Caliphate

an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Petra walked as fast as she could towards the car. Unfortunately, with the constraints of the burka, she couldn't outpace the pursuing policeman.

Maybe I should just suck him off and send him on his way, she thought. That would be quickest and simplest. That's probably what Ling would do.

No, argued another voice, though that voice was still her own. You've spent your whole life until this evening submitting. Enough is enough. Girl, as your great-grandmother wrote in her journal, at the end there comes a time when you have to fight or it will be too late.

"Fine then," Petra whispered to herself, her fingers reaching down to caress the journal, tucked into a belt underneath her burka. "I'll fight."

She slowed her pace and began to glance from side to side, looking for a deserted alley. After half a minute she came upon one, off to her right, with no lights showing. She turned down it. Behind her, the policeman's footsteps picked up as he closed for the kill . . .