Caliphate

by Tom Kratman

  She never answered, vocally, but an occasional squeeze of her arms told him she was still alive and, in her own way, fighting to stay that way.

  Hamilton couldn't really feel his arms and hands anymore. Petra's grip around his neck had relaxed to the point he'd had to switch from a breaststroke to a sidestroke, hooking his other arm under her armpits to hold her. At this point, her life vest had become critical to keeping her—and perhaps both of them—afloat.

  He still talked to her, when he could spare a breath. His lungs were sacks of icy flame, containers more of pain than air.

  Still, he pressed on. His sidestroke drove his right hand down, deep into the water. He thought he felt something solid brush his fingers but when he interrupted the stroke it was gone. He kicked to establish forward movement again, and resumed the sidestroke.

  And there it is again. He didn't stop this time, but redoubled his efforts at moving the two forward. His next two strokes found nothing, but the third was interrupted by what had to be a rock. He stopped, and allowed his feet to sink. They, too, found solid ground beneath them.

  With difficulty, Hamilton stood with Petra still caught fast in one frozen arm. He began to walk forward in a daze, barely noticing that the water level dropped beneath him, to waist, to hams, to knees, to ankles. And there, wonder of wonders, was a tree, growing right by the water's edge. He walked a few steps farther, to the sheer bank.

  Hamilton bent and put his free arm under Petra's thighs and lifted her, placing her body on the dry land above the lake. He then crawled over her, and lay down beside her, covering her as best his could with his chest, arms, and legs. Eventually, the Swiss would find them.

  "Welcome to Switzerland, honey," he whispered, as he drifted into unconsciousness. "Welcome to freedom."

  Epilogue

  Zurich, Switzerland,

  12 December, 2113

  The reception was not exactly secret, even though it was held in one of the super-secret, underground forts, or reduits, that the Helvetian Confederation had maintained for over one hundred and fifty years, with a few short breaks. It was, in any case, secret enough that Hamilton didn't know exactly how he'd arrived in it.

  The purpose of the reception? Switzerland, which had first crack at the computers in the castle, had discovered that they were on the target list. A little reception, and a few medals, seemed a small price to pay for not being exterminated.

  Ling was there, bandaged in spots, with her arm in a sling, but wearing her new medal and holding hands with a tall brunette in the uniform of the Swiss Armed Forces. They didn't seem to be in love . . . exactly . . . yet. Lust, however, was written plain.

  "It's good she found someone, though," Petra whispered to Hamilton. "Isn't it?"

  "It can't be bad," he whispered back. "Speaking of which . . ." He looked over at Caruthers.

  "The Han have agreed to release her to our care," Caruthers said. "For a price. Don't sweat the price; we've met it. She's scheduled for surgery to have her chip deactivated—too dangerous to remove it— next week."

  "She'll be free then, at last," Petra said.

  "You're both free now," Caruthers said.

  "Speaking of which," Hamilton began to ask, "now that you're free and, thankfully eighteen, how would you like to be re-enslaved?"

  Petra glared at him. Her features softened under the realization that Hamilton would never re-enslave her.

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "Well," he said, "I'm thinking about going back to the Army—"

  "Big frigging mistake," Caruthers interjected. "You have a future with us, son."

  Hamilton ignored him, except to say, "A future as a slave dealer? That's a filthy future." To Petra he repeated, "I'm thinking about going back to the Army. I could use a wife."

  "A wife?" Speechless, she began to cry.

  "A wife. If you would consent."

  "But I'm . . . I mean I was—"

  "A wonderful girl," he cut her off. "A girl whom life crapped on and who didn't let it turn her rotten."

  "There's another option," said Caruthers. "And it wouldn't involve the slave trade."

  "Would you please just butt out. I'm trying to propose here."

  "Trying, shmying," Caruthers scoffed. "Stop being melodramatic. She's going to accept; aren't you dear?"

  Petra's head nodded, briskly. She was still crying too much to speak.

  "See? That's settled. Now instead of being a dumb ass and turning your lovely future bride into a widow while gallantly leading your men across the altogether too fire-swept beaches of the English Channel in a few years, why don't you stay here and become our chief of station? I believe I once told you we like husband and wife teams. And I can sweeten the deal," Caruthers added.

  "How's that?" Hamilton asked.

  "Well, the two renegades left alive spilled their guts. We've got millions they'd been paid and secreted in banks here. The Swiss government also turned over to us the funds of the dead one, Meara. We could keep it all, of course, but I convinced the DDDA that it would be better put to educating and caring for those slave children you freed; them and the farmers Matheson grabbed. A man's got to be able to sleep at night, after all."

  "How is Bernie's recovery coming?" Hamilton asked. He wanted to think before answering.

  "He'll never play the piano again."

  Hamilton looked confused.

  Caruthers shrugged. "He couldn't play the piano before, either."

  "Asshole."

  Caruthers laughed.

  "What about the virus?" Hamilton asked.

  "Which virus?"

  "Which?"

  "There were two, as it turns out," Caruthers said. "The one we inferred from notes left behind was intended to be a deception. The one they were actually working on was real though, real but useless."

  "WHAT?"

  "Oh, it's deadly enough," Caruthers said. "But what they were trying to do with it? Dead end. It can't be made to die out after a few mutations. We've got a vaccine for it in prototype. Inoculations probably begin next year."

  "What about the renegades themselves?" Hamilton asked.

  "Hanged side by side in an elevator shaft at Langley last week. Piano wire. No drop. I understand they cried a lot as they were noosed."

  "Good," Hamilton said.

  Petra wiped at her eyes and said, "John, there is a good reason to stay here."

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "I've told you of my best friend, Besma . . . the Muslim girl?"

  "Yes."

  "Before we left, I got a letter from her. Her husband had been displeased with her and had beaten her. She went to the courts and they told her it was her fault."

  "So?"

  "So . . . if we stay here, we could perhaps get my friend Besma and her children out of a slavery not much better than mine was."

  "Let me think about it," he answered, then thought, No, if you're going to be my wife, you get a say. "You really think so?" he asked.

  Petra wiped the last moisture from her eyes and answered, "I owe Besma a lot, John, and her life is Hell. I won't force you—I can't force you—but I'd appreciate it if we could stay here at least until we get her and her children out. And . . . " She hesitated.

  "Yes?" Hamilton asked.

  "Well . . . you tell me an invasion of the Caliphate is both inevitable and soon coming, right?"

  Caruthers harrumphed.

  "Oh, knock it off," Hamilton said. "Everyone knows it is." Turning back to Petra he asked, "So what?"

  "Well . . . maybe from here, in the middle of the Caliphate, we could aid that."

  "It's a thought, John," Caruthers said. "And then too . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "After deciphering those computers the Swiss are less enthusiastic about neutrality than they were. Another dozen or fifteen divisions suddenly emerging in the middle of the Caliphate would help an invasion immeasurably. You could be our man here . . . and then cross over to being the liaison with the Swiss late
r on."

  Hamilton looked at Petra. "You realize, right, that this will delay your scuba instruction by years." It was his last, feeble shot.

  "I can wait," she said. "When a continent of my people is enslaved I can wait for the other things."

  Hamilton sighed. "You're a bastard, Caruthers."

  "Does that mean you'll do it?"

  "I don't see where I have a choice."

  Caruthers sighed. "Nobody's had a choice in about a century, John. This whole thing? It's about giving people choices again."

  "Speaking of which," Hamilton said, pointing with his chin at Ling and her new partner threading their way across the floor.

  The pair, still holding hands, stopped directly in front of Hamilton, Petra and Caruthers. The Swiss girl seemed very shy, though Ling was forward, as usual.

  After introductions, Ling said to Caruthers, "I wanted to thank you, you and your organization and the Empire, for getting the Ministry of State Security to release me."

  Caruthers said, "You're welcome. After what you've done, you're more than welcome. I just wish the condition of release didn't include a covenant not to employ you ourselves."

  Ling shook her head. "No thank you. I've had enough of being used . . . even if it was being used for a higher purpose." She looked very intently at Petra. "I'll miss you, honey."

  "No, you won't," Petra answered. "We're staying here, John and I."

  Hamilton nodded. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other, I think. And, maybe, too, you might do some work with us, if not for us."

  "Only if you choose to," Petra added.

  Ling smiled. "A wonderful thing, isn't it, choice? Maybe we'll work together, after all."

  Afterword

  Warning: Authorial editorial follows. Read further at your own risk. You're not paying anything extra for it so spare us the whining if your real objection is that it is here for other people to read. If you are a Tranzi, and you read this, the author expressly denies liability for your resulting rise in blood pressure, apoplexy, exploding head or general icky feelings. Then again, if you're a Tranzi and haven't already suffered one of the above, it's unlikely this will bother you too much more.

  A World Without Europe

  (except as a geographic expression)

  Brother, it ain't all bad.

  What's Europe done for us, after all? Dragged us onto not one but two world wars? Inflicted on us murderous and repressive political philosophies from Jacobinism to Czarism to Fascism to Nazism to Communism? Carved up the world in such a way as to guarantee misery for the bulk of humanity for centuries?

  Yes, Europe's done all that.

  But then there were Greece and Rome, England and Switzerland. Leonidas' three-hundred and the even more admirable seven- hundred Thespians. Salamis and Platea. Horatius Cocles. The Parthenon and the Pantheon. William Tell and the Magna Carta.

  Sempach and Stirling Castle. Roads, laws, engineering, science, philosophy. Democracy. Us.

  Only a cold blooded, ungrateful bastard wouldn't shed a tear when only the barbarian foot trods the pass at Thermopylae. That, or someone like left-wing icon Susan Sontag, who said:

  "Mozart, Pascal, Boolean algebra, Shakespeare, parliamentary government, baroque churches, Newton, the emancipation of women, Kant, Balanchine ballets, et al. don't redeem what this particular civilization has wrought upon the world. The white race is the cancer of human history."

  Note that the late Ms. Sontag once did apologize for that remark, but only to the cancerous.

  This is probably as good a time as any to say that most Moslems in Europe today are not nuts. Anecdotally, I offer into evidence an achingly beautiful Turkish girl named Lale whom I met and chatted with once in Schiphol Airport, just south of Amsterdam, in 1999. Lale was Turkish only by parentage. She spoke German primarily and very little Turkish. She'd been a model for German magazines. She was dating or engaged to a German (I misremember which) and intended to be a German.

  I don't think Lale was all that atypical. Many, perhaps even most, Moslems in Europe might like to become Europeans, insiders rather than outsiders, given the chance. It's not clear they are, or will be, given that chance.

  But is Europe, qua Europe, going under? It's a very good question.

  As of this writing (11 September, 2007) Brussels is the capital of the European Union. Brussels is ruled by the Socialist Party. Of the eighteen members of the Brussels City Council who are in that ruling Socialist Party block, ten are apparently Muslim. Does this prove Brussels is majority Muslim? No, not at all. If Muslims made up a majority this little tidbit wouldn't be so interesting. Rather, it shows that something considerably less than a majority is required to rule a political entity.

  As Brussels, the capital of the EU, goes, so goes . . .

  Well, we don't know.

  Leaving aside a couple of fringe stands, there are basically four theories on the future of Europe. These are:

  1. Differentials in birthrates condemn Europe to a) a Muslim majority and b) non-Muslim Europeans to second class citizen status and barbarism, more or less soon. This is Mark Steyn's position for a), and absolutely the position of the Koran, the Sunna, and the Hadiths for b).

  2. The Europeans are nuts. However weak they may seem now, before they go under they'll go fascist, if not outright Nazi. The Moslems are heading for the ghettoes and the gas chambers, not rule over the Continent. I think this is, more or less, Ralph Peters' position.

  3. Europe will become majority Muslim, but it will be okay so long as we've treated them well while we were the majority. This is basically the progressive position.

  4. Problem? What problem? So long as I get my five weeks paid vacation yearly, guaranteed job security, universal health care, etc.—all of which are my right because I am in the position to rob the future for them—there is no problem. Let the future care for the future; I got mine. This appears to be the basic European citizen's position, with some not inconsequential dissent. (Note: for some of the dissenters, check the obituaries.)

  So who's right? I don't know. Nobody does. All we can do is calculate the odds, while noting that 4 is the refutation of 2 and 1 is the refutation of 3.

  Question One: if Euro and Muslim birth rates don't change, will Europe become Muslim majority?

  Answer: Clearly, at some point in time, if we leave aside the question of Muslims assimilating to European culture. Let's try some rough figures. Assume, not unreasonably, that culturally European birth rates continue to hover around a low of 1.6 children per woman (it's actually quite a bit lower in some places), and that these women will have their children later in life, giving three generations in a century. (Remember, those are rough figures.)

  What that means, over a century, is that 100 Europeans, half of them female, will have 76 children, that those children will have about 61 children, and that those 61 will have about 49 children.

  Let's look at the other side. Assume 4.2 children per Muslim woman and four generations in a century, since they marry younger and have children younger. (Again, "rough," I said.)

  Ten Muslims, half female, will have 21 children, who will have 44 children, who will have 92 children, who will around the end of that century have about 193 children.

  From this point on, if nothing else changes, we're only arguing about the timing. When two populations have that much disparity in birthrates, and if that disparity doesn't change, and if the death rate of the second population doesn't change (the Peters gas chamber hypothesis), and if the assimilation rate (which will affect birthrate) doesn't change, then population B will at some point in time overtake population A.

  There's an amazing amount of intellectual dishonesty floating about on the subject, most (maybe not all) of it on the progressive side. Yes, yes, some of that is just idiocy and some of it is the very human phenomenon of accepting without criticism that which we desperately want to believe. ("Communism's just never been done right!")

  Example: in the book Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be
Wrong, Canadian authors Nadeau and Barlow claim that half of immigrant men in France marry non-immigrant women, and that one-quarter of immigrant women marry non-immigrant men, for a total intermarriage rate of roughly 40%. (I'm indebted to world famous literary critic, Randy McDonald, for this little tidbit.)