by Tom Kratman
"But why won't the Americans share their medicine with you, Besma?"
The older girl sighed, "Because we're at war, and it's a war we don't know how to end and they won't until we're all extinct." She thought about it for a minute and then walked to her trunk. From this she removed a textbook which she brought to the other girl.
She opened the book to a map of the globe. "This is what the world looks like. Here's where we are," she said, pointing to a green patch at one end of the largest land mass. That piece, Petra read, was labeled "Caliphate of Europe and Western North Africa." One small section, surrounded by green, was in red and labeled "Switzerland."
Besma's finger traced east, to a large red swatch extending down into the Balkans. "This is the Socialist Empire of the Tsar, Vladimir the Fifth. He's an enemy, too, but he isn't trying to extinguish us." The finger moved down to another section, colored in paler green, that stretched all the way from the upper part of the area labeled "Africa" over to some islands far to the right. "This is the Caliphate of Islam, Triumphant. I understand it's a mess."
Petra noticed that right in the middle of the Caliphate of Islam, Triumphant, on the eastern shore of the middle sea, there was a bare patch unmarked and unnamed. "And this?"
"I don't know," Besma said. "My teachers wouldn't talk about it."
Still farther down, the finger pointed to, "The Boer Free State, which owns most of Africa below the Sahara. A lot of the black slaves come from there. The Boers sell us their surplus population. The only good things about them are that they distrust America, too, and they provide us with a lot of technology we can't make for ourselves."
Moving her finger to the right, Besma marked, "This is the Celestial Kingdom of the Han. They also sell us some things we can't make for ourselves. They are at war with Nihon," the finger touched a large group of islands in the ocean marked "Peaceful." "Nihon is an ally of the American devils."
From there the finger moved southwest to a multicolored patchwork of little states, all crowded into a triangular peninsula. "This used to be a big country, but split into two, then three, then dozens. I don't know why."
"What's all this black?" Petra asked, her own little hand sweeping the two continents of the west, various islands in the sea called "Peaceful," the area south of the Kingdom of the Han, and two large islands off the coast of the Caliphate.
"That's the American devils, places they rule and places so closely allied to them they may as well rule them."
Diosdado Macapagal International Airport, Philippine Sovereign Allied Territory, 22 May, 2107
Imperialism not only can come in light-handed and heavy-handed varieties, just how light or heavy those hands feel can depend on whether or not the subject peoples feel the need to have the imperialists around.
The imperial hand laid upon the Philippines was so light that there was talk of statehood, full membership in the Union. Moreover, the need was great, what with the Moros of Mindanao and Cebu. Indeed, it was the remaining presence of so many Moslems in the PSAT that had kept it from statehood, so far.
That's why the 24th Infantry Division had been sent for the second time to the islands. The first time had been to help liberate them from the Japanese.
(The Japanese had actually volunteered troops to the ongoing campaign in the Philippines but the Filipinos, with memories that a mere hundred and sixty-odd years could not erase, had said, in effect, "Been there; done that. It wasn't all that much fun the first time. So, thanks, but no thanks.")
Thus, the faces on the troops of the 43rd, 45th and 57th Infantry Regiments of the Army of the Philippines, standing in ranks to welcome the newly arrived 24th Infantry Division, were brightly lit with smiles as the first of the Suited Heavy Infantry debarked from the Retaliation. Those Filipinos were all already United States citizens and only looked forward to full joinder in the Empire. Their band, the 12th Infantry Division band, played the song the Filipinos still sometimes thought of as "Caissons." And why not? The song, under that title, had been born at this very base, then known as Fort Stotsenberg, in the Philippines, one hundred and ninety-nine years before.
Though it was tied down and partly sunk into an artificial depression, the airship still shuddered with the impact of hundreds of pairs of armored, powered feet, running in place and in cadence, as the twin side ramps hummed down to the tarmac of the airship port to the east of the airfield.
In their communications system, Hamilton and Hodge heard the voice of their not-too-terribly beloved company commander, Carl Thompson, a medium-sized, overly large brained, relentless and vicious mustang with a bad attitude towards graduates of the Imperial Military Academy. There was something about Thompson that was just plain uncomfortable.
"Bravo Company!"
"Platoon!" echoed the lieutenants Laurie Hodge, John Hamilton, Kennedy Parker and Jerome Miles. Parker's supplemental command was late and hesitant.
"Double time—"
"Double time—"
"March!"
At first, since the only troopers really able to run were right at the loading ramp, the pounding and the shuddering of the airship's deck decreased. Then, as the forward ranks thinned and more and more of the troops were able to actually run, the deck could be seen to visibly vibrate.
Far above, on the bridge of the airship, the ship's captain, Lieutenant Colonel Mike (the) Pike, shuddered, grimaced and cursed through gritted teeth, "I friggin' hate when they do that."
The captain—"that asshole Thompson"—was already posted on the tarmac when Hamilton and his platoon emerged from the airship. Hodge, leading her platoon, had slowed to allow the troops to form into a solid mass in four files behind her. Thompson was pointing with his left, armored, hand at the precise spot he wanted her to take. For whatever reason—and rumor control said he'd had a bad experience as a lieutenant in the northern territories when some rebels had compromised the radio net—he was much more inclined to point, where that would do, than to use the radio.
Hamilton likewise slowed down and his boys and girls, quick on the uptake as pretty much all SHI troopers were, began forming from the column of twos they'd been in on the airship into a column of fours to mirror Hodge's 1st Platoon.
Thompson wasn't as precise in signaling to Hamilton as he had been with Hodge; Hamilton should have gotten the general idea of where he belonged from where Hodge was. In fact, he did. Leading his platoon to form up next to Hodge's, as soon as he was aligned with her he raised one arm and changed from a double time to running in place.
Third Platoon and Weapons likewise formed to the left. Only when they were properly lined up did Thompson order, "Company . . . halt. Parade . . . rest," then snap to attention, turn about (which took practice in a suit), and come to parade rest himself.
The rest, the welcoming speech by General Miguel Maglalang of the Philippine Army, the pass in review, and the march off to the barracks, was anticlimactic.
Al Harv Kaserne, Province of Affrankon, 30 Jumahdi I, 1531 AH (23 May, 2107)
"There shall be no compulsion in religion!" thundered the muscled, graying drill instructor, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, to the one hundred and nineteen newly gathered boys in the Hall of Arms. One of those boys was Hans Ibn Minden. "None whatsoever!"
The boys, none of them over twelve years of age, were positioned in what the Imperial Army would have called "the front leaning rest." Most of the world would have recognized it as the pushup position. They'd been that way so long that tears ran down faces even as arms, quivering, threatened to collapse.
In fact, some did collapse until the heavily booted feet of their overseers brought them back up to the pushup position. From those, the tears flowed without cease.
"No compulsion in religion," the senior drill instructor repeated. "Yet there is bounty, under the mercy of Allah, for those who forswear their false religion."
One of the boys, apparently no dummy, raised his head and gasped, "Bounty?"
"Indeed. It is our custom to fete those who joi
n the faithful. It is very hard to do so with someone in the position you are in and so we relieve them of it."
Hans gritted his teeth. His mother's parting whispers echoed in his ears. My son, whatever they may take from you, do not let them have your soul as well. Keep true to our faith. God will not forget you.
Yet it was hard, hard. The work of a rural fellahin should have built good muscle in Hans' arms. And so it would have, if food had not been perennially scarce. As it was, he was not so strong as he might have been, either in body or in soul. With the rising agony in his arms, his mother's parting words grew fainter and fainter. When one by one the other boys took the drill instructor up on his offer, repeating the words, "La illaha illa Allah: Mohamedan rasulu Allah," There is no God but God; Mohamed is the prophet of God; Hans' will weakened and finally broke.
And this, thought Abdul Rahman, himself a Nazrani weaned from the faith of his fathers, this is why we take them so young.
Kitznen, Province of Affrankon, 2 Jumahdi II, 1531 AH (25 May, 2107)
Even as Hans and his newfound barracks mates underwent conversion in the Al Harv Kaserne, Petra, too was learning new things. Her instruction was even less pleasant than his was.
Besma, held fast by Fudail's, her stepbrother's, strong arms, struggled and wept and pleaded for her father's wife to lay off the beating. Petra, the object of that beating, wept and begged and chewed with her teeth upon the table over which she was bent. Petra's long skirt was lifted over her back, exposing her buttocks. Al Khalifa, the stepmother, held her neck to the table with one hand while she lashed those buttocks mercilessly, raising welts and occasional bright red drops of blood.
Al Khalifa stopped the beating just long enough to turn to Besma and say, "Didn't you ever wonder why I let your father waste money on this Nazrani slut? He might not let me punish you as you deserve, but he'll not say a word over punishing a slave."
She turned back to Petra and laid on four more strokes. "Think about that the next time you think you can talk back to me, or disobey me, or fail in any way to show me the respect I am due."
"Please," Besma begged. "I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry. I promise I'll be good but please don't hit her anymore."
"PLEASE!" Besma shrieked as al Khalifa turned back to the slave's bare buttocks and began to thrash her even more viciously than before. "Please!"
Only when the Nazrani girl fainted did al Khalifa leave off. "It will be like this, only worse, every time you fail to please me," the woman said. To her son she said, "Let Besma go," before she, and he, left.
"I didn't do anything; I didn't do anything; I didn't do anything," Petra repeated, over and over, hysterically, without there being anything Besma could say or do to make her stop. Instead, she just held the younger girl and rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair and whispering how sorry she was.
Though it took much time, hours, little by little Petra's shuddering lessened, then finally stopped. Her sobbing, too, let off. Still Besma held her until, certain Petra had fallen asleep, the Moslem girl was able to lay her down on her own bed. She was very careful to lay Petra on her side, lest the pressure on her bruised and bleeding buttocks might awaken her again in agony.
Besma's face was a study in pure hatred. She waited, that bitch, until I loved you like a sister to use you to get to me. And now what can I do? Have father sell you somewhere else? I couldn't bear it and you couldn't bear being where you would end up. And so now I am a slave, because I cannot bear for you to be hurt. Because of that . . . that . . . that . . . stinking-vile-foul-slimy-filthy woman owns me.
Her face softened, looking down at the sleeping doll-like figure on her bed. Besma bent and kissed the slave girl's cheek. But if I must be owned, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that the price is fair.
Orderly Room, Co-B, 2nd Battalion, 19th Infantry, Camp Stotsenberg, Philippine Islands, 30 May, 2107
"There's a price for everything in life, Lieutenant Hamilton, and the price is always fair when it isn't exorbitant."
Thus spoke "that asshole, Captain Thompson." Hamilton hadn't the first clue what the captain was talking about. The Old Man had ordered him to his office without explanation. "Sit," he'd said, once Hamilton had reported. "We need to have a chat."
Having said that, though, Thompson just stared at Hamilton, studying him, with his left eyebrow lifted and head cocked to the right. The captain's studying made the lieutenant distinctly uncomfortable and did so very quickly. He had a scary look about him anyway and the extended silence only made it worse.
After several long minutes, and having made his lieutenant nervous enough to climb walls, Thompson spoke again. His voice was something between conversational and prosecutorial as he said, "There are no secrets in an infantry company. Have you ever asked yourself, Lieutenant, what the effect on your troops will be if you ever have to order them into a bad situation to save Hodge's ass? If you weren't fucking her, it would be no problem. But since you are fucking her, that will be the reason they think you're risking their lives, to save your little honey-buns. The same holds true for her."
"Sir, I—"
"Shut up."
"Yes, sir."
"In a country," Thompson continued, "where many civil rights once thought normal and above infringement have slipped away, you are in the least privileged class of all, Lieutenant Hamilton. You're an infantry officer. You have no rights. You have no personal interests that cannot be classified as trivial. You exist for the sole purpose of supporting the interests of the Empire through violence. Anything you do that undermines your ability to support the Empire through violence is ethically and morally wrong. Do you understand me?"
"Sir, I have the right to have sex with anyone I want not in my chain of command," Hamilton objected.
Thompson, for once, smiled. "Lieutenant, wherever did you hear that?"
"The bastard said he'd transfer me to 3rd of the 19th in Second Brigade, John. I don't want to give up my platoon. I don't want to be in a different unit from you."
Hodge lay naked with her head on Hamilton's chest and one arm draped over his torso. His chest was wet with the tears she'd shed when she'd told him they had to revert to just being friends.
"He was pretty specific, too, John, the foul-mouthed, tactless son of a bitch. 'No fucking, no sucking, no kissing, no cuddling, no anything, Lieutenant Hodge, that so much as suggests he is anything to you but a brother officer.' I had to give my word or he'd have shipped me out—well, one of us out, anyway—without even the chance to say goodbye. I was lucky I was able to talk him into turning a blind eye for one last night."
Hamilton nodded. "Hard-assed bastard isn't he?" Sighing, he continued, "Well . . . if he had shipped one of us out, we'd never have seen each other at all, not with the way they're going to rotate us and Second Brigade in and out of the field in sequence. At least this way we can be close, if not as close as we'd like. I'd never get a moment's sleep if I had to worry about you all the time without being able to watch out for you."
"Why, John, I'd almost think you cared."
"Silly bitch. I love you. Didn't you know?"
In answer, she gasped, hugged him tightly, and threw one leg over both of his. She then began moving downwards along his chest. While she still could, she whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear, "I love you, too, you bastard. I have since we were plebs."
* * *
Jungle insects swarmed, buzzing in ears and feasting on the exposed faces of three very uncomfortable lieutenants.
"Moose cock," Captain Thompson said, to his three line platoon leaders. "You all suck moose cock. Where the fuck did you people learn that drills were a substitute for brains?"
The line lieutenants stood at attention, suit helmets off and held under their left arms. The weapons platoon leader and the exec were both old Thompson hands, first lieutenants. Thus they hadn't fucked up; they weren't at attention; and they both wore amused smirks at the other lieutenants' discomfiture. Miles' smile, in particular, shon
e against his black skin.
"Hodge, what the fuck did you think you were doing leading my boys and girls into a goddamned minefield? Didn't anyone ever tell you mines are deadly to us?"
The captain's evil eyes swiveled to Hamilton. "Dipshit," he sneered, "when the terrain doesn't suit bounding overwatch then don't do bounding overwatch. I don't give a flying fuck what the book says; you're paid to use your mind. Use it."
At third platoon leader Thompson didn't swear, nor even sneer. Instead he said, "Even very large directional mines can be fired from quite close to the troop line provided you sandbag behind them. Failure to so use them is an indicator of cowardice. That is something beyond my power to fix. You're relieved. Get out of my sight and send your platoon sergeant up. Then turn in your suit to the company armorer and report to battalion headquarters. Maybe Woody can find a use for you that fits your lack of talent."