by Simon Hawke
“Is that all he has to wear?” said Lucas.
“It’s all ’e’s got, period,” said Mulvaney. “Not ‘ardly equipped for a march to Chitral, ‘e ain’t.”
“Well, we shall have to do something about that,” said Lucas. “We’ll have to send him to the quartermaster to get properly equipped and to get some decent clothing.”
Din’s face lit up. “Uniform, Father Sahib? Din be good soldier with uniform!”
“Soldier?” said Mulvaney, while Din shrank back from him.
“Why not?” said Lucas.
“Why not, indeed?” said Ortheris. “Just send ‘im over to the quartermaster and tell ‘im to ask for a full kit and a suit of khakis. The quartermaster, kind soul that ‘e is, will comply without a moment’s ‘esitation.” The men laughed.
Din’s face took on a crestfallen expression as he saw his hopes of obtaining a khaki uniform fade as quickly as they had arisen.
“Well, now, surely if the quartermaster knew it was for me,” said Lucas, “he’d do it. After all, we can’t very well have Miss Cross being attended by a half-naked man.”
“Right,” Delaney said. “Ortheris, since you pointed out the problem, perhaps you’d be so good as to accompany Din to see the quartermaster?”
“Per’aps I will,” said Ortheris, “after I’ve done with this whiskey.”
“Now, Ortheris,” said Delaney.
Ortheris scowled. “I knew it was too good to last,” he said. “Sooner or later an officer’s bound to start actin’ like an officer. Come on then, Din. We’ll go an’ get you your soldier suit.”
He left with the joyful Gunga Din in tow. Learoyd smiled. “I’d say you made yourself a friend for life there, Father.”
“From what I hear about where we’re going, I’d say I could use all the friends I can get,” said Lucas. “Tell me, Private Mulvaney—“
“Just plain ol’ Mulvaney, Father. Everyone calls me that.”
“All right, Mulvaney. What can you tell me about what’s happening at Chakdarra?”
“Bloody fair mess is what’s ‘appenin’, if you ask me. Some damn fool sod in Simla, sittin’ on his bleedin’—“
“Mulvaney!” said Learoyd. “Perhaps it would be better if I were to explain. Mind you now, Father, I’m not privy to what’s told to the command staff, but scuttlebutt is generally pretty reliable in this outfit. Chitral is some hundred fifty miles north of here and about four miles or so straight up. Now, because it looks so nice and well situated on a map, someone went and decided that the Sirkar ought to take an interest in it, as it were, and so a political agent was ensconced there. ‘Round about five years ago or so, the local high muckamuck there, a sort of king called the Mehtar of Chitral, AmanulMulk, by name, up and died. The problem was, Aman left about a score of sons and not much in the way of a proper line of succession. Several of them killed each other off while tryin’ to take the throne, and it looked as though things would eventually even out all by themselves, until Urnra Khan stepped into the picture.”
“Who’s Urnra Khan?” said Andre.
“A bloody Pathan warlord,” said Mulvaney.
“The Khan of Jandul,” Learoyd said. “Also known amongst us all by several somewhat less exalted appellations. Actually, the whole thing was more or less our fault, in a way. If we’d kept ourselves well out of it, our boys wouldn’t now be in such a stew up there. Unfortunately the Forward Policy has its own curious sort of momentum. Arnan was always friendly to the Sirkar, and Simla had no trouble with him. In return for arms and ammunition, as well as six thousand rupees a year, he became our ally. We posted an agent to Gilgit and that was that. Then Aman decided that he wanted more, so the annual payment was doubled. There was no further trouble till Aman died. One of his sons, Aftal, happened to be in a position to seize the reins of power. He immediately started killing off his brothers, but the litter was quite sizable. He couldn’t get them all at once.
“Anyway,” Learoyd continued, “Afzal claimed the title of Mehtar and asked for recognition from Simla. The bloody fools gave it to him, figurin’, I suppose, to be Johnnyonthespot with the new man. Never mind he murdered several of his brothers and had the rest seeking sanctuary with the neighbouring chiefs. Now the eldest brother, Nizam, appealed to Simla for help. Of course, our people could hardly give it to him, having already recognised his little brother. Shortly thereafter, Afzul, not to be confused with Afzal, returned to Chitral. This was Sher Afzul, the new Mehtar’s uncle. He promptly killed his nephew Afzal as well as yet another brother in the bargain. Exit Aftal, the late Mehtar, enter Afzul, the new Mehtar. Bit of a Chinese fire drill, but it grows more absurd. Having recognised the late Mehtar, it appeared bad form for the boys at Simia to recognise his murderer, so they gave Nizam 250 Cashmere rifles, which in turn encouraged a sizeable number of the local tribesmen to join up as well. Nizam marches on his uncle, who sends over a thousand men to stop him. Said thousand men immediately desert to Nizam’s side. Uncle Mehtar, fearful for his life, and rightfully so, performs a rather graceless abdication and beats a hasty retreat.
“You follow all this so far?” Learoyd said, smirking. “We now have Mehtar Number Three, good ol’ Nizam the Nephew. He, however, proves so inept at Mehtarin’ that in order to help keep the peace, it’s decided to send Captain Young husband and a full battalion to reinforce the garrison at Cilgit. Ready trumpet fanfare … enter Urnra Khan, the aforementioned Pathan warlord. Turns out that yet another sonofAmanor son of something else not a man at all, if you get my meanin’—young chap named Amir, had taken refuge with the Khan of Jandul. Said son appears in Chitral, properly respectful of his brother the Mehtar, and claims to have escaped from Umra Khan, who had not used him kindly. Since brother Amir appears so properly respectful, brother Nizam the Mehtar makes him welcome, upon which Amir murders Nizam in a properly respectful manner. Where are we now, Mehtar Number Four or thereabouts? No matter, we’re still keepin’ it all in the family.
“Now the agent and the soldiers in Chitral have no idea what to do. Recognise yet another new Mehtar? Might be too hasty. After all, there’re still a few other sons runnin’ about here and there, no tellin’ the rate of turnover in this job. So word goes out to Simia—would someone mind very much tellin’ us what to do about this situation, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?
“Meanwhile, Umra Khan the Aforementioned, who, as it turned out, hadn’t used Amir badly at all—Amir’s the current aspirant to longevity at Mehtarin’, you’ll recall—said Urnra Khan begins to march with a large force upon Chitral. Just to lend a hand, you understand. Amir, in his new precarious position, is somewhat leery of said hand and so he sends out a force to meet the khan’s. The khan prevails after a bit of a dustup, exit Amir. Now Urnra Khan, havin’ no great desire to Mehtar himself, invites Sher Afzul—that’s the uncle who was Number Two Mehtar—or was it Number Three? No matter. Anyway, Number Two now becomes Number Four. Or is it Five? Whatever. And just in case we didn’t like it, Umra Khan and Sher Afzul announce that they will fight if we oppose them. Now one knows that isn’t the sort of thing one says to an Englishman, much less a garrison full of Englishmen who are already confused about this comedy of errors. So of course the garrison opposed them, with the result being that the 14th Sikhs were massacred and their officers taken prisoner. Fort Chitral, miles away from nowhere, finds itself besieged.
“Outnumbered by fifty to one, SurgeonMajor Robertson finds himself havin’ to defend the fort with about three hundred rounds per man and not much in the way of supplies. One massed attack follows another. The fort is fired on repeatedly, yet somehow Robertson holds on and keeps the fort from burnin’ to the ground. He holds on long enough for Sir Robert Low to arrive with three brigades and Colonel Kelly with one. Both commanders had to fight for every inch of ground along the way. They save Robertson, put Umra Khan to flight, and breathe a mighty sigh of relief, thinkin’ its all over. And just to be on the safe side, so they don’t have to fight for every inch o
f ground goin’ back, it’s decided to establish a garrison in the Malakand Pass to keep the road open * ‘ Now we come at last to a gentlemen who calls himself Sadullah, referred to hereabouts as the Mad Mullah. Rather like that Mahdi chap General ‘Chinese’ Gordon ran afoul of in Khartoum. Am I losin’ you?”
“No, go on,” said Andre. “ This is fascinating.
Learoyd grinned. “You’ll find it less so, miss, I promise you. While all this was goin’ on, our supposed ally in Kabul, the Emir Abdur Rahman, called a sort of council of the local holy men in all these parts, to study the Koran or some such. While he’s being a genial chap to all the lads in Simla, the emir tells all the holy men about how General Gordon got his head up on a pike down in Khartoum and how we’re havin’ other minor troubles here and there, and he tells them that the Prophet has decreed the time has come for the infidel firinghi, and so on and so forth. Thus, havin’ attended Sunday school, the holy men go forth to spread the word. And our friend Sadullah spreads it finer than any man I know. Next thing the boys up in the Malakand know, they’ve got themselves a bloody jehad upon their heads.
“Accordin’ to the latest communication, they were havin’ themselves a go at a few chukkers of polo when about 10,000 Ghazis came screamin’ down their throats. They’re hangin’ on up there, holdin’ off against a hundred to one odds, and praying’ like Hell, if you’ll excuse the expression, Father, that we’ll get there in time to save them all from bein’ butchered. The Guides have already left, the lancers leave tonight, and us Tommys, bein’ the least mobile, leave first thing in the mornin’.”
He turned to Delaney. “You’ll be good enough to clear the way for us, I’m sure, sir. We’ll do what we can on our part. After all, we’ll have the Father with us. You watch, he’ll get there and convert them all to Christianity and they’ll throw down all their weapons and join us in a chorus of ‘Bringin’ in the Sheaves.’“
“An’ I couldn’t ‘ave told it better meself,” Mulvaney said, “ ‘ceptin’ I wouldn’t ‘ave taken so bloody long a time about it.” He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. “Gentlemen, and lady, you’ll excuse me, I am sure, but I’ve to go an’ see about me kit.” He tossed Delaney a half drunken salute and shambled off.
“Take my advice, Father,” said Learoyd. “Go home.”
“I’m afraid I cannot, Private Learoyd,” said Lucas.
Learoyd rose. “Well, then, much as it may go against your Christian conscience, you may find it more useful to lay aside your Bible for a time and do your convertin’ with a rifle. Good night to you.”
Lucas looked across the table at Finn and Andre, his mouth set in a grim expression. “Who was the idiot who decided this would be a good scenario for temporal confrontations?”
Andre shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything in what he said that contradicted history. If there are any anomalies present, if there’s any interference, it hasn’t affected the scenario yet.”
“That we know of,” said Finn. “I’d keep an eye on Learoyd if I were you, Lucas. Despite the occasional lapse into slang, it strikes me that his conversation is way too educated for a mere army private. And scuttlebutt or no, he’s a lot more well informed than the average soldier.”
“That had occurred to me,” said Lucas. “I think I’ll stick close to all three of them.”
Outside, a bugle sounded, and Finn stood up. “That’s first call for assembly,” he said. “My unit’s getting ready to move out.”
Andre reached out and took his arm. “Be careful, Finn.”
“I will.”
“Don’t take any chances out there,” Lucas said. “If it starts to look bad, use your warp disc and get the hell out. If we don’t rendezvous at Chakdarra, we’ll meet here, at that same shop in the bazaar.”
“Right,” said Finn.
“Good luck.”
“You too. Stay close to Blood, if you can. He seems to be the most important figure in this scenario.”
“Got it.”
Assembly blew.
“Got to go,” said Finn. “I’ll meet you in Chakdarra.”
Outside, there were the sounds of horses and pack animals massing as the 11th Bengal Lancers prepared to ride out to the relief of Chakdarra.
“I wish we were going with him,” Andre said.
“So do I,” said Lucas, “but this improves our chances. If anything gets out of whack up ahead, Finn can scout the situation and clock back to let us know. Besides, he’s right. We’ve got to protect the important figures in this scenario. And Blood’s the most important one on hand right now.”
The door burst open with a slam. Standing in the entrance was a dashing young blond officer in the uniform of a subaltern in the 4th Hussars. He saw Lucas and Andre and politely removed his shako.
“Excuse me, Father, madam. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find General Sir Bindon Blood? I’ve just arrived to join the march. My name is Winston Churchill.”
Chapter 4
Sharif Khan was a self-made man. He began his khanate by the simple expedient of stealing a rifle from one of the British pickets at Landi Kotal. In the dead of night, while the picket slept, he had crept up to him and stolen his breechloading MartiniHenry, as well as several belts of ammunition. This made him a man to be reckoned with in the small Afridi village where he had settled. With the rifle to back up his new important status, he prevailed upon several of the young men in the village to build a gun tower as an addition to his small brick house, and he instructed them in the proper way of loopholing the walls to provide embrasures, as well as in constructing a high, surrounding wall around the entire dwelling. Thus ensconced in this miniature fort with its gun tower overlooking all the village, he proclaimed himself a khan.
Within a short time of arriving in the village, he had led its people in an attack upon a neighbouring settlement. In this manner he quickly increased his domain, making feudal vassals of those he subjugated. Within a short time he had gained a reputation in the region as a chief to be feared and respected. He lived in a bigger house now, a small fort that was opulently furnished, as befitted the status of a khan. He had well-trained bodyguards and he obtained more money through his raids, which he used to purchase more rifles, ammunition, and supplies. He had acquired a harem, small, but of extremely high quality. And now he waited to be noticed.
Sharif Khan was not his real name. He was last known as Reese Hunter, a captain in the First Division of the Temporal Corps. Yet that was not his real name either. The real Reese Hunter had died in 17th century France, his throat slit by an assassin. Sharif Khan had been known by many names. One of them was Barry Martingale, once a sergeant in the Temporal Corps. Barry Martingale had been a cover identity, carefully constructed to allow an agent of Temporal Intelligence to infiltrate a terrorist organisation headed by a man named Drakov. The man who had been Barry Martingale, then Reese Hunter, and who was now the Afridi chieftain, Sharif Khan, was a TIA agent known by the codename Phoenix.
The TIA’s senior field agent before Phoenix had been murdered by an assassin who had insinuated herself into his private life. It was a mistake Phoenix would never make. He trusted no one except one man—the enigmatic Dr. Darkness, the man who was faster than light.
Manifesting from the tachyon state that allowed him to cross the boundaries of space and time in a near-zero interval, Darkness appeared in Sharif Khan’s bedroom like a ghost materialising from the ether. Dressed in a long black Inverness and a wide-brimmed black slouch hat, he looked incongruous in his surroundings. His appearance was a marked contrast to that of Phoenix, who wore baggy white linen trousers buttoned at the ankles, curl-toed boots, a wide blue sash, and an embroidered vest over a loose white shirt. Cosmetic surgery had darkened the pigmentation of the agent’s skin, and his normally blond hair was now jet black and worn down to his shoulders. His blue turban was fastened by a golden clasp. He smiled and gave Darkness the traditional Islamic greeting of a slight bow and genuflection with the ope
n hand.
The gaunt, lugubrious features of the scientist seemed to blur for an instant before they resolved themselves into a grimace of distaste. He gestured with his blackthorn walking stick, indicating their surroundings.
“This place looks like a Persian whorehouse. And what is that hideous smell?”
“It’s dinner, I’m afraid,” said Phoenix. “It smells like goat meat boiled in Cosmoline, but it doesn’t taste too bad once you get used to it.” He smiled. “I’d have them set another place, but my wives might become upset if you suddenly appeared out of thin air at the dinner table.”
“Yes, I believe I saw two of your wives leaving this room before I manifested,” Darkness said. “They looked all of fourteen.”
Phoenix shrugged. “In their prime and eminently marriageable by Afridi standards. I could hardly have allowed the most desirable young women in this village to marry someone else. Sharif Khan has to maintain a certain image.”
“I’ll refrain from commenting on the nature of that image,” Darkness said wryly. “Did you have much trouble disposing of your identity as Barry Martingale?”
“Some,” said Phoenix. “The commandos complicated matters by giving me a new identity. I would have died of plasma burns if they hadn’t clocked me to that army hospital. They bought my cover and believed I was a deserter. They didn’t want me to be arrested, so they altered official records, believe it or not, and gave me the identity of an MIA. They thought they were helping me when they switched the data in Martingale’s jacket with Reese Hunter’s. Instead they created an official file through which I could be traced if I ever slipped up. I had to make sure Hunter was accounted for somehow.”
“So what became of your identity as Hunter?” Darkness said.
