Scornful Stars Page 43

  “You have a visitor, Mr. Bleindel,” Dr. Soto announced. “This is Colonel Tarek Zakur of the Gadiran Royal Guard.”

  “I know him,” Bleindel mumbled. His jaw did not hurt quite so much, but he was acutely conscious of the missing teeth.

  “I’m pleased that you remember me,” Tarek Zakur said. He grinned in a distinctly predatory manner. “Commander North was kind enough to send word to Sultana Ranya that you were in Aquilan custody; I came as quickly as I could. You may be interested to learn that you’re being extradited to the Sultanate of Gadira to face charges related to certain acts of terrorism and insurrection during your last visit to our world.”

  “I want to speak to a representative of my government.” That was the longest sentence Bleindel had spoken since waking up, but he deemed it worth the effort.

  Soto nodded. “We sent word to your consul that you were in our custody, awaiting extradition. I believe she plans to visit later this afternoon, although I’m not sure what she can do for you—I’m a doctor, not a lawyer.” She looked over to Tarek Zakur. “And, just so we’re all clear, I’m not quite prepared to release Mr. Bleindel for transport. He won’t be going anywhere for at least forty-eight hours.”

  The big Gadiran shrugged. “As you wish, Doctor. I’ll wait.”

  25

  Tawahi Island, Neda III

  “To absent friends,” said Sikander, raising his glass: dark, aged rum that represented the finest Navy spirit in his cabinet. He rarely drank hard liquors, but today was an exception.

  “To absent friends,” Decisive’s officers answered, honoring the ancient toast. Fourteen of the seventeen officers under Sikander’s command stood assembled on the patio of his Tawahi Island bungalow, resplendent in their dress whites. Jaime Herrera had drawn the short straw, remaining aboard the destroyer as the duty officer; he’d observe the tradition later. For Grant Edwards and Zoe Worth, however, the absence was more permanent. They would remain under the manicured green lawn of the Tawahi Naval Cemetery, where Sikander and his company had just said their final good-byes.

  Sikander sipped the strong, sweet liquor, closing his eyes and savoring the taste as he thought of the fine people Decisive had lost at Dahar. Zoe Worth had been killed in the fight for control of Zyklop’s bridge before the cruisers got under way; Grant Edwards had died aboard Decisive when a K-cannon round from Polarstern had wiped out the damage-control station that was his post during general quarters. Twenty-nine of Decisive’s enlisted company had likewise fallen, killed in the gunfights aboard the cruisers or lost during the ensuing naval duel between the destroyer and the Dremish auxiliary cruiser.

  Was it worth their lives? Sikander wondered. Bringing down Marid Pasha and checking one small move in the great game? Captain Broward seemed to think so; after overcoming his astonishment at the reports coming out of Dahar—and digesting a direct note from Eric Darrow on the circumstances surrounding the shipyard raid—he’d decided that the success of the mission warranted enthusiastic public praise, and showered Sikander with congratulations on what he described as “a textbook example of command audacity and initiative.” Sikander knew that the squadron commander meant well, but he’d felt sick at heart about accepting Broward’s praise for an operation that had left thirty-one of his ship’s company dead. In the long run, he found it hard to believe that the questions of who controlled the Zerzura Sector or how they managed their affairs counted as vital interests of the Aquilan Commonwealth.

  He looked up and saw the familiar faces of the men and women under his command, some staring at their feet, others gazing out over the ocean, one or two with heads bowed and tears on their cheeks. If I have these doubts, they certainly do as well, he reminded himself. They’re looking for meaning in this too. And he realized that it was up to him to try to make the case that their friends and colleagues had not died for nothing.

  He cleared his throat, thinking about what he wanted to say; the assembled officers looked up at him, waiting. “In my faith, we do not mourn for the dead,” he began. “We believe that death is a necessary part of the cycle of existence, the moment when the soul is finally freed of the body to be reborn or to find union with God. Neither Grant nor Zoe shared that belief—nor did any of the others we lost, except for Darvesh Reza—but I’d like to think that they would not want us to grieve for them. Instead, we mourn for ourselves. Our friends have gone on ahead of us; we will miss them. My beliefs permit me to be saddened by that, even as I celebrate their lives and commend them to God’s care.

  “I wish that the cost of our victory was not so high. I wonder why they had to die at this time and whether it was necessary for us to fight at Dahar. Those are questions that have no easy answer. I think that all I can say is that we put on this uniform in the service of something greater than ourselves—not just the flag of the Commonwealth, although there is no shame in loving the nation in which you were born, but also in the service of certain ideals: to protect those who need protection, to stand against injustice, to carry ourselves with honor. Grant and Zoe lived those ideals, and lived them well. That’s what I choose to remember today, and I find comfort in it. I hope you do, too.” Sikander paused, and then nodded at the food and drink arranged on the serving tables; he’d borrowed the services of a couple of Decisive’s mess stewards to assist in the absence of Darvesh’s expertise. “So honor their service, share some stories about better times, and raise a glass or two or three to our absent friends. They wouldn’t want us to be sad for long.”

  “Well said, Captain,” Amelia Fraser said. Then she glanced down at her empty glass and made a show of looking around. “Now where’s the bar, again?” A ripple of chuckles passed through the somber gathering.

  Sikander smiled—naturally, Amelia had seen that someone needed to punctuate the moment, and perhaps take one small first step in the healing process. “To your left, XO,” he said. The assembled officers went for refills or made their way toward the buffet; a murmur of conversation began.

  Even though he didn’t feel very hungry, Sikander helped himself to a modest plate to signal to his junior officers that the buffet was not just for show. He also refilled his glass, but he switched to a cold lager: hard liquor in the middle of the afternoon was something best taken in small doses, in his opinion. He found a barstool at the house’s kitchen-patio counter, and devoted himself to his food for a moment.

  Amelia came up and took the seat next to his. “Good work, Sikander,” she said quietly. “I think they needed this.”

  “I think I needed this,” Sikander replied. “Are you ready to take command again?”

  “Two weeks of yard time. I think I’ll manage.” Decisive had another date with the shipyard to repair the battle damage she’d suffered. In the meantime, Sikander had something he needed to see to, so he would once again leave his exec in charge during his absence. Amelia grew somber. “I’m sorry I got her all banged up, especially after you trusted me with the keys.”

  “Amelia, you did as well as anybody could have at Dahar. You handled Decisive brilliantly; I can’t think of a thing I would’ve done differently if I’d been on the bridge and you’d been over on Meduse. My report to Captain Broward is very clear about that—and so is my endorsement on your fitness report.” Sikander met her eyes. “You’re more than ready for your own command.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Amelia took a deep breath, looking around the patio at Decisive’s surviving officers. “It’ll be hard to leave, though.”

  “We’ve got you for a couple of months yet,” Sikander told her. “Besides, the Navy is a smaller club than you think. You’ll serve with some of us again—you’ll see. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll make the rounds and see how my guests are doing. For that matter, I think I could use a few good memories or funny stories, myself.”

  * * *

  The next evening, Sikander returned to his bungalow late after a long day of meetings in the squadron office and a careful review of Decisive’s work orders for
the upcoming return to Neda’s shipyard. He was just settling into his favorite chair for one more pass through the ship’s official report on “the Dahar incident” (as the raid on the shipyard was now being referred to in the newscasts and squadron correspondence) when he was interrupted by a knock at his door. He looked up in surprise; anyone from the ship would have called if they needed him for something, and everyone in the squadron office generally went home by dinnertime. He set down his dataslate and padded over to the door, checking the security cam more out of curiosity than anything else.

  Elena Pavon stood on his doorstep, looking up at the cam with an impish smile on her face.

  Sikander hurried to unlock the door. “Elena! This is a surprise.”

  “Well, I didn’t tell you that I was coming.” She moved into his arms and kissed him lightly, before pulling away again. “I hope you don’t mind. Is this a good time?”

  “The only thing you’re interrupting is some paperwork, and it turns out that the Navy isn’t in any danger of running out. Come on in—can I get you something to drink?”

  “Please. A little white wine or sangria if you have it.”

  “I do.” She followed him to the kitchen, and watched him rummage around in the refrigerator until he produced a half bottle of sémillon left over from the previous day’s gathering. He poured her a glass, and then one for himself. “What brings you to Neda?”

  “I’m my way back to Nuevo León to bring my father up to date on events in Zerzura. It turns out that Suvar United is in all kinds of trouble after Hidir al-Kassar skipped the sector, and there might be an opportunity for Pegasus-Pavon if we aren’t too risk-averse. Anyway, I decided to stop by since you’re sort of on the way.” She sipped at her wine, and pointed the glass at him. “I’m a little angry with you, Sikander. You popped into Meliya and then bolted off so quickly that I didn’t get a chance to see you. You couldn’t take a moment to answer a message?”

  Sikander winced. “I apologize for that. I was under strict instructions from Mr. Darrow to be on my way as quickly as I could after handing the Dremish ships over to the Electorate authorities. He was worried that Decisive’s presence in the area was provocative—you should have heard the things the Dremish consul at Meliya was saying!—so he sent us back here. I didn’t even look at my correspondence until we were bubbled up and on our way home.”

  She made a face. “Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. What’s next for you?”

  “Decisive needs some repair work, so it’s back to the shipyard. We won’t be going anywhere for a while. In the meantime, the Admiralty is going to review every step I took to determine whether I was out of my mind when I decided to seize three warships that didn’t belong to us and trade fire with the Empire of Dremark. Generally speaking, we’re not supposed to risk starting a war without checking first.”

  “Your admirals think you went too far at Dahar?”

  “I think that perhaps I went too far at Dahar. If I’d known that Polarstern was so heavily armed, I never would have risked the confrontation. I was fortunate that we got away with it—and my superiors are very much aware of that.” Sikander took a sip, trying not to dwell on what that might mean for the continuation of his career. Eric Darrow endorsed his actions, which certainly helped … and a very narrow reading of his orders to take aggressive action against piracy just barely extended to keeping three major warships out of Marid Pasha’s hands, once the pasha’s involvement in Zerzuran piracy had been established. Captain Broward might have publicly endorsed Sikander’s actions, but whether he would let Sikander out of his sight for the duration of his tour in Pleiades Squadron was far from clear. “There’s another board of inquiry in my future, I’m afraid.”

  “Another?”

  “Gadira, eight years ago. I have something of a reputation.”

  Elena laughed at that. “At least Neda seems like a pleasant place to wait while everything gets sorted out.”

  “It will be, when I get back,” Sikander replied. “I have something I need to do back home first. I’m scheduled to depart for Kashmir tomorrow.”

  Elena frowned. “Oh. I have the most miserable sense of timing.”

  “It’s not too bad—I should be back in about two weeks, and then Decisive needs another six weeks in the shipyard to repair the damage we suffered. After that? My tour of duty in Neda lasts another eight months.” Sikander gave her a small shrug. “I’ll be around.”

  “I might not be—I’ve got work to do in Dahar and Meliya after I finish in Nuevo León. Did I mention that the Zerzuran market is wide open for expansion these days?”

  “I’m pretty sure the Admiralty’s not going to let me anywhere near Dahar for the rest of my tour here,” Sikander said with a bitter smile. Why is it that I keep getting involved with women just before I have to leave? he asked himself. Ranya el-Nasir, Lara Dunstan, Elena Pavon … the pattern might be familiar, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. “I guess that it’s a good thing you decided to stop by today.”

  “So what now?” she asked.

  There was an obvious answer to that question, but he realized—somewhat to his own surprise—that it wasn’t what he wanted at the moment. “I lost a good friend at Dahar, one of the best men it’s been my privilege to know,” he said slowly. “Would you mind if we took the bottle down to the beach and just talked for a while? I could use the company.”

  “I’m sorry, Sikay.” Elena’s expression softened. “That sounds good. I think I could use something like that, too.”

  They spent the rest of the night on the cool sand, watching the dark ocean and talking beneath the stars.

  * * *

  Six days after saying good-bye to Elena, Sikander stood on the beautiful green banks of the Palar River on Jaipur at sunset and waited for Darvesh Reza’s cremation to begin. It was a fine evening, warm but not humid, and the aromatic oils of the pyre filled the air with a rich and heady scent. In addition to the twenty or so members of the extended Reza clan who were present, a dozen of Darvesh’s old comrades from the Jaipur Dragoons had joined the ceremony, standing a final watch over one of their own. Nawab Dayan, Begum Vadiya, Gamand and his family, and Sikander sat together on one of the low benches that faced the bier.

  “You did well to bring him home, Sikander,” his father said quietly as the granthi read the old verses from the Guru Granth Sahib. “His ashes belong on Jaipur.”

  “Thank you, Father.” In Kashmir’s New Sikh traditions, it was customary to cremate the deceased within three days of death if possible, but Sikander had decided that the delay involved with bringing Darvesh back to their homeworld was justified. He’d wanted to give Darvesh’s family the opportunity to perform the funeral rites, and his own family a final chance to honor a man who’d stood beside them almost every day of the last thirty-five years. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

  As the sun slipped below the horizon, Darvesh’s younger brother lit the pyre, since Darvesh had no children to observe the tradition. As the flames took hold, the assembled family and friends stood together to recite the ancient words of the Kirtan Sohila, the evening prayer; Sikander joined in, finding comfort in the unison of their voices: “Day after day, God looks after all beings. None can assess the price of the gifts, so how can the Giver be assessed? The day and hour of the wedding is fixed; gather and pour the oil upon the threshold. Bless the servant, so that union with the Master may be obtained. Into each and every home, into each and every heart, this summons is sent out; the call comes each and every day. Remember in meditation the One who sends the call, O Nanak. That day is drawing near.”

  The gathering fell silent as the flames grew brighter and louder, a brilliant blaze against the orange sunset. Sikander stood and watched for a time. When he saw the Rezas making their final gestures of farewell, preparing to return to their home for the days of readings from the Guru Granth Sahib that would follow the cremation, he stirred. “God is Truth,” he murmured, and followed his family as they turned
to make their way back home.

  He found a young sergeant in the dress uniform of the Jaipur Dragoons waiting for him near the family flyer: one of Darvesh’s nephews. Like his uncle, he was tall for a Kashmiri, standing half a head above the other dragoons in the household guard who accompanied the Norths anywhere they traveled in Kashmir, but he was broad through the shoulders and powerfully built, where Darvesh had been lean and bony. The big sergeant bowed to Sikander as he approached. “Nawabzada Sikander,” he said. “I am Harman Reza, nephew to Darvesh. I hope that you will allow me to ask a favor of you in the memory of my uncle’s service.”

  “In memory of your uncle’s service you can ask me anything you like, Sergeant Reza,” Sikander answered. “He saved my life on many occasions. I can’t ever repay that debt, but I would like to try. What can I do for you?”

  Harman Reza bowed again. “Please allow me to take my uncle’s place by your side, Nawabzada. It would be my great honor to serve as your bodyguard and helper in your travels.”

  Taken aback by the younger man’s offer, Sikander was not entirely sure how to answer. “Are you certain? I have no plans to retire from the Aquilan navy any time soon. We’ll be away from home most of the time—I only spend a couple of weeks a year in Kashmir.”

  “I am unmarried. The travel does not deter me, sir.”

  Sikander considered the offer carefully. The Rezas had already made a great sacrifice on his behalf—not just in Darvesh’s death, but also in his twenty years of service on distant worlds. Harman Reza might have the desire to see more of human space, but he would be missed by his family … and there was always the chance that, like Darvesh, he might not come home. Of course, the younger man would dismiss any concern for his personal safety—Sikander could see that much about him at a single glance—but how could he ask more of the Reza clan? “Does your family approve?”