“Yes, I am the stranger in your midst,” Kastor said, not only to Siraj but to all others listening. “I don’t share your goals, your religion. But there are forces greater than you at play in the galaxy, and some of those forces want to see the Defenders of Glory prevail. Once we take the Temple Mount tomorrow, I’ll—”
“Tomorrow?” Siraj interrupted. He heaved a dry, incredulous laugh. “Why does it need to be tomorrow? Who are these mysterious ‘forces’ who are pushing you take the Temple Mount so fast?” Siraj stepped around the table to square up with Kastor, face to face, even if he was shorter than the Sagittarian. “Who do you serve?”
“Right now, I serve the Defenders of Glory.”
Siraj shook his head. “No, you don’t. If you did, I would be calling you by your name, not ‘Advisor.’” For a moment, the two men glared at each other with steely eyes, unwilling to back down. Then Siraj said, “Listen to me,Advisor. I’m grateful you’ve gotten us this far, but I’ve taken enough of your advice. It’s time for you to leave. Go back to your master, whoever he is, and tell him your mission was accomplished.”
“But my mission isnot yet accomplished,” Kastor bit off.
“Yes, itis,” Siraj replied emphatically. “Because Isay it is.”
Kastor almost laughed. “You can’t send me away. Look at how far I’ve gotten you. You need me.”
“No, weneeded you.” A fire filled Siraj’s eyes, a determination like a dog with a bone. Veins bulged in his forehead. His cheeks turned red. “Not anymore.” Siraj snapped his arm out and pointed toward the stairs. “Leave. I don’t care where you go, just leave this city and never come back again.”
Kastor stood his ground, thinking of the blazer sword still strapped to his back. He glanced around at the others—Qasim at the computer that controlled the Bastion and Siraj’s most trusted team captains. He couldn’t kill them. Not if he wanted to leave the Defenders any hope of taking the Temple Mount. He couldn’t convince them, and he couldn’t kill them. It was the worst of all possible worlds.
So he abruptly turned and tramped across the storage room, past the guards giving him nasty looks, and up the stairs. Anger burned in his chest—that hot rage brought on by losing control.
But when he emerged onto the street and breathed in the cool night air, a different feeling enveloped him. The anger fizzled away, replaced by a newfound sense of freedom.
For the first time in almost two weeks, Kastor was a free man.
Chapter Sixty-Five
In the East, the first sunbeams of morning trickled through a cityscape of silhouetted highrises in the distance. Bright, orange light reflected off armored barriers the Confed had constructed all around the northern and western edges of the Temple Mount. Early risers began to stir and emerge from the tightly packed billet tents.
Speakers at the top of the minaret extending high above the mosque blared a loud, semi-musical call to all the city. Cristiana had heard about this—the Muslim call to prayer. In open spaces between tents and in the shuttle landing area west of the mosque, a few dozen Confed soldiers—mostly Arabs—unfurled small, rectangular rugs on the ground and knelt down on them, hands resting on their thighs. They all faced the same direction—south.
It threw a wrench in Cristiana’s understanding of this conflict. Watching them from her sitting position on one of countless big concrete barriers forming a wall around the mosque, she realized she’d been thinking of this war as one between locals and outsiders. Or perhaps between religious people and irreligious people. Neither of those could be true, given the scene before her eyes.
It served as a reminder of how endlessly, maddeningly complex the galaxy and everything in it really was. She wondered if anyone actually understood it all, or at least enough of it to discern right from wrong.
The image of Kastor powering off his blazer and lowering the blade flashed in her mind’s eye. Why couldn’t it have been anyone besides Kastor—her fellow Eaglespawn? Why couldn’t he have just told her what he was doing with the Defenders? None of what he said made any sense to Cristiana, no matter how many times she replayed the conversation in her head.
“Cristiana!” Larkin called from the command tent about thirty meters away.
He stood halfway out of the tent, giving her that same disparaging look as before, only now he seemed frantic for some reason. He waved her to come over.
Cristiana hopped down from the tall, vertical slab of concrete and hurried over to the command tent. Larkin held the flap open for her to duck under. Inside, the Confed officers and technicians were all facing a single screen mounted on the side of a supply crate. It showed a live feed of an Arab man with gaunt but scrappy features, sitting at a desk in front of a black backdrop.
“What is—” Cristiana started to ask.
Larkin put a finger over his lips and whispered, “It’s Siraj al Din, leader of the Defenders.”
Cristiana listened and watched.
“. . . why we tried so many peaceful methods of lodging our complaints,” Siraj said in the video, “making our voices heard. But time and again, the Confed ignored us, ignored ourlegitimate complaints about their treatment of us. Now, perhaps, they see what comes when you oppress some in order to accommodate others.”
Cristiana eased further into the tent to get a better angle on the screen.
“But that time has passed,” Siraj continued calmly. “A new era has dawned on the holy city. One that will fairer and kinder to all people.” He paused and glanced down at something unseen on the desk. “I speak now to soldiers of the Terran Confederacy in Jerusalem. We honor and respect your faith and your will to do what you believe is right. But you are misguided. You fight for a cause that enriches some at the expense of others. We know you are better than that in your hearts. Throw down your arms. Take off your uniforms. Surrender, and you will be spared and treated with dignity. Please, don’t waste your lives dying for a cause of oppression and greed.”
Some of the more decorated Confed officers let out dry laughs and shook their heads. A Persian man spat and stormed out of the tent wearing a grimace.
“I speak now to the leaders of the Terran Confederacy,” Siraj went on. “We have effectively taken the city of Jerusalem. The Bastion is under our control. All your efforts to stop us have failed, despite your orbital bombardment of huge sections of the city, which killed countless innocent civilians.”
One of the officers pointed at the screen and shouted in an angry, Arab accent. “He lies! They did not kill innocents!”
“Despite all the damage you have done tightening your grip on this city,” Siraj said while closing his fingers into a fist, “you have failed. Jerusalem is ours, and, from this day forward, we are ready to begin the process of a peaceful transfer of power. I look forward to working with you on formulating a new arrangement that will allow all voices of the Levant to be heard.”
Cristiana looked at Larkin. “What’s this going to mean for us?”
Larkin remained rigid, arms crossed tightly at his chest. “We’re not surrendering, I can tell you that much.”
“Lastly, I speak now to the people of Carina,” Siraj said, returning his eyes from his notes to directly into the camera. “This conflict is between peoples and forces of Earth. It is not one in which you are welcome. I give my full assurance that the many thousands of pilgrims currently under our care willnot be harmed so long as Carina does not interfere militarily in any way.”
Siraj paused and took on a more somber expression. “It is with my deepest regret that I admit . . . in the heat of battle, we lost control of some of our fighters and allowed the slaughter of Carinian civilians, as well as the destruction of a Babist house of God. I recognize words cannot bring back lost lives, but I wish to extend my sincere apology for this travesty and assure the people of Carina that we have returned strict discipline to our ranks. Once the Levant has undergone a peaceful transition of government, your pilgrims will return home safely.”
Cristiana turn
ed to Larkin for some insight into what effect this would have on their mission—on the galaxy—but he had none.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Carina Arm, in orbit around the planet Baha’runa . . .
Table of Contents
Horns of the Ram
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 30
