The Harriers Book One: Of War and Honor

by S. N. Lewitt

  A stalwart figure appeared on the bridge. "I think something more concealing is in order. For those leaving the ships I recommend the Class Two parade cape with the tassel cap and high-sun vision screens. There is a high ambient radiation level," the Senior Bunter said most apologetically.

  The clones all wore the identical mix of disbelief and deliverance on their faces. Tek smiled and Rasidov looked like he was being sentenced to a year in the mines on Buttress. But for what might have been the first time in his life—certainly the first time he could remember—Lentzer was grateful to the cyborg Bunter. The outfit suggested, with its long full green cape and ornate headdress, fitted Zamalah's modesty codes admirably. Yet it still maintained formality and dignity that any Petit could accept. The vision screens would hide enough of their faces that the clones would not appear identical. Or rather, they would, but so would everyone else.

  "Wait a minute. Isn't there something about green in this religion?" Lentzer groused. He'd never known a Hunter to be wrong about such things, but there was always a first time, and the way this mission was getting started, this would be the time. "Won't they be insulted or something?"

  "This color will be considered auspicious and appropriate for a diplomatic mission," the Senior Bunter replied smoothly. Lentzer wanted to growl at it.

  By the time the three Broadswords touched ground the team were all attired in green capes with the Petit Harrier horsehead in red on the right shoulder. The tassel caps were red with long gold braiding and their boots were as shiny as only a Bunter could make them.

  For this occasion the Mromrosi had matching gold and green and opal-white rank ribbons tied to his cherub-pink curls. His single green eye was brilliant with anticipation.

  Lentzer had to stifle an impulse to hand the alien over to a five-year-old.

  "Looks like there's a bit of an honor guard outside, Lentzer said, glancing at the gangway surveill. "The braiding says they're high-ranking."

  The Nada Solis/2 and /3 balked. "We have arrived, lull we don't have any instructions on how to get inside whatever slave trade they have. We refuse to go until we are properly prepared."

  Lentzer rolled his aching eyes upward. The Nada Solis were beautiful and deadly and every flaw had been removed, according to the evaluation from New Gaia. What the lab had forgotten to include in the Nada Solis was any semblance of imagination.

  "We improvise," he said sourly. "You three are the bodyguards. The Mromrosi is the honored ambassador. Tek and Rasidov are the translators if they don't permit us to use our translator paks. And I'm the wild card. Got that?" He gave the clones no opportunity to answer. "Good. Now, bodyguards, you stick with us, follow orders, and don't say anything. Not a thing."

  "How about a code word?" the Mromrosi asked, turning red-orange.

  "An excellent suggestion," Lentzer agreed. "A code word. If we use it for any reason then you know we're in trouble. How about, um . . ."

  "Candy might be good," Tek volunteered tentatively. "It is common here. Sweets are a big part of the traditional culture."

  "Common doesn't make a very good code word, Tek. We might have to use it for real. We don't want to draw stunners because they're giving us a treat." Lentzer looked at the ceiling. They weren't off the ship and already they were pogged.

  "What about snow?" suggested the Mromrosi. "There isn't much on Zamalah, and we aren't likely to discuss it."

  In spite of his acute annoyance, Lentzer came close to smiling. "Snow it is," he agreed. "You hear anyone in our group say 'snow' and it means we need help."

  Tek nodded and Rasidov opened the hatch. Down the gangway and onto the ground they went in formation; time to make a good impression, live up to the reputation of the Harriers. The ships helped; Broadswords were one of the larger ships and they had impressive lines, like all skimmers. The red horsehead medallions were on the upswept aft blades, below the bridges and above the spines, where they caught the light.

  "Translators on; we'll use Tek and Rasidov for show right now." Lentzer made sure his own was working properly.

  A group of ragged-looking men was on hand to greet them. All wore long white robes and had fancy embroidered caps. They held splendid animals on leads. Lentzer, with a childhood on Hartzheim, had seen the squat, rugged horses bred there. These he knew by their Alliance-wide reputation.

  One of the strangers mounted and galloped the one-third li of open space before them, reigning in at the last second to show off his skill. "Asaalamu alekim," he said, a scimitar smile under full moustaches.

  "Wa-alekim a-salaam," Rasidov replied immediately, and held a clenched fist in front of his heart.

  "That means 'peace be with you,' " Tek whispered. "And his hand means that he had the five pillars of Islam in his heart. They'll recognize what it means. It Is a very excellent thing."

  The other riders came forward more sedately, and this time Lentzer could see that they had more mounts than they needed. For them?

  "I see you are horsemen," the leader of the Zamalah welcoming party said through Rasidov. "That the horse is your symbol is very apt. We honor the Petit Harriers from the Magnicate Alliance, and your . . . associate from the Emerging Planet Fairness Court. In proof of this we bring horses from the Sheikh's own stable. May you find them worthy."

  With that the welcoming committee led forward seven horses, each stamping and snorting as if in a rage. Lentzer supposed that the men of Zamalah thought their horses high-spirited; he thought they were nervous.

  "We must ride those?" Tek asked, and there was terror in his voice.

  The Mromrosi was a vivid yellow, clashing badly with his gold bows. Without a word he went over to the horse and examined it with his single green eye. Then, with great determination, he hauled himself into the saddle, clinging to every protrusion and curve of pommel and cantel with all eight of his feet.

  The horse stood still but sweating, as if the alien presence had quieted it. The Nada Solis mounted without particular difficulty, though once in the saddle each of them jounced awkwardly, holding their reins too tightly and causing their horses to sidle and paw.

  Rasidov and Tek managed to get on the horses; both were grateful for the grooms holding the animals.

  "Why do you not mount?" the leader of the strangers asked Lentzer.

  "Because it is proper for my party to choose their mounts. I can wait," he replied. These animals were taller and more flighty than their distant utilitarian cousins on Hartzheim. Lentzer could see that his rusty equestrian skills wouldn't help him here.

  "That was great, saying we had to choose first," Rasidov muttered before he translated the answer. "Where did you learn that?"

  Lentzer snorted. Those young sperks, convinced they knew all the answers. They were the only ones who knew anything. "I figured it out some time in the last quarter century."

  Riding was horrible. The horses wanted to go faster than any of the Petit Harriers could handle; their hosts up ahead kept coming back, asking if there was some problem. One of the men suggested that Nada Solis/3's mount had thrown a shoe.

  "Most of the Harriers on this mission haven't been to your planet before," said Lentzer, relying on his translator pack more than on Tek's distracted translating. "We want an opportunity to view the territory. A few of us have been to your Suroo Islands. They are very, very beautiful." Which was no more than the truth. The Suroo Islands of Zamalah were famous, reputed to be among the most beautiful places in the entire Alliance.

  "I see you appreciate the subtle beauty of the red desert, as well," the rider who had first greeted them said as Rasidov translated. "Most citizens of the Alliance prefer only the soft islands, the resort hotels, the beaches and the forests of ten million flowers. But you, perhaps you have the sight of wisdom as well as beauty. Our Sheikh will be honored."

  It was the first time Lentzer had ever been called wise. Smart or canny or impertinent or inquisitive, yes, but never wise. He could not think of an answer and left it up to Rasidov to come up with someth
ing flattering.

  The small village up ahead was not promising. The tall gates were bolted closed. Outside the walls was a collection of black tents, too low to stand in, and steaming in this heat. No one was around and the fabric flapped forlornly in the breeze.

  "This is where we will begin our talks," said the man riding beside Lentzer.

  Getting off the horses took longer than anyone had anticipated. The last one down was the Mromrosi, his mass of curls deep puce. When the horses were led away, the Petits and the Mromrosi were ushered into one of these tents. Lentzer was surprised. The inside was something out of legend. The walls were hung with rich fabrics of contrasting patterns and the ground covered with layers of multihued carpets. Large cushions were tossed around low brass tables and the scent of incense was so thick that Lentzer nearly gagged.

  A man with a white beard and dressed in a spotless white robe sat erect on one of the cushions. "Ah, my guests, it is an honor to welcome you to this humble camp. Please rest yourselves while my sons serve coffee." He clapped his hands together twice.

  A man about Rasidov's age carried a basin and long-necked ewer directly to Lentzer.

  "Put your hands over the basin," Tek whispered.

  "I have been here before," whispered Lentzer as he did so. The man poured scented water over his hands. Then he was handed a perfect white towel which he used to dry them. The whole ritual was repeated for each of the company, the Mromrosi last. The alien had steadied down to rose-colored; all his bows nearly blended into the colors in the carpets.

  Next they were each handed thimble-sized cups with gold bands. Another young man—another son, Lentzer assumed—poured a beverage that looked too light to be kaff, too dark to be Merikot tea. He sipped it carefully and found the flavor sharp but refreshing in the heat. Tek had told him that above all, nothing serious must be discussed before several cups of this stuff had been drunk and everyone had eaten at least a few of the sweets that would follow the drinks.

  He made the correct inquiries about the health of the Sheikh's family and friends and business associates and horses and hawks, as the old man politely inquired of each member of the party. After an hour of this Lentzer wanted a drink. Pog it. He decided he would welcome a hangover if he could have a drink.

  To make matters worse he was miserably aware of the Nada Solis/2, sitting mutely beside him in her unchanging position. Her stillness, like the stillness of the other two, was unnatural. He hoped the Sheikh didn't notice.

  Still another son came in with a plate of what looked to be oversized cockroaches skewered through the body. "My guests, even now a small repast is being prepared to sustain you. But it will need a little time to cook. Please, while you wait, have some stuffed date candy."

  Lentzer froze. He could see the Nada Solis/2 and /3 stiffen, and Nada Solis/1 rise defensively. He watched them with vexation, wanting to remind them that the word was not candy but snow. He was convinced that all the Nada Solis should be melted back down into primordial soup and have their genes reconstituted for hydroponic alfalfa gardening.

  "My guardians are always so worried that human food will damage me," the Mromrosi said, popping one of the stuffed fruits somewhere under the pink curls. "They never want me to try anything new. Especially sweets." The alien took two more of the dates and they disappeared. "I love sweets. You are most generous."

  This astonished Lentzer, who knew how much all Mromrosio disliked sweet food. What drove them distracted was pickles.

  The Sheikh chuckled and waved his hand. The Mromrosi took one more of the dates for himself before the plate was offered to Tek. The Sheikh hadn't particularly noticed the Nada Solis; he was mesmerized by the Mromrosi.

  Which made sense, Lentzer realized. An animated nursery toy sitting in the seat of honor and gobbling up everything in sight was more unusual than other humans, clones included.

  "But I am forgetting myself," their host said contritely. "You are tired after your long journey, and I am certain you would wish to bathe and rest before dinner is served. Hassan will show you to your tent. Consider it your own for the time you are among us." The old man rose and bowed.

  Lentzer struggled to his feet with difficulty. Such an abrupt dismissal troubled him, but he couldn't determine what or why. If he had a drink he'd either figure it out or stop caring.

  The tent they were shown to was as magnificent as the one they had left. Tables were set with flowers and bowls of fruit, surely difficult to supply this far out from the polar forests. And there were fresh towels, laid out, bowls of washing water and scented soaps and perfumes for them all.

  The Nada Solis wouldn't let them touch any of it until the bodyguards had poked, prodded, and inspected everything.

  "Maybe we've missed something back there in civilization," Rasidov said, peeling a tangerine. "Talk about traveling in style. The only thing that's missing is the genie and the dancing girls."

  "I need my Bunter and I need a good shot of Standby Hooch. There's something that I don't like about this setup." Lentzer was muttering and he didn't care.

  "Alcohol is forbidden in this place," one of the Nada Solis said caustically.

  "Pogging shame that it is," he agreed nastily. "And I don't like the fact that the old man wasn't eating with us. I like even less that they were ready with the horses to greet us. They knew how many of us there were. I don't like that at all."

  Silence dropped like twilight in the tent. "The Sheikh didn't drink with us," Tek said, shaking his head. "That's not good."

  Suddenly Lentzer wanted all the quibbling and bickering to stop so he could think, sort the situation out in his sobriety-befuddled brain. He lay down on one of the piles of rugs and pillows and put his hand over his face. It was as close as he could come to being alone. He didn't notice Tek or Rasidov leave the tent. The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the Mromrosi busily examining every variety of fruit in the bowl.

  It was dark when Lentzer was woken by an explosive blast that sent him sprawling. He crawled out of the tent, his stunner at the ready. What the pogging frack was going on? Were they under attack?

  There was a commotion, but it hardly looked like a raid. It seemed that the tent itself had been removed, leaving the whole inside under the stars, cushions, tables and all. There were more people now, and they gathered around low tables waiting in the light of several large cooking fires.

  Lentzer could smell the roasting lamb, and it brought back memories of his childhood. Awkwardly he stood up and dusted himself off. If his Bunter could see him, it would fuss.

  There was lamb, and chicken and rice and stuffed vegetables. There were no dancing girls. There was no Standby Hooch or Lonato wine or Loch Ochie Scotch. There was music of a sort, but not the kind Lentzer liked. Very much on the alert, Lentzer went to join the festivities, taking care only to eat the same things from the same plates as the white-haired old man.

  When the incense had been passed around and the dinner was ended, their host began to tell a story. It was long and complex, with endless digressions and occasional poetic recitations. Stuffed and sober, Lentzer made himself listen, glad now that he had slept before; otherwise he might do the unforgivable and drift off. The firelight was dancing hypnotically and the cadences of Arabic droned in his ear. It was impossible to remain alert, though beyond all this primitive splendor he could feel alarm growing. "We ought to get back to the ship," he said, but no one heard him.

  When he woke up he was still on Zamalah, and the tent was once again in place. He checked the local time readout and found it was nearly noon. Two of the Nada Solis were asleep. The third sat immobile near the flap, completely intent on her duty.

  Rasidov snored lightly from a nearby pile and Tek was missing. Lentzer shook his head, trying to rid it of sleep. Where was Tek? He knew he ought to notify Yuen at once. Groggily he peered out the tent flap, the Nada Solis enduring his presence at her station.

  The camp was still. It had the feel of a ghost town, everything intact and
in place but the people all gone. The village gates remained uncompromisingly shut. Lentzer walked into the middle of the circle of tents, the heat pressing on him like an invisible fist. The only thing that moved was his shadow. There wasn't a whinny of a horse, the babble of servants, nothing.

  The mission had been stranded in the night. This was worse than any hangover could have been.

  The worst thing was that it made no sense. Lentzer could understand being attacked. But not abandoned. In spite of the heat he grew cold. In spite of the drink he was still a pretty damn good intelligence officer, and every carefully acquired hunch was screaming a warning.

  Yosinero.

  The name alone made his stomach clench and his mind go into tailflips. He never wanted to see the Hub again. Yosinero was probably still there, sitting like a fat spider in the central Grands sector. The ultimate staffer, the perfect Grand Harrier, always immaculately groomed and ready with a readout on whatever issue was at hand. Yosinero had been close to two members of the Twelve, next in line for Marshal-in-Chief if everyone read it right. And Yosinero had been lining his pocket out of Alliance funds, investing in some less than legal but very profitable trade and influence peddling.

  Jaanu Lentzer had found him out. And Jaanu Lentzer had paid for it. Never attack the powers that be, Yosinero had advised him on the one occasion when they had met. And if you're going to attack the people on top, bring them down or get pogged. Very, very pogged.

  Yosinero had bypassed that, had gone through his mentor on the Council of Twelve. And the Council was the last word, the end of the line. Jaanu Lentzer's career, his hopes, his ability were history. He began to drink. And then he was really washed up for good.

  A mournful song interrupted his thoughts. In Arabic, in the long, modal cadences he had found so disruptive the night before, it cut through the heat and the emptiness and made him more aware of how deserted the camp was. But very slowly things began to move. As if the song had called them, he saw a few dusty figures making their way to the Sheikh's tent. Among those figures he recognized Tek. Behind him, Rasidov staggered sleepily through the tent flaps.