Through Darkest Europe

by Harry Turtledove

  Khalid kissed her. Though that might have been shocking in Italy, it wasn’t here. Other couples at other desks had done the same thing. Annarita must have seen as much, because she kissed him back with no hesitation.

  Dawud tipped the clerk before they walked away. That wasn’t required, but it was good form. And the man had been nice enough, in a dry way.

  “I’ve got a hotel room reserved for the day—” Khalid began.

  “Probably won’t want a witness to what goes on there,” Dawud interrupted.

  Nodding to him, Khalid went on, “And then you’ll run us to the airport tomorrow morning. We’re going to spend ten days in Agadir, on the Atlantic coast. All these years in the Maghrib, all this time by the Mediterranean, but I’ve never seen the real ocean.”

  “Neither have I,” Annarita said.

  “And you know what?” Dawud said. “Chances are you won’t see much of it now, either.”

  Annarita squeaked. Khalid said, “Can’t do that all the time, no matter how much I wish I could.” He eyed his friend. “I won’t be sorry you’re a few hundred parasangs away—I’ll tell you that.”

  “Oh, Khalid! You say the sweetest things!” Dawud trilled. They all chuckled.

  * * *

  “You can watch the sun sink into the water from the west coast of Italy,” Annarita said, reclining on a lounge on the beach at Agadir. “I’ve done it often enough.”

  “I did it once or twice myself.” Khalid lay back in his lounger, too. He sipped from an iced glass of wine flavored with fruit juice.

  “The Atlantic seems big enough to take it, though. The Mediterranean never did.” Annarita had an iced glass, too. “It’s probably just my imagination, but—”

  “That’s a wide horizon,” Khalid said. A strip of sand in front of him, then endless blue water meeting endless blue sky. The sun didn’t hiss as if quenched when it went into the water, but Khalid still thought it should.

  Two naked little boys ran down the beach, yelling at each other. They were very brown, partly from the sun and partly from birth. They shouted in the local Berber dialect, of which Khalid understood not a word. They would pick up Arabic in school but used their own tongue between themselves.

  “This is a nice place. I can’t think of anywhere better to honeymoon,” Annarita said. Any minute now, the sun would kiss the Atlantic. It was so low in the sky, she and Khalid could look at it without hurting their eyes. She went on, “It’s out of the way, but it’s modern. If you ask me, it’s more modern than Tunis, and that’s saying something.”

  “It probably is,” Khalid said. “There was a big earthquake here fifty years ago—something like that, anyway. A big earthquake, big enough to level the old town. They had to rebuild Agadir from scratch.”

  “They get earthquakes in Italy, too. The old town falls down … and then they argue about who’s supposed to put it back together and how they’re going to pay for it. And the people in the town, the ones who live there, patch up the ruins as best they can and stay in them. The money that’s supposed to pay for repairs lines somebody’s pockets instead.”

  From what Khalid had seen in Italy—especially in Naples—he believed her. Corruption happened everywhere; corruption was part of a world that involved human beings. But there was a difference between trying to hold it to a minimum and throwing up your hands and letting it become part of the system. The Italians had thrown up their hands centuries before.

  In a way, Annarita had thrown up her hands, too. She didn’t sound angry about repair money that never made repairs, the way a Maghribi would have. She just seemed resigned. Things in Italy worked that way. They always had. As far as she could see, they always would.

  Khalid hoped she was wrong. He hoped that, as modernization finally came to Europe (if modernization ever caught hold in Europe), people there would develop a social conscience, the way they had in the Muslim world. It didn’t always work like that. China boasted a modern economy. Even so, it ran on greased palms and getting away with whatever you could. The Chinese were trying to clean things up, but they were having a tough time.

  He took another sip from his iced, fruity wine. None of this was worth getting excited about on a honeymoon. Maybe he’d remember bits and pieces when he went back to work. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He doubted the earth would spin off its axis either way.

  The sun touched the ocean, then sank into it. Sometimes, on a clear evening with an unobstructed western horizon, you saw a green flash at the moment the last of the sun’s disk disappeared. You couldn’t find a horizon much more unobstructed than the one here. No green flash, though—only the beginning of twilight.

  Khalid got to his feet. He didn’t grumble about the missing flash, any more than he grumbled about the evils of corruption. He didn’t feel like grumbling about anything. He couldn’t remember ever being happier—which was, after all, the point to a honeymoon.

  “Let’s go to supper,” he said. He reached out to help Annarita up from her lounger.

  She took his hand. There wasn’t a literal spark when they touched—no static electricity or anything like that. He felt one just the same. By the glow in her eyes, so did she. After supper, he expected they’d go back to their room and enjoy honeymooning some more. Then they’d sleep soundly, and probably sleep late.

  The hotel eatery featured tagines—stews simmered slowly in earthenware bowls. Annarita chose one made from fish: sardines cooked with herbs and tomatoes. Khalid picked one with chicken falling off the bone, pitted olives, and oranges and citrons. She ate an iced dessert. He declined. “Can’t get too full,” he said seriously.

  “Oh? Why’s that?” Annarita sounded as innocent as Dawud might have.

  “Ha! You’ll find out!” Khalid did his best to put a leer in his voice. He also did his best in their room a little later. Annarita seemed to think it was pretty good. Khalid did sleep soundly. He slept late, too. When he woke up, Annarita was still almost-snoring beside him. He smiled a lazy smile and wondered what he could manage after she opened her eyes.

  Only one trouble with a honeymoon: you couldn’t stay on it for the rest of your life. Eventually, you had to go back and pick up the threads of the everyday world. The concierge at the hotel telephoned a taxi. The bright orange Pontiak took Khalid and Annarita to the airport outside Agadir.

  They got there two and a half hours before the flight back to Tunis was scheduled to take off. Because of the Aquinists’ unrest, air-travel authorities had boosted security to its highest level. Everything and everyone got searched, and then searched again.

  Eyeing his fellow passengers as they waited and after they finally got to board, Khalid didn’t see anyone who seemed likely to want to blow up an airliner for the greater glory of God. He didn’t see anyone who looked both European and fanatical, in other words. Yes, he was stereotyping the rest of the travelers, but not, he judged, unreasonably. Aquinists didn’t always look the way they were portrayed in films and on television, but a lot of the time they did.

  It was three hundred or three hundred fifty parasangs to Tunis: two hours for the jet. He and Annarita had spent longer waiting in the airport than they would on the flight. He did grouse about that. “It’s still faster than if we drove or took the train,” Annarita said.

  “It’s not as fast as it ought to be,” he answered. Each of them aimed a severe look at the other. Then they started to laugh. What else were you going to do when you were both right?

  Mountains and deserts unscrolled, thousands of cubits below them. The Maghrib’s fertile coastal strip looked all the greener when contrasted with that brown and yellow. Off in the distance, Khalid sometimes got glimpses of the wine-dark sea. He didn’t need to grope for Homer’s term now, the way he had when he and Dawud flew from Tunis to Rome to give Grand Duke Cosimo a hand against the Aquinists. Chances were he would never need to grope for it again. From now on, it would jump into his mind whether he wanted it to or not.

  “We’re on our descent into Tunis,”
the pilot announced over the intercom. “Please straighten your seats, then close your trays and latch them. Thanks very much, my masters and mistresses. We’ll be landing soon. This flight is right on time.”

  Annarita checked her watch. She nodded in happy surprise. “It is on time! Nothing in Italy is—nothing much, anyway.”

  “I noticed,” Khalid said. “You’re not in Italy any more.”

  “One more reason to be glad I’m not.” She set her hand on his arm for a moment. He felt a smile on his face, wider than any he was used to wearing. So far, marriage agreed with him.

  The plane touched down as smoothly as he could have wanted. Along with the rest of the passengers, he and Annarita filed off. Then they headed to baggage claim to pick up their suitcases and to meet Dawud. He would drive them back to Khalid’s flat, where they would set up housekeeping till they found a bigger place they liked.

  Annarita kept looking around. “Is it my imagination, or is the airport full of Jews?” she asked in a low voice.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Khalid said, also quietly. A lot of Jews looked and dressed like anyone else, or they would have if so many hadn’t worn six-pointed stars on chains around their necks to mark themselves off. Several in Western European costume used the same signal. And some from Eastern Europe wore long black coats and wide-brimmed hats of black felt or fur … and the six-pointed stars. They would start to melt as soon as they left the air-conditioned terminal.

  At the carousel, Dawud waved. He pumped Khalid’s hand and hugged Annarita. “And they said it wouldn’t last!” he exclaimed.

  “Funny man,” Khalid said. “What are all your tribesmen doing here?”

  “You don’t know?” Dawud clucked. “It’s been on the news.”

  “We haven’t cared about the news lately,” Khalid reminded him.

  “Oh? Why would that be?” Dawud was rarely ashamed to laugh at his own jokes. Once he had, he continued, “Anyway, the world gathering of the Jewish Nationhood Society is in Tunis this year. Hotels are bulging like you wouldn’t believe. It’ll pump all kinds of money into the economy.”

  “The Jewish Nationhood Society? What do they want?” Annarita asked.

  “What the name says. A national home, the way the Persians have Persia and the Italians have Italy.”

  “Where would they put it?” she wondered.

  “Wherever they can, basically,” Dawud said. “Palestine is the first choice, but there might be others.… Whoops! Is that one yours?”

  It was. Khalid grabbed it. Annarita asked the question that was also going through his mind: “What do you think the chances are?”

  “Slim,” Dawud answered frankly. “We’ve been talking about it since the Romans smashed the Second Temple. Jews like to talk—you may have noticed. But I don’t suppose it’ll ever amount to anything.”

  I sure hope not, thought Khalid, who could imagine any number of problems the Nationhood Society was probably ignoring. Since he was too polite to risk hurting his Jewish friend’s feeling by saying that, he tried something else instead: “Why don’t you take us home?”

  TOR BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  Between the Rivers

  Conan of Venarium

  The Two Georges (by Richard Dreyfuss and Harry Turtledove)

  Household Gods (by Judith Tarr and Harry Turtledove)

  The First Heroes (edited by Harry Turtledove and Noreen Doyle)

  The House of Daniel

  Through Darkest Europe

  DARKNESS

  Into the Darkness

  Darkness Descending

  Through the Darkness

  Rulers of the Darkness

  Jaws of Darkness

  Out of the Darkness

  CROSSTIME TRAFFIC

  Gunpowder Empire

  Curious Notions

  In High Places

  The Disunited States of America

  The Gladiator

  The Valley-Westside War

  THE OPENING OF THE WORLD

  Beyond the Gap

  The Breath of God

  The Golden Shrine

  WRITING AS H. N. TURTELTAUB

  Justinian

  Over the Wine-Dark Sea

  The Gryphon’s Skull

  The Sacred Land

  Owls to Athens

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  HARRY TURTLEDOVE lives in Los Angeles, California, with his wife, the novelist Laura Frankos. He is a winner of science fiction’s Hugo Award and of the Sidewise Award for Alternate History. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Tor Books by Harry Turtledove

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THROUGH DARKEST EUROPE

  Copyright © 2018 by Harry Turtledove

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art and design by Jamie Stafford-Hill

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates

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  Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-7998-6 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-7132-8 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781466871328

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  First Edition: September 2018