“What’s going on here?” he asked, surveying the room. When nothing untoward happened, the rest of the security forces swarmed into the room. Not finding anything wrong, they milled about, unsure of what they were supposed to do.
“I wanted to speak with the SOGA about an imminent matter of extreme importance to Earth,” Sansar said.
“She doesn’t have an appointment!” the secretary whined. “And they were armed!”
“And they attacked ush!” the soldier Sansar had taken the rifle from cried. One of his cheeks was already beginning to swell, and his speech was slurred.
The lieutenant frowned at the trooper and looked pointedly to where his rifle lay in the middle of the room before turning back to Sansar. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked, still unable to process the events going on around him.
“No, I don’t,” Sansar said. “This weasel here said he couldn’t get me in to see the SOGA until two months from now, but by then it’ll be too late. Something is going to happen, and we have to begin preparing for it now!”
“What is it that we need to begin preparing for?” the lieutenant asked.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Sansar replied. “But it’s important, and I need to warn the SOGA.”
“Perhaps you should leave, then, and find out about the nature of whatever this thing is, and then you can return. Perhaps this will also give you time to obtain an appointment, so all of this,” he indicated his men, “isn’t necessary next time. It would cause less stress on all involved, I’m sure.”
Sansar shook her head. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself. I’m Colonel Sansar Enkh, from the Golden Horde. I’ve just returned to Earth with information vital to Earth’s safety, and I’ll leave after I speak with the SOGA. If you would please just let me speak to her, I’m sure we can avoid any further…unpleasantness.”
She could see the organization’s name made many of the security force personnel edge back, as if the members of the famous Four Horsemen mercenary organization had suddenly become much more dangerous, but it had the opposite effect on the lieutenant. And, having made up his mind, he was not to be dissuaded. “No,” he said with a large amount of bravado, “I’m afraid it’s time for you to leave.” He turned to his men and added, “Sergeant, escort these mercenaries from the premises.”
“I don’t think that would really be in your best interests,” Staff Sergeant Daniel Walker said as the troopers began to mill about again.
“What do you mean?” the lieutenant asked. He turned to find the trooper leaning against the wall, picking at something under a fingernail with a strange-looking knife that had a long, curved blade. His eyes widened—the blade should definitely not have passed through the metal detector unnoticed.
Walker looked up and smiled, and the knife vanished into a hidden sheath in one of his pockets. He stood up and walked over to the officer. “Perhaps you didn’t understand the colonel, Lieutenant,” he said with a small smile, as if daring the lieutenant to do something. “It’s important.”
The lieutenant tried to raise the barrel of his rifle, but Walker stepped forward and grabbed it with one hand, holding it in place. He smiled again at the officer as the lieutenant tried to pull his rifle back but failed. “You can tell it’s important, Lieutenant. She said, ‘Please.’”
“Lieutenant, please stop,” a new voice said. Sansar turned to see the SOGA had come out of her office.
“I was just about to escort these people out,” the lieutenant said. “I won’t let them trouble you.”
“You can stand down, Lieutenant,” the SOGA said. “I really don’t want your blood all over my office; it sets the wrong mood when people come to see me.”
The lieutenant looked back to Walker. He still held the rifle in an iron grip, but his other hand had gone into the same pocket the knife had disappeared into.
“Stand down, Lieutenant,” the SOGA ordered. She turned to Sansar and frowned. “Let’s go into my office and talk.”
“Perhaps the lieutenant can take his forces and wait in the hall,” Sansar suggested. “That way, there won’t be any…misunderstandings.”
“That is probably a good idea,” the SOGA said. She pointed at the lobby by the elevators. “Lieutenant, go!” As the security personnel filed out of the office, she led Sansar into the inner office which, if anything, was even more opulent than the outer office had been. Assuming her seat behind one of the most massive desks Sansar had ever seen, she said, “You’ve got two minutes. Impress me as to why all of this was necessary.”
Sansar took a second to look at the SOGA. The woman was tall and dark-skinned, a native Brazilian, and Sansar had no doubt she spent plenty of her time at the nearby beaches. “There’s an alien plot afoot,” Sansar said. “We think they’re trying to wipe out all the Human mercenaries.”
“And why would they do that? What would they hope to gain?”
“Well, we’ve been cutting into the other races’ profits lately; perhaps we’ve made ourselves too much of a threat.”
“So, because we’re bad for business, they’re just going to kill us all? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” Sansar said. It all seemed so clear now. “That’s exactly what I think they’re doing.”
“You’re wrong,” the SOGA replied. “There’s no reason for that. Even if we were cutting into their profits, that would in no way give them justification to kill us. That’s just stupid.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong; in their minds, that would give them all of the justification they needed to kill us.”
“Where are you from?” the SOGA asked.
“Where am I from? The Golden Horde is based in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. Why?”
“No, not the Horde; where are you from? Where were you born?”
“I was born in Tashkent, Uzbekistan. I ask again, why? What does that have to do with anything?”
“That’s in Asia, right? Not too far from what used to be Iran?”
“Well, yes, sort of in the same general area. I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Well, I do see. Everyone from that area hates aliens. You’re here because we’re about to gain full membership in the Galactic Union, and I’ll bet you don’t want us to have it. You’re here to try to talk me out of allowing Earth to be admitted fully. Well, let me tell you—it isn’t going to work. I’ve worked hard to get us to this stage, and it’s going to happen under my leadership. My leadership. Nothing you can say is going to make me change my mind, and I won’t tolerate anyone making waves at this critical juncture, right when we’re about to be admitted as full members.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I told you had two minutes, and your two minutes are up. It’s time for you to leave.”
“But what if I have proof an attack is imminent?”
“Do you have proof?”
“Well, no, not at the moment, but I have a lot of circumstantial evidence that, when taken together, indicates an attack—or something—is imminent.”
The SOGA stood. “When you have that evidence—good, clear, hard evidence—come back and see me. Until that time, I’m sorry, but our plans will continue to move forward. I know you gun-toting mercenaries enjoy creating controversy so you have a reason for being, but in this case, you’re getting upset over nothing.” She pushed a button on her desk. “John, we’re done here. Can you please show the colonel out?”
* * *
Zhrfnak Cemetery, Chabahar, New Persia, Earth
Nigel Shirazi gently set the white rose on the fresh earth, mumbling something his longtime friend, Steve Rath, couldn’t hear. Finished, Nigel stood and turned, and Steve could see a tear trailing down his swarthy face before Nigel wiped it away with an angry backhanded swipe.
“C’mon; let’s go,” Nigel said as he strode past Steve. “We’ve got things to do back in Houston.”
Steve’s jaw dropped as Nigel continued toward the dropship, showing no signs of stopping. “Wait up,
” Steve finally called, hastening to catch his boss.
Nigel stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What?”
“That’s it?” Steve asked. “We fly all this way so you can lay a flower on her grave, then we immediately leave again? Isn’t there any family you’d like to see?” He indicated the decrepit cemetery with a hand gesture. “Is this where she’s going to stay? Don’t you have a private cemetery or something a little better?”
Nigel shook his head. “She was one with the people of the area, and this is where she wanted to be buried. She loved the people here, and they loved her. By this time next week, I guarantee this cemetery will be completely refurbished as a tribute to her. I sent some money to the local imam; I’m sure most of it will be put to good use.”
He turned back to leave and found a large crowd heading toward them. Although mostly men, there were a few women as well, and a large number of older boys. Nigel stopped and assessed the crowd. They looked angry. Not only angry, but that special type of anger that has cooled into a determined, controlled rage. He knew it well; the same fire burned in the pit of his stomach.
While his sister had always been a favorite of the area’s people, Nigel knew that he had not, and he expected the local tribesmen blamed him for his sister’s death. Certainly, he blamed himself. If only he’d been a little quicker…but he hadn’t. He was holding his own rage close to him, until he could share it with the MinSha. First the aliens had destroyed his country, then they’d killed most of his family in some sort of vendetta.
They’d fucked up, though—they’d left him alive, and he would make them pay.
Seeing the crowd approaching, he stopped and straightened, keeping his hand well away from the laser pistol holstered at his hip. He had no intention of shooting the locals. He’d accept their castigation; he’d even accept a good beating at their hands, if that was what they were here for. He deserved it.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Shirazi,” the man in the lead said, startling Nigel. That had not been what he’d been expecting. The man spoke in Baluchi, the language of the seminomadic people who lived in what was formerly southeastern Iran. That part of the country was all that had been left after the rest was destroyed by the alien MinSha over a hundred years ago. The area was poor, despite the credits the Shirazi family had infused into the local economy over the years. Most of the money had stayed within the confines of the city of Chabahar or had gone to the colony on New Persia; the countryside around here hadn’t changed substantially in several hundred years.
“Yes?” Nigel asked. A translator wasn’t necessary; he’d grown up in the area before going overseas to university and, although rusty, he both spoke and understood it.
“Your sister is dead.”
“I know,” Nigel replied. “She died in my arms. I did everything I could to save her, but I was too late.”
“We understand. We’ve also heard that you lost most of your men trying to save her from the alien infidels.”
“That’s true. The MinSha had a trap set for us. It was only through luck I escaped the trap that killed my father, my brother, and my sister.”
The crowd growled at the mention of the deaths. His father had also been well loved by the people of the area, in addition to his sister. “And what are your intentions now?” the leader asked, his voice quiet but intense. Nigel could tell from his tone that there was only one right answer to this question; happily, he didn’t have to lie.
“That’s a fair question,” Nigel said. “I haven’t been here much, so most of you don’t know me. You’ve also probably heard stories about me…some of which weren’t flattering. You’ve probably heard that I’ve strayed from the tenets of our faith. Those stories are all true.”
He paused as the crowd growled again, and many of the people began muttering in a decidedly unfriendly tone.
“Those stories are true,” he said again, louder, in an effort to talk over the crowd, “but they’re in the past. I remember my roots, and I remember the concept of hamasa. Hamasa demands that I defend our honor, and that I protect the people of my tribe—you people here—whom the aliens are trying to harm. They’ve attacked us repeatedly over the last hundred years, and it’s time for this to stop! I intend to make sure the MinSha never attack us—no, I intend to make sure the MinSha never attack anyone, ever again!”
The growls turned to yells of affirmation. The crowd, at least for now, was with him. The leader held up his hand, and the rest of the men slowly quieted.
“And how do you intend to ensure this?” the man asked.
“They can’t attack us if they’re dead,” Nigel said, meeting the man’s stare. “I intend to kill them all.”
“It is to be jihad, then?” the man asked. Nigel nodded once, sharply. “So be it,” the man proclaimed. “I am the imam for these people; let it be so.” He turned to the mass behind him and raised his voice. “People of Chabahar! Our religion and our people continue to be under threat from the MinSha. 100 years ago, they destroyed our country, our people, and our property. They continue to do so to this day. There is only one way to stop them, and that is to take the fight to them. This fight is just, and violence is imperative to defend our people and our way of life; therefore, I declare jihad against the infidels! Nigel Shirazi will be our general in this fight, and he will lead us not only to avenge Parisa Shirazi, but to seek vengeance for all our people they have killed. General Shirazi will need fighters in this war; who will help him?”
Nearly everyone put a hand in the air, and the cemetery rang with cries of hatred, war, and battle.
The man turned back to Nigel, his eyes burning. “Your force has been reconstituted. Destroy the enemy. Go to their planets and cities, and burn them to the ground. Do not spend these men’s lives needlessly, but make the MinSha pay!”
* * *
51st Floor, Asbaran Solutions HQ, Houston, Texas, Earth
Sansar Enkh scanned the faces in the tiny conference room on the 51st floor of Asbaran Solutions’ Houston headquarters building. She was encouraged by what she saw.
From Jim Cartwright, she saw a determination that was at odds with his appearance, and an undertone of betrayal. She knew what had happened only an hour before, which couldn’t have been easy on him. Of all the mercenaries in the room, he least looked the part. Most charitably called “dumpy,” he was greatly overweight, and would probably find it difficult to fit into the newer CASPer models. He was also young, with less actual experience than the leader of a major mercenary organization should have. Despite both issues, he’d taken the reins of his company, pulled it from bankruptcy, and led it through a string of successes. Whether that was luck or skill, Sansar couldn’t say—probably a combination of both. She hoped so, because she expected they’d need both, in abundance, and soon.
The alien creature that rode his shoulder, watching the proceedings with obvious intelligence, was another matter. Intel reported it was sentient, and from what she’d seen, they were correct. It was somehow bonded to Cartwright and was linked to their success with the Raknars in some way nobody understood. It was interesting enough to tempt her to break her own prohibition against spying on fellow Horsemen.
Seated to Jim Cartwright’s left was Nigel Shirazi of Asbaran Solutions. If Cartwright lacked anything, it was a fiery spirit, but Shirazi more than made up for it. He sat on the edge of his seat like a caged beast, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. Shirazi’s motions were frenetic—he alone begrudged the time required for the meeting, and he’d had the shortest travel time, since the meeting room was just down the hall from his office. He would obviously rather have been out recruiting new troopers or practicing on the target range—anything that prepared him to kill aliens better and faster.
Shirazi came by his xenophobia honestly. As his swarthy complexion indicated, he hailed from New Persia—the area that had been Iran until it was almost completely destroyed by the MinSha 100 years prior, during first contact. More recently, most of his family had b
een killed by a combined force of MinSha and Besquith in a series of traps. Revenge was something middle easterners understood very well, and Shirazi was no different. All his time and effort was dedicated to paying the aliens back. His eyes were constantly in motion, and Sansar could see his trigger finger unconsciously contract every time they took in the fourth member of the conference.
Seated across the table from Shirazi was the only non-Human. Major Drizz, a member of the dog-like Zuul race, represented the Winged Hussars merc company, which was the only organization at the table to employ aliens in substantial numbers.
According to Mercenary Guild law, at least 50 percent of a company’s employees had to be of the sponsoring race; the Hussars were normally about 49.8 percent aliens. Historically, Sansar’s company, the Golden Horde, hadn’t employed many aliens, although she’d hired some recently. Cartwright’s Cavaliers had a few aliens in their ranks; Asbaran Solutions, not surprisingly, had almost none, but even that had changed recently. She didn’t know what had happened to make Shirazi more open to hiring aliens, but she knew they’d be important in the days to come.
That the Humans would need alien help hadn’t come to her in a dream or a blinding flash of the obvious; it was a simple matter of numbers—the aliens had more. Even though the overwhelming majority of alien species wouldn’t fight unless their lives depended on it—and some wouldn’t, even then—there were still 36 other races that would fight for money, and 36-to-1 odds weren’t very good ones, especially when the opposition included long-time, heavy-hitting merc races like the Veetanho, Tortantula, Flatar, and Besquith.
A half-smile crossed her face. Technically, she guessed the numbers were 36-to-2, since her company had uplifted the SalSha race. That didn’t change the balance of power much, though. A race of otter-like individuals, they had no industry to speak of and no military capability whatsoever. What the race did have was a fierce loyalty to the Humans and an extremely strong will to survive. And, as a water-breathing race, they could fly high-G space fighters, something Humans couldn’t do well. Not that humanity had any fighters available to fly.
A Fiery Sunset Page 4
