War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  He sighed. She was as foolish as the old man. He said, “If the valley exists—and we managed to find it—how could we live? Perhaps we might find a hotel where they’d let us wash pots for our supper?”

  She thumped his ribs. “There might be someone there who would welcome us.”

  He listened to the other slaves snoring. It was a crazy idea! He said, “And there might possibly be someone who wouldn’t. We’d do better to wait for the next lander.” He fingered the coin in his pocket. “I might be able to bribe someone to let us aboard.”

  Voice smothered in his jacket, she mumbled, “When’s the next lander due?”

  He shrugged. Did she think he was in BuReloc’s confidence? In any case, Old Maksis might be right.

  People had disappeared. The Chingiz might have them all executed before the next lander came.

  Lisa clung to him. “Take me away, Orfan—before Liplap has us all murdered!”

  He held her tight. She was asking the impossible unless all the slaves fled together! Orfan’s pulse raced. They could steal food, weapons—even muskylopes!

  He nuzzled her neck. “If the others would go as well, we might make it. We could go at first dark—give ourselves two full cycles to dodge any pursuit. We could head south…look for somewhere warm. I’ll talk to the others.”

  She hugged him. “Oh, yes, Orfan—yes! Please!”

  He put his idea to the kitchen parliament at the end of the next indoor work cycle. He knew that most of the slaves saw him as an artful dodger who had done some sort of a deal with the Tartars to get off working on the pipeline. Besides which—there were his visits to the Chingiz!

  “What does he want you for?” Rita Purins had once asked.

  Orfan had shrugged. Who would care to describe the Cham’s obscene appetites to a woman!

  He stared around the circle of slaves and said softly, “Let’s talk about escaping.”

  Voldemars Pics shifted sideways, so that he leaned his back against the kitchen door. He said, “Lermontovgrad is the nearest public spaceport we could make for.”

  Lermontovgrad! Orfan blinked his surprise. Pics was ahead of him! Lermontov Spaceport served the Russian half of CoDo. If one could only get there!

  “I—” he began.

  Eva Abolins, who had once sold fish on Leipaja dockside, interrupted him. “Did the Chingiz put you up to this?”

  Orfan flushed. “If you think I’d—”

  Rita Purins ignored his confusion. She addressed Pics through a screen of hair hanging over her face. “Lermontovgrad’s not for me, Voldy. I don’t want to go back to Earth. They had me in an army brothel. I won’t go back to that.”

  Ruddy-faced Fricis Frienbergs, who had been a farm hand in Tukums before falling foul of a minor bureaucrat, nodded agreement. “A valley of our own is what we want. Somewhere in the south, where we can plough and sow, and make things grow.”

  Vasily Bugovics stirred impatiently. “Don’t rush us, Fritz. Let’s decide if we want to escape first.”

  “We vote?” Semen Golikov suggested. The Russian understood Lettish well enough to follow the conversation. He spread his hands. “I nansenist—stateless person—on Earth. I not want go back to Earth. New home on Haven sound fine to me.”

  Marta Karnups, who never talked about her past, said, “I reckon I could endure living somewhere else on this world. I vote we stay on Haven, if we can find somewhere to live. Besides—Lermontovgrad would only mean trouble for escaped slaves.”

  Lisa said eagerly, “Couldn’t we look for Maksis’ dream valley? Orfan thinks it’s silly, but—”

  He glowered at her. “I didn’t say it was silly. I said, if the valley really exists”—he smirked apologetically at Old Maksis—“it doesn’t lie in the direction we want to go.”

  The old man fingered a loose tooth absently. “The valley exists, all right, son. But I don’t claim we could find a way into it. Unless you are prepared to swim several versts, probably under water and against the current, to find where the river comes from.”

  Anton Trofimovics wriggled out of Felix Kanders’ grasp. He grinned his foolish grin. “We not swim. We be cowboys. Ride muskylopes. Maksis shows us how.”

  All eyes turned towards the idiot. Crazy Troffy was telling them plainly how they might escape!

  Voldemars Pics said, “Maybe we ought to start making plans.”

  Orfan let them talk. It had been his idea, but it would be too much to expect these adults to accept him as their leader. Anyway, he had expected mistrust, and only the fishwife had shown antagonism. Let Pics do the Moses act. Orfan Judeiks would tag along.

  Preparations took more than a Haven week. Each sleep period, Orfan, whose job gave him the run of the yurt, stole something to aid their survival on the steppe. Food, clothes, blankets, weapons—the Tartars were careless with possessions, and frequently drunk. So theft wasn’t difficult. Weapons were the exception. But Orfan discovered a way into the yurt armory through the loose ceiling of a linen cupboard. He concealed his loot in an outside barn used only at muskylope calving time.

  Early one evening, at the start of a nighttime rest cycle, Voldemars led his tribe into the desert. The night was cold and dark. Hecate showed only a thin crescent, Cat’s Eye a larger one, shedding just enough light to see by. They followed Pics to the barn where he distributed Orfan’s loot. Each slave got blankets, an army pup tent, a parcel of CoDo rations, and a weapon.

  Lisa gingerly gripped the lance that Voldemars handed to her. “Will I have to stick it into anyone?”

  Orfan grinned. “I doubt it. Old Genghiz Khan’t will be glad we’ve gone. Saves him from having to slit our throats.”

  Vasily Bugovics tucked a curved sword into his belt, then hefted a crossbow. “The Chingiz will be after us fast enough when he counts his muskylopes at daylight.” Vasily patted the glass-fiber stock of his weapon. “I reckon this gadget can slow a charging Tartar.”

  The share-out finished, Pics led them out to the track made by the pipe gang on their work cycles. He said, “The herd crossed the pipe route today. I saw fresh droppings. Let’s see if we can find them.”

  Michel Tasvin, shouldering an antique Lee Enfield, fell in beside Pics. “The Tartars will follow us easy on this trail,” he objected.

  Pics was unmoved. “We’ll leave tracks whichever way we go. And the pipeline route is well-trampled. Extra tracks won’t show so clearly.”

  Rita Purins clicked the bolt of a venerable Krag-Jorgensen. “If Genghiz Khan’t follows me, I’ll blow his ugly head off!”

  Old Maksis waved the cavalry revolver he had drawn in the share-out. “Hush! Those Tartar shepherds can hear a snail fart! Pray that there are none of them around.”

  “I hear muskylopes,” mumbled the crazy Trofimovich. The fool flourished a vintage Armalite for which Orfan had been unable to locate any ammunition, and eyed Old Maksis’ revolver. “You like to swap, Max? Cowboys have handguns like that.”

  Old Maksis mouthed a refusal none could read in the gloom.

  Then muskylope shapes loomed ahead.

  Maksis halted. “They’ll be hobbled,” he whispered. “Go up to them quietly, slip the hobble off, and jump aboard before they wake up. Lie along the back, holding the ears. Kick with your feet to make them go. Steer by pulling one ear or the other. Stop by pulling both ears together.”

  They hesitated.

  “It’s not dangerous,” he assured them. “They’re all cows in milk. If you don’t threaten their calves, they’ll do you no harm. And, once you get them moving, they’ll go forever. You can sit up and enjoy the scenery.”

  To the slaves’ surprise, the muskylopes accepted riders placidly. Twenty-six mounted fugitives were soon plodding after Leader Voldemars.

  Orfan tagged along at the tail, holding hands with Lisa, marveling at the ease of their escape.

  Voldemars called a halt at mid-cycle. Cat’s Eye was a fat crescent hovering on the horizon. The air sparkled with frost. Their breath came in gusty vapors. Th
ey ate Orfan-prepared sandwiches, drank cold tea from flasks, then pressed on. By midnight they had grown weary of riding. Cat’s Eye was setting, its light dim.

  Voldemars signaled another halt. “No fires,” he warned. “If anyone’s out searching for muskylopes, we don’t want to tell them where we are.”

  Orfan thought of the small sack of charcoal in his pack. The glow of its burning could be hidden, but there was the matter of lighting the stuff. He decided not to risk a rebuke from Pics. They ate sour-dough bread and CoDo paté, washed down with the remains of their cold tea. Fritz pushed aside the noses of questing calves to show Marta and Rita how to milk a muskylope. Orfan opened the sack of assorted ammunition he had filched. Those with firearms picked out suitable calibers for their weapons.

  By dawn they were passing the first of the windmills that drove the pipeline pumps. Michel Tasvin halted his muskylope in front of it and swung the spiked mace he had chosen as a sidearm.

  “Tovarische Liplap,” he grunted. “This is in exchange for the broken foot your guard gave me.”

  Voldemars stayed his hand. “Whoa, there, Michel! A wrecked windmill will only tell tales on us. And a single pump out of order won’t stop the Cham’s hot water.”

  Michel stared at the whirling blades through slitted eyes.

  “Don’t let the Russki toy worry you,” Bernhards Kujucs advised, who could have demolished the tower single-handedly. “We’ll have better targets yet.”

  Michel laughed, shamefaced. He lowered his mace. “Okay. I’ll wait for a Tartar head to bash.”

  Bernhards flexed mighty muscles. “I’ll give you a hand, then. I owe the bastards a few knocks. And I could use the exercise—after all the piddling digging we’ve been doing!”

  The Tartars overtook them at mid-cycle. Vasily Bugovics had dropped back to ride with Orfan and Lisa. Vasily had perfected the knack of riding while facing the animal’s rump. That way he could keep watch to the rear.

  “Something moving back there,” he murmured. He swung around on his animal. “I’d better warn Voldy.”

  He kicked the muskylope up to speed, riding for the head of the column.

  Orfan stared over his shoulder. Six motes danced on the steppe behind. His heart thumped. Tartars?

  Voldemars’ voice came down the column. “We’re going to turn away from the pipeline, one after the other. So follow me, and turn where I turn. Then spread out a bit. I want at least five meters between each of you.”

  Pics swung his mount around. Like troops on parade, each rider kept straight on, to turn where Pics had turned.

  Voldemars’ voice came again. “When I halt-all halt. Hobble your animals. Put your pack on the ground and get down behind it. We’re going to fight Tartars.”

  Rita Purins, next ahead of Orfan and Lisa, looked back. “Voldy is pulling rank today.”

  Lisa shook off Orfan’s hand. “Do what he tells you,” she ordered. She pushed ahead of Orfan, to take her place in the column. He watched her swing away from the pipeline, and followed her in turn. The column of fugitives now stretched three times its previous length.

  Pics raised a hand. “All riders halt!”

  Orfan braked his mount. He slid off and hobbled it. He threw his pack to the ground and knelt behind it. Fingers clumsy, he strung the Tartar bow he had drawn in the lottery.

  The six motes on the steppe had grown to charging warriors.

  Orfan’s heart pounded. The nomads rode lean, racing muskylopes— much faster animals than the domestic cows. He saw scimitars glinting behind knobby shields.

  The ground drummed. His sight blurred. Off to the left, someone loosed a premature arrow. Then the Tartars were on them.

  The nearest warrior hurtled between Orfan and Lisa. Orfan saw the scimitar swing down. Saw Lisa roll sideways. He loosed a wild arrow. Then the Tartar was through their line.

  Rita Purins had followed the nomad in the sights of her museum piece. As he slowed to turn, she shot him off his mount.

  Then their bit of the battle was over.

  Orfan scrambled to where Lisa lay. He gazed into her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  She stared back, clutching the stub of a lance. “He…he…did…this…!”

  Orfan stroked her hair. “Don’t fret, my love. He won’t do it again.”

  He ran to the fallen warrior. The man wore a long skirted jacket and fur trousers. An Armalite rifle lay beneath the body. Ammunition belts crossed his chest. Rita’s bullet had taken him in the temple, just below the lip of his soup-bowl helmet. Orfan dragged the rifle from beneath the body, then got the ammunition belts off.

  Rita came to stand beside him.

  Orfan said, “Good shooting, Rita. You didn’t even mark his clothes.”

  Her teeth were chattering. “Is-is he dead? I aimed for his chest.”

  Orfan turned away. “Quite dead, Rita.”

  He left her, and walked along the firing line. Two more Tartars lay on the steppe. Elmer Parn rose from a third, a reddened blade in his hand. The two surviving Tartars circled in the distance, then fled northwards.

  Orfan came up to hairy Karol Gegeris, who had served a spell in the CoDominium Marines. Gegeris whistled between his teeth as he polished the barrel of his Kalashnikov. From the satisfied smirk on the man’s face, Orfan suspected he was responsible for the corpses on the steppe.

  Further on, Voldemars Pics crouched beside a still, white-haired figure. He tucked a long-barreled revolver into his belt.

  “Maksis won’t be needing this anymore,” Pics said sadly.

  Vasily Bugovics joined them. He carried the Armalite rifle for which there had been no ammunition. He said, “Troffy won’t need this either.”

  Pics’ face grew solemn. “We beat them off, but we can’t afford many victories exchanging two for four.”

  “If what we were playing was chess,” Gegeris murmured, “I’d be castling for my next move.”

  Rita Purins said briskly, “Let’s see how many knights we can muster before we start getting panicky. There are four remounts out there, if we can catch them.”

  “Leave that to me.” Fritz Frienbergs approached the nearest riderless muskylope. He made soothing sounds.

  It was nearing noon before the animals were rounded up. Voldemars turned toward his people, face troubled. “Before we move off, folks—I propose that someone else take my place. But for my bright idea of following the pipeline, Maksis and Troffy might still be—” Pics fell silent, his eyes on the ground.

  “No one is blaming you,” soothed Elmer Pam.

  Pics shook his head. “I was wrong to keep to the pipeline trail. I thought the well-trodden ground would hide our tracks.”

  Fritz Frienbergs patted his shoulder. “Don’t crucify yourself, man. Animals will leave a trail wherever you drive them.”

  Pics glared at him. “The Tartars know where we are, now. They’ll be back. Liplap won’t forgive us for killing four of his men. We ought to get as far from the yurt as we can, but we all need rest and sleep. And I’m clean out of ideas how we can do both.”

  He stared hard at Vasily Bugovics.

  Vasily stared back, face unreadable.

  Eva Abolins shouted, “Why not let Orfan Judeiks have the job? He thought up the idea of escaping.”

  Orfan couldn’t believe what he heard. He didn’t trust the ex-fishwife. He said, “Hold it a moment, Eva—”

  She eyed him angrily. “Hold nothing. You afraid to try?”

  Voldemars Pics said quickly, “I’ll follow Orfan, if he agrees to lead.”

  Vasily’s smile was bland. “Me too, I’m sure Orfan would make a good captain.”

  Eva smirked. “A vote. All in favor show!”

  Everyone raised a hand.

  The ex-fishwife leered at Orfan. “You’re elected, lad. You got us into this mess, now—you get us out of it!”

  Orfan’s mind raced. To be railroaded into the captaincy was a left-handed sort of compliment. And Abolins was expecting miracles. But Pics’ sup
port seemed honest enough. And Vasily Bugovics might be as good as his word. If only he could think up a plan…

  They stood around him, waiting.

  Orfan put a hand into his pocket and drew out an object he had filched from the dead Tartar.

  “This is a compass. Liplap’s men use it for navigation across the steppe. We can use it, too. Let’s leave the pipeline and head in another direction. It might throw them off our trail.”

  His glance fell on Pics. “And there’s nothing wrong with Voldy’s tactics. He obliged those Tartars to split up when they attacked, so we could take them separately. That was smart. It’s bad luck that two of them got away to take the news back to the yurt.” Orfan hesitated. He had to find out who was boss. He said, “I’d like Voldy to be my lieutenant.”

  Pic’s flush matched his hair. He stared about him. “I’m willing—if you’ll have me after what happened.”

  Orfan waved authoritatively. “I’m Captain. I’m choosing you.”

  He challenged them with his eyes. No one demurred.

  He felt giddy. It was like skating flawlessly, surrounded by slipping and sliding amateurs.

  “And I’d like Vasily to be my other lieutenant.”

  Bugovics sketched a salute. “Honored, Mon capitan.

  Orfan let out his breath. They were accepting orders from a sixteen-year-old! He avoided Lisa’s admiring gaze.

  He said, “We’ll travel through the rest period. We can sleep on the muskylopes. Old Maksis said they’d go on forever. Let’s find out if they will.”

  Felix Kanders, looking lost without Trofimovics beside him, shouted, “And if Liplap’s gangsters find us again?”

  Orfan scowled. “Felix—we fight anyone and everyone who tries to stop us finding a new home!”

  They cheered. Orfan hid his embarrassment. Did this band of amateurs really hope to defeat Liplap’s professionals? Their only chance lay in flight. If only they could get far enough from the yurt to put the Tartars off pursuit! Orfan bit his lip. It was the muskylopes that drew the nomads. Fermented muskylope milk was a Tartar tipple. They wouldn’t let their booze disappear so easily.

  Orfan sighed. Why did I ever let Lisa talk me into this pickle! Left alone, he might have been overseeing the Cham’s kitchen before he was twenty!