Ричард Бейкер - Valiant Dust

Cheney couldn’t help exchanging a quick glance with Ambassador Nguyen and the other Montréalais from the embassy’s military mission who stood nearby. Ranya waited patiently for the handsome officer to collect himself; it wasn’t the first time she had caught someone off-guard with her knowledge of military affairs. Gadira’s armed forces limited women in uniform to a handful of specialties that theoretically kept them out of direct combat roles, and few women of high station looked on military service as socially acceptable. It didn’t help that Ranya happened to be wearing a light, flowing rose-colored caftan with delicate embroidered flowers, and left her blue-black hair in a long cascade of gentle curls. It almost doesn’t seem fair. However, she wondered why Paul Nguyen hadn’t warned the new military attaché that she was more interested in such matters than her uncle, Sultan Rashid.

She looked over at Ambassador Nguyen, and noticed a distinct twinkle in his eye. That explained it, then—Major Cheney, fresh off the ship from Montréal, was receiving a little lesson from the ambassador. No doubt the enthusiastic and dashing young major had arrived in-system with a boundless store of energy and dozens of grand ideas for showing the poor, backward Gadirans just how lucky they were to have Montréal for their friend. Paul Nguyen would have offered a few words about patience and circumspection, which Cheney would have ignored, so the canny old ambassador stepped out of the way to let the young major learn some things for himself.

“You are terrible,” Ranya told Ambassador Nguyen.

“I am afraid I don’t know what you are speaking of, Amira,” the ambassador innocently replied.

Major Cheney finally rallied. “It is true that the Léopard is an older design, Amira Ranya. But it is highly reliable, cost-effective, and more than adequate for the threat environment your uncle’s forces may encounter.”

Ranya decided to take pity on Major Cheney, since it wasn’t entirely his fault. Montréalais were overly sensitive to the fact that Gadira could be very traditional, since most of their troubles in the sultan’s realm came from the highly conservative elements of society, but their predeployment briefings seemed to make little distinction between the urban classes and the more narrow-minded desert tribes. While it was true that Gadiran women did not ordinarily engage in male-dominated trades or studies, her people usually made room when extraordinary women defied those expectations. More important, wealthy Gadirans of both sexes enjoyed more personal freedoms—exercised with discretion, of course—than offworlders sometimes realized. As the daughter of one sultan and the niece of another, Ranya had benefited from a first-class education and the freedom to pursue any field of study she took an interest in. Seven years ago, she’d discovered that she needed to know more about military affairs and politics than any proper Gadiran princess ought to, and she’d thrown herself into acquiring that knowledge as efficiently and thoroughly as possible. Ranya couldn’t command troops in the field—Gadira simply wasn’t ready for that—but she’d instead made herself an expert on the Royal Guard, the military aid provided to the sultanate by the Republic of Montréal, and the forces and tactics of Gadira’s urban radicals and restless tribal chieftains.

“You make a good point, Major,” she told Cheney. “The Caidists have no armored vehicles at all, and few antitank weapons. Your Léopard is certainly sufficient to control any battle space we establish. The difficulty is that rebellious tribesmen won’t oblige us by engaging our tanks.” She turned back to the grav tank, found the handholds and footsteps built into its armored flanks, and scrambled up on top of the vehicle. She knew that she looked ridiculous standing on top of a tank in her gauzy pink-white robes, but she wanted a closer look. The driver’s hatch stood open, so she set her hands on the deck—hot enough in the sunlight to singe her palms—and dropped into the seat below, disappearing from sight.

She examined the controls, rubbing her hands absentmindedly as she noted the field of view from the armored ports and the access to the rest of the vehicle. Outside, she heard someone quickly scramble up the side of the grav tank. A moment later, Major Cheney appeared above her open hatch. “Be careful in there, Amira!” he said. “Please don’t start the vehicle, it can be difficult to control if you are not trained in its operation.”

“Have no fear, Major. I’m not going to drive off with your tank.” Ranya settled herself into the seat, and identified the principal controls without touching anything. “These seem straightforward enough. I assume you’ll provide trainers for our crewmen and maintenance personnel?”

“But of course, Amira. The basic instruction course takes about six weeks. Advanced tactics and maintenance qualifications require additional training regimes.”

“What is its operational endurance?”

“The onboard reactor only needs to be fueled about once per six months in operational use. It takes a few liters of a deuterium fuel mixture.” Cheney seemed to be a little more comfortable on ground he knew well. “The real limitations are onboard ammunition storage, and the crew’s endurance.”

“Do we have the ability to produce the deuterium fuel mix in-system? Or the ammunition, for that matter?”

“Not yet, Amira. We will provide ample stores of both for any foreseeable operations. However, you will probably want to contract with SGS Industries—the manufacturer of the tank—to build a fuel plant under license, if you feel that local production of fuel is important.”

Only if we want tanks that we can use when we need to without begging for fuel. Well, the ability to produce advanced fuels was something Gadira needed anyway. If her uncle’s generals wanted tanks, she would have to convince them that maintenance and logistical support were just as much a part of buying a tank as picking out something with heavy armor and a big gun. Unfortunately, the Montréalais had figured out soon after Sultan Rashid’s succession that the easiest way to secure friends close to the throne was to shower them with toys—the bigger, the better.

“Amira!” From outside she heard the voice of Captain Tarek Zakur, the commander of her personal guard. “Bey Salem approaches!”

Ranya glanced out the viewport that faced the palace. Two figures were indeed making their way toward the parade ground. Well, she had seen most of what she needed to see of the Léopard, and she had probably done enough damage to her daily calendar by taking the time to educate herself on the newest addition to the sultan’s arsenal. She scrambled out of the driver’s seat, using her loose sleeves to protect her hands from the broiling black-painted hatch rim.

Major Cheney offered his hand, and she allowed him to help her up out of the hatch. “Thank you, Major,” she said.

“My pleasure, Amira,” the Montréalais officer replied. “Would you like to see the gunner’s position?”

“Not right now.” Ranya brushed her hands on her robes, and turned her attention to the two men walking up the palm-shaded arcade leading from the palace. Salem el-Fasi she’d known all her life; he was a rotund little man of middle years dressed in a modern Montréalais-style white silk suit, with a blue fez as a nod to Gadiran tradition. The other man she did not recognize, but he appeared to be an offworlder. “Captain Zakur may want a look, though.”

“Indeed I do,” Tarek replied. He was a huge man, easily two meters tall and at least 120 kilos, with a fierce-looking black beard and a plumed turban that added another fifteen centimeters to his height. For all his size, he was a superior athlete, quick and nimble, and if his dress uniform was just as impractical as the Léopard’s parade paint scheme, the mag pistol holstered at his hip was not just for show. He helped Ranya down from the grav tank, and climbed up to take her place. At once he and Major Cheney fell into an animated discussion.