Before the Storm: New Persia, #1

By John L. Lynch

In the far future, four friends fight to survive a hostile climate and war between two superpowers locked in a struggle to the death.

In the far future, human colonists have forgotten their origins. Their planet is hostile to human life, spawning continent-spanning storms of fire and destruction.  Civilization clings to life, advancing in knowledge between storms and regressing when the firestorms reduce entire nations to ash.

Two nations dominate the world: New Persia and Azania. Each originated from minorities persecuted on Old Earth. How do oppressed sects become the faith of empires?

The fallen scion Nasrin Avesta and the rebel Suri Pahlavi reject the future their families chose for them and create their own How do the two women fight an entire culture's expectations? In a patriarchal society, one rebels and the other adapts. Whose course is the right one?

Basir Turani is a captain in the Prince's Own Regiment. He is sent to the frontier to forestall Azanian aggression but is caught in a storm of war. He must use all his intellect and cunning to prevail against the

elements, the enemy, and traitors in his midst. Can he save New Persia from the twin disasters of fire and conquest?

Fighter pilot Farad Hashemi duels the Azanian Air Force in the skies above.

The coming storm will change them all. Who will survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613093511

Book preview

Dedication

For Leslie

One

Captain Basir Turani stood at the entrance to the Great Hall of the Prince Royal’s Palace in Persepolis. He strode through the double oak doors adorned with gold inlays of the Nine- and Five-Pointed Star.

He walked under the electric lamps in the chandeliers far above in the gallery of the Prince’s Hall. The ceiling was too far away for Basir to have made out the elegant frescos, centuries old, colors faded, looking down upon the dancing assembly below. Basir had arrived at the dance as an officer of the Prince’s Own Regiment, a great honor for someone who would otherwise never have seen the inside of the tremendous white-painted room around him. The hall was hundreds of feet across in both directions and roofed by a magnificent dome far above, where a star-shaped window admitted the sunlight during the day and dim nighttime Shaitan-light for half the year.

Basir was not born to places like this, full of beautiful women in gowns made of rolls of fabric costing more than his annual pay. Silk from the Kurgan, fine cotton from Azania, and false-wool traded from the hill tribes eking out a living around the Waste. Turani had never seen anything like the crowd before him and probably would never see it again. If the wars did not kill him, he reflected, some intrigue would. A false step here could lead to a duel, or worse, the loss of his place on the promotion list. A career without promotion beyond captain would be worse than death. To wear the single star he wore on his collar, but as an old man of forty. Turani cast the thought aside. That fear kept him awake at night, but tonight he wasn’t trying to sleep. Basir Turani could not be the failure his father insisted he was. Failure was worse than death.

If I fail, then it was already written in the Great Book of the Fates, he told himself, as he fought the doubts rising inside him. What am I doing here with all these people? Fear is a compass pointing toward what you need the most, he told himself and kept walking.

The lights hanging from the dome far above lighted the dance floor. The surrounding hall, supported by columns, was a dim shadow, lit only by gas lamps. Even here in the prince’s residence, electricity was slow to come. He had heard just a few of the toilets had running water. Even the prince and his courtiers had to use the same facilities as the rest of us, Basir reflected, if they were caught in the wrong part of the palace.

The prince had made a short speech on the parade ground outside to open the festivities. Basir had stood in formation with his company. He had heard very little of what the prince had said, and had a short time to wonder about it before the Regimental Sergeant Major had repeated the call, DISMISSED! in a voice made for carrying outdoors. The battalion commander had dismissed the companies, who dismissed their platoons, which broke up into a wave of individual red-coated soldiers pushing toward the palace doors. Their orders relegated the enlisted men to the New Wing, which was only two centuries old, and the officers moved in a much smaller group toward Old Hall.

First Sergeant Saeed, the senior sergeant in Basir’s company, was too drunk to notice he was in the wrong hall. Basir saw Saeed a dozen yards away attempting to chat up two red-dressed ladies who seemed shocked and bemused at the older man’s entreaties. Basir thought about what would happen when someone noticed he wore sergeant’s chevrons instead of officer braid. Any man who tried to tell Saeed to leave when he was in this state would be taking his life into his hands, although the women were completely safe. Basir decided it was best to intervene.

Sergeant, he called as he approached.

Saeed looked around in confusion. When he saw Basir, he tried to stuff something into his Regimental Mess coat. The coat for this uniform was a tight-fitting vest, and the bottle slid out immediately. Saeed caught it before it shattered on the floor. He whirled around to hide his prize from Basir. The sergeant's eyes sought a hiding place for the bottle.

Basir saw Saeed take one of the women by the arm and whisper in her ear. The bottle disappeared in a flourish of skirts.

When Basir arrived a moment later, there was no evidence of the bottle anywhere. Saeed said Sir? in a long-practiced simulacrum of sobriety.

Sergeant, Basir said, I believe we need someone to keep an eye on the platoon enlisted in New Hall.

Sir? Saeed said again, sounding like a recording of his first reply.

Basir nodded and waited.

Oh, yes, sir. Right away, the platoon sergeant said with the slightest hint of a slur. He took a few steps before looking back helplessly at the woman he had whispered to.

Oh, must he go? the woman asked. We were having such fun!

I’m afraid so, said Basir. This Hall is for officers only.

Humph, said the woman. What about New Hall?

Enlisted, said Basir.

The woman rolled her eyes. Fine, she said. Is there a rule against ladies going to New Hall?

Basir was surprised. No, he said. Of course—

Of course nothing, she said. We have Saeed to protect us. Come on, Zari, she gestured to her friend.  Let’s go.

The two women caught up with Saeed, and with their assistance, he maintained a straight line for the door.

Basir laughed at Saeed and glanced across the dance floor to the shadows on the other side.

Basir saw a woman who was a vision of blue skirts and dusky skin. Her black hair seemed to flow across the room to touch him softly across the cheek. In his twenty years, he had never seen anything like her. Not the open sea, stretching close to ten thousand miles around the vast continent. Not the endless desert in the center of the world’s only landmass. Not the sky at dawn after a dust storm, hued in purple and silver. Not even the graceful lines of the most magnificent temple of his race, the Bab. She was perfect in a way he couldn’t define or even imagined on his own.

She struck him with terror the moment his eyes found hers, dark and open, on the other side of the hall. Basir knew about terror, having the fierce tribesmen of the North, the city-men of Azania, and even his own people in the Rebellion of last year shoot at him in turn. What he’d realized in his first fight in the mountains bore him in good stead since: fear can be a guide. A man who followed his fear and faced what terrified him the most would become great. Or dead.

Basir took a breath and lifted his foot above the marble tiles. His first step across the dance floor felt the same as dashing for cover between two boulders under jezail-fire. Instead of the smell of smoke and the muzzle-blasts of rifles, the room was full of the scent of refined perfumes and chamber music from the concert musicians playing to his right. He stepped to the beat of tambours and santurs performing a fast-tempo dance from one of the provinces, Shiraz, most likely. Couples whirled around him in step with each other. The dancers noticed his intrusion onto the floor, but the minor breach of etiquette was worth the time he saved by not waiting for the next dance and not trying to push through the crowd at the edges of the dance floor. If he waited, she could dance with someone else!

That possibility terrified him more than rejection. The fear of missing his chance to dance with her guided him step by step across the room like a compass, and called him to action like a trumpet on the battlefield. He felt the fear constrict his breath and his heart beat against the sides of his chest. Let me be afraid, Oh God, but lend me the strength to continue. Basir heard the words of his morning prayer cross his mind. Right words, well chosen, he thought. He couldn’t help being afraid, not in the face of...

Her. He came to the knot of people surrounding her. A woman on the side was standing alone. Young and lovely, and in other times, perhaps worth crossing the floor to meet. Today she was an obstacle to overcome, or, he thought, outmaneuver. He stepped to the side to walk past her.

He felt a tug on his arm.

Basir!

Basir turned to look at the distraction. It was his childhood friend, Farad Hashemi.

Basir turned around. Farad! Basir said. You’re here! Farad Hashemi stood before him in his Air Corps dress blues. He had the short stature and supreme confidence of a fighter pilot. The two men had followed each other’s careers from afar but had met rarely.

Who let you in? Basir asked.

The prince, apparently. Farad gestured to the hall around him. I got an invitation and came. You don’t say ‘no’ to the prince.

Basir noticed something hanging from Farad’s chest. He pointed to the medal. Is that, I mean I’m not up on my Air Corps medals, but it looks like...?

Farad’s face turned serious. Yes, the Star Medal. I got it over Azania. The prince put it on me at the ceremony today. Basir had been at the ceremony as part of the prince’s honor guard, but he hadn’t been able to see the stage from where he stood on the enormous parade ground in the palace’s courtyard.

You don’t look happy about it, Basir said.

The price was too high. My wingman got a medal, too, but he didn’t come back to receive it.

Ah, Basir said. An awkward silence fell.

Oh, where are my manners? Farad said. Basir, this is Sabira. She is here as the guest of Navpati Amir Shah. Amir Shah, an admiral in the Persian Navy, was serving as Director of Intelligence. He was not in view, but Basir felt Amir Shah’s eyes upon him. The director could order a man detained for three months without charge. This was a dangerous woman.

Good evening, Sabira, Basir bowed slightly.

The young woman, a blonde wearing a daring red dress Basir noticed not at all, noticed him then. She quickly took in what she saw. An officer in his dress blue regimental uniform, the rank of captain, young, not too old. Darker skin than was fashionable. Hair was worn longer than most...a special perquisite of the Prince’s Own. She did not recognize him, and he wore no household sash marking him as a noble. Nor did he wear any rings, signet or a wedding band. Good looking, in a North Province way, but nothing more. She smiled at him and planned to parry what she expected to be a clumsy attempt to get her to dance.

Basir read the boredom in her blue eyes. He glanced to the side to see the where the other woman had gone.

The woman blinked. She hadn’t expected to be scorned and didn’t like it. "Excuse me, ah... Captain...?" She curtsied slightly less than Basir had bowed. Basir saw her eyes change from bored to annoyed. He was glad this wasn’t the woman he had come to see, but his face showed only a bland expression.

Basir Turani, madam. Captain Turani of Third Company, Prince’s Own Regiment. Armored. Basir couldn’t help the pride in his voice.

Oh, she said, pursing her red lipstick. "That’s right. This is the ball when anyone... she paused for breath, ...anyone from the prince’s regiment can come. How good of the prince, don’t you think?"

Not quite anyone, Basir said. The officers, yes.

Who else is there? she asked, innocently.

Basir considered explaining the difference between officers and enlisted men but doubted she would recognize the distinction. Or, she already knew. Either way, Basir had a mission and could not waver.

The prince is generous with his time and possessions, Basir said, gesturing to the hall around them.

"You would know. You are the Prince’s Own," she said.

Yes, I and the rest of the regiment. Basir laughed. His Excellency is our commanding officer.

The prince has very high standards, I’m sure. He is known for his discerning taste.

Basir raised his eyebrow at the compliment.

"Although, like all men, he is of the fallen world. ‘No man is perfect,’ She quoted scripture. Even His Excellency could make a mistake from time to time, I’m sure." Her blue eyes shone like ice in a winter stream.

When a commanding officer makes mistakes, madam, his men die. And the Prince’s Own die willingly, Basir said.

Then you should pray he makes no mistakes, she said. "A fool and his possessions are soon parted. It is good our prince is no fool."

Basir could only agree. Far from it.

"Though, No cause is so just that a fool cannot be found following it."

I admit, madam, if loyalty to the prince is foolish, I would be honored to be named a fool, Basir said. And all my men would agree.

Farad shifted uncomfortably next to him. He hadn’t expected the conversation to go so badly.

I’m sure, she said. I’m sure you all know how to do what your betters tell you.

We all serve, Basir said.

Yes, we do, she said. "And her name is Nasrin. I’m sure she’d serve you well." Her smile was colder than her eyes.

Thank you. Basir bowed.

"Oh, you won’t thank me. Nasrin isn’t much of a possession. Her father’s ruined. I’m not sure how she could afford that dress. Perhaps a gift from an admirer. She enjoyed Basir’s discomfiture. Although one wonders what she did to deserve it."

Basir felt a rush of blood to his face. He felt enraged at the implication. If the woman had been a man, he was sure he would have called him out for it.

You don’t even know Nasrin. You’ve never met. You’ve only seen her across a room. The voice of reason in his head tried in vain to calm his nerves.

Still, he was a man and couldn’t let fly against a woman. It shamed him to remember whose guest she was. He held his tongue.

The woman before him was satisfied. She’d won the encounter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Major, I mean, Captain, Turani. She curtsied slightly less than he had bowed a moment before. I have a ball to attend. She curtsied again to Farad and strode away.

Farad watched her leave with a wistful look. I was going to ask her to dance, you know.

I’m sorry, said Basir. I didn’t mean...

No, it’s fine. She’s not worth it. Farad put his arm around Basir’s shoulders. Let’s catch up. There’s the food over there. It’s quite good.

You knew she was with Amir Shah and were going to ask her to dance anyway? Basir asked.

I’m a hero! Farad grinned and held up his hands. No one will touch me. All I wanted was a dance. Nothing more.

Basir saw the ring on Farad’s hand but didn’t ask about it. Farad had always been bold, but not reckless. Something had changed.

He was genuinely happy to see Farad and wanted to catch up, but he was still intent on his quest. Ah, I was... He glanced over his shoulder again. The vision he had seen across the room was gone. He felt panic welling up inside him. Where had she gone?

You look upset, Farad said. What’s wrong? Did she get to you? He gestured with his head to where Sabira had disappeared into the crowd.

Of course not! Basir said. I was just hoping to...

What? Ask her to dance? I think you ruined your chance there! And mine! Come on. You owe me.

Basir reluctantly followed Farad to the food tables. There was a banquet of gourmet dishes and excellent drinks.

It’s too bad this prince is so pious, Farad said. Or we could drink wine.

I don’t remember you enjoying wine, Basir said. Or even tasting wine. Something about it being forbidden in the service.

Azania is far away from Persepolis, Farad said. I found a taste for it when I was on the border. They grow grapes there, you know. Farad said. And beautiful women. He noticed Basir searching the crowd again. And you are looking for someone. Did you lose your date?

No, I, ah, um, seeing if there is anyone I know.

Right. Farad patted his friend on the arm. It’s time to meet someone new, I think. We can catch up tomorrow when the excitement has worn off. A commander must not miss an opportunity for action! Farad turned around to search the crowd of dancers himself. Aha! he said. I have it. We will each meet a new person in the spirit of building the reputation of the service. I trust you will do better building relations with the civilian world than you did on your last attempt with Sabira, eh?

Basir noted his friend’s eagerness. Farad was rarely this bold outside of an airplane. He glanced at Farad’s Star Medal. Basir suspected Farad was trying to forget the ceremony earlier today. Losing a comrade was hard.

Now, we must act! I order you onto the offensive. I will meet one lady, and you will meet another. Report back to me tomorrow. Those are your orders, Captain! Farad said.

Basir gave a mock salute, smiling at Farad. Yes, Captain!

Farad returned the salute. Dismissed. Now, I will go to... he pointed toward the crowd. The dancers parted for a moment, revealing the line of women waiting on the other side. Farad stopped for a moment, speechless. Basir followed his gaze. He saw again the vision that had driven him across the room. Her dark hair shone in the ballroom lights. She was standing alone, waiting pensively, for something. Or someone.

Farad was off like a shot. Her! His powerful legs guided him through the crowd. Good luck, my friend! And wish me well!

Basir stood, open-mouthed, as his friend made a beeline for her. Wait! he cried. Farad was halfway there.

Two

Nasrin Avesta stood alone near the edge of the hall. She was acutely aware of the wary looks from the men and women around her. The women were suspicious of her beauty and the men were leery of her father’s disgrace. There had been a time where she had been the center of attention, fawned over, and able to pick and choose her dance partners from the best Persepolis and New Persia had to offer. The scions of great families had jostled and quarreled for her attention. Only those foolish or ignorant enough not to know of her disgrace, or those men willing to add to it with false promises, would ask for her hand to dance. She could not bring herself to take advantage of the former and had seen off many of the latter. A fallen woman seemed to bring out the worst in men. The squalid notes and invitations she received offered meetings in places where no one could see, private apartments, or even the servants’ quarters. She ripped these offers into tiny scraps and burned them to ash.

The best she could hope for was life as a kept mistress for some powerful protector who would never acknowledge her in public. Ever since her father had reached for more than what God had provided, she had paid the price. She should have known. The secret meetings with powerful men, unit commanders, always hidden except in the eyes of the women of the house who saw everything. What had he sought to accomplish? What more did he need, already a general of the Capital District? He had been on his way to the General Staff. What had he wanted, to gamble so foolishly with the game already won? He was a hero of the Azanian War, one of the few commanders to distinguish himself in that bloody morass of a campaign.

Had it been her mother, always complaining when she wasn’t drunk, driving him on with the limitless ambition of a trophy wife? Had she demanded he do something before it was too late and he was too old? Too old for what? Had he thought he could make himself king? Or was he going to install a pretender, as the other plotters had admitted before they were hanged?

Nasrin sometimes wished her father had admitted his guilt and hung with them. It would have taken courage, something he lacked. She could have lived with the disgrace if he’d died like a man. Instead, he lived. And she lived in the shadow of his cowardice and shame.

She felt the eyes on her before she saw them. A young officer in the dress uniform of the Prince’s Own Regiment was looking at her. She was used to looks. She didn’t recognize him. He started walking directly toward her. Nasrin knew the walk, the one where a man works himself up into a lather like a horse in a gallop. She turned away and sighed.

The expected presence at her side didn’t materialize. She looked up and couldn’t see the officer. For some reason, this bothered her. Her eyes darted around the crowd looking for the blue-black uniform. She found him between a tall man in the sky-blue of the Air Corps and a red-dressed woman she recognized as Sabira.

Sabira had once been her close friend and confidante. Until her father’s failure, after which she’d denounced Nasrin. Fortunately, she couldn’t say too much to the authorities without implicating herself in the plot. Nasrin knew if Sabira could have gained anything by selling Nasrin to the gallows, she would have done it. Sabira had even taken up with the Director of Intelligence, Amir Shah. Nasrin knew Amir Shah had wanted to execute General Avesta after the plot, but the prince overruled his minister. Nasrin suspected Sabira’s new protector was her way to distance herself as far from the Avestas as possible. It made Sabira not only an enemy but a grave threat to Nasrin. Nasrin didn’t know what Sabira knew, or what she had told Amir Shah.

Sabira left the two men behind, and Nasrin gave the officer another look. He had the dark features of the North Province. He wasn’t from Persepolis. Perhaps. Images filled her mind, of life in a provincial capital where her past could be left behind. Where she could keep court on an estate of her own, surrounded by family, with children who looked up to her and an adoring husband. Ah, dreams.

As she watched, the Air Corps officer caught her gaze. Nasrin opened her eyes in involuntary surprise. He caught her eye, turned to say something to his friend, and began the swaggering walk she knew so well.

Oh well, Nasrin thought. Perhaps this one instead.

Clenching his jaw, Basir set off into the crowd after his friend. The music changed, and many of the couples dancing stopped and bowed to each other. They broke up, filling the space with people. He ventured around them onto the dance floor. He could see Farad walk up to Nasrin and begin speaking. The music changed, the instruments playing a lively dance. The women on the dance floor started a new step, the men another.

Basir tried to pass, but a short woman in a gold dress with warm dark eyes took him by the arm and spun him around. Basir found himself locked arm in arm with her and dancing to the music. Almost involuntarily, he matched her step and tried to smile back. He couldn’t let go of her without being rude, and she seemed genuinely happy to be dancing with him. Basir helplessly danced and spun as he waited for the song to end. He knew the steps. It was an old dance, said to have come from Earth itself. The woman led the dance, something almost unheard of, which testified to its age. Basir’s partner was well-practiced, deftly guiding him over the floor and between the other couples. Her feet were graceful and light. He found himself enjoying the dance despite his anxiety to find Nasrin again. He tried to avoid looking around and focused his attention on his partner. She was short and curvy with a low-cut dress that fit her perfectly. Her shoes, he noticed, were made for dancing and did not have the tall heels currently in fashion in Persepolis. Basir had never liked styles showing off the helplessness of the woman wearing them.

The music ended. Basir bowed to his partner. He noticed her glowing eyes were brown.

Good evening, Captain, she said.

Turani, he said, introducing himself. Captain Turani of the Prince’s Own.

Suri Pahlavi, she said. A pleasure to meet you, Captain Turani.

And you, Suri, said Basir. That was quite a dance.

Thank you, she said. It was.

They looked at each other for a moment. The music began again.

I’m sorry, Suri said. This is a different dance. I’m afraid I can’t ask you this time.

Basir was paid to make decisions on the run. He often had to choose between alternatives without sufficient information to make an informed choice. He knew when he walked in the doors of the hall, he would have been delighted to end the evening without having embarrassed himself socially or endangering his career. He hadn’t planned on meeting anyone who wanted to know a junior officer only present by the accident of being posted to the Prince’s Regiment. He could chase Farad and a woman he’d never met, or spurn this woman who wanted to dance with him. One was a dangerous choice and one safe. He knew he could not pick the safe option as soon as he thought of it.

Basir looked her in the eyes and said, Thank you again for the dance, Suri. I must be going. He bowed a final time.

Yes, of course. Suri looked him in the eyes until he turned away. Then she looked down at the floor, alone, fighting the tears welling in her eyes. I’m a fool, she thought. One dance is nothing. But she knew it wasn’t true. She knew there was something different about the Northern officer, something that reminded her of her brother and the military men in her family. It set him apart from the nobles and courtiers who never left Persepolis. He wasn’t a creature of conversation and manners, and though his hands were steady, his dancing needed refinement. His calloused hands were more used to a sword than a woman’s touch.

Suri sighed. She would return to the crowd of women waiting for someone to ask them to dance. She had taken the one opportunity of the night to act for herself, and she had failed. At least I did it. I wasn’t afraid.

Basir continued his pursuit, but the trail was cold. He didn’t see Farad or the dark-haired woman anywhere in the hall. He tracked back and forth from the last place he had seen them. He made his way back to the banquet trays. The music changed and changed again, and still, he had not seen either one. His fear grew inside him. He should have seen one or the other by now. Their shared absence increased the dread he would be too late.

He found them outside on one of the covered galleries overlooking the central courtyard. They stood in the twilight of the Second Star, called Shaitan by the less pious, bathing the garden with a soft orange light. Her hair glowed with red highlights.

Basir took a step toward them and heard her laugh for the first time. It was musical, lilting, and genuine. It stopped him in his tracks. Farad was explaining something or other, gesturing with his hands. Perhaps it was about flying aircraft. He could see his face but not hers. Her skin shone around the edges of her blue gown.

Basir was brave but not a boor. To barge in on a couple who were outside seeking privacy was too crude. If he had caught them inside, he might have been able to manage an invitation to dance. It was too late. Perhaps she would grow bored and return to the dance floor, and he would have another chance.

Basir stepped back inside the hall, alive with bright lights and music. His disappointment felt like a vise around his heart. Basir dodged his way through the crowd, oblivious to anything but his failure. When he reached the edge of the dance floor, he turned left to go around the crowd.

Three

Left alone by Basir , Suri reflected on the day before.

In her room, she had pulled the golden dress over her head. She pressed the silky fabric down and straightened the pleats before she looked at herself in the gilded mirror standing in her dressing room. Her red lips curled upward.