by S. N. Lewitt
Directorate CCC, Expt., L-YY3; from level 12, in this sector at location local Moustar, re: Strategy Marshal Yosinero, Grand Harriers, ret. Possible instigator local political instability, re: price of goods and personal investments. Possible, possible, illegal cargo—repeat. Expose local, report global. Orders 7, yyB-17-3 ref, date.
The name alone held him captive, delicately poised between murder and flight. Yosinero. Again. Lentzer's first instinct, animal, was to run. Hide. Crawl under a rock or drown in Standby Hooch.
Why not? What the hell did he have to lose? Yosinero had already wrecked his career. If he fled now, the Strategy Marshal of the Grands would have total victory.
If a curly-mop of an alien could refuse to be rescued, the least Lentzer could do was stand up to his enemy. Running away had destroyed Jaanu Lentzer's self-respect.
And the Group Leader and protocol officer wanted it back.
Tek the kitchen clerk was afraid. With Rasidov missing, he was beginning to think he had made a serious mistake. It was bad conduct, immodest, to show off his ability, which in truth was a gift from Allah, a revelation of mystic truths to serve Allah the All-Glorious, not the Quartermaster of the Petit Harriers. What were supply orders and fleet requisitions compared to the permutations of the thousand-thousands Names of God?
Rasidov had challenged him, saying that someone with Tek's experience and training could probably find the details that had escaped the rest of the Harriers. He had told Tek that it was his duty as a Petit Harrier to discover who had been using requisitions and supplies to hide smuggling.
It was difficult to accept that good Moslems would be party to such terrible schemes as the ones he had unearthed. Zamalah was a religious place. The men here followed the ways of Allah.
Otherwise, why would they still have slavery here?
The whole of it was in the Q'ran, of course. And Rasidov had even recited all the appropriate verses. Slavery was permitted. Creating things in the image of God was not. Devout Moslems didn't even paint human figures, let alone create clones and cyborgs, which were vile imitations of Allah's creation of humanity and the stars. Cyborgs and clones Tek could easily see were against the letter of the law, if not the intent.
And slavery was accepted. Of course, in more enlightened places it was considered that slavery was an evil that the Q'ran mitigated, since it was impossible to abolish the entire institution. A free Moslem could never be enslaved, and on every feast and at a person's death the freeing of Moslem slaves was an act of charity that was one of the five pillars of Islam.
Tek liked Zamalah. He liked the Sheikh and the people in general. He liked the food and the women in modest dress, he liked not feeling out of place.
Back home on Atam Akal where the storms threatened every hour of life, his family had been outsiders. His grandparents had been skilled builders, and since that was Atam Akal's prime industry they were welcomed, along with other fine craftsmen from Samarkand, Bukhara, and the other cities of Moslem Asia.
Until he had helped organize the markets, Tek had been pitied, an embarrassment to his community. But once he had discovered the splendor of numbers, Tek had blossomed. He only had to be shown once how to tag and coordinate inventory, how to record sales, how to enter expenses and sales, profits and losses, and he could compose whole structures of commerce. In a very short time he had mastered the intricacies of trading, and longed for new vistas in the sublime realm of numbers.
That was the year of the worst storms of the century on Atam Akal, where horrible weather was standard fare. In that season, Tek's mother died and his father was disabled. The Petit Harriers were called in to keep order, prevent looting, and incidentally take charge of the rescue mission.
Like many residents, Tek volunteered in the relief work. Unlike most residents, he had a positive genius for making sure adequate supplies of milk got to the shelter with the small children and that no piles of blankets sat unused. Somehow he found school supplies that no one else could locate and had them brought to start up a temporary school. He scrounged plastics and reusable steel beams for building teams. He found volunteers with skills, builders who could put up houses, cloth artists who could cook soup, teachers of mathematics who could plan the new streets and buildings.
He kept everyone busy, including himself. After the first days he caught the notice of Group Leader Stalton, who realized how talented Tek was. He suggested that Tek had a future in the Quartermasters. More from gratitude to Stalton than out of ambition, Tek filled out all the application forms and forgot about them. The dozen Katana-class boats took off, and Atam Akal was left to lick its wounds.
Four months later, when he was informed of his acceptance into that proud body known as the Petit Harriers, he honestly could not remember having applied. But since there was nothing at all left for him at home, he went.
Once he had joined the Petit Harriers Quartermasters Corps, it was obvious that God had intended all along that he become one of them. He had gone to Old Earth on his very first mission, and had managed to make the Pilgrimage to the Holy Places and become a hajji. And he had a magic aura around him, as if everyone knew he was destined for great things. Surely Allah the All-Understanding was looking out very carefully for his welfare, and Tek responded accordingly.
On his second training cruise he was assigned to the kitchens of the Semper Alpha Cygnis because it was difficult to supply the enormous motherships. He had been industrious and correct, keeping to his tasks and to himself.
Then he was told to report for mission briefing.
Tek found everything confusing. There was nothing at all for him to do here, except translate, which he could manage tolerably well if no one went too fast. But there were no goods to distribute, no inventory to organize, no ledgers to balance. Once again he was out of his element.
Rasidov, though theoretically a Moslem, was not religious; the Nada Solis were exotic and wrong. The Mromrosi, whom he had only seen once before, was so out of his range of experience that he avoided the alien whenever possible. Lentzer, well, everyone knew what Lentzer was. And Tek knew him, too, from his unusually large requests for Standby Hooch and his frequent absences at dinner.
Terrible how easily he had become corrupted, Tek thought. After only a few days with the Harriers—the real Petit Harriers—here he was eager to volunteer for a dangerous assignment. He hoped Rasidov would talk him out of it, once he found him.
Slavery and smuggling. He had found them in the records, cleverly concealed, but for someone with his gifts, as prominent as boulders. What infuriated him was the realization that devout Moslems were being manipulated by off-worlder Infidels.
If his fate was written on his forehead, as the Prophet taught, then Tek prayed that his would be to end the shame that had been visited on these good Moslems of Zamalah.
The only trouble was that with Rasidov missing, he could not act. He knew he would have to find the Navigator himself if he were to achieve his fate.
Line Commander Nazaipha went down on his knee to Yosinero. "How fine to see you. Be welcome in the name of all the Petit Harriers aboard my ship." His eyes were less haunted than usual. Executive Officer Yuen, standing beside him, hoped that his explanation of reaction to medication would be accepted.
"Very gracious," said Yosinero. "But a trifle inconvenient for all the pleasure it is to be so well-received by the Petits. We Grands are not always given such a reception." He smiled, his cold eyes glinting.
"The rivalry between the services is lamentable," said Nazaipha. "It delights me to correct some of my fellow-Petits' misconduct." He gazed at a point about a handsbreadth above Yosinero's head. "I have been told that you and your . . . escort are here to purchase carpets."
"Yes, we are," said Yosinero with asperity.
"Very good. Very good. As you have been told, we have a mission in Moustar at the time, and they will require a few days more before it is finished. If you would be willing to let us entertain you for a short while longer?"
Yosinero's face was shut, unreadable. "If it's necessary to the success of the mission, then certainly my expedition for carpets must wait a little longer. But I can't dawdle here forever. A man in my position has pressing engagements and important negotiations. Doubtless you comprehend."
"Comprehend?" said Line Commander Nazaipha distantly, and Yuen's heart sank. "Business?" He threw back his head but there was no laughter. "It is a bad, bad business when Alliance ships must sit on the ground. Skimmers may land, but only so that they will rise again. Bombards . . . they are not meant to be earthbound."
"No," said Yosinero sharply. "They are not."
"Therefore," the Line Commander maundered on, "anything that keeps us earthbound is not welcome. Not at all welcome."
"But we can't leave with the mission out," Yuen reminded him urgently. "You've said it yourself. And the flight command for Zamalah has ordered us to remain here for as long as we are on their planet."
Some vague grasp of the facts reasserted itself within the Line Commander's wandering mind. "Yes. It would be hostile for us to move from this place except to leave. It would be wrong for you to move until you are authorized to do so," he reminded Strategy Marshal Yosinero.
"Which will be when you depart, I gather," said Yosinero sourly.
"That is what I have been told," murmured Line Commander Nazaipha just before he fainted.
Yuen seized the little advantage that provided. "It is the treatment. It makes it difficult for him."
"So it must," said Yosinero as he stepped over the fallen Line Commander. "And for the rest of you, as well."
Tek smiled. "I am very good at inventory," he said; it was a relief to tell the truth. "I began in my father's business, but I can handle a city's worth of stock. Food, water, fuel, any kind of logistics, anything on the computer, payments, records, all of it." Around him Zamalah men prostrated themselves before entering the holiest of holies, the Heart of the Friday mosque.
The man looked shocked. "Everyone hates that," he said.
Tek's smile couldn't get any wider. "Allah in His Mercy has given each of us talents."
"Let me talk to some people," the man said after careful consideration. "Will you be here later?"
Tek nodded happily, prostrated himself toward the Heart, then rose and wandered out into the courtyard; he found a place to sit and leaned back under one of the orange trees, prepared to wait for Rasidov.
"This is war," Lentzer said. "The whole thing fits together too neatly. Yosinero being here, the Voice of the Hidden Imam snatching our Mromrosi, and them being too well-armed and funded. There's a rat in the works and we're going to eliminate it." The resthouse was quiet in the drowsy afternoon. "And I don't like Tek being out there by himself."
"Excuse me," the Nada Solis/2 said, "but I don't get the connection. What does Yosinero have to do with the Voice of the Hidden Imam and what has that got to do with our mission?"
For the first time her habitual insolence didn't bother him. He smiled thinly. "AIO orders are to find out exactly what Yosinero is doing here and bring him up on charges if possible. And I have a little experience with Yosinero and some of the politics of the Twelve; his mentor is grooming him for a position on that august council. Given that he's a Grand and a politico and Strategy Marshal, and a bungwallop, it wouldn't be to our benefit if he did make it to the Twelve. But he has made a couple of enemies on the way up, and some of them weren't as easy to get rid of as me. There's another of the Twelve, who doesn't want to see Yosinero anywhere near the Hub again if he can help it. And that's where we come in. Any problem with that?"
The Nada Solis, all three of them, were amazing. Politics was not their forte. It hadn't been his, either, when he'd run across Yosinero fifteen years before. He had made up the missed education.
"So you mean this Voice of the Hidden Imam isn't really some fanatical fringe group at all?" Rasidov asked, offended that Islam could be used so callously. "It's just a front for Yosinero to come into the community and assert leadership?"
Lentzer shrugged. "It's not that simple. The Voice of the Hidden Imam probably is composed mostly of fringe fanatics and reformers. Like all fanatics, they're dedicated and sincere. And gullible. But they're getting a little help from somewhere, money and supplies that make them more dangerous than they'd normally be. People like that, without weapons and money and safe houses, would be quickly identified and contained. These bogos have been given a little help—that makes them active. They're out to destabilize the region.''
"But how does that help Yosinero?" Rasidov asked again.
Lentzer smiled tightly. "Either way he wins. He supplied the dissidents, and if they actually win, they are beholden to him. And they don't care what goes on at the Hub as long as they're free to run Zamalah as they like. If these Hidden Imamers lose, then all Yosinero has to do is find another group to manipulate. Unless we can find proof of what he's up to."
"There could be a real war," said Rasidov.
"Maybe," said Lentzer. "It's a lot more likely that things will get just a little dicey and the local government will call us in to keep the peace. Then Yosinero walks in as negotiator and comes out managing the peace."
"And making us take the blame for everything the locals don't like," the Nada Solis/1 mused. "So not only does he pick up an original Fifty-six colony for support, he slams the Petits at the same time. That's pogged."
This time Lentzer's smile was honest. "And the only way to stop him is to expose him. Hard evidence would be nice."
"But in the meantime it wouldn't hurt to reduce the firepower of his pet bogos," Rasidov finished the thought. "At least that way he's got a setback and we get some more time. Do you really think Tek can pull it off?"
"Who else can get inside?" Lentzer asked. "Besides, I've never known of an extremist group that wasn't in desperate need of a good planner and supplier, and Tek is that from Monday to Sunday."
"Will we have to bring him out?" the Nada Solis/2 offered, far happier than she had been an hour ago.
It felt good, Lentzer reflected. After fifteen years revenge was going to be very sweet.
The only problem was the Mromrosi. Lentzer was certain the Twelve didn't want the Emerging Planet Fairness Court to know about the skulduggery here on Zamalah, not if scandal touched the Hub. He didn't know what the criteria of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court were and he really didn't care. But he didn't want to answer for any risks the Mromrosi decided to take for himself.
Now the waiting was over; it was time for him to emerge again, Yosinero's nemesis. Lentzer rocked back on his heels. He liked the sound of nemesis.
"How do we go from here?" asked the Nada Solis/3 with undisguised eagerness.
"We can't hide what we're doing much longer," Lentzer said carefully. "Which means we have to be ready to move quickly. I'll need all three of you to look after the Mromrosi, to keep him out of trouble. We don't want anything to happen to him. Not again."
"We'll do it," the Nada Solis/3 responded.
Then he turned to Rasidov. "Gregori, can you get us back to that cave? I don't know if the beacon will work through that much rock."
The Navigator grinned wolfishly. "No problem, Group Leader."
"Then let's get it done," said Lentzer, excitement possessing him as much as Standby Hooch had for so long. "Battle fatigues. Fast kit. Here. Fifteen minutes."
There was a Grand flyer in the docking bay on the landing field above Moustar's glittering pink cliffs. Two Landing Authority guards patrolled the bays, but most of their attention was on the two merchant flyers being unloaded.
"What do you think?" Lentzer whispered to Navigator Rasidov as they gathered in the shade of the bay.
"I think w
e might as well get on with it," said Rasidov, and all three Nada Solis nodded in agreement.
The Mromrosi looked up at them. "I believe I could be of assistance here," he said, changing to a very odd shade of neon pink.
"How?" inquired Lentzer, with no intention of permitting the alien to be involved.
"I could distract the guards. It would cause them no harm and put me in no danger." The pink faded out to a caramel tan. Then, before Lentzer could speak, the Mromrosi hunkered down and made itself into a ball, rolling away across the sand, turning the color of the sand himself.
"Pog it all!" whispered Lentzer fiercely.
Rasidov watched him and chuckled. "I wonder what they think he is?" He was already climbing onto the upswept wing.
"Get in the flyer. We'll figure that out later," said Lentzer. "Two of you Solis stay on the ground until that fuzzball comes back." At that, he went after Rasidov, the Nada Solis/1 behind him.
The guards were shouting and pointing, but not at the Grand flyer. They were staring at the Mromrosi, who was spinning in one place like one of the legendary dervishes.
Rasidov slipped into the pilot's seat and indicated the cramped quarters behind. "Sorry it's so close. That's the Grands for you. Never enough room for a decent crew." He activated the engines.
With that, the Mromrosi bolted toward them at astonishing speed. He hurtled up the stairs and under the canopy, making a sound that Lentzer hoped was his version of laughter.
The Nada Solis/2 and /3 scrambled into the flyer, securing the Mromrosi between them.
"Let's get out of here," said Lentzer.
"Your wish is my command," said Rasidov. He brought the flyer up fast, and banked a hard starboard turn. The lurch felt good, the power vibrating subtly under the floor grate. The Grand flyer had speed in her.
So suddenly high they couldn't easily be seen from below, Rasidov did a quick overflight on Moustar. Lentzer hadn't had a real perception of just how the city was cut into the natural landscape. The deep canyons and gullies that made up the streets were irregular and striated, the result of natural water erosion. Once this had been a great river basin. Now it was dry.