War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  The Mayor growled, “I hope you mix concrete better than you mix metaphors.”

  Perez ignored him, went to the door, and returned with Afaz.

  After considerable nomad-style bargaining, the Council hired Afaz. As the meeting adjourned, Perez said to the Mayor, ‘“Takes a thief to catch a thief’ they always say. Now we’re hiring a second consultant to check up on our first.”

  * * *

  When the next tribe rode up, Afaz tagged along to haggle over goat fur. The headman stopped haggling to pay Rod, then turned to Afaz, reaching an agreement with him in the middle of the bridge.

  Afaz traveled out of town with the nomads, then slipped back to report. “No question about it. Your Sergeant MacKim collected fifty credits. The nomads think fifty credits is the standard toll.”

  “Didn’t they question Rod about the toll?” the Mayor asked. “Word was supposed to have gone out that it was twenty-five credits.”

  “This tribe speaks a Turkish dialect, not the one I grew up with, but if you speak one flavor of Turkish you can understand most of them. But Rod doesn’t speak Turkish. He knows about enough to say ‘Fifty credits or we shoot.’ Most of the tribesmen in this area know more Russki than he does Turkish. BuReloc only started shipping nomads like me here a dozen standard years ago. The older ones were all born in Siberia and know at least a little Russki.”

  “Rod served on BuReloc ships,” Perez said.

  “On those ships, the guards know just enough of your language to give you orders, never enough that you can argue back.”

  “So Rod is a crook,” the Mayor mused. “Do we put him in jail, or just fire him?”

  “Just kick him out,” Afaz said. “No way I testify in court. Word gets out that I’m a spy, the tribesmen will never trust me again.”

  “That’s settled,” the Mayor said to Perez. “Fire Rod, fire Jones and hire a local to command the guard: unless, you want to do it, Enrique?”

  “No, thanks. But we still don’t know if Jones is in on the scam,” Perez said.

  “We never will. Fire them both,” the Mayor said.

  “No,” Perez replied. “A little patience, and we’ll find out whether or not Jones is honest.

  Afaz and Perez had to wait for a tribe that spoke something other than Turkish. Two cycles later one showed up, leading a herd of reindeer.

  “Have to be Tungus,” Afaz said. “All other tribes have at least a few sheep. The Tungus volunteered to be transported to Haven. They wanted a planet without Muscovite bureaucrats. There was a deal—they’d go peacefully if BuReloc would ship their reindeer with them.”

  Afaz did not speak any of the Tungus languages. Neither did Rod or Jones. The Tungus headman did not admit to speaking Russki or Anglic or even Spanish. Through sign language and pantomime Rod managed to communicate—and Santander, watching through binoculars from the hillside—was able to count the money as it was paid. The amount was fifty credits.

  The next tribe spoke a Mongol dialect which Afaz knew. Dressed as a nomad, he rode with the tribesmen, posing as an itinerant tent mender. Rod stayed at the tollbooth and Jones went to negotiate with the headman.

  Afaz reported to the Council, “I think Jones is honest. He speaks Mongol like I do Spanish, but he doesn’t pretend to know the language, the way MacKim does. And he asked for, and received, twenty-five credits.”

  “How do we know that Jones didn’t get suspicious and was honest just this one time?” the Mayor asked.

  “I casually asked the Mongols if twenty-five credits were standard toll,” Afaz replied, “and they told me that’s what they paid previously.”

  “If you’re still skeptical about Jones,” Perez said. “I know how we can test whether he suspected anything. And we don’t have to pay Senor Afaz this time, either.”

  Afaz chuckled. “I’d like to hear your plan.”

  * * *

  Perez and the Mayor waited patiently for the next Turkish tribe to show up. When one did they planted themselves within earshot of Rod, but facing in the other direction, pretending to examine a set of blueprints. As soon as they heard Rod say and the chief repeat “elli,” the Turkish word for “fifty,” they nodded to each other. Case closed. Neither Rod nor the headman had said “yirmi bes,” Turkish for “twenty five.”

  While Rod was at dinner, the Mayor and Perez searched his room. Perez found loaded dice, several decks of marked cards and something new to his experience—marked dominoes. Rod was too much a small-time operator, he concluded, to be a card mechanic and therefore depended on marked cards.

  The Council agreed to appoint Jones to Rod’s job. To save money, he would not have an assistant. There were complaints that Afaz had charged more than Rod had embezzled, but the Mayor defended the money paid to Afaz as insurance against trouble with the nomads. Before adjourning, the Council voted unanimously to lower the toll for Turkish tribes to twenty-five credits a crossing.

  “Just one problem,” Perez said to no one in particular. “How do we explain to the Turks why we have dropped our prices?”

  There were two face-to-face meetings to be held, and Perez, feeling guilty for hiring Rod, atoned by conducting them himself.

  “You hired me to collect your tolls,” Rod told him, “and now you’re firing me for doing my job.”

  “No, not for doing your job, but for taking a hundred percent commission,” Perez replied.

  “Fifty percent.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Rod. One percent would have been too much, because you were on salary.”

  “And you don’t give me a chance to defend myself. I’m sorry, Enrique, but once I speak before the Council, you’ll be the one out of a job.”

  Perez refrained from explaining that he was hired and fired by the voters. “Whether or not you can convince the Council—and you can’t— the question is how will you convince the nomads?”

  “The nomads understand me. I speak their language.”

  “Yes, Rod, but will they also understand that you have been pocketing their money, and that Millvale’s protection has been withdrawn from you. You may keep the money you’ve taken, but you’d better leave town before any nomads come looking for you.”

  Jones, when Perez spoke to him, said, “I don’t want the job, but considering as the missus and the kids are already here, I don’t got no choice, do I?”

  “No choice but to be on good behavior. You never warned us about Rod.”

  “I figured he was pulling one of his usual deals at Pepe Botella’s—”

  “You mean one of his short cons?” Perez asked.

  Jones shrugged his shoulders. “You go there and I don’t. You didn’t expect me to shake Rod down in public, in case he was short-changing armed tribesmen—did you?”

  The nomads gave no trouble. The next tribe through were Turks, and Jones went to their headman, repeating “Yirmi bes, Yirmi bes.”

  The headman looked surprised but paid the twenty-five credits as requested. The next band of Turks coming through had gotten the word, and they offered only twenty-five credits.

  Mac stayed on as janitor and did not talk about his son being fired. Half a standard year later, Perez found himself chatting with Mac on the bridge deck. After some local gossip, Mac asked, “By the way, did you hear about Rod?”

  Perez shook his head to cover his embarrassment.

  “He’s back in Castell City. Says it’s a lot more interesting than being the town sergeant here.”

  “Oh,” Perez said cautiously. “What’s he doing now?”

  “Got his own business, he does. MacKim Research. He looks for shimmer stones. Has a line on a good one which disappeared two, three standard years ago.”

  Perez tried to look no more than politely dubious. “Nobody loses a shimmer stone. If one’s missing, it’s because it was stolen—and if it’s stolen, it’s long since off-planet where prices are two, three, five times as high.

  “At least Rod’s in business for himself now,” Mac replied. “He had enough o
f working for other people in the Marines. Being your sergeant was to fill in while he looked around for a business opportunity. That’s why he left so suddenly—he got a contract to search for a hidden shimmer stone vein.”

  “Let the old man keep his illusions,” the Mayor told Perez.

  “Does Mac know his son is a crook?”

  “Probably,” the Mayor replied, “but won’t admit it to himself. How old is Rod? I bet he was underage when he joined the Marines. But, why?”

  “For the adventure,” Perez postulated.

  “More likely because Rod got tired of his lectures on being honest. Or because Mac found some money missing at home. At least we got off cheap with Rod.”

  Perez thought that over, then said, “And we’ll be getting our revenge, too. Rod has his neck laid out on the chopping block.”

  “What do you mean?” the Mayor asked.

  “The boys in the shimmer stones business are in for the big money, and don’t have a sense of humor. What do you think they’ll do when a petty crook like Rod tries to take them for a few credits?”

  ACROSS THE HIGH PLAINS

  A.L. Brown

  Haven, 2075 A.D.

  LIEUTENANT ANDRE BOURQUE, CoDominium Marines, keyed the throat mike, thanked the flight crew, took off his flight helmet and placed it on the jump seat. He slung his pack over his shoulder and plucked his carbine from the rack beside the door. He jumped down out of the copter, coughing at the cloud of dust the rotors were raising. The bird immediately rose again, this being only an interim stop in its journey.

  It was a long flight from Castell City to Fort Camerone, a flight that had taken them across the Atlas Mountains. The winds and thermals over the mountains were treacherous; Andre was more than a bit queasy and glad to have his boots back on the ground. He had been sent to investigate a horse cavalry unit that had recently been created by the planetary militia, the Haven Volunteers. While the local CD Marine commander, Colonel Shawley, thought the idea ridiculous, some of the officers at CoDominium Headquarters in Castell City found it intriguing.

  Andre had a lot to prove here. He was one of the first class of CoDominium officers commissioned at the new Marine training center in the Shangri-La Valley, one of the first Haven-born members of the elite military force that held the alliance together across dozens of worlds. As populations on the new colonies increased, so did military demands, and they could no longer draw all their forces from the mother world. Some of the new trainees became members of the planetary militia, with their futures tied to Haven. But the lucky ones, the ones like Andre, got a slot in the Marines, and the chance to see other worlds.

  Andre asked for directions to the militia headquarters, which was located on the other side of the town of Eureka. The walk was a short one, and the town seemed pretty rough, rough enough that he unslung his carbine, and carried it at low port. At the HQ, he asked for Captain Kenneth Flint, and was surprised when the orderly pointed at a tall man striding out the door.

  “Watch my gear for me,” yelled Andre as he rushed to catch up with the Captain.

  “Who the hell are you?” the Captain snarled as he marched down the street, striding out of the fort and heading toward town.

  “Lieutenant Andre Bourque, CoDominium Marines, out of military Headquarters, Castell City,” Andre said.

  “What are you here for?”

  “I’ve been ordered to observe your cavalry unit,” Andre panted, working hard to keep up with the taller man’s stride. “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say that I’m going out to collect my First Sergeant.”

  “Collect him from where?”

  “You’ll see,” Flint said.

  The man looked like a picture on a military recruiting poster. He was dressed in high boots and tight brown trousers held up with suspenders. His blue shirt had silver railroad tracks attached to the shoulder loops. A wide-brimmed hat completed the uniform. He had two automatics in low holsters, one on each hip, suspended from a leather belt festooned with a variety of gear. He was handsome in a weather-beaten way, with a square jaw and a deep voice.

  The streets around them grew more noisy and crowded. They rounded a corner to find a bar whose patrons had spilled out onto sidewalk tables and chairs to enjoy the warm spring air. As they approached, a man dressed like the Captain came crashing through the door of the bar, landing on his butt in the middle of the street.

  “Kowalski,” the Captain shouted.

  “Hey, Cap’n,” the man replied in a familiar manner, “they called the unit a bunch of road apples! I couldn’t let them get away with that!” And with that he dove back into the bar.

  “Shit, I was afraid of this,” Flint said, rolling up his sleeves as he headed toward the door. “You may want to stay outside.”

  But Andre couldn’t resist the temptation. He followed him in, just in time to see the Captain grab a scruffy looking man, heaving him at a group of men that looked as if they’d just been released from the brig. The interior of the bar was total chaos, with fists, bottles and even furniture flying. The patrons looked like they could be those Cornish miners who made up so much of Eureka’s population. Andre received a punch in the back, spun and blocked another fist. He threw a few punches himself, and soon found himself back to back with Flint. There were other cavalrymen in the bar, outnumbered, but more than holding their own.

  Then, shots rang out, and the room fell silent. The adversaries stood, staring at each other, their chests heaving. At the door was a pair of CD Marines. “All right, folks, fun’s over for the evening. We’ll give you five minutes to clear out. Anyone left after that goes to lock-up. And pick up your friends off the floor; the five minutes apply to them, too.”

  The Marines looked like they meant business, and the grumbling crew filed toward the door. The Captain gathered his own men, including a short, heavily built man with chevrons on his arm.

  “Wakefield,” the Captain said. “If you weren’t so good on patrol, I’d have your stripes for this.”

  The short man grinned at him, “Fortunate, then, that I’m good!”

  The Captain rolled his eyes, and pointed his thumb at the door, “Get to the barracks, and sober yourself up.”

  As they left, the two Marines looked curiously at Andre, but he didn’t say a word, just strode out with the cavalrymen. In situations like this, the less said the better. He could see that his time with the cavalry was going to be interesting, to say the least.

  * * *

  A’isha, wife of the Mahdi, sat in her home, the morning light shining bright in the windows, a letter in her lap, with her eyes wet with tears. She looked forward to getting those letters, but receiving them was like a knife in the heart. They reminded her of how keenly she missed her daughter, Faryal, and her son, Nabil, who had fled from Medina almost fifteen years ago. An assassination attempt had convinced A’isha that the two of them were better off elsewhere. Faryal had fallen in love with a young man, Abdullah, who had a friend from the Shangri-La valley, and so A’isha gave them her blessing and sent them off.

  She opened the letter, and found a family photograph. There was Faryal, looking as beautiful as ever, although a bit heavier than she had been when she left home. She was wearing a simple printed cotton dress with a matching scarf over her hair, shockingly garish and revealing by the standards of the Faithful, but probably modest by the standards of her new home. Beside her was her dark-skinned husband, Abdullah, dressed in a coat and tie, his arm proudly around his beloved wife. Young Nabil stood in front of them, almost as tall as his sister at sixteen, his dark hair falling across his forehead, dressed in simple trousers and a white dress shirt.

  Beside him were Faryal’s children, Habiba, already a beautiful young girl of fourteen, Mohammed, a big boy at twelve, and Zafir, a slender nine year old boy. They were a good-sized family on a world where every birth was cause for concern.

  The picture brought more tears to her eyes, and it was a few minutes before she was
able to dry them and read the letter. All was well with them, their village growing into a small town, which now had a name— Providence. Abdullah was a teacher of mathematics and science in the local school. Faryal, in addition to raising the children, was a baker, making bread and pastries for sale in the local store and in the town’s two pubs. They were still close to Abdullah’s friend Patrick, who had led them across the mountains all those years ago.

  It was Patrick’s adopted mother Moira whose pub was Faryal’s biggest customer. Patrick was still a guide, hunter and explorer, often working with his adopted father, Sam. The children were all doing well in school, and the letter was filled with stories of childish pranks and achievements.

  There was also a letter from Brother Miller, the headmaster of the school where Abdullah taught. He was a Harmony monk. Before he had retired to the small town, Brother Miller had run the Harmony program for assimilating Bureau of Relocation transportees who landed in Castell City. After A’isha mentioned the problems they were having with all the transportees coming to Medina in an early letter to Faryal, a letter from Brother Miller had been sent in reply, and over the years, more letters and even instructions and manuals had been sent.

  These had been invaluable, helping her organize a system to handle the tens of thousands of new arrivals that poured into Medina year after year. Most of them, after too short a time, were turned out to the steppes beyond. The newcomers did what they could, but the land was barren; it broke A’isha’s heart to think of how many were sent off to starve, or live a hardscrabble existence in the steppes.

  A’isha rose, put the letter and picture aside, put on her burqa and stepped out onto the balcony. The morning air was crisp and cold, but the breeze carried with it the promises of early spring and warmer days to come. Her husband was due back any time. He had been out riding on the plains to visit some of the tribal chiefs, and she hoped to catch sight of him on the road. To her, he would always be Tawfiq; but to the world, he was the Mahdi, leader of the Faithful and fulfillment of an ancient prophecy. It pained her to see him more and more consumed by that role, becoming a product of people’s expectations, unforgiving and harsh.