not quite the same, he decided. Randall was still quick and light on his feet, but his footwork was quieter, a little less energetic; he seemed a little more cautious than he had in the records Sikander had watched. More discipline and experience? A little rusty and conscious of being out of practice? Or had he studied vids of Sikander’s own wrestling bouts from the Academy and worked out a different set of tactics?

The distance between them steadily narrowed—and then Randall launched his first attack, throwing a hard front kick at Sikander’s midsection. Sikander got his knee up to block, and Randall threw a quick round kick from the other side. Sikander took a hit to his thigh and tried to get outside Randall’s legs, but the Aquilan circled away. In a long bout, Sikander might have stayed at a distance and waited for a chance to catch a kick and turn it into a takedown, but this wasn’t about outlasting his rival; he wanted to hit Randall, and just make sure he didn’t let a fight-ending punch or kick get through before he could.

He pushed forward, and in the space of an instant the two were engaged in a furious exchange of knees, elbows, and short jabs. Neither gave much thought to defense, punching hard and taking hard hits in return. Sikander took a stiff jab to the jaw and a knee to the side that just about lifted him off the mat; he landed a hard right hook in Randall’s ribs, a knee to the thigh, and then he ducked under the next punch and got his hands on the Aquilan’s back leg. Randall punished him with a couple of off-balance hits to his head and shoulders, but Sikander got him up off his feet and drove him into the mat. On the ground Randall balled up and raised his hands to defend himself while Sikander attacked furiously, scoring brutally through Randall’s guard. Then Randall got one foot up into position to push Sikander away from him, and scrambled to his feet before Sikander could get back on top of him.

“Round! Round!” Chief Trent called. Sikander backed off, and realized that the three-minute bell was ringing. He’d almost forgotten there would be a break; slowly he retreated to the side of the ring, and took stock of his injuries. His thigh ached, his ribs were sore, he had the taste of blood in his mouth—but looking across the ring at his rival, he could see that Randall’s eye was already swelling and he was wincing as he walked around. When did I punch him in the eye?

“Do you want to continue?” Darvesh asked quietly.

Sikander was breathing hard, but so was Randall. “I’m fine.”

“Do not spend so much time boxing with him,” Darvesh said. “You’re a good enough boxer, but that is Mr. Randall’s strength. Get him on the ground and lock him down.”

Sikander nodded. He was fighting with anger, not with strategy. He wanted to pummel Randall, so that was what he was trying to do in the ring. Use your head, Sikay. Randall does not want to wrestle me, he wants to be free to strike. Fight your fight, not his!

“Second round,” Chief Trent warned. “On your guard, gentlemen!” The bell chimed again.

Sikander came out looking for a chance to grapple. Randall danced away, keeping him back with long-range kicks. Sikander pushed aggressively to close in, and took a side kick in the gut that half knocked the wind out of him and put him on one knee. Randall followed up at once with a spinning round kick as Sikander was still getting to his feet; he barely ducked under it, and was clipped hard enough by Randall’s heel that he saw stars. But Sikander surged up as Randall completed the kick, caught him by thigh and waist, and put him on the mat again.

Randall replied with a vicious barrage of elbow and knee strikes—pure savage improvisation, with no technique to speak of. But Sikander got the hold he wanted, twisting his adversary into a half-sitting position and pinning an arm behind his back. “Give!” he snarled through his mouthpiece.

“Go to hell!” Randall snarled back. He snapped his head back, catching Sikander in the ear hard enough to make his eyes water.

Blind fury overwhelmed Sikander. He gave Randall’s arm a half twist and shoved hard, dislocating the Aquilan’s shoulder. Randall let out a strangled cry and sagged to the ground.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Chief Trent shouted. She rushed into the ring; Sikander released Randall at once and backed away. “That’s it, sir. We’re done here. Mr. Randall, you hear me? We’re done.”

Sikander stripped off his striking pads as Trent helped Randall to his feet. His ear still rang from Randall’s head butt, and he gingerly reached up to rub it. Darvesh came up to him and silently handed him a towel.

Randall spat out his mouthpiece and turned to glare at Sikander. “Goddamn it, you did that on purpose!”

“I had you in the lock and I told you to yield,” Sikander replied. “If you do not want your shoulder put out of joint, don’t let me get you on the mat, don’t let me get you in that hold, and don’t head-butt me!”

“Next time—” Randall growled.

“There will be no next time,” Chief Trent interrupted. “Not under my watch, sirs. You can go try to kill each other someplace other than my gym.” She looked at Randall’s shoulder, and shook her head. “I guess we’d better get you to sick bay, Mr. Randall. What do you want me to tell Dr. Simms and the XO?”

Randall reached up with his good hand, pressing it to his injured shoulder. It must have pained him greatly; his face was white and his jaw was clenched tight. He glared at Sikander for a long moment, then gave a small snort and looked to the master-at-arms. “It was an accident, Chief. Mr. North and I got carried away during a practice bout. Nobody’s fault but mine.”

“Does that suit you, Mr. North?” Trent asked.

Sikander inclined his head to Randall. “As Mr. Randall says—it was an accident.”

“All right, then. That’s what I’ll say.” Chief Trent studied Sikander, then looked over to Darvesh. “Chief Reza, make sure Mr. North gets some ice and medical spray on those bruises.” Then she took Randall by his good arm and steered him to the door.

“That was very foolish, Nawabzada,” Darvesh said quietly. “He nearly had you early in the second round. And if he presses charges, there will be serious repercussions for you.”

“Foolish?” Sikander buried his face in his towel, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “No, Darvesh, it was necessary. Some words are worth fighting over.” He tossed the towel into the hamper by the door, and headed for the shower.