Caliphate

Chapter Thirteen

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.

"Easier to rent, I think," said Bernie. "But then we have the problem with the crew. Not many are likely to risk getting shot down just to free some slaves. And while our expense account is effectively unlimited, there is probably no amount of money that would get someone to fly on those odds.

"Ah… then again, there might be," Matheson added. "That crew that brought us and the kids? They seemed pretty disaffected to me, at least one of them. It might be something. Maybe." the Black agent shrugged. "Maybe, if we rent the same ship that brought us here and then seize it, that one might help us. But we're not bringing any of them in on this in advance. There are already too many people involved."

"All right then," said Hans. "Let's suppose that we can rent an airship and seize it. That takes… two people, one of them either Ling or myself?"

"Can't be you," Hamilton said. "We need you to get into the castle."

"The best choice would be Ling and myself," offered Bernie. "That way, if one of us is taken out the other can still pilot."

And besides, Bernie thought, it's not like I trust the Chinks not to have their own agenda. I'll feel a lot better if our escape is at least partially in my hands, not theirs.

"Which leaves only John and myself for both the castle and sealing off the road from af-Fridhav," Hans observed. "Can't be done. We'd need one more."

"That would be me," said Petra, whom everyone had thought to be asleep.

The fight over that one went on for quite a while.

"My little black ass," said Bernie. "She's only seventeen and she knows precisely nothing."

"On the contrary," Hans argued. "At this point she knows altogether too much. Everything, except the reason, as a matter of fact."

"Freeing the slave children and getting us out of here is all the reason I need," said Petra. "Striking out against the masters?" She laughed. "That's all gravy."

Hamilton found that he rather liked her laugh.

"She could control a line of command-detonated mines along the road from af-Fridhav," he said. "Not a lot of skill needed there."

"Provided we emplace them," said Bernie.

"We'd have to do that anyway," said Hans, "and some days in advance, too."

"Where would we get the mines?" asked Hamilton. "There's not enough time to gather the materials and make them."

Hans laughed aloud. "I'm sure you people have intricate forms and procedures for control of munitions. We don't. As long as the Christians don't get them there's little control, little organization for that matter. It's just a question of signing some out and having some reason for it."

Bernie thought about that for a while before saying, "One company from af-Fridhav. Call it… what? Five trucks? Six to be safe?"

"That sounds right," agreed Hans.

"So… a dozen directional antivehicular mines. With det cord, wire and detonators. Can you get that many?"

Hans just nodded and said, "I'll start by complaining about security around the castle and insist we put out some mines. I'll just take out extra. Say… mmm… half of those I'll use to refresh the security company's training in mines before we lay them around the castle. The rest we'll leave at the training location, intending to collect them later."

"No," Bernie said. "A little too pat. Too likely someone will notice when they don't show up. Try something else."

"If I had the dinar, I could bribe the men at the ammunition dump at Garmsch to give me extra, beyond what my colonel authorizes. It wouldn't be too suspicious, really. We have to bribe to get much of anything done in the Caliphate. I'll claim I need them for training and ask for an extra two dozen. Halfway between here and Garmsch we transfer over one dozen. Have you a vehicle that can hold a dozen?"

"Yes," Bernie agreed. "Barely. But what about the driver of the truck?"

"What driver? Driving is a manly thing here and I would drive. Loading would be done by the slaves at the ammunition dump and unloading by the soldiers here at the castle. I only need security if I claim I need security."

"That would work," Bernie agreed. "We can meet you halfway and transfer the mines to the sedan. How do we get them set up?"

"A couple of days before, John and I will go to the road and find an ambush position, set it up, camouflage them, and bury the detonator nearby. Then we bring Petra there, hook everything up and leave her to set them off if she sees a column of trucks coming. Or I can drop them off myself and hide them."

"I don't like that," Bernie said. "How's she to know it's really the right column, when she's out of communications?"

"I should have had myself chipped, after all," Hamilton said.

"That wouldn't fix the problem," Matheson disagreed, "because one of us two has to go into the castle and the other has to grab the airship. No, the girl's going to be on her own anyway."

"I could get us five tactical communications systems," Hans offered. "They're probably as good as what you are used to, since both the Empire and the Caliphate buy from China. Since I'm getting the weapons those would be little more trouble."

"That might help," Bernie conceded. "But we'll have to modify the frequency so that Caliphate forces don't pick it up."

You can do that, said the small voice in Ling's head. She said as much, aloud.

"Okay," agreed Bernie. "Now what I wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak."

"A what?"

"Never mind. It's an inside joke, an old inside joke. And we still haven't figured out what to do at the castle. Or how to pick up and extract Petra, since she's going to be separate." af-Fridhav, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,

1538 AH (24 October, 2113)

The amazing thing to Hamilton was that there were pleasure boats to rent, right there on the tightly guarded, watery border between Switzerland and the Caliphate. Military boats he'd expected. Fishing boats he'd expected. He'd come there, Petra in tow, looking for a way to steal one or the other.

But pleasure boats?

"Still," he said to Petra, as the two of them put-putted across the water on the Caliphate side, "they're awfully slow. And it isn't just a governor; they've got tiny little underpowered engines. We'd be out on the water for… "-he did some quick calculations-"ummm… nearly an hour. I could almost swim the lake as fast."

"I can't swim," Petra gulped. "There were streams and lakes near home but… well, you can't swim in a burka."

Hamilton nodded. "It's not too late for you to learn but it is too late to learn to do it well enough to make it across this lake. It's got to be a boat. But these are just too slow. We'd never make it, not once the janissaries were alerted."

He reached down to feel the water. "Brrrr. Cold. We couldn't swim this without wet suits."

"What are those?" she asked.

"Never mind. I'll show you once we're back home." He said that last with more confidence than he felt.

That was the first time he'd so much as suggested he'd want to have anything to do with Petra- miserable houri that I am- since they'd met. She held onto that thought, that hope, very tightly. Maybe I might mean something more to him than just a body to use.

Hamilton didn't notice any flash of emotion or expression on Petra's face. Instead, he was looking to the south, generally. There, two patrol boats passed within a few hundred meters of each other. One was Swiss, he gathered, the other from the Caliphate. The two boats trained guns on each other as they passed. Though it was too farabout a kilometer away-for Hamilton to make out the faces, every line in the pose of the bodies exuded menace, hate, and outright eagerness to open fire.

Life was hard in Switzerland, Hamilton had heard more than once, and food was always rationed. But the million men and women of the Swiss Army took their turns on the border and rebuffed any threat from the Caliphate, usually with much fall of blood and with few or no prisoners taken on either side. In a sense, the country was in a continuous low-level war that for level of sacrifice per capita matched the endless war to maintain and expand the Empire.

"I'm an idiot," he announced.

"Why? How?"

"Because we don't have to cross the lake. We only have to get to the Swiss side of it. And that's much closer."

"Won't the Swiss shoot at us?" Petra asked.

"That's always a possibility, yes. But 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' As long as the janissaries are trying to kill us, the odds are on our side that the Swiss will help us."

"Oh. I'm not sure I like that word: Odds."

Hamilton laughed. "Honey," he said, "all of life is nothing but playing the odds."

Petra really didn't want to think about her perforated body sinking to the bottom of the cold deep lake. Instead, she changed the subject to life on the outside.

"Well, for one thing, you're going to like learning to swim and going scuba diving in a wet suit," Hamilton answered, as he turned the little rental boat to shore. And I am so going to like teaching you.

Petra leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She had to raise her veil to do it.

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,

1538 AH (24 October, 2113)

Hans stood at attention in front of his corbasi. "Sir, the security around the castle could be much improved," he said.

As an initial matter, the colonel was inclined to be unpleasant over someone telling him that his own arrangements were inadequate. On the other hand, he had been somewhat distracted. He decided to hear the young odabasi out.

"Speak."

"There are two things, sir, that I think we can do. One is that the boys have become stale, doing nothing but standing guard. I think we should take… I should take, one to three platoons at a time out and train them in janissary skills that have become… slack."

"And?"

"There is no reason that the space between the wire obstacles cannot be mined," Hans said. "That's the second thing."

The colonel thought about that. He agreed wholeheartedly about the training suggestion. It was so refreshing to have a young officer with some initiative. He was less enthusiastic about the mines, given how often the American renegades staggered back to the castle drunk. He said as much.

"Command armed and optionally command detonated," said Hans. "We can ordinarily leave them disarmed and harmless, and only arm them if there is ever an attack on the facility."

"Well… " the colonel agreed, "we do have a fairly liberal ammunition budget that we've hardly ever touched. I approve, young odabasi. Start your training program and start improving the defenses."

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,

1538 AH (24 October, 2113)

There were two ways that control, back at Langley, suggested to Matheson that he could proceed. One involved Andrussov oxidation. This was comparatively difficult and dangerous. On the other hand, the materials were certain. He began with that.

The materials weren't much of a problem. Methane was easy; the sedan ran on it and getting a spare tank was no problem. Pure oxygen was available, Matheson discovered, from the local pharmacy. Better, no prescription was required. He bought three tanks and two masks. Ammonia? That was available everywhere.

Platinum was a little more difficult. There was no jeweler's shop in Honsvang that had any. Nor had those of any of the other towns nearby had anything like the quantity he needed. And it would have been very suspicious for a kaffir, as he obviously was, to buy several hundred thousand rand or dinar worth of gold and diamond jewelry just to extract the little bit of platinum that held the stones in place.

He'd had to go all the way to am-Munch to find any substantial quantity of platinum, and then it came in coin form rather than in jewelry. The drive over country roads and along the decrepit remains of E533 had taken the better part of the day.

Still, there was an easier and safer method, if he could get the materials for that. Bernie hadn't been sure until he actually tried.

There was a print shop in am-Munch, one with a sign proclaiming it had been there for centuries. This provided a dye, Prussian blue, for no more than cost plus a moderate bribe to one of the workers. A bakery, of all places, had lye in sufficient quantities. Sulfuric acid he didn't bother getting, as Hans had said he could get it in any reasonable quantity from the motor pool.

Having the materials for the easier and safer method in hand, Bernie went after the lab gear required. In am-Munch, he also picked up the makings of a burner, beakers and tubing, plumbing supplies, a double walled stainless steel pressure cooker, a lot of epoxy, and some glass jars in large and small sizes, the smaller being able to fit inside the larger. That had taken most of the rest of the day. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up a bag of charcoal.

He drove back to Honsvang, then moved all of his little treasures into the suite. There he discovered that Hans had left him several liters of sulfuric acid, rather more than he needed. When it was all present and accounted for he thought, Okay, you bastards. Teleoperate me. Let's make us some cyanide.

Oh, and be really fucking careful, huh?

The thought came back, Mr. Matheson, this is Doctor Richter. I'll be operating you. I'll do my best.

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 13 Muharram,

1538 AH (24 October, 2113

It wouldn't do to have Petra in the suite while Bernie Matheson cooked up his devil's brew. For that matter, Hamilton had no desire to be there either. Mom didn't raise no fools.

Hans and Ling were in the next room. The castle's original walls were, of course, very thick and utterly soundproof. Not so the dividing walls that had been put in to make more cubicles for the houris. Thus, between the gasps, the moans, the thump-thump- thumping of bed against wall…

"Does that bother you?" Hamilton asked Petra, lying beside him wearing nothing but a smile.

She shrugged, then rolled over on one side to face him, her head resting on one hand. "You really get to where you don't even hear it."

"I suppose," he conceded. "That is, you don't. I do."

"Does it bother you?" she asked, then glanced down and, giggling, said, "I see that it does."

Her face grew serious. "You own me for the next week or more. I am your field. You know you can have me, if you want me."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I know. And I know it wouldn't mean very much to you. Or maybe it would be nothing. And… I'd rather not have you if it doesn't mean anything. Call me old fashioned."

"You're 'old fashioned,'" she echoed, and then laughed.

"I like the sound of your laughter," Hamilton said. "Truly, I do."

"No one's ever said that to me," she admitted. "Tell me more of what it's like where you live."

"It's a long way from perfect," Hamilton said. "And it used to be better, so I'm told… so I've read. It's more free for individuals, especially for women." He reached over and fingered the small crucifix that rested against the inside of her right breast. "Christians are in charge, though they're not all all that Christian. Some are though.

"We're a lot richer than in the Caliphate. Poor people there are generally better off than rich ones here."

She thought about that for a minute before asking, "Autos? My great-grandmother wrote that back then almost everyone had a car. Not that she approved of that, mind you."

"No," he shook his head. "Those are kind of rare. I own one, and have since I was twenty-one. But that was because I was in a position where I needed to be able to get around without relying on public transport. Now, of course, I still have one and for much the same reason."

"Could I have one? If I lived there, I mean."

"Probably, if you had the need and could pay the tax and pay for the fuel. Portable fuel is rare, expensive, and rationed. Most of it goes to the government. Most regular people get around by public transportation.

"You could drive mine," he offered. "Once you learned how to drive, anyway. Or at least how to tell the car where to take you."

That was a nice dream. But it was also, possibly, a suggestion of some future relationship together. He's not really thinking about what I am, what I have been. I think I owe it to him not to let him forget, not to let him be taken in by a false picture.

"I had a client who used to take me for drives," she said, "back when I was fourteen and fifteen. But I never saw anything. From the moment he started his car until the moment he stopped it I had to have my head bent over him. He was older than you… maybe forty."

Got no words for that one, Hamilton thought, except… "Well… if I drive you somewhere you won't have to unless you want to."

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 just made Gabrielle's Christmas.