by Tom Kratman
This girl's brother and my contact have the hots for each other? Is this a good or a bad thing?
"He's not a slave trader?"
"No," Ling said. "Yes, he's had to put on a show and yes, those children really were sold, but no—and my control tells me this De Wet person was up in arms over the whole thing—he's not really a slave trader."
"Do you know what those children were sold for?" Hans asked. "Does he?"
"We've got a pretty good idea, Hans, yes. But if they're the price to pay for saving a world?"
"No one asked them if they were willing to pay it, did they?"
"No one asked me either, Hans, when they sold me to this place."
He nodded and said, "What a perfect Hell of a world. What now?"
"I'm not sure," she answered. "How far are you willing to go to hurt the Caliphate?"
Hans started to laugh. The laugh grew and grew until it filled Ling's entire room. It grew deep and belly splitting. It had to grow, for it held twenty or more years of hate in it.
"I love it here," Petra said. "Here by the lake, I mean, not up there in the castle. I wish it never had to end, that I could turn into one of the rocks, a tall one so I could see out, and just see the seasons pass, watch the birds and the bees fly, and never, ever, have to feel anything again. Thank you for taking me." She put her head down, shyly.
Hamilton wasn't sure quite what he felt at that moment. There was still some shame from being a boor earlier, surely. And he felt a great pity for the girl, too. But there was something else he hadn't felt in a very long time, something he absolutely didn't want to put to words or even admit to feeling.
Later, he thought. Later on, I'll take that out and examine it. For now, there's a job to do. Several, actually. And for God's sake don't give this girl a hope you won't be able to deliver on.
"It's getting late," he said, "and it's a longish walk. Let's head back to the castle."
"You mean you're not going to . . ." She didn't sound disappointed so much as surprised. Then again, it was a romantic setting and she was sure he'd want to. In fact, she'd been sure he'd taken her to the lake only to fuck her.
"No," he smiled. "Not here and maybe not there either. We need to have a long talk first. And I need to have a talk with my . . . ummm . . . servant."
Honsvang, Province of Baya, 10 Muharran,
1538 AH (21 October, 2113
"You're out of your fucking mind," Bongo said. "No way. No effing way! Not gonna happen."
Bongo and Hamilton were walking not far from where Petra and he had had their picnic earlier in the day. He'd walked her home, seen her to her room, kissed her chastely, picked up his deposit and gone immediately back to town to the hotel room. From there he and Bongo had left for the lake because, as Bongo had said, "I can sweep this room for bugs; I can't sweep it for ears."
"Let's let that go, for now," Hamilton suggested. "What have you found out?"
Reluctantly, despite the security of the open field by the lake, Bongo continued, "I did a recon of the castle—the one we're interested in—last night. It's pretty tightly sewn up. There's never less than forty guards on duty, on a one-in-three watch schedule. They're all well armed and apparently well disciplined. They're in layers, too. Some more high tech security also, sensors, lasers, CCTV . . . the kind of shit the Caliphate produces little of. They've got dogs . . . one of the furry bastards got my scent, too. I had a helluva time getting away unseen. Those guys will alert on anything. We're not getting in on the sly."
"I know," Hamilton agreed, "which is why—"
"Like I said, no fucking way. We are not taking into our confidence a fucking janissary for Christ's Holy Sake! Better to kill the bastard."
Hamilton looked up, intending to continue the argument, when he spotted a black-uniformed man leading a woman shrouded in a burka by the hand. The woman was not Petra; that much he could see by her walk. So he assumed . . .
"Why don't you kill him now?" Hamilton asked conversationally. "Me, personally, I think he looks kind of tough. You're on your own."
"Ibn Minden, Hans, Odabasi, Corps of Janissaries," Hans introduced himself, with a polite bow of his head. "And I understand I owe you a serious apology . . . which you have."
Hans inclined that head toward Ling. "She's told me everything—"
"Everything I know," Ling corrected. "Which may not be everything."
Don't be a bitch, said the little voice.
In response, Ling nodded her head vigorously, half a dozen times.
Stop that!
For the first time since Hamilton had known him, Bongo laughed uproariously. Everyone, Ling included, looked at him strangely. That only made him laugh harder.
"I'm a chippie, too," Bongo finally explained. "She was punishing her control . . . weren't you, dear?"
"You never told me," Hamilton said.
"'Need to know,'" Bongo quoted. "I needed to have the chip put in to control some of my voluntary and involuntary muscles after I was medically discharged. It's not pleasant to have."
"I know your mission," Hans said. "And I will help. But I have conditions. You will be thinking of killing me now," he added. "This will not only be harder to do than you suspect, but my disappearance will alert the local forces. This you cannot afford."
Bongo began to tense, as if for a killing fight, then just as suddenly relaxed. "What conditions?" he asked.
"First, the children slaves in the lower castle must be freed and delivered to a safe place. You can do this."
"We've no way to get them across Lake Constance," Bongo objected.
"That is merely a detail to be worked out," Hans said. "Second, you must free my sister and get her out as well."
"Done," said Hamilton, drawing an angry look from Bongo.
"Third," continued Hans, "you must get Ling—"
"—I'm not allowed to leave, Hans," Ling interjected.
"We'll talk about that later," he insisted. "For now I want these gentlemen to agree in principle."
"I can agree in principle to anything," Bongo said. "Doesn't mean I can follow through."
"Ling?" Hans asked.
She shut her eyes for a moment, then answered, in a voice that was not quite her own, "His name is Bernard Matheson. Bronx, New York, American Empire. He is a veteran of the Imperial Army's Special Forces. He holds their Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry above and beyond the call of duty in the Fourth Colombian Pacification Campaign. Married three times. No current wife. No children. Entered Imperial Intelligence after being invalided out of— no, medically retired from—the Army as a result of wounds received in the action for which he received the Distinguished Service Cross. Terminal rank: Lieutenant Colonel. He's been working the Boer Republic for the last—"
"That's about enough!" said Bongo.
"Bongo, Caruthers never told me—" Hamilton began.
"Need to know," Bongo repeated. "Besides, did I never mention how fucking much I hate the nickname Bongo? Just because my friends call me that doesn't mean I like it."
"I think you can follow through," said Hans, which drew from Bongo a shrug.
Beside them, Ling shuddered, gasped and said, "I hate being teleoperated."
"I sympathize," answered Bongo. "Now give me a minute while I consult with higher." He turned away and walked closer to the lake.
While Bongo was consulting, Hamilton asked Ling, "How did your people know about him? I mean, me I can understand. I assumed my file was downloaded to you just as I was briefed on you. But him?"
If you answer, you will be punished.
She just shook her head. Hans, instead, answered, "It should be pretty obvious they keep close tabs on you people. As obvious as that you are infiltrated."
"I suppose. And it must be easier for them, with Chinese unremarkably common in our Empire, while whites in theirs are pretty rare." Hamilton laughed. "I wonder who isn't infiltrated."
Ling said, "The Swiss."
"Yesss," Hamilton agreed, slowly.
"The Swiss."
"Ahhh," said Hans. "Indeed. The Swiss."
All three looked generally southwestward, and said, almost together, "The Swiss."
"We agree," Bongo said. "But, there are a couple of things you should know. One is that the Empire will not provide any external assistance. They have asked the Swiss to allow the temporary basing of a single battalion of Rangers and that has been denied. They've asked for permission to base a single airship. That, too, has been denied. For reasons I'll explain later, we're not going to get any air support. No nuclear strike unless we fail . . . in which case the strike will be general in the hope of utterly destroying any trace of the virus or, failing that, to so disorganize the Caliphate that it cannot deliver the virus to our shores, allies, or possessions."
"But I thought . . . I mean Caruthers said . . . "
"Baas," and this time Bongo did let the contempt he felt for the title show through, "the President has changed his mind. Rather, it seems the secretaries of Defense, State and Intelligence have gotten together and browbeaten him into changing his mind. To paraphrase, 'fuck the
Christians in the Caliphate and fuck England, too; we have to watch out for our own.'"
"Oh, and folks . . . one other thing: The President said if we haven't solved his problem in two weeks he's launching anyway. The subs are already moving into position."
"Holy shit," said Hamilton.
"Nothing holy about it."
Interlude
Grosslangheim, Federal Republic of Germany,
4 July, 2006
There wouldn't be any more fireworks exploding over Harvey Barracks in the future, Gabi knew. The Americans were pulling out towards the end of the year and, so it was assumed, never coming back. For this year though, from the side of a hill by the nearby town of Grosslangheim, she and Mahmoud and little Amal watched the display. Gabi thought the Americans had put some extra effort into the show, perhaps as a way of saying, "You're going to miss us."
No we won't, she thought.
Mahmoud was here only for a couple of weeks' vacation. He was an American now, as perhaps he'd been born to be, and worked like a slave. Not for him five or six weeks' annual vacation; American workers usually didn't even use the paltry couple of weeks their oppressors granted them. But also not for him taxes that took more than half his income. He worked more and harder; he earned more, and he got to keep a lot more of what he made.
"You would like Boston, Gabi," he said, "really you would. It's like here, most ways. You want multiculturalism? They've got it and it works . . . better, anyway. You want culture? They've got the greatest collection, per capita, of art, public works, parks, restaurants, amusements . . . sheer things-to-do . . . in the world. Nothing else I've seen or read of comes close." He smiled, a little ruefully. "Gabi, there's more of Egypt in their Museum of Fine Arts than there is in Egypt at al Mataf. Well, almost more and certainly better. And theater . . . ballet . . . symphonies . . . whatever you want. Massachusetts is a densely populated state, and it's still seventy percent forest."
Gabi was about to object, "Looted," when she realized two things. Most if not all Egyptian antiquities in Europe were looted, and the Americans, being latecomers to the game, had probably actually paid for theirs.
"Tell me about the Museum, Mahmoud," she said instead.
"I go there about every month, in part because it's grand in itself, and in part because it reminds me of you. I imagine you and the baby are there with me. It makes it better . . . a little."
Her heart, a part of it anyway, ached to go. That would never do.
"And where do they hold their lynchings in Boston?" she asked. "And by restaurants I assume you mean your choice of fast food. And how do you get to your museum, or the fast food places, with garbage piled up a meter deep in the roadways? And how many times a day do you have to duck gunfire?"
Mahmoud sighed and shook his head. He could see where this was going. He put one elbow on his knee and rested his chin upon the hand. For a while, he simply fumed in silence. Yet he'd chosen to be American, chosen to become a part of that team, just as Gabi had chosen to remain a part of her team. If Gabi could defend hers, unreasonably in his view, why should he not defend his?
He answered, "You know, it's funny. Europeans look down their noses at Americans, sneering at their ignorance and lack of culture. Yet the Euros are themselves more ignorant of America than Americans are of Europe. And but for American culture, what would Europe have that wasn't old and dead or dying? That, or a poor imitation of what the Americans have? And I'll be sure to note it for you, the next time I lack for something different to eat in Boston. Arab? They've got it. French? They've got it. German, Thai, Korean, Ethiopian, Italian, Vietnamese . . . whatever. They've got it. And a lot more than you do here."
Mahmoud pointed with his chin at the fireworks. He, too, was sure that, because the post of Harvey Barracks was closing, the Americans had put on more of a display than usual. "They're giving up on you, you know. They're leaving because Europe doesn't matter anymore. They don't need to control you. They don't need to fear you. They don't even have to worry about you dragging them into another war, as you've done twice. You know what those fireworks are saying, Gabi? They're saying, 'We're independent of you, as we have been since 1776 . . . and you don't matter anymore. We are the future. You are only the past.'"
"Arrogant bastards," Gabi sneered.
"No," Mahmoud disagreed. "Not arrogant. Arrogance exists when someone thinks they are better, more capable, or more important than they really are. Europe is like that. Europe really is arrogant. America is capable, is important, and is, frankly, better. It's the indispensable nation. No arrogance there, or at least not much."
And that set off the fight.
Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,
6 September, 2007
"American Bases Targeted for Attack."
The TV screens were full of the news: Three men arrested, two of them German reverts to Islam, deep in a conspiracy to produce bombs that dwarfed those used in Madrid and London in previous years. Were the bombs intended for the American bases still on German soil? Were they intended to strike at the German civilian populace?
Gabi didn't know. It would be wrong to say that she didn't care. Rather, she rejected the existence of the news entirely. It called into question her own most cherished beliefs about the fundamental decency of mankind, the ability of people to get along if only they would talk and tolerate, the total irrelevance of religion to modern life.
Faced with this, Gabi simply turned off the television and went back to her drawing.
Chapter Thirteen
Islam is a revolutionary ideology and program which seeks to alter the social order of the whole world and rebuild it in conformity with its own tenets and ideals. Islam wishes to destroy all States and Governments anywhere on the face of the Earth which are opposed to the ideology and program of Islam, regardless of the country or the Nation which rules it.
—Sayyed Abul Ala Maududi,
founder of Pakistan's Jamaat-e-Islami, April, 1939
Honsvang, Province of Baya, 12 Muharram,
1538 AH (23 October, 2113)
They met in Hamilton's bug-swept suite: Hans, Ling, Hamilton, Bongo, and Petra. Petra was not present in the sitting room. Indeed, she was sleeping in Hamilton's bed. The others agreed; the less she knew the better for everyone. She had no useful skills that anyone could see. Neither did Ling, of course, but she—however much it disgusted her—could be teleoperated.
"We can't fight them heads up," said Hans. "Not even with me to sabotage the defense."
"I agree," said Bongo—no, "Bernie," now that he'd mentioned how much he hated his nickname. "Besides, if we even started, we'd have two companies from af-Fridhav on us in no time."
"One company," Hans corrected. "The others would be split up watching the Swiss. It would take them hours to collect themselves and move."
"Still," Bernie said. "The four of us against
two companies of janissaries is . . . well, just not possible."
"Three of us," said Hamilton. "Neither Hans nor I can fly an airship to get the slaves out. I know neither you nor Ling can, on your own, but you can be teleoperated by a qualified pilot."
"We don't even know how we're going to get an airship," said Ling.
"Rent one? Steal one?" asked Hamilton.