Ричард Бейкер - Valiant Dust

“That was entirely too close,” he admitted. “To your left, Caid Harsaf.”

“I have not forgotten,” the desert chieftain replied. He slewed the transport into a broad curve and streaked off down the dry riverbed, the remainder of his tribe’s vehicles following him. They rounded a large outcropping of worn boulders, and the caid quickly turned their light transport behind the rocks while the rest of his men continued on.

Bleindel hopped out of the cab and scrambled up to peer over a boulder at the pursuing force. They came speeding over the desert, firing wildly as they followed the fleeing tribesmen. Nest of scorpions is not quite the right metaphor, he decided. More like a herd of blood-maddened bulls goaded into a killing rage. The leading vehicles broke out from the thorny brush and into the relatively open wadi, turning to chase the el-Tayibs.

At that moment, Caid Ahmed and his el-Manjouri struck. From the heavy brush on the opposite bank of the wadi, a score of antiarmor rockets streaked out to hammer the Royal Guard grav tanks, while insurgents armed with new mag rifles opened up on the lighter scout cars. Explosion after explosion rocked the desert, as Tatous brewed up and Léopards staggered under the warheads. Maybe half the rockets missed—after all, the Caidist fighters hadn’t had much practice with antiarmor weaponry before—but the ones that hit did plenty of damage, and even the misses contributed to the chaos of the moment by rocking the ground with stray blasts that showered vehicles nearby with fountains of dirt.

“Ha!” shouted Caid Harsaf, joining Bleindel behind the boulder. “Kill those city-dwelling dogs, you Manjouri bastards!” He waved a fist in the air as shrapnel hissed and pelted off the boulders around them. A piece of barrel from a grav tank’s main armament actually sailed completely over the boulder jumble sheltering the two men, and thudded into the sand twenty meters behind them. It must have weighed at least five hundred kilos.

“My men stand and fight, while yours run for their lives!” Another gray-bearded tribesmen, this one a short, round-bodied fellow in a dusty keffiyeh, scrambled into the sheltered vantage where Bleindel and Caid Harsaf watched the battle.

“That is unfair, Ahmed,” Caid Harsaf said, glaring at the other chieftain. “We diced for which tribe would stand and which would pretend to run. This is as God willed it, and my men played their part well.”

Caid Ahmed of the el-Manjour answered Harsaf’s angry look with a wide grin. “As you say, Harsaf. Your men run very well indeed.”

Bleindel ignored the two chieftains, keeping his eyes on the battle. He’d spent only a few hours with them—after all, he was doing his best to be in a hundred places at once as he coordinated arms deliveries, stirred up riots and protests in the major cities, and urged the pugnacious desert tribes into useful action—but he’d already come to the conclusion that despite all their protestations, Harsaf and Ahmed were firm friends. Better yet, they seemed eager to find out what they could do with the modern weapons he was able to deliver through el-Fasi’s shipping network. This deadly skirmish seemed to be a matter of sport to them.

More rockets fired off, now shooting in ragged volleys as different teams struggled to reload their weapons and fire at their best speed. The Royal Guards opened up on the brush and boulders of the wadi’s dry bank, autorifles whining and chirping as they scythed back and forth. The grav tanks still had plenty of teeth, and the concentrated firepower was terrible to behold. They simply sterilized whole patches of desert with storms of mag darts, but most were firing blindly; the ambushers were well hidden. The furious barrage silenced some of the el-Manjour tribesmen, but others kept up their fire. Three of the rocket teams happened to target the same Léopard at once, and this time the Montréalais tank’s armor didn’t hold—it blew apart, its main turret spinning through the air. Abruptly the remaining Royal Guard combat vehicles spurred into motion again, wheeling about to flee back the way they had come and escape the killing ground. The autorifle fire slackened as the targets disappeared into the ever-present dust.

Bleindel scrambled up on top of a low boulder for a better vantage. Yes, there was no doubt of it. The badly mauled battalion was in full retreat, heading back toward the water station, most likely inoperable now. Nine more Royal Guard combat vehicles burned in the wadi, adding their thick black smoke to the billowing dust. He smiled in satisfaction. “Well done, Caid Harsaf. And you, too, Caid Ahmed. The sultan is going to miss those grav tanks sorely, I think.”

“We should hit them again tonight,” Caid Ahmed said. “One or two more shocks like this and we will chase them completely out of the Harthawi.”

“I think you might be correct, but that’s not what we need from your fighters. The best place for the Royal Guard is right here in the middle of your desert. Let’s see if we can keep them here for a few more weeks.” Bleindel lowered himself back to the ground again. “Draw them in deeper after you. Encourage them to chase you, and when they give up, sting them again to goad them on, or feign weakness and lure them in.”

Caid Ahmed and Caid Harsaf exchanged glances. “It is the height of folly to allow an enemy to learn your strength,” Harsaf said. “If blows are to be struck, strike hard and finish your foe.”

“True,” Bleindel admitted. “But the goal is not just to defeat the sultan’s army. You also need to break Montréal’s grip on your planet, and right now, the best way to do that is to help the Royal Guard waste the better part of its strength here in your desert. Speaking of which, it is time for me to move on. I think I can count on a pair of sly old desert foxes to look after things here for now.”

“Where are you going?” Ahmed demanded.

“To and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it,” Bleindel said with a cryptic smile.

Caid Harsaf gave him a sharp look. “That is from the story of Job,” he said. “I thought you were not a Believer.”

“I have been reading up.” Of course, that was what Satan had told God when God asked what he’d been up to lately. He salaamed to both men. “I should have another shipment of weapons for you in a week or so. Contact me if anything unexpected comes up.” Then Otto Bleindel jogged off into the desert, headed for the spot where his flyer was hidden. He had a lot to do, and not enough time.

13

CSS Hector, Gadira II Orbit

The riots in the capital lasted for three days. When the Royal Guard finally succeeded in restoring order in Tanjeer, a huge strike by disaffected workers in Nador paralyzed the sprawling offworlder industrial plants there. Hector ’s landing force was obliged to execute two more evacuations of local consular offices, as well as protect a new Aquilan-owned tidal power station from an unruly demonstration, disperse a crowd immobilizing a lev train carrying Aquilan goods, and rescue a news team from High Albion that managed to wander into the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. And those were just the disturbances that directly touched on Aquilan interests; there were two or three times as many Montréalais investments on Gadira, and the sultanate’s forces were hard-pressed to protect them all. Sikander himself made three landings within a week of the Sidi Marouf riot, and Angela Larkin at least five or six more without him.

He was just finishing a report on the news-team incident at the desk in his stateroom when his comm beeped at him again. Sikander sighed and keyed it, wondering where he’d be headed next. “Lieutenant North,” he answered.

“Mr. North, this is Sublieutenant Larkin. I’m in the gunnery office with Ensign Girard. We think we’ve made some progress on the torpedo failure.”