by Tom Kratman
Still, I must try.
He gave his men the order, "Try to hit the pilot or the engines."
Gay he might have been; a sissy Lee was not. He held steady even as the first burst of fire passed through the deck of the cockpit and exited the ceiling above. Bits of plastic and insulation flew about the cockpit.
Yeah, sure. You can be brave as Hell. It's easy for you to be brave and calm, Ling thought, but it's my body that's going to be shot, not yours.
Woman, he sent back. If it makes you feel any better, above all if it will get you to shut up, you can have my body if this one is killed.
Why would you do that? she asked suspiciously. Have they some way to preserve your consciousness and put it in a grown body?
No, they don't. As to why . . . because I really did volunteer, and you did not.
Oh. Look . . . I'm sor—
Just shut up and let me do my job.
"Nice job, Hans," Matheson said as his gaze took in the three captive and bound scientists, the containment unit holding the virus, and the computers all stacked on a table. He turned to the chief of the villagers he'd seized, pointed toward the captives and ordered, "Take these men onto the airship. Now."
The village headman simply told six of the men in his party to do so. In an instant, so used to obedience were these Germans, the three scientists were being bodily carried, still taped to their chairs, up the winding staircase that led to the battlements above.
"These things, too," Matheson said, pointing at the computers and the cold storage unit containing the virus samples. "Get them onto the airship."
* * *
Retief, with several armed ex-slaves still with him, saw the janissaries down below open fire on the airship. Only a matter of time, he thought, until one of them gets lucky and hits the pilot. Then we're all fucked. The cargo crew can't shoot . . . probably never held a rifle before last night. But I can shoot and they can draw fire.
"On the battlements," he ordered the cargo boys. "We've one chance to get away and that chance is the airship! Try to aim, as best you can. Shoot slowly. I'll be more deliberate."
His pistol was useless, of course. At this range the corbasi could hit the airship . . . maybe . . . if Allah really willed it. He didn't even bother. Nor was there any cover to speak of. Thus, when the first burst of fire came from above, the colonel's instincts, and those of his men, were to go back around the corner of the castle. Under the circumstances, men tend to follow their instincts.
Children will instinctively follow an adult. Even so, these children had learned, if anything, never to trust an adult who wasn't a parent. Thus, when Hans showed up at the gate to their pen, opened it and said, in German, "Follow me," the kids wouldn't. That none of them spoke a word of German didn't help.
The little boy, Meara's play toy, spoke up, saying, in his own tongue, "This is a good man. He saved me from the man who used me. Follow him."
At first reluctant, then with growing willingness and speed, the children massed at the exit, creating a traffic jam that Hans was only able to sort out by physically picking them up and moving them. In a short time, though each second seemed to Hans to last hours, he had them outside in a loose gaggle. With his hands, Hans gestured for them to follow.
Much like the Pied Piper, albeit sans fife, Hans led the boys and girls out of their pen, past the crematorium, into the lab and to the exit that led to the tower stairs. From there, he selected a couple of older children, perhaps ten or twelve years old, he thought, and pointed upwards. He prodded the other children to follow until he'd established that as a natural direction of flow. He hoped that someone up top would meet them and guide them onto the airship. If not, Matheson would pick them up on his way out. For himself, he had other things to do.
* * *
I was afraid of this, Dr. Richter sent to Matheson.
Afraid of what, Doc?
If we were running a bio war lab—and, of course, we are—we would have a failsafe, something to ensure the complete sterilization of the lab in seconds in the event of a failure of containment. I see nothing here to indicate that they've got that here—no pipes, no vents, no fixed neutralization agent dispersers, nothing.
How truly good, Matheson sent back.
No, Agent Matheson, it is not.
Do they send biological scientists to some special course to destroy, or to some surgical procedure to remove, their sense of humor, Doc? I know it's not good. What can we do?
Wait. Let me think.
Retief scanned fearfully through the crenellations of the battlement. I think maybe they've backed off for a while. I can't imagine why, though. All we've got is myself and some slaves who can't shoot. And these are janissaries, first-class troops. It's not like them to run unless they think they absolutely have to.
"Give me your rifle," the corbasi demanded of a janissary cowering with him behind the castle's corner.
"Here, sir," the soldier said as he, more thankfully than not, passed over the weapon.
The colonel took it and, being very careful to expose no part of his body he didn't need to, eased the thing around the corner. When no return fire came he risked showing a bit more. When he had the forward half the airship in his field of view, he stopped. Moreover, for the first time he had the chance to look at the thing more or less calmly and carefully. He saw, however dimly, the South African markings on the thing. This didn't surprise him as the Americans, and he was sure they were Americans, wouldn't stop to scruple over using a false flag.
Where would the cockpit be? he wondered. We put out a lot a fire initially and, so far as I can tell, apparently didn't hit anything. No matter. No doubt everything important is armored or has a redundant back up. What to shoot; what to shoot? The gas cells? I know this kind of airship, slightly. It gets a good chunk of its lift from its shape, not its buoyancy. And it has vertical thrusters. But it doesn't get all of its lift from those. If I puncture enough gas cells, it will start to fall.
Slowly, adjusting his point of aim very deliberately between shots, the corbasi began shooting out the gas cells.
In the cockpit, Lee/Ling saw red lights start to appear on the control panel.
How truly fucking good, the pilot cursed, even as he increased power to the vertical thrusters and began to release more helium into the punctured gas cells.
"Matheson, this is Lee," the pilot sent over the communicator attached to his ear. "We've got a problem and you're going to have to hurry."
Shit, Doc, Matheson sent, you've got to come up with something quick. We've not much time left before the airship either has to leave or it won't be able to.
Be calm, Agent Matheson, I've had to do some stubby pencil drill.
For what?
For whether the one source of massive heat we've got is up to the job.
What source? Matheson asked.
The crematorium, Richter answered. It's got its own fuel supply and oxygen source. It has to have. We can use it to increase the temperature of the lab.
You mean as in leave the door open and turn on the flame?
Precisely.
What if it has a fail safe so it won't fire up if the door is open?
Silly question, Agent Matheson. If it has a fail safe you break it.
The nausea and the stumble-causing disconnect between eyes and brain were still pretty bad. And moving quickly only made it worse. Twice on the way to Hamilton's position Hans had to stop to vomit. Once he nearly fell over. Even so, Hans eventually clattered up the twisting stairs to Hamilton's position. He was nearly shot for his trouble.
"Jesus Christ, Hans! For God's sake announce yourself."
Exhaling forcefully—for, immediate stress-wise, the only thing worse than being shot is coming close to shooting a friend— Hamilton lowered his weapon.
"Sorry, John," Hans gasped, putting a defensive hand out. "I'm a little disoriented."
"Never mind," Hamilton conceded. "What's going on back there?"
"The children are f
reed. I don't know if they're aboard the airship yet. The airship's sinking. We've not much time."
At about the same time the janissary sergeant of the guard decided he should get back to the serious business of breaking down the gate. He opted to do it in the same way the colonel had, assigning men to keep the windows of the towers covered. The sound of the pounding down below quickly changed in quality, too—the earlier battering must have had some effect. The door was clearly weakening.
"I think it's about to give," Hamilton said.
"Yes," Hans agreed. "And that's why you have to go back, to get Petra, if she's still alive. I can hold the fort here. As long as I'm lying down and not moving, I can shoot."
Hamilton hesitated. "What about Ling?" he asked, cocking his head slightly.
Hans sighed. "Ling is important to me, yes. I might even be important to her. But it's mostly important that she be freed, if she can be freed, and have a decent life. This, you and your people can give her better than I can. And for Petra . . . you're her future. I'm only her past."
Hamilton stood for a moment in indecision. He called for Matheson, "Bernie, how much longer do we have?"
"Not much, John. And when you and Hans head to the airship, don't come by the lab; take the upper passages. It's going to be very warm down here."
"Roger," Hamilton answered. "Do we have a few minutes anyway?"
"That much, sure."
Hamilton reached out a fraternal hand to Hans' shoulder. "There's some solid furniture down below. If you're going to stay here, let's make you a fighting position facing the gate that can take a hit."
Nobody was hit racing through the cleared path in the minefields facing the castle's main gate. For this beneficence, Sig and the baseski both said a special prayer of thanks.
"Sergeant of the Guard!" the first sergeant bellowed as he passed through the checkpoint and took a crouch behind a concrete barrier.
"Over here, Top," the sergeant answered from his position in the alcove. The sergeant had to shout to be heard over the pounding of the battering ram. "We're almost through."
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
10 July, 2022
The cellar was dark and dank and dreary. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and the pipes and draped along the walls. There was an old moldy mattress on the floor, Amal saw.
"By the time we're through with you, you'll be glad to don the veil, slut," Zahid said, confidently, to Amal. The boy moved a small, silvery pocket knife in front of the terrified girl's eyes.
"Don't hurt me," she pleaded. "Please don't hurt me."
"We're not going to hurt you much," said Zahid. "We're just going to cut you from your ear to your mouth."
"That," agreed Taymullah, "or you can admit you're just a slut and let us all fuck you. Your choice."
That was no better a choice than being cut. Again, tears pouring down her face, Amal sobbed, "Please don't hurt me. I'll wear a veil. I promise."
"Your word's no good, slut," Zahid said. "Only way we can be sure you'll follow the law is if we cut you. Then you'll be too ashamed to show your whore's face."
"DON'T HURT ME!"
"We have no choice."
"I'll do anything you want; just don't hurt me," the girl begged, head hanging in hopeless and helpless shame.
Once more, Zahid flashed his knife by her eyes and then moved it as if to slash her cheek. He didn't cut her though. Instead, he brought the knife down to her shirt and began to cut it away.
The police car that took Gabi to the hospital didn't flash its lights or blast its siren. Instead, it went only as fast as the traffic would bear. It could have used its sirens and lights of course, but the woman sitting in back was so nearly hysterical that the two policemen up front thought that they'd only make things worse.
"What happened? What happened? What happened?" Gabi kept asking. Neither cop had an answer. They knew the woman's daughter had been hurt and was in the hospital, but that was all they knew . . . about the daughter. The policemen recognized well enough the artist woman who'd been so prominent in the papers and on television a couple of years prior.
One of the policemen helped Gabi to walk on unsteady knees from the patrol car into the emergency room. Surprisingly, a doctor and another policemen, this one in mufti, met them near the door. He led them to a small alcove, not too private but as good as could be procured on the spot.
"Your daughter was attacked," the doctor said, even before Gabi could ask a question. "She's hurt . . . badly, I'm afraid. And, yes, she was raped."
Gabi sank into herself, weeping and cringing at the thought of her sweet and innocent baby attacked by animals.
"We don't know who did it," the plainclothes policemen added. "She was in a neighborhood where this sort of thing happens a lot. Usually they leave German girls alone unless the girls have some connection with the Muslims."
Gabi said, between sobs, "My daughter . . . had an . . . Arab . . . father."
"That might explain it," the policeman agreed, "assuming she looked the part."
Gabi swallowed, forced herself to be calm, and asked, "There's more, isn't there?"
"Yes." The policeman looked at the doctor as if begging him to take this burden.
Hesitantly, the doctor said, "Ms. Von Minden . . . after they raped her . . . maybe before . . . maybe even during . . . they beat her pretty badly. She has several broken ribs and a broken arm. She's concussed. One knee is dislocated."
At each addition to the injuries Gabi shuddered as if struck. She looked at the doctor through her tears. "There's more, isn't there?"
The policemen put his finger to his cheek and drew a line down to the corner of his mouth. "It's a Moslem thing," he said. "They slashed her face open so she'll have to wear a veil for the rest of her life."
Gabi stood. Her fists clenched in front of her face. She felt feelings she should never have felt, thought thoughts she should never have had. But this was no abstract principle. This was her daughter, her flesh and blood, who had been hurt. She began to speak, coherently at first and then rising to a scream. "We should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . we should have gassed them . . . WE SHOULD HAVE GASSED THEM!"
Chapter Nineteen
But when it comes to this disaster, who started it? In his literature, writer al-Rafee says, "If the woman is in her boudoir, in her house and if she's wearing the veil and if she shows modesty, disasters don't happen."
—Sheik Taj Din Al Hilaly
an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
Cursing herself for a fool, Petra ran toward the edge of the town. I'm an idiot, an idiot, an idiot! I've lost my damned communicator and now Hans and John are both probably frantic.
She stopped where the woods ended, looking right and left for any sign of people, especially policemen or janissaries. She saw none. Heart pounding, she released the folds of the burka she'd gathered up so she could run through the woods. She looked again for signs of people. Seeing none, and still gripping her submachine gun, she sprinted—as best she could, given the constraints of the burka— across the frozen field and for the shadows of the town. That few towns in Germany had streetlights anymore, an-Nessang not being among those that did, helped.
Breathless, Petra slammed herself against a wall and then crouched down, much like a feral animal. She listened for the sound of footsteps for a while and, after hearing none, stood and tucked her submachine gun in the folds of her burka. Even there, her fingers remained wrapped around the pistol grip of the weapon.
Trying to exude a confidence, a sense of right-to-be-there, that she did not feel, Petra walked out from the shadows in the direction of the car where she was to meet Hans or John. Her footsteps were brisk, her pace steady. A lone policeman, leaning against a lamppost, shivering and in the process of nodding off, nodded to her form instead. Politely, she nodded back and continued on her way.
Petra, raised f
irst in a Christian town and then in a brothel, didn't know that any show of friendliness was overwhelmingly likely to be misunderstood as a show of interest, an invitation. The policeman, cognizant of his power and authority, cold and thinking perhaps of getting much warmer, followed her.
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
The situation was about to get hot. Still, Hans crouched behind the heavy oaken table, reinforced by chairs and trunks and whatever was to hand, that he and Hamilton had set up to cover the gate once it fell off of its hinges or was otherwise smashed through. He wasn't too worried about a direct hit. True, the oak, even at two inches thick, wasn't up to warding off rifle fire. But the trunks and other pieces in front of and behind the oak should have been enough.