Caliphate

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.