Valiant Dust

18

Meknez, Gadira II

There is nothing quite so unlovely as a mining town, Otto Bleindel reflected. The Dremish agent gazed over the dusty boulevards and ugly refineries of Meknez from the fiftieth-floor lobby of the Najmah Tower. Tanjeer was located in the planet’s fertile equatorial belt—warm and humid throughout the year, but pleasant enough with its orange and olive groves and well-watered gardens. Meknez, on the other hand, was carved out of the true desert fifteen hundred kilometers to the south. With the Bitter Sea too small to exert much in the way of a moderating influence on its climate, Meknez was brutally hot and dry for most of the year. Even the offworlder-friendly business district and the small cluster of diverse neighborhoods around the university looked dreary and dirty.

The luxurious décor of the sky lobby in which he stood could not make up for the eyesore outside the windows. Najmah Tower—the nerve center of the el-Fasi mercantile empire—did, however, offer an excellent view of the port facilities from which he’d escaped just a few short hours before. From his vantage he could easily make out the boxy hull of Oristani Caravan alongside the pier, the white arrowhead shapes of the Aquilan shuttles, and the cordon of local police vehicles surrounding the area. He had no idea how the Aquilans had pinpointed the largest and most important arms shipment the Security Bureau had routed into this backwater planet to date, or how they had managed to keep his allies in the Gadiran security establishment from learning about their discovery and warning him that they were moving in on the Cygnan freighter. Thanks to their unexpected interference, everything he’d done on this remote planet was now in danger of unraveling. Bleindel’s mouth tightened as he gazed down at the distant scene, leaning on a cane he’d found in a secondhand store. He’d gotten away, but not without a little reminder of how close it had been.

The answer to unexpected developments, he reminded himself, is flexible planning. The fact that so few people seemed to be capable of dealing effectively with the unfolding of events in unanticipated ways had always puzzled him. No one could expect all possible outcomes, of course, but simply building plans that offered lots of redundancy and kept important assets in reserve could go a very long way toward mitigating what would otherwise be disasters. No doubt this loss was painful, but after a few hours of evaluating the impact of the raid and considering alternatives, he’d come to realize that this did not have to be a disaster.

“Bey Salem will see you now,” the secretary announced from behind him. Bleindel turned around and limped across the reception area at the young woman’s invitation. Her sleeveless dress, a little immodest by Gadiran standards, might have passed without remark in any Coalition-power city if not for the old-fashioned comm headset she wore. Like a number of wealthy Gadiran men, el-Fasi liked to surround himself with beautiful women, and had evolved certain private tastes he did not indulge in public.

“Thank you,” he told her, and entered el-Fasi’s cavernous private office. The rampart of gold-tinted windows to his left looked out over the mountains, something of an improvement over the refineries and port visible from the waiting room. A tiny artificial brook wandered through the room, and a variety of abstract paintings decorated the walls. Most Gadirans honored the old Quranist aversion to depicting the human form in artwork, and the bey decorated his office accordingly.

Bey Salem stood up and came around his desk to greet him. “Mr. Bleindel!” he said. “I was not expecting you.”

“I hope you will forgive the intrusion,” said Bleindel. “In light of the morning’s events, we need to update our plans.”

“I assume you refer to the Aquilan sailors who currently occupy one of the piers in my port,” the bey said with a sour expression.

“I do,” Bleindel replied. “We need to accelerate our timetable.”

Salem el-Fasi looked doubtful. “Let us discuss it over coffee.” He pressed a button on his desk, and spoke. “Zineb? Coffee for Mr. Bleindel, please. Bring something to eat, too.” He moved to a pair of couches by the window, and motioned for Bleindel to join him.

“Thank you,” Bleindel answered. He was in fact hungry, since the morning hadn’t allowed him any opportunity for breakfast.

Bey Salem frowned as he took note of Bleindel’s cane and his limp. “Are you injured, Mr. Bleindel?”

“I was in your warehouse when the Aquilans landed, and I found myself in the line of fire. Fortunately the cab door of a transport took most of the impact, but I still ended up with a mag dart in my calf.” It was a testament to the thoroughness of Bleindel’s preparations that weeks ago he’d anticipated that he might need to drop out of sight and set up a bolt-hole in Meknez. He’d prepared similar hiding places in half a dozen spots around the planet, not knowing if he would ever need them. And, naturally, he’d stocked his bolt-holes with basic medical supplies. Of course, he hadn’t planned on getting shot, but the fact that he’d anticipated the unexpected meant that he could tend to the mag-carbine dart in his left leg, stop the bleeding, disinfect and bandage the wound, then get going again in less than an hour.

“God is merciful! Should I call for my physician?”

Bleindel shook his head. “It’s not serious—I was able to bandage it myself. I will have it looked at later, but today I have no time to waste. Bey Salem, are your household troops in place for the Casbah operation?”

“Some of them are. I know that Tanjeer Nomad is already in position, and I think Nador Prosperity is only a few hours from docking—I would have to consult with Colonel Idhari to determine his exact state of readiness. I have also secured the allegiance of two division commanders in the Royal Guard. Why do you ask?”

“Because I think you’ll need to launch Casbah twenty-four hours from now. Possibly sooner.”

“Within the day?” Bey Salem’s eyes widened in surprise. “I did not expect to move for another week or more. Many of my troops are in the wrong place!”

“That was the original plan, yes. The discovery of Oristani Caravan’s cargo means that we need to move immediately.” Bleindel nodded in the direction of the piers a few kilometers distant. “Between the Aquilans and the Royal Guard, they’ll trace the distribution network for previous arms shipments in a matter of hours. We can’t give them the time to figure out the nature of your involvement. I have already contacted Alonzo Khouri in Tanjeer; he is massing his followers even as we speak. By noon, the capital will be in flames.”

Zineb, the bey’s secretary, entered with a soft knock, carrying a silver tray with a coffee service and a selection of pastries and fruit. The two men waited as she set the tray down on the low table between the two couches. “Please hold my calls until Mr. Bleindel and I are finished,” Bey Salem told her.

“Of course, Bey Salem,” she replied, and quietly retreated.

The bey returned his attention to Bleindel. “You will excuse me if I am not terribly confident in coffeehouse revolutionaries. I was under the impression that Khouri would remove Sultan Rashid from office ten days ago. The fact that Rashid remains alive after those idiots riddled his transport group with your missiles troubles me. Either your missiles are defective, or you’re working with complete incompetents.”

“I assure you, there’s nothing wrong with the ZG-4s we provided to Khouri. They are twenty years old, true, but each missile was tested for operability when they were uncased. I know, because I oversaw the testing myself.” Bleindel shifted in his seat, stretching out his injured leg. He’d allowed himself only the minimal necessary dose of painkillers, and he was paying the price already. “As far as the personnel involved, I had the opportunity to work with the people I wanted to, and they performed well.”

“Performed well? They shot down everybody but the sultan!”

Bleindel considered his words as he measured sugar for his coffee and took a bite of an almond danish. He needed to strike the right note of reassuring Salem el-Fasi that things were under control and that he was committing to the right course of action, but he also needed to make the Gadiran understand that the opportunity was fleeting. If he expressed too much confidence or too little, the bey might wait to see how events unfolded. That would not be in Dremark’s interest.

“Bey Salem, the goal was not to kill Sultan Rashid,” he explained patiently. “The goal was to launch the attack.”

“What is the point of launching an attack that fails?” Bey Salem demanded. “Khouri merely warned Rashid that he needed to be more careful. I admit I am not particularly worried that Rashid might suddenly become more competent, but the Royal Guard is a different story!”

“The point, Bey Salem, is that we provoked an escalation. We wanted the Royal Guards to hit back at the Caidists. They provided us with exactly the response we hoped for. Oh, I would have been happy enough to see Sultan Rashid dead. Whoever took the throne after such a spectacular assassination would pretty much have had to launch an immediate set of sweeps and reprisals against the revolutionaries and Caidists. But it didn’t matter that much whether Rashid or his successor initiated that crackdown.”

“It may not matter to you, Mr. Bleindel, but it certainly matters to me,” Bey Salem retorted. “I can hardly assume the throne while Rashid’s still sitting upon it.”

“In that you are mistaken, Bey Salem. History is full of examples of rulers forced to abdicate by their successors.” Bleindel straightened and set down his coffee, ignoring the ache in his wounded leg. “If we manage this properly, the people will beg you to take power and restore order whether Rashid is alive or dead. And I assure you that the moment is at hand. Is it a few days ahead of schedule? Yes. Will that make a difference? No, it will not. Your positioning may not be optimal, but it is good enough—especially if you can arrange for part of the Royal Guard to stand aside or back you. By tomorrow there will be a need for a new sultan. That sultan should be you.”

“They will beg someone to step in,” Bey Salem muttered. He leaned back into the plush offworld leather of his couch. “I can think of three or four of my peers who might regard themselves as likely sultans, too.”

“Your likely rivals lack one key advantage you possess: the friendship of the Empire of Dremark. Even if several claimants move on the throne at the same time, we will back you, Bey Salem. All you need do is ask us to help restore order. I can confirm that you will have a full regiment of crack Dremish regulars on hand to cement your control of the capital.” That, of course, was the crucial fig leaf of legitimacy before the other great powers in the Coalition of Humanity. So long as one plausible governing figure emerged to request Dremish intervention, Bleindel’s countrymen would be able to respond with the necessary level of military support. In fact, Bleindel had quietly arranged lines of contact with a couple of Bey Salem’s most promising rivals so that Dremark could quickly shift its support to another Gadiran possibility if for some reason Salem el-Fasi suddenly became a liability … which el-Fasi did not need to know, of course. “As soon as you commit your forces to Operation Casbah, we’ll move to support you. But it must be today.”

“Your ships have that many troops on board?”

“And the orbital firepower to erase anything that gets in their way.” Bleindel studied the bey closely. “If you have any doubts or reservations, now is the time to back out, Bey Salem. From this hour forward we are on a timetable, and we can’t change course. Are you committed?”

The Gadiran noble met his gaze. The air of kind joviality he cultivated in public was nowhere to be seen; Bleindel read naked ambition and cold calculation in el-Fasi’s face as he weighed the answer. “My only reservation is the price for your assistance,” he finally said.

“There will be a treaty spelling out commercial access, military assistance, basing rights, and more,” said Bleindel. “We have plans for industrializing Gadira and expanding its offworld commerce threefold above what Montréal has been doing, and the first beneficiary of that flood of wealth and influence will be you. Yes, the Caidists will be outraged. We’ll give you the modern troops you need to solve that problem permanently.” He paused, taking another sip of coffee and allowing the bey to absorb his words before continuing. “All rulers are indebted to those who support them in power; I won’t try to tell you otherwise. But the Empire is good to its partners, Bey Salem.”

Bey Salem thought for a long moment. “So be it,” he finally said. “I will summon Colonel Idhari and consult with him about timing our actions to take advantage of the unrest in the capital.”

“Good,” said Bleindel. “Might I suggest that you begin by arranging for your forces to seize control of Oristani Caravan’s cargo before sultanate forces arrive? It should only take a few hours to ready the combat flyers for service, if you have trained pilots available.”

“I thought you intended those for the caids.”

Bleindel smiled. “We have now reached the point where it’s no longer useful to sponsor an uprising among the desert tribes. I would much rather put that firepower in your hands.”

The bey gave a small snort. “Of course. Yes, I will see to that. We’ll tell the Aquilans that we need to impound the cargo for evidence.”

“Good thinking,” said Bleindel. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Time is running short, and I have things to see to in Tanjeer today.”

“Make sure that you are not seen with your revolutionary friends. It’s bad enough that I am connected to offworlders. If my fellow beys tie me to the support of the rebels, not even the friendship of Dremark will be enough to carry me into power.”

“I am the very soul of discretion,” Bleindel promised. “I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after in the gardens of El-Badi, and we will talk more about your alliance with Dremark. Until then, farewell.”

“Go with God,” Bey Salem replied. He stood and showed the Dremish agent to the lobby; they shook hands and parted.

Bleindel made his way to an elevator, leaning on his cane. In fact, it might someday be very useful to remind el-Fasi that the Dremish Security Bureau could provide the bey’s enemies with proof that he had armed the rebels for the purpose of providing himself a reason to assume power; he made a mental note to record that suggestion in his final report for Gadira. That was one of the reasons he favored el-Fasi as the most useful tool for establishing Dremish control of the sultanate. The bey was compromised, and he had too much to lose by turning on Dremark now.

The elevator whisked the agent up to the rooftop garage, where he’d parked a very fast private flyer. It was more than fifteen hundred kilometers to Tanjeer, and he needed to be there by midday. Moving awkwardly, he climbed into the driver’s seat, tossed his cane onto the seat beside him, and started up the engine. Then he roared out of the exit doorway, and began to put on speed. Even as he climbed away from Meknez, he switched the comm unit to its secure setting and keyed it. “SMS Panther, this is Consul Bleindel,” he said. “Put me through to Fregattenkapitan Harper, please. It’s going to be a busy day.”