Caliphate

Chapter Twelve

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,

1538 AH (21 October, 2113)

"You'd never been drunk before, had you?" Ling asked.

Hans, a study in misery, just shook his head and said, "That's the second kind of virginity I gave to you. I much preferred giving you the other kind. Much."

"I'm sure," Ling said, grinning widely. She hadn't known she'd been his first and that was… warming. That he remembered and appreciated was much more so.

Find out, if possible, why he attacked your contact, said the little voice in Ling's head.

She asked.

She asked and was surprised as such a torrent of hate and loathing poured out of Hans as she had never heard before. Not just hate for Hamilton, whom Ling only knew of as "De Wet," but Hans also felt deep hatred for the Corps of Janissaries, for Moslems, for all slave dealers, and for the Caliphate. He hated the boys who'd raped Petra, the dealer who had auctioned her, and the bastard tax gatherer who had taken both the siblings away from their home. Hans hated the laws that had made him crucify a priest. He hated everything.

"Everything?"

"Okay, not everything. Not you. Not Petra. But I hate everything else about this land."

I wish we could be sure it's not an act, said the little voice. He would be a great asset.

Is there a way to test him? she thought back.

We are considering this.

Hamilton lay on his side, head propped up on one elbow, considering the face and form of the sleeping girl next to him. Seventeen, he thought. Maybe eighteen. So much skillful wickedness in so young a girl. Almost… almost, I can see the attraction of Islam if it enables a man to own such beauty. Better, she makes it seem as if she's a lover, not just a whore playing a part. Perhaps that's only because she's a natural whore, though, if she is. It's possible, too, that she's just been very well trained. Or both.

Only things I can be sure of are that she's both beautiful and an amazing fuck.

Christ, what kind of pervert am I, fucking a seventeen-year-old?

A little contrary voice said, Hey, look at the bright side; maybe she's eighteen.

Oh, that helps a lot.

Could have been worse. She could have been thirteen and you would still have had to fuck her to keep up your cover.

Unable to stand it anymore, Hamilton reached out one hand, shook the girl awake and asked, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Petra answered groggily. "Why?"

Pervert.

Our best consensus, for the moment, is to ask him for proof, the little voice in Ling's head said. It is not perfect but, if he turns out to be an agent provocateur, you can claim you asked for proof in order to denounce him. In the interim, it moves us a bit along toward confirming his true thoughts.

Did you know they made a whore of his sister and that she's my best friend and lover here? Ling asked back.

We watch your every move. Of course we knew. That is still not proof. The Caliphate produces only one thing of genuine excellence, and that product is fanaticism.

True, she agreed.

If you had access to a laboratory, we could teleoperate you to create a first grade truth serum. Sadly – I don't. And the still where Latif makes the poor stuff won't do. In truth, Ling hated the very idea of being teleoperated, which involved surrendering complete control over her own body to another. It was bad enough sucking and fucking people she didn't want to. Teleoperation was, in its way, even more degrading.

Still, in vino veritas. What he said last night while drunk is a good indicator of his true feelings. We're still reviewing the tapes. We'll get back to you. In the interim, ask for proof. And try to be clever about it, won't you?

"Reviewing the tapes"? Ling sent back. I'm sure you voyeuristic bastards are.

Be nice, Ling. We can teleoperate you without permission, you know.

Breakfast for the two was delivered to Petra's quarters by a eunuch. It didn't have any bacon, or pork sausage, of course, but was otherwise decent.

Hamilton already had the name of the girl sitting opposite: Petra. Moreover, she was already, technically, his wife for the next thirteen days.

"I've never had a wife before," Hamilton said.

"You don't really have one now," Petra answered, perhaps a little sadly. Clothed in a nightgown, still her young, firm breasts showed through the front opening. Her nipples were pink, Hamilton saw. "It's just something they do to get around the law. Doesn't mean anything."

I will not ask, "how did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this," Hamilton thought. I will not ask…

"How did you ever end up here?" he asked.

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, sure I do."

"It's a sad story," Petra said. Saddest of all for me.

"Even so."

She sighed, cast her eyes upward and then down to the floor. "I was a pretty little girl-"

"I can believe that."

"The tax gatherer picked me and my brother. First he set the jizya-"

"Jizya?" Hamilton asked.

"A tax non-Moslems pay here as part of their surrender," she explained. "Anyway, he set it so high my father couldn't pay… and when he couldn't the taxman took me instead. I was nine. My brother, Hans-he's the one who attacked you last night-they took later."

"They sold you to this place when you were nine?" And how are they any worse than Bongo and I? We've just sold some six year olds.

"No… no. That came later. Though my friend, Ling, was sold even younger. At first I was sold to a wonderful family… I thought they were wonderful anyway. Their daughter, Besma, really was. We still write. She's married- really married, I mean… not the travesty we have here-and has two children now. She named the girl for me. She's says she will come for me, and not to lose faith. Faith! Like I have any reason for faith."

"It's okay," Hamilton said, disconcerted at the pain growing in Petra's voice. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want."

"You are my Lord and Master, for the next two weeks," Petra said, a trifle bitterly. She sensed, somehow, that with this client she could get away with a lot more than with most. "You asked; it is my duty to tell you."

"Anyway," she continued, "life with Besma was pretty good. If you don't count her stepmother who used me to control her. And then her stepbrother and two friends decided I was just the thing for a dull afternoon-"

And then the tears came forth. The force with which they gushed took Hamilton completely by surprise.

"I never talk about it," Petra sobbed, "I never talk about-"

After which she couldn't say anything, as Hamilton was kneeling beside her chair, holding her in his arms, and pressing her head into his shoulder. "Shhh," he said soothingly. "It's all right. You don't have to talk about it and I am a complete ass for even asking. I'm really sorry."

"Hans, I need you to listen carefully to me," Ling said. "This is important and the answer means everything. Why did you attack that man last night?"

Hans drew in a deep breath and then exhaled forcefully. "He's a slave trader, and I saw his cargo. They were just children, Ling, even younger than Petra was when they took her away. He's a stinking slave trader."

Ling chewed on her lower lip, wracked with indecision. Finally, she asked, "What if he wasn't?"

Hans just shook his head in confusion. "What if he wasn't what?"

"What if he wasn't a slave trader, but was something else?"

"Something else? Like what?"

"I can't tell you. Not won't; can't. Someday you'll understand, maybe someday soon. But what if he really wasn't a slave trader?"

"I saw what I saw," Hans insisted.

"Yes… but you didn't necessarily understand what you saw." Ling started chewing her lip again. She continued at that for several confused minutes-confused for both her and Hans-before saying, "I need you to prove to me you're not with the Caliphate."

"I'm a dead man," he said, "dead before I can do any good, if I can't trust you. Everything I've told you so far would get me nailed up to a wooden cross. How much more can I do?"

She insisted, "I need more, Hans."

He thought about that for a minute. Then he went to his overnight bag, dropped off in her quarters by a servant the previous night. From the bag he pulled out a Koran. He opened in to a random page and spit on it. "That's one," he said. "Now follow me."

There were, after all, reasons why Abdul Rahman had thought Hans had a future. If he had flaws, lack of decisiveness wasn't among them.

Ling followed Hans to her bathroom. There he thumbed through the book, apparently looking for a choice passage. When he'd found it, he tore that page from the Koran, bent over, and wiped his rear end with it. "That's two." He dropped the page in the toilet, spit again, and flushed.

Hans walked back to the bedroom and picked up his bag again, feeling inside for a small box. This he withdrew from the bag and opened. From the box he pulled out a crucifix, kissed it and said, "This was given to me by a man, a priest, I helped murder…"

"These mountains are murder, I know," Hamilton said in sympathy, as he helped Petra over a rock lying across their path.

Feeling like an absolute rat, Hamilton had offered anything to make up to her his-"stupid, insensitive, moronic, unfeeling, idiotic"-question.

Shyly, she'd asked, "I don't get to go out much. If I dress properly, could you, maybe… take me for a walk?"

He'd had to leave a six hundred dinar deposit, but that was within his means. (Why six hundred when her purchase price had been three? The cost of her training had been added to her value.) Other than that, the management had had no objections whatsoever. Since Hamilton had "hospitality of the house," they'd sent for a picnic lunch for the two from the kitchen. The two had left by the main gate to the castle, before the mosque and between the minarets.

From the castle they walked down to the town, and then to the lakeshore.

"I have a place," she confessed, still full of shyness, "up in a tower where I can see this. I dream sometimes of being free to walk the lake. Sometimes-yes, I know it sounds foolish-but sometimes I dream I'm a princess up there and a hero will cross the lake and take me away. Silly, no?"

"Maybe not so silly. Anything's possible."

"Not in the Caliphate," she said. "Not in the Caliphate for a woman… or a Christian… or a slave… or a whore."

"Stop it," he said. "What you have to do is not the same thing as what you are."

"Thank you, Johann," she said, quietly. "But even if that's true there are many things that I can never do that also define what I am." She stood facing the lake, wind blowing through the few loose strands of her hair, and continued, "I don't know how to cook. I can't sew or weave. Unless they decide to breed me they'll keep me from ever getting pregnant until it's too late for me to be a mother. If they did breed me it would be to produce a slave. I'd strangle the baby with my own hands, before I let that happen. No respectable man would ever marry me, not now. Independence for a woman is simply not possible here, except as a freelance whore.

"At least I can read and write. Well," she admitted, "I can read. My writing is not… good."

"That's okay," he said. "You could learn."

"Like you learned German?" she asked. "Yours is so much better than mine, so much more formal and correct. I was just a country girl, you see and…

"And this isn't even my country anymore."

Hamilton shook his head in agreement. No, it wasn't her country anymore.

"I've read of back when it was," Petra said. "My great-grandmother kept a journal. It's the only thing I really own for myself. I'd like to have lived back then. I wouldn't have done what she did. I'd either have fought, back when we could still fight, or I'd have left. She knew she should have done one or the other, too. By the time she knew that, though, it was too late."

"All right. Enough!" Ling said. "I believe you."

Yes, we do, said the voice in her head.

Hans stopped his gleeful dancing atop the Koran and said, "Okay. Now what was this all about?"

Tell him. Bring him to our side.

Ling exhaled heavily. "Where to begin?"

At the beginning is usually a good spot.

She nodded.

Stop nodding. You know how annoying that is to watch on a viewing screen back here. Now tell him.

"Your sister doesn't know any of this, but I'm not human," Ling said. She laughed at the expression on Hans' face, an even mix of disbelief and horror. "I mean I'm not human the way you are. Not born of woman. No father. I'm a genetically engineered being."

Hans' horrified look was like a dagger to her heart. She hastened to add, "I am one hundred percent human genes. But surely you noticed my skin and my breasts. Those are not normally found where I came from… where I was sold from. But Hans, I am all human inside. I can have children, provided that my pregnancy blocker is removed or allowed to run down. I feel. I think." She shrugged and let her head fall to one side. "What more do you want?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, forcing his face to something less objectionable. "It was just a shock. You're wonderful. Please go on."

"Okay. I'm also a chippie. I have a thing planted in my brain."

My, this is a day for shocks, thought Hans.

"The reason I have a chip in my brain, and the reason I was genengineered, and the reason I was sold here, is that I am an enemy agent."

"Here to work against the Caliphate?" he asked. "Be still my heart."

"Yes," she admitted. "And that man you attacked… "

Hamilton spread out the thin blanket he'd found in the picnic basket, then walked to the lakeshore to look for some rocks to tack down the corners with. He was lucky to find two and an old brick; it just wasn't that kind of lake. He returned with these, adjusted the sheet slightly, then tacked down the three corners that were most into the wind. He invited Petra to sit.

She kicked off her shoes-more slippers than shoes, really; that was part of what had made the walk down "murder"-and stepped lightly onto the blanket. Moreover, she sat with a sheer grace he found utterly delightful, like a film of a growing tulip shown in faster than real time but in reverse.

Hamilton looked at the girl, sighed and said, "You really are incredibly lovely, you know."

"They tell me that sometimes. For myself, I don't know. Ling says I am."

"Ling?" He really didn't need to ask but it would have been odd not to have.

"The girl who was with me when my brother attacked you."

"That was your brother?" Hamilton suddenly had an altogether too kinky hint of something. It must have showed on his face.

Petra laughed. "No, no, no. It's nothing like that. He and Ling are… special to each other. It happens sometimes, even with houris. I, on the other hand, am going to have to go to some pains to make sure no one from my brother's new command ever sees my face. It would be a great shame to him."

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… what ever. 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.