Desert Stars

by Joe Vasicek

  She hummed as she worked, thinking of the times she used to cook with her mother when she was a little girl. The kitchen was Shira’s domain, and she ruled it like a queen; men were forbidden to enter, and nothing happened without her knowing about it. But when it was just the two of them, she opened up and taught Mira all her secrets: how to cook the beans and lentils just right, how to boil tough meat in yoghurt until it was tender, what combinations of spices yielded the best flavors, etc. By the time Mira was fourteen, her mother claimed that she was the best cook of all her daughters—a claim that never failed to make Mira blush, though secretly she held onto it as one of the best compliments her mother had ever given her. Now, with three burly tribesmen and the man she loved waiting on her, she threw her heart into it, putting together a meal worthy of her mother’s approval.

  “Mmm!” said Kariym, strolling over. “That smells absolutely delicious. I knew it was a good idea to bring you along.” He nudged her with his elbow and laughed.

  “Not so fast,” said Abu Hussan. “We haven’t got the proof yet—and if we don’t get it soon, I might just have to fill my roaring stomach with stones.”

  “Oh, you’ll get your proof soon enough,” said Mira, smiling at Jalil from the corner of her eye. “If patience is bitter, its fruit is sweet. And if my cooking doesn’t bring back memories of your own mother, you can cook me up and eat me instead.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Kariym. “Your young husband would have a debt of honor to settle if we tried.”

  Mira laughed and turned to Jalil, but he stared off, a strangely morose expression on his face. We can’t have that, she thought to herself.

  “That’s right!” she said, hands on her hips. “My husband is a force to be reckoned with. He’s the eldest son of a mighty Najmi sheikh, and has the skill of at least five sharpshooters.” Her eyes glimmered with satisfaction as Jalil glanced up at her.

  “Ho ho!” said Abu Hussan. “I doubt anyone here can outshoot Ashraf. No one in Gregor’s convoy is a better sniper.”

  “Is that so?” Mira said. She turned to Jalil. “That sounds like a challenge, my love.”

  He stared at her without saying anything. She cringed a little; perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to banter so openly with these men, even if they were her own countrymen. But then, a familiar grin spread across his face.

  “Indeed it does,” he said, winking at her. “It looks like yet another Sarahiyn sharpshooter is about to be outdone by a Najmi.”

  Kariym threw back his head and laughed. “That remains to be seen, my friend. But if you’re really as good as your young wife claims, let’s have some fun before dinner. You up for it, Ashraf?”

  Ashraf was already checking the chamber of his rifle. “I’m ready,” he said, not bothering to look up. His rifle was not nearly as ornate as the one Jalil carried, but it was a good half-meter longer.

  “All right,” said Kariym, turning to Jalil with a sly grin. “Since you offered the challenge, Ashraf goes first. Give him a target.”

  “No,” interrupted Ashraf. “He’s still young; I’ll give the first target.”

  Jalil folded his arms and stood in mock indignity. “Oh, is that so?” he said. “Then choose, but choose nobly. I won’t have you complaining later that you made things too easy.”

  Ashraf shrugged impassively. “As you wish.”

  Whatever target he chooses, Jalil will hit it, Mira thought to herself. She felt like a princess in one of her childhood stories, where all she needed was to believe in her man and he would overcome anything set before him. Indeed, with the endless fields of golden-green grass and rolling purple hills on the horizon, it felt as if they were in a fairy tale world.

  Ashraf looked out over the hill in silence for some time, finally pointing to a relatively treeless part of the plain. “There,” he said. “See that trunk?”

  Jalil strained for nearly a minute to see it. Mira shielded her eyes from the sun and peered in the direction Ashraf had pointed, but all she saw was grass.

  “Yes,” said Jalil. “I see it.”

  “There’s a branch jutting out on one side. Shoot off the branch without damaging the trunk itself.”

  Kariym whistled, while Abu Hussan shook his head. Let them doubt, Mira thought to herself. I know he’ll make it.

  “All right,” said Jalil, the barest shadow of misgiving on his face. He unslung his rifle and walked to a fairly level part of the ground. Mira held her breath.

  He lay on his stomach and brought his gun to bear, toggling his sight to zoom in on the subject. For several moments, all was still—even the birds in the distant trees grew silent. Then, with a tremendous crack that seemed to shake the world, he fired. Mira jumped in surprise, her heart pounding.

  Did he make it?

  As if in answer, the men cheered. Mira let out a wild ululating cry, and for a brief moment, she forgot the pilgrimage and her homesickness. Here, with her people, she was home.

  “That was one hell of a shot, kid,” said Kariym, helping Jalil back to his feet. The instant he was up, Mira ran up and threw her arms around him.

  “I knew you’d make it.” For a split second, she almost gave him a kiss, but he blushed deep red and quickly glanced down to check his rifle. Rebuffed, she felt her own cheeks flush and turned away to hide it.

  What’s come over me? she wondered to herself. Perhaps she’d gotten a little too carried away—she hoped it hadn’t driven Jalil further from her.

  “Well, aren’t you going to give the man a target?” asked Abu Hussan.

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.”

  Jalil stepped away, his back turned to the others as he scanned the plains below. As he did, Mira backed off a short distance, away from the center of attention.

  “There,” he said, pointing to some distant target. “Shoot off the branch jutting straight up from that dead trunk over there.”

  Ashraf clucked with his tongue and shook his head. “No,” he said, “that’s much too easy. I’ll aim for the tree growing out of the boulder on the other side of the creek.”

  What tree? Mira wanted to ask. Instead, she folded her arms and kept quiet.

  As Jalil peered into the distance, Ashraf lowered himself to his stomach, bringing his gun to bear. A few moments later, they heard the crack of the shot. It seemed almost to split the sky in half, it was so loud.

  Kariym and Abu Hussan frowned and squinted, and Jalil brought his scope back up to his eyes. Mira waited; sure enough, a ragged cheer soon erupted from the men. Jalil walked over to her, whistling under his breath.

  “Did he make it?” whispered Mira.

  “Yes.” He turned to Ashraf and clasped arms with him. “An excellent shot—twice as good as my own.”

  Kariym slapped them both on the back. “Care for another round?”

  Jalil laughed. “No, I’m not a fool. Ashraf’s clearly the better of us.”

  Not to me.

  “That may be true,” said Kariym as he patted Jalil on the back, “but all the same, it’s damn good to have you with us.”

  A short popping noise sounded in the distance. Mira froze where she stood.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  The three men immediately stopped to listen. Only the boiling pot by the hovercraft and the wind rustling the yellow grass broke the silence—that, and the distant sound of explosions.

  “Abu Hussan,” said Kariym, his voice deathly serious, “power up the hovercraft and check the radar. Ashraf and Jalil, come with me.”

  “What should I do?” asked Mira, unable to keep the fear from her voice.

  “Pack up your stew and break camp. Whatever is going on, we won’t be staying here much longer.”

  * * * * *

  Jalil followed Kariym and Ashraf to other side of the hill, keeping low to the ground as gunshots sounded in the distance. He peered forward and saw flashes of artillery and plasma fire in the vicinity of one of the local villages.

  Kariym and Ashraf c
rouched in the high grass, and Jalil followed suit. They drew up close to each other, and Kariym pulled out a pair of binoculars.

  “Exactly as I thought,” said Kariym. “The warlords are on the move.” He handed the binoculars to Ashraf. “Do you see any gunboats coming our way?”

  Ashraf looked on in silence for several moments. Jalil felt his heart beat faster.

  “No,” Ashraf said as he handed the binoculars back.

  “Good. No doubt they’ve seen us, though.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Jalil.

  “Here,” said Kariym, handing him the binoculars. “Take a look.”

  Jalil zoomed in on the valley below, where smoke was rising from a few small buildings on the outskirts of the village. Flames had already engulfed two of the structures and were starting to fan out across the grassland. Upwind, about five hovercraft gunboats slowly advanced, firing constant streams of plasma into the settlement. Dozens of people swarmed out of the houses. Some carried bags, others simply fled empty-handed. Jalil saw a few women carrying babies, while others ran with young children trailing behind, desperately trying to keep up.

  The gunboats broke formation and fell on the fleeing crowd. In less than a minute, they were scorched and blasted to pieces; only those who fell back into the burning buildings escaped the onslaught. The sight made Jalil sick to his stomach.

  “What’s going on?”

  “A massacre,” said Kariym grimly. “The village must have done something to anger the local warlord.”

  One of the gunboats stopped, and a squad of armed soldiers jumped out. From his vantage point, Jalil saw two of the villagers waiting behind the nearest structure with shovels in their hands. When the first gunman rounded the corner, they jumped out and clubbed him down with their improvised weapons. Within seconds, the other soldiers came to their comrade’s support, firing at point blank. The villagers’ bloody innards splattered across the wall as they slumped to the ground.

  Jalil’s cheeks grew warm with rage, and his grip on the binoculars tightened. “Where are the village’s warriors?” he asked. “Why is no one trying to stop this?”

  “The soldiers are their warriors,” Kariym said softly.

  “What?” said Jalil, looking up in horror. In the desert, it was forbidden to slay women and children of any tribe, much less one’s own. He put down the binoculars and eyed the other men carefully.

  “Is that true?”

  “More or less,” said Ashraf, his face expressionless. “The warlord owns this territory, and everyone in it. If he wants to slaughter them, that’s his own affair.”

  Jalil’s muscles stiffened. “How is that possible?” he asked. “How could someone turn so savagely on his own people?”

  “They aren’t his people,” said Kariym as he took back the binoculars. “Tribal loyalties don’t exist here—just the factions and those who fight for them. Now come, let’s move on.”

  Kariym and Ashraf stood up and started walking back towards their camp. Jalil joined them, but his feet felt heavy. He glanced back at the rising smoke plume and clenched his fists.

  “We’ve got to stop it,” he said, his heart racing. “We’ve got to—”

  “No,” said Kariym, turning to face him. “We’re mercenaries, not peacekeepers. So long as the warlords let us pass, we have no business interfering in their affairs.”

  “But this is wrong!” Jalil cried out. “Are you just going to let those people die? This is shameful!”

  “And what would you propose, boy?” Kariym asked, his usual jovial expression replaced by hot anger. “Would you risk all our lives in an attack that would almost certainly fail?”

  “No,” Jalil said, suddenly feeling helpless. “I would—I would—”

  “You would what?”

  “I don’t know, but I would do something.”

  “You don’t think I am?” Kariym said loudly. “I’m getting us all to safety. There’s no shame in running from a fight we know we can’t win—no shame at all.”

  “We could radio for backup.”

  Kariym let out a harsh laugh. “Radio for backup? Ha! Do you really think Lucien cares what happens to those people? He would dock our pay just for telling him about it.”

  Jalil opened his mouth to protest, but found he had nothing to say. His arms hung limp by his sides as a feeling of utter powerlessness swept over him, tempering his indignation.

  “Come,” said Kariym, turning back toward the camp. “Let’s head out.”

  Kariym walked off, but Jalil lingered for a moment, fists still clenched by his sides. As he hung his head and followed the others back to the camp, Ashraf walked up alongside him and put an arm around his shoulder.

  “At least we run because we cannot stand,” he said, “not because we are cowards.”

  Ashraf’s words gave Jalil little comfort. The image of the villagers’ bloody entrails smeared across the wall came back to his mind, and he shivered in horror.

  “It’s not right,” he muttered, to no one in particular.

  “Few things are,” said Ashraf.

  When they reached the camp, Abu Hassan and Mira were loading the last of the supplies. In less than five minutes, they were on the move, a plume of fresh smoke rising in the sky to their rear.

  Chapter 9

  “Naz-mi,” Lucien called out in his loud monotone voice. Jalil stepped forward through the crowd of mercenaries, leaving his bags with Mira.

  It’s Najmi, he wanted to say. By the time he reached the front, however, the master sergeant was already calling out someone else’s name. He nodded to Jalil and motioned with his eyes to the desk behind him, where Gregor’s team of accountants issued the payments.

  “Name and rank,” said the man behind the desk, not bothering to look up from his computer. He was thin and lanky, with pale skin and an orange goattee.

  “Jalil Najmi, private.”

  The man struck a few keys, his face expressionless. Jalil shifted on his feet and glanced back at Mira. She stood behind the crowd, next to the row of parked hovercraft. Their eyes met across the distance, and she smiled nervously at him.

  “Datachip,” said the man. Jalil blinked and turned to face the desk.

  “What?”

  “Do you have a cash datachip or don’t you?”

  Jalil fumbled in the pockets of his robes. “I don’t have them with me. Just a moment, I’ll run and—”

  “Don’t bother.” With a scowl, the man pulled out an oddly shaped chip from a socket in the computer’s side. “Here,” he said. “That should have it all.”

  “Thank you,” said Jalil. He held the datachip tightly in his hand as he shouldered his way back through the crowd. Ashraf sat on a cinderblock, cleaning his rifle, while Kariym leaned against the side of the parked hovercraft, enjoying a cigarette. The smoke mingled with the oily aftertaste in the air and made Jalil’s nose twitch.

  “How much did you get?” Mira asked, holding onto her arm behind her back. She smiled at Jalil as he walked over to her.

  “I don’t know,” he said, examining the datachip. “I’ve never seen this particular style. All I can say is it’d better be the five thousand they owe us.”

  “Let me see it,” said Kariym.

  Jalil handed it over, and Kariym squinted as he held it up to his face. Ashraf paused in his work and glanced up at the three of them. A frown spread across Kariym’s broad face, making Jalil’s stomach sink.

  “It says there’s only forty-eight hundred and twelve Gaian credits loaded.”

  Jalil’s arms tensed, and blood rushed to his cheeks. He snatched the datachip from Kariym’s hands and turned on his heel, headed back for the desk.

  “Whoa, there!” said Kariym, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Jalil tried to shake it off, but Kariym’s grip held him fast.

  “Let me go!” he shouted. “They think they can cheat us twice?”

  “And risk losing it all? Think, man—this is Gregor’s camp, and you’re far from home. If you
start a fight, who will stand by you?”

  “But he robbed us!”

  “No, he didn’t,” said Ashraf. “Those two hundred credits were for food and provisions. If you read your contract, you’ll see that it’s all included.”

  “The man’s right,” said Kariym. “Be happy with what you’ve got.”

  Jalil fumed with rage, but he held his temper. He took a sharp breath and walked over to Mira, bending over to pick up their bags.

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “At least the flights to the temple are pretty cheap here,” said Ashraf. “You could probably both get a ticket for five hundred, perhaps less.”

  “What?” Mira exclaimed. Jalil stopped and turned back around.

  “That’s right,” said Kariym. He tossed his cigarette butt to the dirt and ground it out with his foot. “We’re only about eight hundred miles from the temple. You wouldn’t even need a sub-orbital shuttle to get there; just a normal jetplane.”

  “Truly?” said Jalil. “And how long should that take us?”

  “Not long; perhaps three or four hours. If you catch a flight today, you can make it to the temple by tomorrow.”

  An electric shock shot down Jalil’s spine, extending through his arms to the tips of his fingers. The news brightened his mood like a cool evening breeze after a blindingly hot day.

  “The spaceport’s not far from here either,” said Kariym. “There’s a train line that connects to it direct from the border crossing. Ask around, and you should find it.”

  “Thank you,” said Jalil. An irrepressible grin spread across his face, and his heart began to beat faster with anticipation.

  “Don’t mention it. Just remember to pray for us.”

  “I will. Believe me, I will.”

  “Then may the peace of Earth be upon you, brother.”

  “And upon you, as well.”

  Jalil turned to Mira. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. For some reason, she seemed a little upset—but Jalil was so excited, he hardly noticed.

  * * * * *