by John F. Carr
They stripped the corpses of clothes, food, and weapons. They buried their dead near the pipeline and left the tartar bodies for the vulpes and tamerlanes. They rode on, tying themselves to the backs of their animals so that they might sleep as they travelled. They halted for a snack at mid-cycle. The muskylopes showed no sign of weariness.
When they resumed the march, Orfan released his anchor line, and sat up. Trying to doze was worse than remaining awake. He yawned, brushing the icicles from the mouth-hole of his knitted helmet. Vasily Bugovics rode up from the rear to jog beside him.
“All clear astern, Capitan,” he reported.
Bugovics’ face was serious enough. Orfan hoped he didn’t know that “Capitan” meant “swaggerer.” Orfan yawned, “The Chingiz may delay pursuit while he chops off a couple of heads.”
Bugovics nodded. “Those two that ran earned a flogging at least.”
They jogged along in silence.
Orfan looked for his other lieutenant. He spotted Pics’ shaggy mount out on the flank, coaxing a calf back to its dam.
“Perhaps they didn’t go back to the yurt?” he suggested. “They would know what kind of reception Liplap would give to Tartars who ran away from slaves.”
Bugovics sailed. “That would suit us fine. Liplap would have to start the search for us all over again.” Orfan’s lieutenant slapped the rump of his mount. “You were right about these animals. They just keep on going.”
Orfan nodded. He had been hoping that Bugovics would comment on the muskylopes’ performance. He said. “I know how they do it.”
Vasily Bugovics’ eyebrows rose obligingly.
Orfan grinned. It was obvious, when you thought it over. Any steppe animal must develop some means of covering vast distances. He said, “They walk in their sleep.”
Bugovics’ mouth made a satisfying “O.”
“And where do they get their water?” he challenged.
Orfan waved a nonchalant hand. “Frost. They lick the steppe.”
Chasing a bolted calf, Pics was first to see the cloud ahead.
“It’s like a fog,” he reported to Orfan. “Right across our front. It could be a water vapor.”
Orfan said, “We’ll have to investigate.”
Voldemars scratched a two-day beard. “Just say the word, Captain.”
Orfan stood up on the muskylope’s back, feet spread, the way he had learned in the circus. From his new elevation he could see the cloud, lying ahead of them like a white worm. He said, “Ride into it, Voldy. See if it’s safe for us. I’ll hold the column here ’til you give us the okay.”
Pics saluted. “Give me ten minutes.”
Orfan signaled a halt. No point in plunging into trouble. Let Pics find out what was causing the phenomenon, and whether the cloud hid anything dangerous, He watched his lieutenant ride into the mist. Moments later, Pics reappeared, signaling, thumbs up.
Orfan dropped down and kicked his beast into motion. The column followed at an easy trot. The cloud came into sight, lying across the steppe in a wall high enough to conceal a mounted man, its top fraying into wispy tendrils.
As they got within hailing distance, Pics shouted, “Slow up, Captain—or you’ll get wet!”
Orfan halted. From within the fog came the sound of rushing water!
He dismounted, hobbled his mount, and walked past Pics into the mist. He heard his lieutenant’s breathing as Pics followed him. Hazily, he discerned rocks ahead, and foaming water.
He gripped Pics’ sleeve. “What is it, Voldy?”
Voldemars knelt on a dimly seen riverbank. He removed a glove to dip his hand into an eddy. He stared back at Orfan. “It’s warm! You’ve found Old Maksis’ Karst Udens!”
Orfan frowned. Old Maksis’ river? Impossible. He said, “We headed south, then southwest. Maksis said it lay due west.”
Pics shook droplets from his fingers. “Who cares what Maksis said! This water is warm!”
Orfan asked, “So where are the mountains? And the sea?”
Bella Buksum materialized beside them. She was unbuttoning her coat. “Did someone mention Karst Udens?”
Orfan stayed her fingers. Bella was an exhibitionist, and at some future time he might enjoy viewing her charms. But at the moment there were problems to be faced.
“Hold it, Bella,” he ordered. “We all need a bath. And we’ll get one when we cross this river. But let Voldy go first. He can see how deep it is and find the best place to cross. We’ll have to take care we don’t get our clothes wet. We’ll never get them dry if we do. And we’ll freeze without them.”
Buksum pouted. “I wasn’t thinking of wetting my clothes. “
Pics looked anxiously at Orfan, avoiding Buksum’s eyes. He muttered, “I don’t swim too well.”
Orfan grinned. Being captain had advantages. He said, “Get your clothes off, Voldy! I’ll send Bella away if you’re bashful.”
His lieutenant hesitated.
Bella Buksum said, “I’ll do it, if he won’t.”
Voldemars began to undress.
Half an hour later Bella was wrapping him in a towel from her own pack.
Teeth chattering, Pics reported. “It’s too deep to wade in the middle. And it’s about a kilometer to the other bank. The water’s not as warm on the far side.”
Orfan uncapped a bottle of kumiz. He passed it to his lieutenant. “And where’s the best place to cross?”
Pics tipped the bottle, gulping. “The current is not too strong. The bottom is full of rocks above and below this spot. There’s a sandy spit opposite, where we could land. Elsewhere, the bank is pretty steep, and it would be difficult to land.” He handed the bottle back to Orfan. “There are hills all along the other side. I think we’ve reached the edge of the steppe.”
They crossed Karst Udens, naked and unashamed, their belongings tied to the anvil-shaped heads of their animals.
Some of them crossed twice, splitting their packs, reveling in the feel of warm water on their bodies.
The far bank was clear of mist, a breeze pushing the cloud away from them, onto the water.
Vasily Bugovics led a naked troupe in calisthenics on the sandspit until they were dry enough to don their clothes.
Orfan decreed a picnic. They chewed stale crusts and CoDo paté, and talked about the hidden valley. Someone brewed tea on kumiz-soaked charcoal, and they drank it Latvian-style, without milk, and with a spoonful of jam stirred in.
Anna Jacobels, whose figure on the crossing had eclipsed even that of Buksum, gestured upriver. “The source of the river’s heat must lie that way, Captain.”
Orfan nodded, perplexed. Perhaps Old Maksis had got his bearings mixed-up. He surveyed the stony uplands behind them, then addressed his lieutenants. “Perhaps we should cross back? The going will be difficult this side.”
Bugovics shook his head. “If the tartars come, they won’t see us through the mist. And they’d have to cross the river to attack us. We’re better off on this side.”
Karol Gegeris patted his Kalashnikov. “Let them come. It will be a turkey shoot!”
They loaded up their animals, brushing the icicles from the beasts’ fur. The muskylopes seemed unharmed by their immersion. Indeed, one or two had to be forcibly dragged from the water.
Orfan set his mount at the slope rising from the sandspit. Someone behind started singing. The whole column took up the chorus. Orfan realized that his troops were in high spirits. Was it because they had put the river between themselves and possible pursuit? Or because no one had stuck a spade in the ground for the Cham for two days? Orfan didn’t care. His people were happy.
Halfway through the second verse of “Es uzkapu kalninaji,” Vasily Bugovics shouted for silence.
As the singing died, they heard voices shouting in Roosian!
Orfan shivered. Good things never lasted. Just as it seemed they might get clear away—
He turned to stare into the mist hiding the far bank.
Could he face an attack as coo
lly as Pics had done? He would have to try.
He shouted. “Everyone dismount! Hobble the animals. Get down behind your packs.” Those orders, at least, were textbook Pics.
The ground sloped the wrong way to provide good cover. Fritz Frienbergs and Karol Gegeris stacked the packs into a barricade at the exit from the sandspit. Orfan decided not to interfere. The older men probably knew better than he how to fight Tartars.
He crouched behind the barricade and slid a round into the breach of the Armalite Rita Purins had won for him. Let someone else cope with tricky Tartar bows. An old peashooter was weapon enough for him!
Figures were emerging from the fog on the river below. Naked tartars astride their racing muskylopes, each man clutching a bundle of clothes piled on his head.
Orfan felt the blast of Gegeris’ Kalashnikov on his cheek. A tartar toppled into the water. A yell went up from the nomads. Gegeris fired again, dropping another corpse into the stream.
Then gunfire crackled all along the barricade.
Tartars tumbled amid rocks and foam. Bundles and weapons were swept away. The muskylopes that reached the mid-river channel were thrown off balance by lack of footing. The wounded were tossed into the water by plunging animals. Hardly a shot came uphill. Swimming tartars were far too busy to shoot. Gegeris stood up, picking targets.
Orfan crouched, finger frozen on the trigger of his weapon. So this was a “turkey shoot!” The once-fearsome Tartars were being slaughtered.
Suddenly the battle was over. A few surviving Tartars retreated into the cover of the mist. Bugovics shouted derisively, “Don’t shoot if you can see the whites of their arses!”
A lone tartar, mount gone, waded through the shallows towards the sand spit.
Marksman Gegeris took careful aim.
Orfan recognized the gold belt and dangling purse.
He struck up the ex-soldier’s gun.
“It’s Liplap!”
They permitted the Cham of Novy Tartary to reach the beach unharmed. The Chingiz stood naked but for the belt he wore. He carried a Mauser pistol in one hand, and a scimitar in the other. He shook water from his eyes.
Orfan murmured, “Put a bullet near his feet, Karol.”
The Kalashnikov cracked. Sand spouted just centimeters from the Cham’s toes.
Orfan shouted in Russian. “You’re on your own, Liplap. Your men have fled. Drop your weapons, and you might live!”
The Cham raised his eyes to the barricade. He roared, “Is that you, scullion? You will regret this!”
Orfan shouted, “Last chance, Liplap. Drop your weapons, or die!”
The Cham eyed the gun-studded barricade. He opened his hands, allowing the pistol and sword to fall to the sand. Then he clasped his arms around his belly, and began to shiver.
Orfan stood up. “Feeling the cold, Liplap? You should try your kitchen floor at midnight.”
The Cham’s knees began to shake.
Orfan waved a hand. “Dance for us, Chingiz! It will get you warm.”
The Kalashnikov cracked without orders. Again, sand spouted close to the Cham’s feet.
The Chingiz began to dance, capering like a clown.
Orfan called, “Let’s see some life! Make it flap up and down!”
The Cham moaned, but continued to prance. He stumbled several times in the churned sand. His movements grew slower.
Vasily Bugovics stooped to whisper in Orfan’s ear. “If we kill him, it could upset CoDo. He’s their nominee.”
“Would you like to fight CoDo Marines as well?” Gegeris asked.
Orfan frowned. They were only being helpful. But they hadn’t danced for the Chingiz.
Finally, Orfan clapped his hands. “Enough!”
The Chingiz ceased hopping. He stood, panting.
Marta Karnups muttered, “Poor bastard—he’ll catch pneumonia. “
Orfan shouted. “Can you stand on your hands, Liplap?”
The Cham shook his head wearily, too exhausted to speak.
Orfan searched his pocket. He flung what he found there onto the sand before the Cham. “Go back to your yurt, Liplap. We prefer freedom. “
They watched the Cham wade back into the mist, shoulders slumped, clutching a coin the size of an overcoat button. No sound came through the fog to greet him.
“Maybe they’ve all gone back to the yurt?” suggested Marta Karnups. “I hope he finds some clothes to put on.”
Orfan grinned. He had little sympathy for the Chingiz. His people had survived another crisis. There was still hope. He shouted, “Let’s get moving—we’ve a valley to find!”
Progress was difficult. Rocky ridges and stoney valleys had to be negotiated. The muskylopes found little grazing.
There was less than an hour of light when Pics waved madly from the crest of a hill before the column.
Orfan kicked his mount into a trot.
From the hilltop, his lieutenant pointed into the next valley. “There’s our dream valley, Captain!”
Half hidden in the fog from a cooling water discharge, Orfan saw the roofs of a power station.
Pics’ face twisted wryly. “Not quite Old Maksis’ valley, Captain!”
A single track railway line threaded the gorge, terminating at the power station. Pylons paralleling the track disappeared into the hills.
Orfan said, “This must be the reactor that provides Liplap with his bathwater and electricity!”
He gazed down on the fog-shrouded roofs. All along he had known that Old Maksis’ valley must lie further to the west—if it lay anywhere at all on the planet!
He laughed. “It will do for us. Let’s ride down, Voldy, and see what time the next train leaves for civilization!”
On the Back of a Tiger
William F. Wu
Haven, 2088 A.D.
BENEATH a gray sky, Chuluun Khan of the Free Tribe of the Steppes sat on an outcropping of rock before a blazing fire, studying a smirking young man and his five companions on the far side of the flames. They were leaders of a group called the United Front of Islam. Chuluun’s gaze moved behind them to the distant edges of this valley in the Girdle of God Mountains, always on guard for treachery.
“I’m watching for trouble, too,” said Bataar, speaking quietly in Mongolian. Chuluun’s eldest son was now eighteen years old.
As heat from the flames beat back the chill in the air, Chuluun sat between Bataar and Naran, leader of the Second Troop of riders. Wearing tight, squarish leather caps with dangling earflaps, and long leather coats lined with fur, the Mongol trio formed the left side of a semi-circle, with three friends from the American town of Independence on the right side. The Americans wore their distinctive cowboy hats and long, sheepskin coats.
The two sides in this parley had completed their cautious greetings and proof that they were disarmed.
The young leader of the United Front, who used only the name Timur, grinned and spoke in Russian.
“What is our offer?” Bataar translated for his father.
Timur wore a tight, gray turban and matching gray fatigues under a padded brown leather jacket. His features resembled those of many people in the Free Tribe, given that he was one of the Temuri Aimak people of northern Afghanistan, Iran, and Tajikistan who came from very distant Mongolian origin. He was a devout Sunni Muslim who had commanded his people during the Jihad on Haven. The five men with him were close to his age or a little older, all of them tough and lean from the harsh life on Haven.
When the CoDominium had defeated the Mahdi, this splinter group had fled south to escape the CoDominium Marines and raid the settlers north of the Karakul Pass, leading into the Shangri-La Valley. They themselves could not pass into the Valley since the Marines were intent on turning back any of the Mahdi’s former allies. However, the United Front could keep other tribes and residents north of Fort Stony Point from reaching the pass.
The center of this rocky, windswept valley that served as a meeting place had no cover that could hide humans for at least
two kilometers in every direction. All twelve men at the meeting had left their rifles, side-arms and other weapons with their mounts, which waited four hundred paces behind each side according to prior agreement. With nothing to shelter them from the wind, the flames pushed and danced hard to one side.
“We are willing to deal for rights of passage,” Chuluun said to Timur in Mongolian. He waited for Bataar to translate his words into Russian, meanwhile keeping his expression as cold as the wind that rippled through his long, graying hair beneath his cap and his mustache and beard. “What are your demands?”
Even before hearing the translation, Timur spat into the fire and glared at Chuluun, daring him to respond.
Chuluun was angry and worried because the United Front had closed the route to the Karakul Pass that the Free Tribe and the Americans had used for a generation. He and white-haired Mayor Ben Carhall of Independence had learned about Timur from a joint caravan that had been turned back for lack of tribute to give the United Front. The Free Tribe and the Americans routinely sent caravans carrying their expectant mothers west from the steppes along the Girdle of God Mountains to the Karakul Pass.
At the pass, the caravans journeyed south into the Shangri-La Valley, where the lower altitude greatly helped the women’s chances of a healthy birth—though the odds were against them even there. Chuluun’s duty as khan was the tribe’s survival and his duty to his son was to pass leadership to him some day. He was desperate to keep the route open and forced himself to present a calm demeanor.
The parley was slow and clumsy given that Chuluun understood only his own language, while Ben was limited to English. Timur spoke the Aimak dialect of Persian as well as Russian. Yates Harrow, the sheriff of Independence, was a tall, lean man with wavy gray hair who had a command of Russian as well as English. His son Luke was Bataar’s best friend, and at the urging of their elders, they had grown up with a mastery of English and Russian as well as Bataar’s Mongolian.
“We must be ready to move fast when this ends,” Naran said in Mongolian.
Chuluun nodded. He, too, was sure that Timur had brought more mounted fighting men who were waiting somewhere just outside the parley zone.
