by Tom Kratman
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She chewed for a few moments on her lower lip. Then she said, "You know . . . for you I might just want to. Especially because I won't have to."
"You don't have to do anything now, either," he said.
"I know," she answered, bending her head while reaching down with one hand. "Maybe that's why I want to."
"When do you turn eighteen?" he asked, just before she engulfed him. She didn't answer and he, for a while, lost the ability to think.
Honsvang, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,
1538 AH (24 October, 2113)
While Hamilton groaned under Petra's ministrations, Matheson's body worked under the guidance of Doctor Richter. The entire apparatus looked something less than professional. Above, on a small table, rested a drip bottle containing ferric ferrocyanide, or Prussian blue dye. This was nontoxic. From the bottle a tube led into the stainless steel pressure cooker, through a hole Bernie had hand cut and then sealed. Exactly beneath the hole, a burner projected, located so that the drip from the tube would drop Prussian blue right onto the flame. The burner had its own oxygen supply, fed in before combustion took place, from a medical bottle.
Another tube led from the top of the stainless steel vessel to a stoppered glass beaker. The tube extended nearly to the bottom of the beaker. Above the level of the end of that tube was the lye he'd obtained at the bakery. A tube above the level of the lye led out through the stopper and to another beaker containing a slurry of charcoal and water. A further tube from that last beaker led to a just- slightly-opened window.
Matheson lit the burner and started the Prussian blue drip.
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,
1538 AH (24 October, 2113)
Petra lifted her head away. I don't have anything to offer, she thought, except for this. Maybe it will be enough to make him really want to take me away. Or maybe it will just remind him that I'm a filthy whore. I wish I had more to give. Might as well wish to turn back the clock and change history.
She looked up into Hamilton's eyes, hoping to find that she'd pleased him. Instead she saw a look she had never seen before on any man's face. She really didn't know what it meant.
Nor did Hamilton explain. He just pulled her up along the bed, toward the pillow. Then he spread her legs, and took a position very similar to the one she had held until a few moments before.
This wasn't exactly new to Petra, after all, she and Ling had been lovers for years now. But none of her clients had ever shown any interest.
He's not as good as Ling, she thought, dreamily, but he's better than any man who's ever had me. And . . . he smells more . . . right than Ling does.
Honsvang, Province of Baya, 14 Muharram,
1538 AH (25 October, 2113)
Bernie was a mere observer as Richter stopped the drip and then turned off the burner. Almost immediately, gaseous bubbles that had been rising in both of the beakers stopped. In one beaker, bathed in lye, was a layer of whitish crystals. He shared minds, to a degree, with Richter and knew that these were hydrogen cyanide, harmless in the current form. The crystals Richter separated out, storing them in one of the larger glass jars. The used lye was thrown away and replaced. The charcoal-water slurry likewise went down the toilet and a new batch was added to the second beaker.
I can smell almonds, Bernie thought.
Good, answered Richter. That means you're not one of those people who can't smell cyanide. Don't worry, this is not a dangerous concentration.
If you say so, but that's my body you're exposing.
I'd feel your death, said Richter, in defense.
Sure, but you'd still wake up back in Langley, safe and sound, while my corpse cooled here.
Relax.
Bernie tried. Nonetheless, the potentially deadly bubbles arising on the second batch reminded him continuously that this chemist operating his body from thousands of miles away held his life in his hands.
And they were going to be at this all night.
I said, "Relax," Richter thought. I can do this without you. Why don't you let your mind go to sleep?
Because I might wake up dead. How much of this shit do we need?
By your plan? To put a sufficient concentration into four barracks rooms of thirty-two thousand cubic feet each to kill everyone in them in a couple of minutes? More, a lot more.
Fuck.
Relax. It's a piece of cake.
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 14 Muharram,
1538 AH (25 October, 2113)
"Can't you tell them to knock it off?" Ling's mouth asked as her torso bent over the tuning set attached to the first of the five communications systems Hans had lifted from unit supply. She gave a dirty look toward the room in which Petra and the American, Hamilton, were staying. "It's unnerving."
"Jealous?" Hans asked with a smile.
"Since I am not Ling, how can I be jealous?"
"Oh. Sorry, I forgot."
"I understand. Now go tell them to shut up and you do the same."
Hans arose and started to go but then stopped.
"I can't," he said.
"Why?"
"She's my sister. It would be too . . . embarrassing. For both of us."
With Ling's head shaking with annoyance, the teleoperator went to the door and knocked. When there was no answer—indeed, the couple in the other room seemed not even to notice—she opened the door, walked to the bed, grabbed Hamilton by the hair and pulled him away from Petra's body. In a voice that was only half Ling's, the body said, "Stop it. You're ruining my concentration. Fuck; if you must fuck. But do so quietly."
Ling's body turned around brusquely and marched out of Petra's room, slamming the door behind her.
"Jealous, you think?" asked Hamilton.
"No . . . no, that wasn't my Ling."
"Still, the suggestion was a good one," Hamilton said
"Suggestion. Ooohhh . . . her 'suggestion.' But I don't think I can do it quietly . . . not with you," Petra said.
"Let's try."
"Yes," she said with a wanton smile. "Let's!"
Honsvang, Province of Baya, 14 Muharram,
1538 AH (25 October, 2113)
The sun was already over the horizon and streaming in through the suite's windows.
Is that enough? Bernie asked, looking at four large glass jars, partly filled and sealed with the hydrogen cyanide crystals, standing against the wall. There were other jars, smaller ones, containing an oily liquid. Those were all in the sink. In addition, several more small jars were better than half full with the crystals. Of the lye and Prussian blue dye, almost none remained.
I think so. You've enough for the four barracks, plus some more for just in case. If you need to change the distribution around, the crystals are safe enough. Just don't get any acid on them.
I won't. Time for you to go?
Yes.
Well . . . not to be rude or anything but . . . get the fuck out.
You'll still need me for the thermobaric bomb you may need to sterilize the laboratory, Dr. Richter pointed out.
Later. If we need it. For now . . . just go away. This shit is worse than rape.
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 14 Muharram,
1538 AH (25 October, 2113)
Finally they've quieted down, thought the Chinese communications specialist controlling Ling's body.
What's your problem, asshole? I'm the one who's losing a lover; I'm the one who has to give up my own body.
I am not used to working in these kinds of circumstances, thought the specialist.
I don't see what's so difficult about it, Ling thought back.
It's reading the proper settings here and then transferring them through your body to the set. And it isn't difficult; it's tedious. Worse, distractions mean I might set it wrong, input the wrong codes, so that either you won't be able to talk to each other or, worse still, the Caliphate's people will hear you. Now shut up and quit pestering me.
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 15 Muharram,
1538 AH (26 October, 2113)
The colonel was gone, trying to bring some order and discipline back to the border troops at af-Fridhav. This left Hans alone with the company. He spent the time usefully, inspecting weapons in the arms room. The weapons were not common issue; the janissaries in the security force slept with theirs. Rather, these were extras and special purpose arms, along with some of the pricey electronics purchased from China or the tsar that made the Corps of Janissaries near equals of Imperial Infantry.
Not bad shape, Hans conceded, while looking down the stubby barrel of a submachine gun. The weapon was disassembled into its components on the same crude wooden table the unit armorer used for his own inspections and repairs. Hans sat at the table on a backless, slightly padded, rotating stool.
"How many of these do we have?" he asked of the armorer. "Unissued, I mean."
"A dozen, sir," the armorer answered. He was an older type, wearing glasses, with a short, neatly trimmed, gray beard, and a ginger step that told of knees beginning to decay from arthritis.
He was probably a janissary cadet when my parents were in diapers, Hans thought. "You must be coming up on retirement soon," Hans said.
"Yes, sir," the armorer answered. "I'll have my thirty years in next year, about this time."
Okay, not quite that old. I guess the service really does wear.
"Not going to stay past that?" Hans asked.
In answer the armorer smiled and raised one hand, palm down facing the floor. The hand was raised above neck level: I've had this shit up to here.
Hamilton would have recognized the gesture instantly from a statue back at Fort Benning. Hans did as well, though not from the statue. He laughed.
"What are you planning to do after that, then?"
The armorer shrugged. "Not sure, sir. Settle down with a wife, start a business . . . grocer, I was thinking . . . raise a few kids. I've still got a year to think about it."
Hans felt a sudden lump form in his chest. No you don't. You've less than two weeks before I have to kill you. And for what? Because some asshole grabbed you, as with me, and took you as a child to make you into a soldier for a bunch of fucking aliens. What a shitty fucking world.
Hans did not, of course, say any of that but, rather, contented himself with, "That's as good a plan as I've heard. Still, the unit will miss you when you go."
The older man smiled. "I'll miss the boys, too. And maybe the life . . . I've gotten used to it, after all. Thirty-two years since I was gathered? They're not easy to let go of, sir, all those years. Still, when it's time; it's time. And I am getting old."
The armorer was such a likeable old soldier. Hans found that he did, in fact, like him. He sighed with regret. Not for much longer.
"Going back to your old town?" Hans asked.
The armorer shook his head. "How could I, sir? My parents are long dead. My brother and sisters are Nazrani. The boys I played with, as a boy, too. It would be . . . too . . . "
"Awkward?" Hans supplied.
"Exactly that, sir. It would be too awkward."
"I understand. Have you picked a wife yet?"
"Yes, sir. Nice girl. A widow who lost her husband down in the Balks facing the infidel Greeks."
"Ah. Yes. 'A troop sergeant's widow's the nicest, I'm told.' How old is she?"
"Half my age plus seven years," the armorer answered. "Just as the Prophet, peace be upon him, recommended. She already has a kid. I've been helping out a little with money."
"Sounds perfect," agreed Hans.
He went silent then, as he reassembled the submachine gun he'd been inspecting. When finished, he handed it back to the armorer, saying, "It all looks good. Tell me, is there a good place to buy personal arms in town?"
"A good place, sir? No, not here. There's one north of here past Svang in Walnhov, though. What were you looking for?"
Hans pointed at the submachine gun with his chin. "Maybe one or two of those and a couple of pistols. Just for practice, you understand. Well . . . that and the sheer joy of owning my own, now that I'm an odabasi and can afford them."
"Oh, yes, sir. I understand perfectly. Walnhov's your place. Tell the owner, Achmed's his name, that Sig will rip his balls off if he cheats you." Sig, the armorer, hastily amended, "Not that he would. He's one of us, too."
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
1 December, 2011
The city had seen much beauty in its centuries as it had, too, much ugliness, from party rallies to war crimes trials and hangings, with bomb and fire and ruin in between. As with every city in Germany, its history was an eloquent witness to the horrors of war, a demanding call for a better way. Though there had been peace for sixty-six years, yet the stones and the tortured bricks remembered . . . yet children still learned from adults.
In the Christkindlmarkt—a once a year for four weeks, open air city of wood and canvas—Amal clapped her hands with childish glee at the brightly lit, colorfully costumed pageant being put on for her, among some thousands of others. The baby was at an age when her favorite colors were "oo" and "shiny." Those criteria the show met well.
She sat on her mother's lap; Gabrielle enduring the thing for the baby's sake and not from any religious devotion of her own. Still, despite the religious theme, Gabi found herself drawn into the pageant. Perhaps it was only because of the reminder of her own innocent and trouble-free babyhood. That, and that Amal was certainly enjoying it.
Children don't learn Christmas from us, Gabi thought, ruefully. We learn it from them.
As the lovely blond girl with the curls and the golden crown had said, at the opening, from the gallery of the Church of Our Lady, "You gentlemen and ladies, who were once children, too . . . "
The air was cold but still, still enough that their coats held warmth enough for comfort. A children's choir was forming up as Gabi rose with Amal in her arms. She didn't have to stay for that; the singing would reach to every little corner and stall of the Markt. And, in a way, it would be all the better for being background.
"Mommy," Amal asked, "Will Daddy be here this Christmas?"
"He says he can't, Honey," Gabi answered. "He's still working over there and that he can't take vacation for Christmas this year. He promised to be here for your birthday, though."
Yet another reason to hate America, Gabi thought. They take no rest and leave none for others, either. Why are they like that? It must be something in the blood, or a disease that infects all who go there to stay.
"He did send you several presents, though," Gabi added, as Amal's face sank. Sure he can send presents. He earns enough there. And gives next to nothing in tax.
Tax in Germany was becoming a problem, even in German terms, and they'd grown used to being nearly as heavily taxed as the French. The country was graying fast. Worse, because there were places where young people could earn more and keep more, places like America, Canada, Australia—and, increasingly under the assault of AIDS, South Africa—young Germans were leaving. This left more tax to be paid by fewer workers, which drove even more to think about leaving. Nor was there much sign of improvement. There were not so many children in the Christkindlmarkt as Gabi remembered from her own youth and those had been few enough.
And still Mahmoud pesters me to go there and marry him. Sometimes it's tempting. But then he'll say something like, "I'm an American citizen now; Amal should have the same chance when she's older . . . if she wants." He knows how that pisses me off.
Gabi watched Amal's eyes as they passed a stand with spicy Nuremberg gingerbread on display. She made as if to keep going, watching the baby's eyes stay fixed on the treats. Then she turned, abruptly, scooped up a piece and passed it to the girl. Gabi took a silver and gold colored two Euro coin and gave it to the stall keeper.
While she awaited her change, the baby leaned over and kissed her cheek.
"Thank you, Mommy."
And that jus
t made Gabrielle's Christmas.
Chapter Fourteen
We hope that we can either return to the policies of that imagined past or approximate some imagined ideal to recapture our innocence. It is easier than facing the hard truth: America's expansiveness, intrusiveness, and tendency toward political, economic, and strategic dominance are not some aberration from our true nature. That is our nature.