“Do you want to continue?” Darvesh asked quietly.
Sikander was breathing hard, but so was Randall. “I’m fine.”
“Do not spend so much time boxing with him,” Darvesh said. “You’re a good enough boxer, but that is Mr. Randall’s strength. Get him on the ground and lock him down.”
Sikander nodded. He was fighting with anger, not with strategy. He wanted to pummel Randall, so that was what he was trying to do in the ring. Use your head, Sikay. Randall does not want to wrestle me, he wants to be free to strike. Fight your fight, not his!
“Second round,” Chief Trent warned. “On your guard, gentlemen!” The bell chimed again.
Sikander came out looking for a chance to grapple. Randall danced away, keeping him back with long-range kicks. Sikander pushed aggressively to close in, and took a side kick in the gut that half knocked the wind out of him and put him on one knee. Randall followed up at once with a spinning round kick as Sikander was still getting to his feet; he barely ducked under it, and was clipped hard enough by Randall’s heel that he saw stars. But Sikander surged up as Randall completed the kick, caught him by thigh and waist, and put him on the mat again.
Randall replied with a vicious barrage of elbow and knee strikes—pure savage improvisation, with no technique to speak of. But Sikander got the hold he wanted, twisting his adversary into a half-sitting position and pinning an arm behind his back. “Give!” he snarled through his mouthpiece.
“Go to hell!” Randall snarled back. He snapped his head back, catching Sikander in the ear hard enough to make his eyes water.
Blind fury overwhelmed Sikander. He gave Randall’s arm a half twist and shoved hard, dislocating the Aquilan’s shoulder. Randall let out a strangled cry and sagged to the ground.
“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Chief Trent shouted. She rushed into the ring; Sikander released Randall at once and backed away. “That’s it, sir. We’re done here. Mr. Randall, you hear me? We’re done.”
Sikander stripped off his striking pads as Trent helped Randall to his feet. His ear still rang from Randall’s head butt, and he gingerly reached up to rub it. Darvesh came up to him and silently handed him a towel.
Randall spat out his mouthpiece and turned to glare at Sikander. “Goddamn it, you did that on purpose!”
“I had you in the lock and I told you to yield,” Sikander replied. “If you do not want your shoulder put out of joint, don’t let me get you on the mat, don’t let me get you in that hold, and don’t head-butt me!”
“Next time—” Randall growled.
“There will be no next time,” Chief Trent interrupted. “Not under my watch, sirs. You can go try to kill each other someplace other than my gym.” She looked at Randall’s shoulder, and shook her head. “I guess we’d better get you to sick bay, Mr. Randall. What do you want me to tell Dr. Simms and the XO?”
Randall reached up with his good hand, pressing it to his injured shoulder. It must have pained him greatly; his face was white and his jaw was clenched tight. He glared at Sikander for a long moment, then gave a small snort and looked to the master-at-arms. “It was an accident, Chief. Mr. North and I got carried away during a practice bout. Nobody’s fault but mine.”
“Does that suit you, Mr. North?” Trent asked.
Sikander inclined his head to Randall. “As Mr. Randall says—it was an accident.”
“All right, then. That’s what I’ll say.” Chief Trent studied Sikander, then looked over to Darvesh. “Chief Reza, make sure Mr. North gets some ice and medical spray on those bruises.” Then she took Randall by his good arm and steered him to the door.
“That was very foolish, Nawabzada,” Darvesh said quietly. “He nearly had you early in the second round. And if he presses charges, there will be serious repercussions for you.”
“Foolish?” Sikander buried his face in his towel, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “No, Darvesh, it was necessary. Some words are worth fighting over.” He tossed the towel into the hamper by the door, and headed for the shower.
6
Tanjeer, Gadira II
Otto Bleindel sat in the shadows of the coffee shop, sipping at a strong Gadiran roast and idly watching the crowd. The only bars on Gadira were tucked away in offworlder districts, but coffeehouses served as a cultural replacement. There were hundreds upon hundreds of cafés in Tanjeer, each serving up its own particular décor and conversation. Just like the nightlife of less modest societies, café culture acted as the social outlet for students, young professionals, and both rich and poor alike. Bleindel had little use for the cultural traditions that shackled Gadira to archaic social norms, but he found that he greatly approved of Tanjeer’s coffee shops. He appreciated the rich and complex flavors of Gadiran-style coffee, but he also enjoyed the free-ranging discussion and polite debate of public issues that characterized the café crowd. Even the tension between cultural liberalization and Quranist modesty was a permissible subject in coffeehouse conversations, although Bleindel noted that Gadirans universally supported—or at least claimed to support—the place of religion in civic life.
This is an intelligence agent’s bonanza, he decided as he studied the crowd. Talk that would be considered seditious or shocking in other settings was openly aired in Gadira’s cafés. All a sultanate spy needed to do in order to identify malcontents and potential revolutionaries was to wander into a café, order a cup of coffee, and listen attentively. Of course, as one of the top special agents in the Security Bureau of the Empire of Dremark, Otto Bleindel noticed things that others might miss. For example, while coffeehouse philosophers never argued that their world would be better off if people abandoned their antiquated faith, Bleindel could see that better-educated individuals guarded their feelings about the outsized influence wielded by Gadiran allamehs and imams and their so-called schools. It would be an interesting question for a future colonial administration; economic development and the adoption of Coalition cultural norms would be greatly accelerated by making mosques into museums, but of course few things provoked people like efforts to suppress their religious beliefs.
A man in dark trousers and a sky-blue shirt entered the café, surreptitiously sweeping the room with his eyes. He had a young man’s beard, thin and scraggly, with surprisingly light-colored eyes set in a broad, open face, and hair that was a shaggy mass of dark ringlets. His gaze rested briefly on Bleindel; then he turned to another table and struck up a conversation with a group of professionals. Bleindel picked up his dataslate and resumed his study of the local news features, waiting patiently. After a few minutes, the young man came and joined him at his table.
“Salamu aleikum, Mr. Hardesty,” he said as he sat down. “I am Alonzo Khouri. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“None at all,” Bleindel replied. Khouri did not look like a Gadiran rebel; he’d half expected to meet a stern desert tribesman in a robe and keffiyeh. “Extend your hand, please.”
Khouri took a sip of his own coffee and set it down, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rested his hand on the table within easy reach. Good tradecraft, Bleindel noted. He made a show of reaching for his own coffee, and quickly brushed a small skin sampler against Khouri’s hand. A quick glance at the indicator confirmed that he was indeed speaking with the man he was here to meet. “Very good, thank you. Do you wish to see my bona fides?”
“No need, Mr. Hardesty.” Khouri nodded at the café around them. “You have been under observation for some time now.”
Bleindel affected a look of mild surprise. He’d known as soon as he entered, but he didn’t want to look too confident. “Well, I suppose that explains why you’d feel comfortable discussing our business in such an open setting.”