War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  “The United Front.” Yates pushed his leather cowboy hat back on his head, letting the firelight shine on his lined, narrow face. “No way CoDo will be friends with us. Khan, forget it.”

  “They will not be friends,” said Chuluun. “Maybe allies of convenience.”

  “Allies of convenience,” Yates repeated after the translation. “I don’t know. Seeing as how the CoDominium Marines destroyed the Jihad, what would they care about the United Front? They sent these guys packing.”

  “The United Front fled in good order with a lot of livestock to live on,” said Chuluun, thinking out loud. “No one stands between them and the Karakul Pass, so they could make a move on the Shangri-La Valley if they bide their time and wait for CoDo to let down its guard. If CoDo works with us, we can force Timur into a two-front war.”

  “Yeah, I wish.” Yates studied him. “Suppose we make this offer. Would they take us seriously?”

  Chuluun frowned into the fire. On the day that Bataar was born, Chuluun had led a raid on the town of Purity in the Shangri-La Valley while Yates had participated with Americans who ambushed a cattle drive on the way to Purity and rustled the herd. The CoDominium authorities had no reason to trust Chuluun or Yates. Yet they had not been entirely hostile. In the years since the raid, a fort had been raised at the Karakul Pass by the CoDominium. The caravans of pregnant women were inspected, but allowed to continue.

  Bataar, hunched close to the fire, looked up at Yates. “You think they might suspect a trick?”

  “I don’t know what they’d think,” said Yates.

  “A CoDo officer might want us to fight the United Front,” said Chuluun. “Three of his enemies grinding each other down—one side defeated and the survivors weakened. CoDo comes out ahead.”

  “But how do we talk to them?” Luke asked. “We can’t just go riding off with our men and leave our valleys undefended.”

  “And I can’t leave Independence,” said Yates. “Not with Ben dead. I’ve got to show people we’re okay, not going to panic.”

  “We can’t send just anyone,” said Chuluun. He wanted to go, but the tribe’s khan could not take that indulgence. “We have to demonstrate we’re serious.” He looked at Bataar, the son he had raised to ride, herd, and hunt. A cold fear grew inside him, but he had always known this day would come.

  “What?” Bataar asked.

  Yates understood. He eyed Luke thoughtfully. “The son of the khan?”

  “And the son of the sheriff,” said Chuluun, who could understand that question even in English.

  “Damn,” said Bataar, in English. “You’re sending us?” His voice was startled but eager.

  “You know the way,” said Chuluun. He had sent Bataar twice to the Shangri-La Valley with caravans, which always had a patrol of riders escorting them. Luke had eagerly joined the assignment both times.

  Bataar turned to Luke. “What do you say? I’m ready.”

  “Hell, yeah,” said Luke. “How many riders do we take?”

  “You’ll have to sneak past the United Front to reach Fort Stony Point at Karakul Pass,” said Chuluun, after Bataar’s translation. “Timur’s people are nomadic and unpredictable. They could be anywhere they can graze their herds.”

  “How many riders?” Bataar asked.

  Naran glanced at Chuluun, indicating that he wanted to speak.

  “Yes, Naran?”

  “No riders,” said Naran. “Two men can slip past the United Front more easily than a larger group. You must take extra mounts and torches to ride in the dark.”

  Chuluun understood his point. In the glory days of the Mongol Empire, a rider might take a string of four horses, often changing mounts without ever touching his feet to the ground. The men would doze in the saddle at times and, in some campaigns, they had traveled more than one-hundred sixty kilometers each day. They lived on mare’s milk and even the blood of a living horse, opened from a vein in the neck, when their rations grew short.

  Yates caught Chuluun’s eye and nodded.

  “And bows and arrows,” said Naran. “For the silence.”

  “You were our archery teacher,” Bataar said to Naran. “You think we’re good enough to trust with bows and arrows?”

  “No,” said Naran, without a hint of humor. “You will take them anyway.”

  Luke grinned. “I’m better.”

  Bataar laughed. “Never.”

  “Works for me,” said Yates, after Luke’s translation. “The whole plan works for me.” He clapped his son on the back.

  “And all the ammunition for your rifles that you can carry.” Chuluun nodded to Naran. “Good suggestion to take the bows and arrows.”

  During their years on Haven, members of the tribe had experimented with metal and animal horn to recreate the traditional double-reflex bows of their nomadic ancestors. None of them knew exactly how to make the bows, but they all shared a cultural memory of the nomadic warriors shooting arrows from horseback against their enemies. Chuluun himself had learned to do so in the historical re-enactments he had loved in his youth on Earth.

  A type of composite bow had been created by the tribe that used arrows made from low, spiky bushes growing on the mountain slopes. When cut at an angle, the wood held a very sharp edge, eliminating the need for arrowheads. The arrows, used in hunting, helped conserve their gunpowder. Consequently, many in Bataar’s generation had learned to use their bows and arrows, as had Luke and some other American friends.

  Chuluun turned to Bataar and Luke, cold with fear for their well-being. He spoke forcefully, hiding his doubts. “No riders. Bows and arrows as well as rifles. Sleep now. You will leave when you wake.”

  * * *

  In the muted light of a dimday lit by Cat’s Eye, Bataar rode from the camp with four horses on a lead. Luke followed, also with four extra mounts. A patrol had captured more horses of the enemy dead and Chuluun had commandeered eight for Bataar and Luke. Naran, the first to awaken, had personally prepared a hot breakfast for them of meat, broth, and some greens.

  After Bataar and Luke moved forward beyond the last of the tribe’s scouts, they rode slowly, watching and listening for any sign of the United Front. Through the modest light, Bataar and Luke periodically changed from one mount to another, giving each a break from their weight. Bataar found his excitement growing, in the knowledge that he and Luke had been given a crucial mission worthy of their years.

  Late in the first dimday, they rode along a track in the foothills used by mounted hunters from Independence and Karakorum. It was too narrow and uneven for wagons. The track kept the horses near water and forage, but the forest limited their forward visibility. As they advanced, dactyls sometimes lifted off from the branches, their peace disturbed.

  On this slope, the scrub helped hide them from any unseen United Front scouts. Without speaking, they examined the valleys and mountain slopes ahead. In the distance, they saw the tracks and animal sign that told them Timur and his riders had drawn away, back toward the main body of the United Front.

  “This is what they raised us for,” Bataar said in English. The burden of this mission became more real as he looked across the broad spaces. The success of their war against the United Front might depend on whether they convinced the CoDominium Marines at the fort to form an alliance.

  “How’s that?” Luke chewed on a piece of jerky.

  “To be pals.” Bataar glanced over at his friend. “Speaking English and Russian together. The riding and shooting, the archery. They knew we’d have to deal with CoDo together some day.”

  “We got the life we got,” said Luke. “And we’re going to kill those bastards to keep it.”

  Bataar had spent several months at a time living in Independence with some other tribe members, which was how he made friends with Luke. Luke and other Americans would then come to live with the tribe. Bataar’s father had made the arrangement with Mayor Carhall to maintain the friendship between the two isolated communities.

  Bataar had learned s
ome of the traditional songs of the Americans. On a whim, he quietly sang one of his favorites:

  “The hours sad, I left a maid, a lingerin’ farewell takin’…”

  Luke picked up the next lines of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” a version of the old marching song that had originated in Ireland and England. “Her sighs and tears my steps delayed, I thought her heart was breakin.’”

  Cheerfully off key, they finished the traditional verse together, keeping their voices down so the sound would not carry, and continued with lyrics now sung in Independence.

  “From world to world, I dreamed that girl

  Someday still would find me.

  From Earth to Haven, still I pine

  For the girl I left behind me.

  Then to the plains we rode so bold,

  Cat’s Eye glowing brightly,

  Far from the mines so dark and cold --

  And the girl I left behind me.”

  “Speaking of leaving a girl behind,” Luke said lightly. “You don’t get to see Heather till we get back.”

  Bataar grinned. A girl named Heather Ratiger, a year younger than he was, had caught his eye in Independence with her curly brown hair and hazel eyes. “I’ll stop on the way home.”

  “Yeah, well, Ray’s already jealous of you. And he’s at home right now—and you left Heather behind.”

  Bataar shook his head, his good mood soured. Ray Malleen was another guy about their age from Independence. Like Bataar and Luke, he and Heather had taken part in the exchanges between the two communities. “Let’s get this mission done. I’ll worry about Ray later.”

  “Yeah? I want to see how that works out.”

  “Change mounts,” Bataar said abruptly. “We can make good time today.”

  * * *

  Chuluun was glad to return to the Northern Plains and the region he had named Gobi Valley. As he rode with Naran at the head of his column, he looked over their modest settlement with pride. The Free Tribe had begun as a mob escaping from a fenced, armed mining camp and yet its members had created a community in this harsh environment.

  He had designated their settlement Karakorum with both irony and pride, named after a Mongol capital from his people’s glory days. This Karakorum looked odd even to him. The tribe members, all miners on Earth and Haven, had drilled, dug, and blasted openings in the rocky bluffs and even down into the flat ground to create homes. The debris had been used to make chimneys and stone walls. The roofs were made from wood brought down from the mountains. The town, such as it was, comprised a combination of such homes forced from the hard terrain. Smoke drifted from the chimneys as he drew near.

  Yurts were also scattered at a distance, made from leather. Herds of horses, cattle, sheep, and huge muskylopes wandered about. The herders were always on the move for more grazing and sometimes were gone from Karakorum for long stretches of time.

  On the slopes to Chuluun’s right, other members of the tribe tended lines of winter wheat and barley. They also tended chickens that wandered freely, originally bartered from Independence. On the breakout from the mining camp, and later on the women’s caravans, tribe members had brought plants and seed that took root even here, including the Siberian pea shrub, sugar beets and garlic. Tribal meals were simple and repetitive, but their children had grown up healthy.

  Over time, however, the herders had become somewhat separate from the tribe members who tilled the soil. The two groups negotiated the exchange of meat and produce, but their work often kept them away from each other. With the new generation reaching adulthood, the division was greater than ever.

  Naran shouted an order that released the riders, and they broke from their lines to ride home, yelling and whooping.

  Chuluun smiled at their enthusiasm and wished he was younger. After days in the saddle, he felt his age. Broad-shouldered and lean in his youth, he was still strong but carried more weight around his middle. Weary, he turned his mount toward his home.

  Far to his left, on the edge of Karakorum, he watched a group of six riders drilling. They maneuvered their mounts and aimed their rifles first one way, then another. They shifted from a canter to a trot to a full gallop, then drew up and changed direction.

  Suddenly one rider, petite and determined, drew his attention. Tuya, his ray of light, crouched forward in the saddle, with a hint of blunt-cut gray hair visible from under a tight brown leather cap. As he watched, she rode hard and led the others in a wide arc, then drew up sharply.

  Puzzled, Chuluun spurred his mount into a canter toward his wife and her five companions. Tuya had always been a fine rider. In their youth, she had ridden and fired a rifle at his side during the breakout from the Dover Mining camp. However, he had never seen her lead men in a drill.

  Ahead of him, Tuya glanced over her shoulder at him, but continued her drill. Shouting instructions to the others, she wheeled about and, holding the reins loosely, she guided her horse with her knees and raised her rifle to her shoulder. She did not fire, however. Ammunition was too important to waste.

  “Tuya!” Chuluun rode up alongside her. “What are you doing?”

  “Take a break!” Tuya called out to her riders. She reined in, turning to Chuluun. “What am I doing? You can see what I’m doing.”

  Chuluun was about to respond when he saw the other riders walking their mounts toward them. All five were women, roughly the same age as Tuya. He looked at each one in turn.

  “Where is Bataar?” Tuya asked. “And what happened at the parley?”

  “Bataar is well,” said Chuluun, looking beyond Tuya toward the riders who had returned with him from the parley. Most had already dismounted near their homes. A few were riding at a walk alongside the supply wagons. “We must talk at home.”

  “About what?” Tuya smiled slightly as the women riders drew up around them.

  Chuluun took in the other riders. “Please leave us.”

  “Stay,” Tuya ordered, her voice suddenly hard.

  Angry, Chuluun leaned forward. “Why are you conducting this drill?”

  Tuya raised her chin defiantly. “They will be my personal bodyguard. We will hunt and help protect the tribe.”

  “I will see you at home,” said Chuluun. He did not want to have this conversation in front of anyone. As he rode away at a canter, he was aware that Tuya and her riders were watching him depart.

  * * *

  After dinner, Chuluun sat in a carved stone chair padded with sheepskins, before the fire inside their home. Over a pot of stew, he had told Tuya about the meeting with Timur. After that, Tuya had not pushed him to speak, instead letting him eat and rest from the long trip.

  Batkhuyag, their sixteen-year-old son, was living in Independence as part of the ongoing exchanges he had arranged with Ben Carhall years ago. The Americans called him Bat, and his tribal friends had picked up the nickname. Chuluun and Tuya’s daughters, fifteen-year-old Odgerel and twelve-year-old Sarangerel, bustled about the home. They had greeted him with relief and excitement, but now they seemed to sense tension between him and their mother. They spoke quietly to each other, out of his hearing.

  At last Tuya joined him, sitting down in her own chair before the fire. Still flexible, she drew herself into a cross-legged position. “Where is Bataar?”

  “I sent him with Luke to Fort Stony Point.” He turned from the fire to look at her, knowing she would want to hear more.

  “With a troop of riders.”

  “No. Bataar and Luke went alone. They must—”

  “What?” Tuya’s eyes flashed. “Just them? What have you done? They are barely more than children.”

  “The son of the khan and the son of the sheriff. We need them for this mission.”

  “To the CoDo fort? Are you crazy? CoDo hates us!”

  “And are you crazy? Drilling a patrol of women? What were you doing while I was gone?”

  “You saw what I was doing.” Tuya folded her arms. “All of them rode with you back in their youth—they took part in the r
aid on Purity. You know they can ride and shoot as well as I can.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Chuluun demanded.

  “Why do you care? We all fought when we were young. Now our children are grown, or close to it—Sarangerel is the youngest child of the six of us.”

  “Because you are all past child-bearing age. This is the reason?”

  “Time passes. The next generation—Bataar’s—is coming of age. You sent him on this mission to CoDo because you think he is ready.”

  “And because we need Bataar and Luke to speak for the two communities.”

  “We all know the tribe has to protect women of child-bearing age. Birthing on Haven is too difficult to take risks. For the five women in my squad—the Women’s Guard—that time is past.” Her dark eyes glittered in the firelight as she watched for his response.

  Chuluun had watched Tuya change over the years. She had lost six children in the ten times she had been with child. Each time, she had become more demanding with their four living children. With each loss, in his own grief, he had observed that she grew angry and hard. She could be more protective of their four children than ever, yet emotionally distant, as though she expected to lose another child at any time. Her loving heart fought with her bitterness every day.

  “Our time on Earth was so long ago,” said Chuluun. “When we first took part in the historical re-enactments on Earth, we were younger than Bataar is now.” He found himself warmed by the memory, despite his mounting worries. “You rode on the breakout from the mining camp. Have I ever complained before?”

  “Not until today.”

  “On the breakout, when we were all young and desperate, no one cared. People facing death in the Dover mines had no time to worry about tradition. Our people have become more traditional since then.”

  “There are old folk tales of our women riding and fighting on horseback.”

  “Those are exciting stories about women who were exceptional.”

  Tuya smiled slightly as the fire crackled and popped. “So the Women’s Guard will be exceptional.”

  Chuluun shifted in his seat and looked into the shadows for his daughters. They did not look up but he knew they were listening. Both were good riders and fair shots from horseback with old, lightweight .22-caliber rifles. He turned back to Tuya, collecting his thoughts.