Sikander studied the imagery, wondering how many of the sultan’s bodyguards had lost their lives. That thought led to another, more personal concern: Ranya el-Nasir had told him that she’d be accompanying her uncle to Nador. “What about Amira Ranya?” he asked. “Was she with the sultan? Was she hurt?”
“The amira?” Randall checked his dataslate. “One moment.… The reports indicate that she received minor injuries and is currently being treated.”
“Thank God for that much.” Sikander allowed himself a sigh of relief, surprised at the depth of his sudden worry. He’d met Ranya only once, after all, but he had enjoyed his conversation with her; the amira was intriguing and, as Magda had pointed out, the centerpiece of a situation that seemed almost designed to inspire visions of romantic folly. He tried to ignore the speculative look that Magda gave him.
“Agreed,” Captain Markham said. “If the sultan is out of commission for a time, she might be able to hold things together.”
“How are the Gadiran people reacting to the news?” Chatburn asked.
“Not well,” Randall replied. He adjusted the vidscreen, showing several different feeds from other locations around the planet—an unruly crowd gathering in front of a large government building, another march or protest of some kind proceeding down a wide street in a city Sikander didn’t recognize, a column of police vehicles taking up position on a bridge. “It’s just breaking, but we already have indications of demonstrations and riots shaping up in different areas, including Tanjeer’s offworlder district.”
The captain looked back to the operations officer. “Is our consulate threatened? I can’t imagine why locals would react to the attempt on the sultan’s life by attacking offworlders, but we’d better be ready to do something about it if they do.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Let me see if I can find a better view.” Randall opened his dataslate and rapidly entered several commands, taking control of one of Hector’s high-resolution vidcams. The vidscreen abruptly jumped to a new image, a view of an elegant older neighborhood in the downtown area. The image was distinctly off-vertical, since Hector’s orbit now carried her away from the capital, but it still clearly showed a walled courtyard-style house with an iron gate. Several dozen Gadiran men gathered in the street just outside, shaking their fists and waving signs. Randall adjusted the view, zooming out a bit to show the area for several blocks around. A much larger crowd seemed to be taking shape about five blocks away.
Sikander watched the silent scene, looking for signs of weapons or rioting. He didn’t see any, but he did spot a small group of Tanjeer police a block away from the large crowd. They milled around, evidently conferring with each other as they watched the crowd. Then they got into their vehicles and withdrew from the scene. “I think the police were just called away,” he pointed out. “Or they decided that the crowd was too big for them to handle.”
“Or they were instructed not to interfere,” said Randall. “I have to say it strikes me as a bad sign that the Gadiran police are getting out of the way.”
“It doesn’t look good,” Captain Markham agreed. She leaned back in her chair, and studied the vidscreen for a long moment. Then she arrived at her decision. “Let’s ready a landing force and have it standing by in case we need to pull out the consulate personnel. Mr. Randall, touch base with Consul Garcia and find out what he needs from us. Mr. North, tell Sublieutenant Larkin to pull her people out of the watch rotation and muster in the hangar bay.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sikander nodded. During the transit to Gadira, they’d done some preliminary planning for evacuating civilians from just this sort of situation. That involved organizing a thirty-hand landing force from the ship’s crew and having them brush up on their small-arms handling, since Hector did not carry a contingent of marines. Angela Larkin had the most recent security training among the junior officers, so she’d been assigned as the officer in charge. It was a perfectly sensible way to make the decision … but as he watched the crowds gathering in the streets of the capital, Sikander found himself growing uneasy.
Captain Markham noticed his hesitation. “What is it, Mr. North?” she asked.
“Captain, with your permission, I think I’d better accompany the landing force.”
“You lack confidence in Ms. Larkin?” Chatburn asked sharply.
Sikander did, but he was not willing to denigrate one of his subordinates to the XO and the captain. “I think she is more than qualified for tactical command of the landing force,” he told Chatburn, which was mostly true. “What I worry about is that this might not be a tactical situation—a certain amount of judgment or restraint may be called for. I would feel better if a department head were on the ground.” And no other officer on this ship has actually commanded troops during civil disorders, he added silently. In the tense months leading up to the attack that had resulted in his departure from Kashmir, Sikander and his older brothers had each deployed with the Jaipur Dragoons on several occasions. Even as a teenager, Sikander had been expected to meet the duties of a North; he’d gained a hard education in political violence as a result.
Captain Markham hesitated, perhaps reviewing her instructions about appropriate duties for a prince of Kashmir. But whatever those might have been, Sikander was correct: Hiram Randall and Magda Juarez were needed on board, and no other officer on board was more qualified for command of a landing force unless she decided to send down Peter Chatburn. “You make a good point, Mr. North,” she said. “Take charge of the landing force, and stand by for orders. Dismissed.”
Sikander stood, saluted, and made his way out of the cabin, followed by the rest of Hector’s leadership team. He’d been looking forward to the opportunity to visit Tanjeer again and explore a little more of the city, or perhaps find an excuse to call again on the amira. This, however, was not the sort of sightseeing or café hopping he’d had in mind. I doubt that the marketplaces are going to be open today, he reflected. Instead he was likely heading into a riot, but perhaps he’d find a way to check on Ranya and make sure she was all right while he was on the ground.
“Message for Sublieutenant Larkin,” he told the ship’s info assistant as he hurried down the passageway. “The landing force is to muster immediately in the hangar bay. Arrange watch substitutions as needed. I will join you there shortly.”
Sikander headed first to his stateroom to change. He pulled out his Navy battle dress—a mottled blue-gray urban-camouflage uniform reinforced with panels of light, flexible armor—and tossed it on the bunk. For routine duty a matching fatigue cap completed the uniform, but Sikander took a moment to add the inserts that turned the cap into a light helmet. People tended to throw things during riots, and he had a feeling he might need it when he got down to the ground.
Three soft knocks came at his stateroom door, and then Darvesh Reza entered. The valet studied Sikander’s change of clothes. “Are we going ashore, sir?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sikander answered. It never failed—throughout his Navy career, Darvesh’s ability to sense when his services might be needed was simply uncanny. If his duties took Sikander anywhere near personal danger, then by order of Nawab Dayan, Darvesh had to be close by. “How did you know?”
“Chief Trent informed me the landing force was needed. She also mentioned your intention to join the shore party—which, I must note, you are not assigned to.”
Word travels fast in the chief petty officers’ quarters, it seems. Sikander supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by that; things had been much the same since the days of oared galleys. “The situation calls for more experience and judgment than we might expect from a sublieutenant,” he told Darvesh. “I’m afraid Captain Markham doesn’t have many other choices.”