Desert Stars (2 page)

Tiera clucked irritably and shook her
head, but she offered no further protest. Jalil turned and resumed
his watch while she climbed back down to the camp.

With his binoculars, he scanned the
valley below, ignoring the numerous dust devils dancing across the
sandy wash. The pass was just out of view on the right; anyone
coming through the mountains in this direction would first have to
pass over the wide open valley before him.

Inevitably, however, his gaze drifted
to the horizon. On a clear day from this ridge, it was possible to
see the wreckage of the starship that had brought him to this
world. Desert tribesmen had long ago scrapped every useful piece of
the derelict for parts, leaving only the sun-bleached hull. Jalil
could see it in his mind even now, the wreckage jutting out from
the desert like the fossilized ribs of some impossibly huge
creature. Sometimes a trader passing through would ask him about
it, and his answer was always the same: Only Allah
knows.

And in some ways, perhaps that was
true. He remembered precious little of his life before the desert,
and what few memories he still possessed faded ever faster with
each passing year. But in other ways, the wreckage proclaimed a
truth that Jalil could not ignore. He sensed it in the way that men
of other tribes eyed his too-fair skin and bright blond hair; the
way that traders and overland merchants asked him where he was
from, as if the desert were not his home. And indeed, that was the
truth that the wreckage proclaimed—that he was not from this
world.

Distracted by his idle thoughts, Jalil
didn’t notice the rising column of dust until the first rover
dashed out across the sandy wash.

A bolt of fear and excitement shot
through him like an electric shock, and he dropped to his stomach,
keeping his profile low across the ridge line. Another vehicle
darted out from among the rocks—and another, and another after
that. Together, they fanned out and began their climb toward the
pass. Though the magnified field of vision danced before his view,
he saw enough to identify the shapes as caravaneers—long range,
micronuclear-powered dune buggies built to carry entire tribes
across the desert.

Entire tribes—or roving bandit
armies.

“
Tiera!” Jalil called out
loudly. “Someone’s down there!”

“
What? Where?” In only a
few seconds, she was at his side, panting slightly as she reached
for the binoculars.

“
Here,” he said, handing
them to her and pointing at the rising dust columns. “See that?
Down there.”

“
How many are
there?”

“
I don’t know—at least
four.”

Tiera grunted. “Probably more, though.
You think they’re the Jabaliyn?”

“
That, or
bandits.”

She returned the binoculars. “Try to
reach them on the shortwave. I’ll finish packing our
supplies.”

“
Right,” said Jalil,
rising to his feet. Together, they raced down the rocky path to the
narrow landing where they’d made camp.

“
Storm, eh?” came the
shaky voice of old Zeid as Jalil stepped inside the dusty,
sun-faded camp tent. “Storm coming—feel it in my bones, I
do.”

“
Has anyone called over
the shortwave, Uncle Zeid?” asked Jalil. Wrinkled, toothless, and
half-blind, there wasn’t much old Zeid could do except listen for
chatter on the radio—that, and act as their chaperone, which he did
with all the vigor that his ancient body could muster.

“
Shortwave?”

Jalil ignored him and grabbed the
transmitter, crouching down on the old, tattered camp rug to adjust
the receiver frequency. The wind made the fabric of the tent ripple
with wild abandon, but the sound of static drowned out the wind as
the green and red bars danced across the ancient equipment’s dusty
interface.

“
Hello?” Jalil called into
the transmitter. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“—
you hear me?”

“
Yes,” said Jalil, fine
tuning the receiver to get a clearer signal. “I am Jalil
Ibn
Sathi
Al-
Najmi.”

“
And I am Abu Mahdi
Hamza
Al-
Jabaliyn. May the peace of
Earth be upon you.”

“
And upon you as well,”
said Jalil, reciting the traditional greeting of the
desert.

“
Are you on the pass?”
Hamza’s voice cackled. “The storm is on our heels—we cannot make it
to the Najmi camp without your guidance.”

“
Forgive me, brother,”
said Jalil, “but how do I know the truth of what you say?” In the
deep desert, where strength was the only law and tribe the only
universal bond, honesty was sometimes nothing more than a luxury
between friends.

The wind howled as Tiera opened the
tent door and stepped inside. Without a word, she picked up a pair
of old, rusted camp chairs and hastily rolled up the stiff rug
beneath them, hauling them out as she broke camp. She’d already
packed the cots, mattresses, and stove—only two small chests
remained, besides the shortwave and some other assorted
electronics.

“
What can we offer as
proof?” Hamza’s voice came over the wind and static. “We have come
to wed our son Mazhar
Ibn
Amr to your sister,
Lena Bint
Shira
.”

“
Indeed,” said Jalil. “And
where is the tent you have prepared for her?”

“
We have not prepared any
tent,” said Hamza. “Mazhar is to stay in the Najmi camp, until the
question of her father’s inheritance has been resolved.”

A smile broadened across Jalil’s face
at Hamza’s words. Normally, the bride moved in with the family of
her husband; however, because Sheikh Sathi of the Najmi camp had
only daughters and nieces, special provisions had been made. Few
things were normal in a camp without sons.

“
Indeed,” said Jalil.
“Wait for our signal on this frequency, brother. We’ll meet you on
the other side of the pass.”

Tiera parted the tent door and stepped
inside, letting in another gust of dusty wind. “Is it them?” she
asked.

“
Yes, it is,” he said,
switching off the radio as he rose to his feet. “They’ll meet us on
the other side of the ridge.”

“
Well, let’s move then.
Yallah!”

She closed the camp burner
and hauled it out, leaving the tent door flapping in the wind.
Jalil chuckled as he collapsed the antenna and packed the shortwave
in its ornately painted tin box, fingering the pendant he always
kept around his neck.
Soon,
he told himself, his grin widening with
anticipation.
Soon, and I’ll be on my way
home.

Home—wherever that may be.

* * * * *

The wind picked up as they rode across
the desert, blasting Jalil’s face with oppressive heat. The
open-air caravaneer was more frame than solid metal, with dusty
blue tassels dangling from the bar above the windshield and a
sun-faded red arabesque rug stretched across the dash. Tiera drove
hard and fast, making the cracked leather seats bounce and the
tassels dance. As the rust-red landscape sped by, Jalil squinted
against the wind and held onto an overhead bar. Nearly a dozen
caravaneers from the Jabaliyn convoy followed behind them, racing
the coming storm.

After nearly an hour of riding across
the rocky plain, the camp gradually came into view. At first, it
appeared as nothing more than a single bump on the horizon,
surrounded by flat, empty desert. As they came nearer, though, the
outline of familiar structures gradually took shape. First came the
top of the camp’s windmill, the ten-foot blades spinning as fast as
Jalil had ever seen. Next came the colorful tents; though the
fabric was faded by the harsh desert sun and caked with dust, their
fanciful white and red designs still stood out against the rust-red
rock and dusty ground. Last of all came the low heaped-stone wall
that circled the camp, with the small, portable gun emplacements in
the corners. Nearly a dozen people hurried about covering the
weapons with heavy tarps, their dark robes billowing in the
wind.

With his headscarf wrapped around his
mouth and nose to protect him from the dusty air, Jalil swung out
of his seat and onto the caravaneer’s metal frame. Squinting
against the wind as the ground rushed beneath him, he pulled out a
small submachine gun and fired into the air. A barrage of fireworks
and plasma bursts from the camp answered his salute, echoed from
behind by a chorus of gunshots and ululating voices as the Jabaliyn
tribe answered in turn. Like thunderheads swollen with moisture
bursting into rain, the pent up excitement erupted all at once,
filling the desert landscape with its joyous noise.

The entire Najmi tribe
came out to welcome the Jabaliyn convoy. Sheikh Sathi stood at the
head in his richest, most impressive clothes—an ornate ochre robe,
with a gold-trimmed maroon vest and capped with a white-and-red
checkered headscarf. His two wives, Zayne and
Shira
,
stood at either side, veiled respectively in deep blue and
brilliant red.
Shira
’s seven daughters had
gathered with the older women, faces covered with the richest
embroidered veils that they possessed. The sheikh’s two younger
brothers, who led their own camps nearly a hundred kilometers away,
were also present with their families—they must have arrived while
Jalil and Tiera were gone.

As Tiera slowed the caravaneer to a
crawl, Jalil leaped off and pushed through the crowd toward his
adopted father. Ululating cries filled the air as friends and
family pressed upon him, but he ignored them all until he had made
it through.

“
Jalil, my son!” said the
sheikh, embracing him with open arms. “How are you? How is your
health? How was your journey?”

“
Very well, very well,”
said Jalil, loosening his headscarf to kiss his father on both
cheeks.

“
The Lord of Earth and
Heaven be praised,” Sathi exclaimed. “Now won’t you see to the
unloading of our guests’ vehicles? Be quick!”

Jalil hesitated, but before he could
say anything, Sheikh Amr of the Jabaliyn tribe stepped forward.
Sathi’s face immediately lit up, and he embraced his guest as
warmly as if they were long-lost brothers. With the opportunity to
speak with his father gone, Jalil turned and headed for the garage
complex. The sheikh had given him an order, and he knew what it
would mean if that order wasn’t carried out.

He found the Jabaliyn caravaneers
parked inside several wide tents next to the main shop. The Najmi
vehicles were parked in an adobe shelter about a hundred yards
away; Sathi had made sure to set them apart to keep their guests
from seeing how small and run-down the Najmi fleet actually was. In
the high desert, such a sign of weakness was better kept
concealed.

Jalil slowed to a walk and pulled his
headscarf tighter. The air was hot, and the wind was picking
up—they didn’t have much time before the sandstorm hit the camp in
full force. Inside the tents, the Jabaliyn tribesmen hurriedly
unpacked their vehicles. From the looks of it, they were only
taking what they absolutely needed for that night.

“
Here,” called Jalil,
“bring those chests out this way. These tents are connected to your
quarters—we’ll get everything sorted once it’s all inside. Let’s
move! Yallah!”

“
Where was that girl who
came with you?” one of the young Jabaliyn men asked.

Jalil cringed, but took pains not to
show it. “What girl?”

“
You know—the one who
drove you here.”

“
You must be mistaken;
there was no girl with us.”

“
But—”

Before the young man could continue,
one of his elders tapped him on the shoulder and spoke with him in
hushed tones. His face turned red, but he gave Jalil no further
trouble.

Fool,
Jalil thought to himself.
Doesn’t he
know better than to probe?
Still, he would
have greatly appreciated Tiera’s help right then. The fact that she
couldn’t be out in public among the guests was a painful reminder
that he was the only young man in the Najmi camp.

The thought fell over him
like a shadow.
They’ll get along all right
without me,
he thought to himself,
fingering the pendant under his shirt. It was true; Lena’s marriage
would secure the tribe a much needed alliance and settle the
question of the inheritance. With another man around, he would no
longer be needed.

Then why did he feel so guilty about
leaving?

* * * * *

Within a short time, they finished
unloading the last of the supplies from the Jabaliyn caravaneers,
and Jalil showed the men to their quarters, the guest tents
distinctly separate from the main compound.

He walked around the corner toward the
family entrance and froze where he stood. A towering wall of
brackish dust towered over the horizon like a giant crawling
mountain. The nearest edge was only half a mile away, racing toward
him with uncanny speed. The wind howled in his ears with savage
ferocity, as if the storm were a living thing, a devouring beast of
unparalleled ferocity.