Jerry Pournelle - Revolt on War World

It can't be helped; there's nothing to be done about it. The Russian word could mean either. Both filled P?ts with fury and despair, for he was pretty sure he held a losing hand. Behind what he hoped was an impassive mask, he calculated furiously. The odds of BuReloc's dumping more Estonians into Tallinn Valley were slim to the point of vanishing. The CoDominium's apparatus of control and repression was all too likely, though, to haul out more Russians. The longer till the conflict, the worse his own people's chances. As he took a deep breath, he wondered if Mladenov would let him leave once he chose war.

Before he could speak, someone pounded furiously on Mladenov's door. The Russian who had stayed discreetly in the hallway leaped into the front room. As P?ts had guessed, he held a Kalashnikov. The change lever was set on full automatic. A burst from less than two meters would turn a man into blood pudding.

But the pounder was no Estonian intent on rescue or revenge. He spoke pure Russian, with a broad peasant accent like Mladenov's own: "Iosef Trofimovich, come quick! Some fucking horsemen just rode in, down from the plains. You'd better come to talk to them."

Mladenov bounced to his feet. "Tatars!" he snarled, as if it were a curse. To a Russian, it was; back on Earth, their wars with the steppe nomads had gone on for centuries. Mladenov turned to the fellow with the Kalashnikov. "You come with me, Yevgeny, and bring the assault rifle. I want them to see we nave it." He suddenly seemed to remember Pits. "You'd better come too, Anton Avgustovich. The Tatars won't care whether your people are Estonians or Russians-they'll only know you're farmers, and farmers are prey."

He and Yevgeny hurried out of his house without waiting to see whether P?ts would follow. Glumly, P?ts did. His mind whirled as he struggled to adjust. For the past twenty T-years and more, BuReloc had been dumping disaffected Soviet Asiatics onto Haven along with everyone else. He'd thought the nomads would have taken longer to reach the steppe north of Tallinn Valley, but here they were. And Iosef Mladenov, curse him, was right about one thing-the nomads were a worse danger than the Russians.

Half a dozen of them-four on ponies, two on muskylopes-waited in the center of town. They wore round fur hats, sheepskin jackets, and shiny black boots. Every one of them had a rifle on his back and a big showy knife on his belt. Cartridge-filled bandoliers crisscrossed three chests.

One of the Tatars, a fellow with a great beak of a nose and a sweeping black mustache, stared down from horseback at the townsmen who hurried up to meet him. "You are leader?" he demanded of Mladenov. His Russian was fair.

"I am Iosef Trofimovich Mladenov. I and Anton Avgustovich lead, da," Mladenov answered, pointing at Pits. The Estonian wondered whether Mladenov wanted him to share the trouble or was really including him. The latter, he decided reluctantly. Whatever else he was, Mladenov was no fool. If Estonians and nomads made common cause, the Russians in the valley were doomed.

Did he want to lead his people in that direction? He looked at the Tatar. The fellow was studying Tallinn Town the way a fox-or on Haven, a tamerlane-studied a chicken coop. He said, "I am Isa Bektashi, son to Suleiman Bektashi, chieftain of the clan of Aydin. He intends to take you under his protection, to keep you safe from other, less kindly clans that are coming to roam the steppes."

"To protect us? To keep us safe?" Pits repeated. Estonia had heard those words so many times back on Earth, usually from Russians, sometimes from Germans. "Isa Suleimanovich, tell your father we have no quarrel with him, but we can protect ourselves."

"That is so, by God," Mladenov said. He looked back and forth between the nomad and P?ts. P?ts wondered if he resented being upstaged. The Estonian bared his teeth in a humorless grin. Mladenov had named him a town leader-this was what he got.

Isa Bektashi said, "Think again. You would not do well to anger my father."

"We do not want to anger him," Mladenov said. "We do not want to serve him, either. Let us five at peace with one another."

"Not so simple," the nomad said. "Our women, they need the valley to give birth."

That was always a problem on Haven. Only in the lowlands was there enough oxygen to let a woman bring a baby to term and to undergo labor with a decent chance of living through it. Pits said, "Your women will be welcome here, Isa Suleimanovich. We shall not molest them. We are civilized men, not savages."

Bektashi shook his head. "You say welcome now. What if, one fine day, you say not welcome? What happens to clan of Aydin then? How can we leave selves open to wounding by infidels? You come under our protection, let our riders into valley to make sure all goes well."

"Nyet." Mladenov and Pits said it in the same breath. The Russian went on, "This is our valley, our land. We will protect it ourselves-from you, if need be."

One of the Tatars behind Isa Bektashi made as if to unsling his rifle. The Russian named Yevgeny brought his own weapon up to his shoulder. Mladenov glanced around to the houses by the square, as if to check warriors hidden in them. So far as Pits knew, there were no warriors. He admired Mladenov's quick thinking.

Bektashi barked something at his follower in his own language. The fellow took his hand off the rifle. Yevgeny relaxed, fractionally. Bektashi glared at Mladenov and P?ts. "This is your final word?"

They looked at each other. They both nodded.

"You will regret it," said the nomad chief's son. He made his horse rear and spin round on its hind legs, then trotted north out of Tallinn Town. The other riders followed him.

P?ts looked at Yevgeny and Mladenov and started to laugh. Mladenov scowled. "I do not see anything funny here, Anton Avgustovich," he growled. "Nothing."

"No?" P?ts said. "Here is the war between us, all at once forgotten because we have a worse problem. From my enemy, the man who gladly would have killed me half an hour ago, you've turned into my ally and my friend. Do you see no joke there?"

"Put so, maybe I do," Mladenov said. "When the choice is between fair land and no land, it makes the choice between fair land and better land seem of small importance, doesn't it?"

So it does, Iosef Trofimovich, so it does. Your leading men and mine need to sit down and talk things over, I think. Those nomads look damnably well armed. If we want to keep this valley for ourselves, we won't hold them off with words alone. We'll need all the guns we can get our hands on. . and we'll need to work together." The words left a bad taste in Pat's mouth, but he knew they were true.

So did Mladenov. "It shall be as you say, Anton Avgustovich." He looked no happier about the prospect than Pits was, but went on nonetheless: "We will need sentries at the mouth of the valley, to warn us if the nomads come. We have a few two-way radio sets, to get word quickly back to town-"

"Do you?" Pits said in surprise. "We tried to get some, but our applications went nowhere. Of course, we are not Russians, either." One more reason to be glad my people are not going to fight these Pamyat bastards, he thought. Walkie-talkies would have given them one more big edge. Fight the Russians. . he looked down at his watch. "I have to go, Iosef Trofimovich, right this minute, or my own people will start the war coming after me."

"Can't have that, not now," Mladenov said. "Shall I come with you, to start working out a rotation for sentries?"

"Come if you care to," P?ts answered. The Russian leader was no coward, not if he was willing to beard a band of armed and angry Estonians in their den. He would have been easier to dislike as a more thoroughgoing villain.

The Estonians were almost out of their den when Pits and Mladenov reached them. They were forming up by the flag in front of Pits' house. Some carried spears improvised from knives and poles, a couple bore hunting bows, while all those who owned firearms had them.