Soldiers Out of Time (19 page)

Jason gave Mondrago the same look, and got the same nod.

“We’ve been advancing into the Swat Valley ever since, in three brigades. Ours is the first, under Brigadier General Meiklejohn. The tribesmen fought us their usual way, with ambush after ambush, but our mountain artillery cleared the way for us repeatedly, and our brigade flanked them out of position when they tried to stand. Yesterday, the 18th, we reached Barikot. Unfortunately, rumor has it that Sadullah has gotten away and is now spreading his poison among the Afridis—they’re the most powerful of the Pathan tribes on the Frontier—to the south, around the Khyber Pass. But nothing’s expected to come of it.” (Mondrago shot Jason a
famous last words
look.) “And now we’re on the way to Mingaora, where we’re to halt a few days for the Swat Valley tribes to come in and tender their submission.”

“They’ll be lying in their teeth as usual,” McCready grimly foretold. “But, as I said, our flanking party got cut off, and . . . Ah, here we are. And here comes the
naik.
”

They had topped a rise and entered a hollow, where a number of bearded, khaki-clad, turban-wearing Indian infantrymen (Sikhs, Jason assumed) were starting a fire—it was now early evening, and the mountain air’s temperature was dropping even at this season. One of them, wearing two chevrons—Jason deduced that
naik
meant corporal—approached and spoke to Hazeltine in what Jason assumed was Urdu. Off to the side was a tethered horse.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said McCready to Jason. “We’ve picked up another straggler—a newspaper reporter, in fact. Young subaltern of the 4th Hussars who went on leave and got himself a job covering this campaign
.
He’s been attached to Brigadier General Jeffreys’ Second Brigade, but he went off looking for adventure, I suppose, and got separated. Cocky young feller, but likeable. Ah, here he is now.”

A young man in dusty khaki tunic and jodhpurs approached. He was about five feet eight—average height in this era—and looked to be in his early twenties. Despite his youthful slenderness, a certain quality of roundness in his face suggested that he was the type to grow stout in later life if he wasn’t careful. And the face itself could easily grow to be decidedly bulldoglike. But it was a not unattractive face, with a fair number of freckles, topped by reddish sandy hair and dominated by bright blue eyes and a charming smile.

“Ah, North Americans,” he said when Jason and Mondrago had been introduced. He had a pleasing voice and a decidedly upper-class accent. “I’m half-American, you know, on my mother’s side. Name’s Churchill. Winston Churchill.”

He gave the half-circle of newcomers a puzzled look, as though wondering why they were staring at him openmouthed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“My regiment, the 4th Hussars, is stationed here in India but wasn’t ordered to Malakand for this little jaunt,” Churchill explained as they sat around a fire that night after appeasing their hunger with the Sikhs’ chapattis and chilis. “So I took leave and got myself an assignment to cover this campaign for the London
Daily Telegraph.
Well, all right,” he admitted a little sheepishly, “I admit my mother’s influence helped a bit—she’s Lady Randolph Churchill, you know. But I
do
have some experience as a correspondent—in Cuba, year before last, with the Spanish troops operating against the Cuban guerillas. Lovely island, and wonderful cigars. That was the first time I was ever under fire,” he added casually. Then he grew thoughtful.“It happened again just the other day, you know. We were passing a native village we thought to be deserted, and an ambush burst on us. Bullets were flying past me. The officer in charge caught one. The men tried to bear him away, but they were driven off. A Pathan swordsman slashed the wounded officer to death with his tulwar before our eyes. At that point, I formed a resolve to kill the brute.”

“And so you shot him?” Jason prompted.

“Actually, I thought that under the circumstances my saber would be more appropriate. Well,” he added a little defensively, seeing the looks on his listeners’ faces, “I
did
win the Public School fencing medal. However, a half-dozen of his fellow sword-swingers came running up, and upon reflection I decided my revolver would be more practical after all. I’m not sure I actually hit any of them,” he admitted, “but we were able to get away to a knoll held by the Sikhs, where we were relieved by the Buffs. D’you know,” he added cheerfully, “nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”

He would never know that his listeners were asking themselves if the world they came from could have come into being if one of those Cuban insurgents or Pathan tribesmen—or, in a few years, Sudanese and Boers—had shot
with
result.

Jason had more than that on his mind. Indeed, he could barely keep up the façade of polite, composed interest concealing his mental turmoil.

This tears it. It was easy, back aboard the ship, to talk glibly about what we might have to do if any of the locals helped us and, in the process, saw things they weren’t supposed to. After all, what difference would a few lowlifes in a remote war zone matter?

But this is different. As long as this cocky youngster on whom so much rides is with us, we
can’t
take any action with regard to that ship. The Observer Effect won’t let us.
Something
will prevent us. It’s a current that you cannot swim against . . . and which might just drown you.

“You certainly seem eager to see action,” said Rojas. Jason was impressed by her linguistic subterfuge. Having heard Churchill mention his Cuban experiences, she was carefully pronouncing the current version of English as she had heard it, and as a speaker of her own native Spanish would have accented it.

Churchill suddenly looked bleak. “Well, my father Lord Randolph Churchill died two years ago, when he was only forty-five. I’m haunted by the fear that I may also die very young—that I don’t have much time to make my mark in the world. I suppose that’s why I so often seem to people to be in a frightful hurry.” Then, as an afterthought: “I have a fancy I might go into politics eventually.”

“Well,” said Mondrago, “you certainly ought to have opportunities to bring yourself into notice, serving against Sadullah the Mad Mullah.”

Churchill’s mood changed again in its mercurial way. “Yes, I suppose we British
do
have a way of characterizing those who oppose our empire as deranged rather than simply patriotic, don’t we? But having said that, it must also be remarked that some of Sadullah’s pronouncements are a bit . . . well, peculiar. He’s assured his disciples that our bullets will turn to water, and that they can stopper up the muzzles of our guns by a wave of the hand.”

“Probably hasn’t worked out too well for them,” Mondrago surmised drily.

“Hardly—especially with Sir Bindon Blood in command. A most impressive man—and somewhat unconventional. He claims direct descent from Captain Blood, the noted Restoration thief who came within an ace of making off with the crown jewels from the Tower of London.” Churchill chuckled. “I’ve sometimes thought that if the Pathans knew he takes pride in having a distinguished bandit for an ancestor, they’d regard him as a kindred spirit and we could work all this out without so much bother. But,” he added, turning serious, “probably not. We’re dealing with Muslim fanatics engaged in a
jihad
, or holy war.”

“We Westerners have had our holy wars,” Jason ventured. “Do we really have any room to talk?”

Churchill gave a sad smile. “You’re overlooking one thing. Holy war is a perversion of Christianity; it is
not
a perversion of Islam. The Islamic ideal is the
ghazi
—the fanatical holy warrior from the desert, sweeping away the corruptions of civilization with fire and sword.”

“But your average Muslim isn’t a
ghazi.
”

“No, but deep in his heart of hearts he thinks he
ought
to be one. Any Muslim who believes in peace and religious tolerance isn’t a very good Muslim . . . and he knows it. His religion provides him with no basis for a refutation—no philosophical defenses, as it were—when some holy man preaches
jihad.
”

Jason fell silent, for he had seen enough history to know Churchill was right. The Moors of Spain had been the most civilized people in Medieval Europe . . . and not once but twice they had offered no real resistance when ignorant Berber fanatics from North Africa has swept over them, because their religion told them they had no
right
to resist having their multicultural society thus cleansed and purified. And Muslim states of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries had exhibited the same lack of will in the face of the terrorists who had been the high-tech descendants of the blood-mad fundamentalist desert tribesmen of old.

And besides, he thought he now had a glimpse of a way out of his predicament.

“Well,” he said with careful casualness, “I imagine you’ll want to be getting back to General Jeffreys’ brigade.” He recalled what Hazeltine had told him. “And you‘ll want to be in time to enter Mingaora with them. After all, the
Daily Telegraph
will surely be interested in a story about the submission of the Swat Valley tribes.”

Churchill’s eyes lit up. “I say, they will, won’t they? The sergeants over there—rough diamonds, you may say, but splendid chaps, really—have been trying to persuade me to stay with them. They fear for my life if I set out on my own again. But you’re absolutely right. And at any rate, I do need to get back before General Jeffreys thinks I’ve deserted. I’ll set out first thing in the morning.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go,” said Jason.
Relieved, actually,
he mentally corrected. But he knew he wasn’t entirely lying, Observer Effect or no.

“You’re sure you want to try it, sir?” Sergeant McCready’s face was furrowed with concern, making it even uglier than usual. “I don’t think there are any hostile tribesmen left nearby, but these business competitors of Mr. Thanou’s might give you trouble.”

In fact, the Observer Effect won’t let them
, thought Jason. But of course he couldn’t say so out loud.

“Thank you for your solicitude, Sergeant, but I’m certain I’ll be all right. And it is my duty to rejoin General Jeffreys as expeditiously as possible.” As Churchill looked down from his horse, his mouth settled into a determined look, and Jason felt a small gooseflesh-raising shock of recognition, for he had seen that exact expression. He had seen it on Churchill’s four-decades-older face, in photographs taken while Nazi bombs were falling on London and Britain stood alone against a new Dark Age, armed with little more than a badly outnumbered air force and one clear-sighted man’s unconquerable will.

“Well, best of luck, sir. We’ve got to get back to Third Brigade.”

“Of course you do, Sergeant. Best of luck to you as well.” As Churchill turned his horse around, his eyes met Jason’s. “Cheerio,” he said with a jaunty wave. “Perhaps we’ll see each other at Mingaora.” Then he rode off, carrying the future with him.

“All right, you lot,” growled McCready after a moment. “Fall in, before it gets any hotter.”

The little pick-up unit sorted itself into marching order. The three sergeants slung their rifles—Lee-Metfords, Mondrago had called them. They also had .455 Webley revolvers in holsters. The Indian sepoys carried rifles of a different kind. Jason asked Mondrago about them.

“Martini-Henrys,” the Corsican explained in an undertone. “It’s a single-shot breechloader, rather than a repeater like the Lee-Metford. Obsolete in the British Army. But ever since the Mutiny the Brits have been careful to arm their ‘native’ troops with stuff one generation behind what the white troops get. They also keep direct control of all artillery.”

They set out, the time travelers behind the sepoys and, bringing up the rear, the
bhisti
, who had filled his water sack from a nearby stream. Despite its weight and awkwardness, he wore his usual cheerful and accommodating expression. McCready detailed two of the sepoys to scout ahead.

Jason studied the position of the sun and tried to recall the direction he and the others had taken the preceding day. As far as he could determine, they weren’t headed in the direction of the transport. But he had no idea which direction Stoneman and his slave-gathering party had taken.

As they began to enter a defile between two rocky slopes, he joined the three sergeants at the head of the little column. “You know,” he said to McCready, despising himself for his dishonesty but having no other choice, “I’d still like to try and interest you in a little side jaunt. We could be of help to each other. If you rid us of those disagreeable competitors of ours, we could put you in the way of considerable profit.”

“The answer’s still no. We’ve got to get back to the main body of First Brigade without delay. Besides,” McCready added with a sour side-glance at Carver, “this sounds altogether too much like one of Carver’s schemes to suit me.”

“Now see ’ere, Mac—”

A rifle shot, amplified and echoing in this confined space, interrupted Carver’s indignation, and one of the sepoys sank to the dust, clutching his thigh. At McCready’s roared command, they all took whatever cover was available behind boulders, as the first shot from above was followed by a fusillade of others, with a distinctly differed sound. To Jason’s ear, they sounded like the muskets he had encountered in the seventeenth century.

“Mostly
jezzails
,” McCready observed.

“But that first one was a bleedin’ Lee-Metford,” said Carver aggrievedly, unlimbering his own and firing at a half-seen target.

“Gun-runners have been getting a few of them to the tribesmen, who’ll pay all they own for one,” said Hazeltine. The repeater somewhere on the crags above continued to fire away. The Sikhs, crouching or prone, returned fire at a slower rate with their Martini-Henrys.

Serve you people right if your native troops are outgunned,
thought Jason as a near-miss spattered his face with dust and slivers of rock.
Bad luck for them, of course.
He surmised that the scouts were lying in their own blood up ahead, their throats cut.

McCready handed Jason his Webley. “D’you know how to use one of these?”

“I think I can manage.” The revolver was a large-caliber that would doubtless kick like a mule, but at least it was a cartridge breech-loader, not one of the clumsy front-loading Colts he had used in the American Civil War. He squinted into the sun and searched for targets.

“We’re fish in a barrel,” muttered Carver as another sepoy screamed in pain. The
bhisti
scrambled to the wounded man’s side, dodging bullets.

Then, for no apparent reason, the ambushers’ fire began to slacken off, and then ceased.

They all looked at each other blankly in the sudden silence.

A voice from behind them shattered the silence, speaking in more or less contemporary North American English.

“You are surrounded. Do not attempt to resist.”

Jason stood up and turned around. Stoneman stood on the trail they had followed, flanked by four of his goons. Each held a laser carbine in one hand, with which the totally recoilless weapon could easily be used. The other hand held another weapon that Jason recognized.

Other goons now appeared on the ridges above, where Jason was certain he knew what they had done to the Pathans.

One of the Sikhs turned with an oath and brought up his Martini-Henry. With a bored look, Stoneman fired the neural paralyzer in his left hand. There was the ruby flash of a laser guide beam. The Sikh toppled to the dirt, unable to move a single voluntary muscle.

With an inarticulate growl, McCready began to raise his rifle.

“Don’t try it,” Jason told him in a low voice. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“Wise advice, Commander Thanou,” said Stoneman in twenty-fourth-century Standard International English. “We’d rather not kill potential slaves, even though we have something of a score to settle with this unit—we had a run-in with them yesterday. But we will if we have to.”