Valiant Dust

8

Tanjeer, Gadira II

Three days after Hector’s arrival in Gadira, Sikander jolted and bounced his way down to the planet’s surface in one of the ship’s shuttles as the dazzling waters of the Silver Sea raced by underneath its stubby wings. The inertial compensators could not quite mask out all the sharp maneuvers; Sikander, seated in the passenger cabin, felt his seat restraints tightening automatically in response. He glanced around. Dr. Isaako Simms, the cruiser’s medical officer, looked faintly green, but Magdalena Juarez only raised an eyebrow in response, and Captain Markham seemed perfectly at ease, reading her dataslate without even looking up. She’d chosen three officers to accompany her down to the planet’s capital, leaving Peter Chatburn in command of Hector, which now circled Gadira II a few thousand kilometers overhead.

The shuttle leaned into a steep, banking curve. The captain didn’t seem to take notice, but she finally spoke. “Petty Officer Long, are you in some special hurry to land the shuttle?”

“Sorry, Captain!” Long called down from the cockpit. “Tanjeer Traffic Control sent us a minimum-time approach vector and included some steep evasive maneuvers. Apparently they have some concerns about potential ground fire.”

“The controllers think someone might shoot at us?” Dr. Simms asked. He was a short, dark-haired young man with a wide face and very dark eyes. Other than a certain professional coolness toward Sikander over Hiram Randall’s dislocated shoulder, he struck Sikander as a decent fellow. Like many medical officers, Simms was a doctor first and a naval officer second.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Long answered him. “Don’t worry too much. We’ll be on the deck in just a minute.” Sikander could see the pilot through the small companionway between the cockpit and the cabin; Long’s tone revealed no concern, but his head swiveled left and right as he brought the shuttle down, and his copilot kept busy with a constant stream of tower instructions.

“Just a precaution, or have they had some trouble with shuttles making descent?” Magda wondered aloud.

“They would have routed us to another landing zone if they were really worried,” Sikander pointed out. He tried to shrug in his seat restraints. “Good practice for our pilots, at any rate.”

He glanced out his viewport, and saw the glittering waters of the coast give way to dun-colored tarmac. The shuttle streaked past a row of old hangars, then suddenly slewed into one velocity-killing turn and deployed its landing struts with a mechanical whine. Long expertly cut the power, bringing the shuttle to a sharp landing in front of a concrete revetment. “You can unbuckle, ma’am,” the pilot called. “But let me crack the hatch for you. The skin’ll be blistering hot after that descent, so make sure you keep your hands off the doorframe.”

“Very good,” Captain Markham replied. She, Sikander, and the other two busied themselves with removing their restraints and gathering their things as the pilot came back to the shuttle’s passenger hatch and cycled it. Bright sunlight flooded into the cabin, along with a wall of humid heat that instantly reminded Sikander of home. There were plenty of warm Aquilan worlds—even New Perth had its tropics, of course—but most big cities and naval installations were located in middle latitudes. It was refreshing to feel air that was as warm as it was supposed to be.

One by one, they filed carefully down the shuttle’s steps and moved away from the sizzling hull to stand blinking in the sun. In deference to the Gadiran climate, Hector’s officers wore their summer dress whites, almost painfully bright in the brilliant daylight. A small group of people stood in the shade of the revetment, alongside a long, sleek ground transport. In addition to a pair of fit-looking Aquilans who wore light jackets despite the heat—security specialists, or so Sikander guessed—a short, balding, middle-aged civilian waited for Hector’s officers to debark.

The older man strode briskly out to greet them. “Captain Markham?” he asked. “I’m Franklin Garcia, Commonwealth system consul. Welcome to Gadira.”

Markham shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Garcia.” She motioned to the others in turn. “Lieutenant Commander Magdalena Juarez, our chief engineer; gunnery officer Lieutenant Sikander North; and Lieutenant Isaako Simms, Hector’s medical officer.”

“It’s good to see some faces from home,” Garcia remarked. A quick round of handshakes followed; Sikander noted that the security agents deliberately averted their attention from the introductions, keeping an eye on the surroundings. “I took the liberty of arranging ground transportation for the ride over to the palace. The Royal Guard is very touchy about anything flying near the sultan’s location, which is why they had you land out here in the commercial spaceport.”

Garcia motioned to the ground limo, and they climbed inside one by one; the security agents took their places in a chase car. The car hummed into motion, and accelerated away from the revetment. Sikander gazed out the window at the striking palmlike trees and brass-colored sky. The Aquilan consul must have had some sort of special clearance for his vehicle; as they left the spaceport and ventured into the city’s boulevards, traffic halted to let them pass. He had an impression of streets crowded with old ground cars and pedestrians, and cluttered storefronts marked with foreign lettering.

“Given the political instability of the system, I would imagine that the sultan’s personal security must be extremely sensitive,” Magda said to Garcia. “After all, he inherited the throne after his brother was killed, didn’t he?”

“It’s worsened in the last few weeks,” Garcia said. “The local insurgents have gotten their hands on modern offworld arms. It has significantly upped the ante, so to speak.”

Sikander glanced from the window to the consul. “Modern arms? The reports we saw didn’t mention that.”

“The Royal Guard is keeping those details out of the press for now. They don’t want it publicly known that the Caidists are well-funded enough to bring in offworld arms.”

“Who would want to support the extremists?” Magda asked. “Islamic hardliners from the Caliphate? Foreign operatives inclined to make a little trouble for Montréal?”

“There’s a Dremish cruiser just over our heads,” Sikander observed.

Garcia shook his head. “The Panther showed up a few days after the weapons were first employed. Wherever the new arms came from, they weren’t on board the warship,” he said. Then he leaned forward a bit and pointed out the window behind Sikander’s seat. “Not to change the subject, but if you’ll look to your right, you can get a good view of El-Badi Palace. It’s really quite impressive.”

Sikander turned in his seat and peered out the window as the others looked past him. The palace compound sprawled over a low, flat-topped hill between Tanjeer’s downtown quarter and the Silver Sea. Domes sheathed in gold leaf glittered with blinding brightness in the sunlight; elegant marble colonnades and arcades ringed the main structure, decorated with patterns of blue tile. The ground car sped along a tree-lined boulevard at the foot of the hill, heading toward the palace gate.

“Are there any special considerations of etiquette we should be aware of?” Markham asked the consul.

“Address the sultan as ‘Your Highness.’ Under no circumstances should you initiate contact, so don’t offer your hand. If he offers you his, it’s acceptable to shake.” Garcia thought for a moment. “The sultan’s niece Ranya may be in attendance. Her title is amira. The same rules apply for her. Oh, and one last thing—are any of you title holders? I should include that in any introductions.”

“My executive officer is the senator Malgray, but he remained on the ship today,” said Captain Markham. Senatorial families were well represented in the Commonwealth Navy, making up a good ten or fifteen percent of the officer corps. Naturally, the percentage only increased once one reached the flag ranks. “And Mr. North here is Nawabzada of Ishar.”

“Ah, a Kashmiri title.” Garcia looked back to Sikander. “May I ask where that falls in precedence?”

“It’s equivalent to senator-viceroy,” said Sikander.

The consul raised an eyebrow. That was about as close to royalty as one could get in Aquila’s patrician ranks. “That may be helpful,” he observed. “Sultan Rashid understands that our senatorial families are title holders, but the lack of letters-patent colors his perception of Aquilans just a bit. You are certainly the highest-ranking individual in Commonwealth service to visit in quite a while, Mr. North. I wouldn’t be surprised if he warms up to you because of that.”

“Captain Markham is my commanding officer, Mr. Garcia. The sultan shouldn’t overlook her because I happen to have a title,” said Sikander. The ground limo turned in to the palace gate, and climbed slowly up a winding road under the shade of stately rows of palms that led to the top of El-Badi’s hill.

Captain Markham gave Sikander a wry smile. “Don’t be concerned on my account, Mr. North. I asked you to join the landing party specifically because I guessed that the local aristocrats might be impressed by your pedigree. From what I understand, the sultan leaves most important matters to the officials in his court. Mr. Garcia will be introducing me to the decision makers while you keep the royals occupied.”

Sikander inclined his head. “My duty becomes clear, ma’am. I will strive to be as interesting as possible.”

The ground limo turned in to a circular driveway by the palace’s grand main entrance. Delicate fountains and pools stood on either side of the drive. Servants in traditional Gadiran garb hurried up to open the doors and offer the Aquilans assistance in climbing out of the car. For a moment, Sikander wondered if they would be escorted through the gilded front doors with blasts of trumpets, but Franklin Garcia motioned for them to follow him to a winding path that led around the building. From somewhere ahead of the Aquilans came the soft sound of music playing and the buzz of voices in conversation. Then they rounded a wing of the palace, and found an elegant party in progress among the gardens and pavilions behind the palace. Colorful canopies draped between marble columns provided shade; at a glance, it seemed that about half the attendees were offworlders, and half were well-off Gadirans.

Garcia spoke briefly with a palace attendant, who announced their arrival. Sikander thought that a few heads turned at his own rather colorful title, but most of the attendees took little notice; if one moved in these circles, the formalities quickly ceased to draw one’s attention. Then the consul ushered them toward a buffet. “Refresh yourselves if you like, but stay close by,” he told them. “An attendant will come find us when the sultan is ready to meet you. It shouldn’t be long.”

Sikander hadn’t thought he was very hungry, but the lavish spread in front of him changed his mind. He helped himself to a small selection of fruits and cheeses, and discovered that no alcohol was being served. Instead, he found a wide selection of teas and fruit juices, so he settled for some lemonade, taking great care not to spill anything on his spotless uniform. The other officers followed suit and stood together taking in the crowd as they ate and drank. Most of the men wore military uniforms or modern Montréalais-style suits, although the native Gadirans added a fez or close-fitting caps not unlike the pakuls many Kashmiri men wore. The women dressed in colorful, flowing dresses with delicate embroidery; most were bareheaded.

“I rather expected burkas and veiled faces,” Magda Juarez observed, echoing Sikander’s own thoughts. “This seems a good deal more open than some of the Caliphate worlds.”

“The guests may not be very representative of Gadira as a whole,” said Markham. “We are standing in the sultan’s garden, after all.”

They had just finished their first small plates when a stoop-shouldered, silver-haired man with a broad face and flat features approached. He wore a light summer suit of modern cut, and smiled warmly. “Good afternoon, Franklin,” he said to Garcia. “Unless I am badly mistaken, these must be some of the officers from the Commonwealth cruiser that arrived recently.”

“Nothing gets past you, Paul.” Garcia shook the other man’s hand, then turned to make introductions to Hector’s officers. “May I present Mr. Paul Nguyen, the Montréal Republic’s ambassador to Gadira?”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Captain Markham said, shaking Nguyen’s hand. The others did so in turn. “How long have you been posted here?”

“Six years as ambassador, Captain. But I served two tours in Gadira as a more junior representative of the Republic at the beginning of my career.” Nguyen gestured at the palace grounds and the low, sprawling city beyond. “This is something of a homecoming for me. How was your voyage?”

“Uneventful, which is the preferred state of affairs,” Markham replied. “However, we were a little surprised to find upon arrival that we weren’t alone here.”

“Our Dremish friends,” the Montréalais replied with a nod. “It seems that Gadira’s troubles are attracting a good deal of attention.”

“Our foreign ministry was concerned that Aquilan citizens and investments might be in danger from the Caidists.”

“Funny, Captain Harper said the same thing.”

A small frown creased the captain’s brow; Sikander doubted that anyone who didn’t know Markham well would have noted her displeasure at the comparison. “I assure you, Mr. Nguyen, my government is opposed to any attempt to alter the status quo in Gadira. Hector is here only to make sure our people are safe.”

“My apologies, Captain; I did not mean to imply otherwise. The remark was supposed to be ironic.” Nguyen glanced up toward the sky to indicate the warship overhead, and gave a small shrug. “Several Aquilan corporations have been doing business in Gadira for decades, but the last time I looked, there weren’t more than half a dozen Dremish citizens in-system. Your concerns seem a little more … proportionate.”

Magdalena Juarez glanced around the party. “Are the Dremish here?” she asked.

“No, Dremark has no diplomatic representation in the sultan’s court,” Garcia answered. “There’s a local consul in the city of Meknez, but he’s a newly arrived business representative. This is not the sort of event that he would be invited to. In fact, I haven’t even met him yet.”

“Nor I,” said Nguyen. “I am sure he will turn up sooner or later. In the meantime, Captain, I suggest you exercise some care in granting shore leave to your crew. It would be best to stick to the offworlder-friendly districts in Tanjeer to avoid any incidents with Caidist sympathizers. The poorer neighborhoods may not be safe. I can recommend some good—” The Montréalais broke off. “Ah, perhaps later. It seems the sultan is ready to see you.”

Sikander glanced around. A palace guard in a crisply pressed uniform approached from behind him. The fellow bowed to Captain Markham, and said, “Captain Markham, will you and your officers follow me? The sultan will receive you now.”

“Please, lead the way,” Markham replied. The palace guard escorted them to a large pavilion that stood a short distance from the assemblage of guests, partially screened by an elegant hedge. Several more guards stood silently nearby, motionless and vigilant. Inside the pavilion, a richly attired Gadiran man reclined on a couch, surrounded by several more men dressed in similar fashion, and one young woman who wore an embroidered caftan in rose and burgundy. The Gadirans spoke softly among themselves in their own language, but the man on the couch looked up with interest as Hector’s officers were shown into his presence.

“Your Highness, Captain Elise Markham of the Aquilan Commonwealth Navy, commanding officer of CSS Hector, and her officers,” the guard announced. “Lieutenant Commander Juarez, Lieutenant Simms, and His Highness Lieutenant Sikander Singh North, Nawabzada of Ishar. His Royal Highness, Sultan Rashid el-Nasir, Monarch of Gadira and Defender of the Faithful. Her Royal Highness, Amira Ranya el-Nasir.”

“Your Highness,” Captain Markham said, bowing. The others followed suit. Sikander quietly studied the ruler of Gadira. The sultan was a short, round-bellied man of middle years, but his fleshy face lit up with an almost childlike delight as the introductions continued. On the other hand, the sultan’s niece was not much older than twenty-three or twenty-four, with raven-black hair and a tall, graceful figure. Her chin was perhaps a little strong and her expression a bit too severe for her to be a classic beauty, but she studied Hector’s officers with an expression of keen interest.

“Captain, welcome, welcome,” Sultan Rashid said. “We are honored by the visit of a Commonwealth warship. Aquila is one of our oldest and most valued friends among the great powers.”

“The pleasure is ours, Your Highness. The opportunity to visit new worlds and meet new friends is one of the things I enjoy the most about the naval service.”

“Tell me, how do you find Gadira?”

“Warm, Your Highness. My homeworld is quite a bit cooler and rainier than Tanjeer.” Markham smiled easily. “Your gardens are very beautiful—already today I have discovered dozens of flowers I have never seen before. Are they native species?”

“Many of them are,” the sultan replied. “It is one of the little ironies of our planet; so much of Gadira is desert, but we are blessed with many exquisite native blossoms. Come, let me show you some of them.”

“I would be honored,” Markham replied. Sultan Rashid got to his feet and led the way over to one of the nearby flower beds, launching immediately into a description of the various blooms. The captain allowed herself one brief moment of polite surprise, then followed along and paid attention to Rashid’s enthusiastic discussion.

Sikander exchanged bemused glances with Magda Juarez and Dr. Simms. Somehow he doubted that Captain Markham had intended to dive into a botanical discussion with the ruler of Gadira, but she’d found herself there anyway. It was a credit to her natural composure that she adapted to the unexpected diversion without a hint of confusion, as if her whole purpose in calling on the sultan had been to discuss his gardens. With small shrugs, Magda and Simms hurried over to join the captain and take an interest in the discourse as Sultan Rashid chattered on about the flowers. Sikander was about to follow them, but as he glanced around for a cue of what was expected, he noticed the amira giving him a thoughtful look.

“Are you interested in gardens, Lieutenant North?” she asked him.

“I appreciate them, Amira,” he told her. “I am afraid I don’t know much about Gadiran botany, though.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “However, gardening is one of my uncle’s dearest pastimes. Your captain may learn a lot more about flowers today than she anticipated. Let’s escape while we can.”

“As you wish, Amira,” Sikander replied automatically. He covered his surprise with a warm smile while he collected his thoughts. Was this unexpected meeting nothing more than the pleasantries of a dutiful hostess? A diplomatic ploy to exchange views the sultan would not want to bring up in person? Or did the sultan’s niece have something else on her mind?

The amira took his arm and steered him toward the other side of the pavilion. For an instant Sikander wondered if he’d committed a faux pas, but he realized that the men and women at the sultan’s party mixed and chatted just as they did in similar settings on any other world. It seemed Gadiran society was not quite as puritanical or sex-segregated as he’d expected. The two of them strolled slowly out along a garden path, trailed unobtrusively by one of the guards. The sultan’s niece really is quite pretty, he decided.

“Did I understand correctly that you are from Kashmir, not Aquila?” she asked him.

“Yes, Amira. Kashmir is an independent system, but we have been under Aquila’s protection for more than a century.”

“Just as Gadira is … allied … to the Republic of Montréal.”

“More or less,” Sikander said. “I grew up on the planet Jaipur, but I was sent off when I was eighteen to study at the Commonwealth’s naval academy. I am unusual in that my father is a man of some standing in Kashmir, and he arranged for my appointment.”

“The nawab, of course.” The amira gave him a playful smile. “Are you royalty, Nawabzada?”

“Not really. My father’s rank probably falls somewhere between the Gadiran titles of sultan and bey. I’m certain yours is the superior title, Amira.”

“Ranya, please,” she said. “Everybody calls me by my title. If you have half an excuse not to, I would sincerely appreciate it.”

Sikander laughed. “I have much the same experience on the rare occasions when I return home. Very well, Ranya. I would be delighted if you called me Sikander, or just Sikay.”

“Sikander, then.” The Gadiran princess turned along one of the shaded paths leading toward the garden fountains. Sikander fell in easily beside her. “I have met many offworlders, as you might imagine. Most are Montréalais, of course, although I have met Aquilans, Cygnans, and a few distant relatives from the Terran Caliphate. But I have rarely had the chance to speak with someone who comes from another colonial system. How do the people of Kashmir perceive their relationship with Aquila?”

“Well, the phrase ‘colonial system’ is not generally favored,” Sikander admitted. “Most Aquilans are too polite to describe the arrangement in those terms, and most Kashmiris are too proud to allow themselves to look at things like that. Our bureaucrats and officials choose to speak of ‘the Aquilan alliance,’ or ‘our development agreement,’ or ‘our chief trading partner,’ not our colonial patron. The people who describe the relationship as colonialism tend to be the nationalists and the radicals.”

“Things are not very different on Gadira. Of course, our radicals aren’t concerned with words like ‘colonialism.’ The terminology is not terribly important; the dynamics of the relationship are the same.” Ranya paused to gaze at a bed of blooming flowers that Sikander did not recognize. “Kashmir and Gadira share a situation that many less-developed peoples have been caught in down through the centuries. They rarely end well.”

“I suppose I am a little more optimistic,” Sikander said. “Economically and technologically, Kashmir had fallen a hundred years behind the Coalition powers when Aquila brought us into their sphere of influence. Now Kashmir is only twenty or thirty years behind the times. Within my lifetime I think I’ll see my homeworld catch up to the worlds of my Aquilan peers. The same forces that are shaking Gadira today shook Kashmir a generation or two ago, and we survived them. I see no reason why your world should be any different.”

She glanced up at him. “You truly believe that?”

“I think you’ll find that I rarely manage to stop myself from saying what I think about things, Ranya.”

“That is something of a handicap for a diplomat.”

“Which is why my father thought military service better for me,” Sikander replied.

Ranya laughed. “That was probably for the best, then.”

The guard following ten feet behind them quietly cleared his throat. He stood almost two full meters in height, and wore an impressive turban that made him seem even taller; Sikander would not have cared to give the fellow a reason to remove him from Ranya’s presence. “Amira, Bey Hurat and his party are arriving,” he said to Ranya. “The sultan is about to greet them.”

“I will be right there, Captain Zakur.” The amira gave Sikander a small shrug. “Duty calls, I fear. It was a pleasure to meet you, Sikander.”

He took her hand. “Likewise, Ranya. I look forward to our next meeting.”

“I do, too, although I am afraid that must wait.” She held his hand for a long moment, measuring him with her dark eyes. “My uncle is flying to Nador tomorrow to preside over the opening of a new power plant, and I will be accompanying him. We won’t return until early next week … but I hope you’ll visit again when we get back.”

“I will,” Sikander promised. “Have a safe journey.”

Ranya smiled warmly, then turned and glided back toward the sultan’s pavilion. Sikander stood watching her for a moment, then took a deep breath, glanced around the palace garden, and headed off to find his shipmates again.