Caliphate

af-Fridhav, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

Over the little tourist boats Hamilton stood with a set of bolt cutters in one hand. The boats were lit by the flames on the other side of the lake. The flames suggested to Hamilton that his worst fears were realized: The ship had crashed and burned, the people— including the freed children—were lost, and the virus somewhere at the bottom of the lake.

"Does that mean . . . ?" Petra asked.

"I'm afraid it might."

Her shoulders slumped and she seemed on the verge of tears. "To have come so far . . . "

Hamilton put his unencumbered arm around her and said, "But we're still alive. And we have to get away." If we can get away. I was counting on our slipping through in the confusion . . . but if the airship's already down maybe there won't be enough confusion.

"Damned right you do, asshole!" sounded in Hamilton's ear, startling him.

"Bernie?" he asked. "You're alive?"

"No, I'm speaking to you from the great beyond, baas. Of course I'm alive."

"But the fire?"

"The pilot dumped fuel to gain some altitude and reduce the chance of fire. I don't know what touched the fuel off, a tracer, maybe. Then again, there's been enough shit flying that it could have been anything. Now get your ass over here. There are Swiss medics and rescue personnel taking care of us, and a helluva fight in the air and on the lake. In the confusion . . . "

While Hamilton was talking, Petra looked at him as if he'd gone slightly mad.

"Oh, and Caruthers is here. He says move your ass."

Hamilton looked down at Petra and laughed. "They're alive! And we're going to stay that way, too. Hop in, Honey. Untie the boat while I cut the chain."

The boat's electric motor was virtually silent. At first, and for just under an hour, Hamilton followed the northern shore. The lights of the fight on the water and in the air receded. When he judged it was safe enough to do so, he cut the wheel hard port and set off into the lake.

His eyes scanned nervously about, as did Petra's. He kept his weapon leaning against the steering column. Hers she kept in her hands. She knew, intellectually, that it would be little defense against a patrol boat. That didn't matter. The comfort of the weapon was not in its ability to defend her. It was in its ability to make her a target to be shot rather than a victim to be taken, tried, and crucified.

Or worse than crucified, she thought. Someone to be re-enslaved.

"Get ready," Hamilton whispered. "There's something up ahead, a patrol boat, I think."

What he saw in his goggles she didn't know. That he moved the submachine gun resting on the steering column to a position across his legs frightened her. She grasped her own weapon all the more tightly.

"Ah shit," he said. "They've seen us."

Petra pulled the submachine gun to her shoulder. She couldn't see anything yet, not having goggles. No matter; when the enemy appeared, she would be ready.

"That won't be much use, you know," Hamilton said.

"Depends on the purpose," Petra answered. He understood completely.

The boat had four life jackets draped over the back. Hamilton pointed to them and told her, "Dump the burka and put one on. The water's cold but we might still make it if we swim for it."

"Or they might take us alive from the water," she answered. "No thanks."

He nodded that he understood that, too.

"If this were faster I'd try to ram them," he said. "As is, I doubt they'd feel the nudge."

Petra heard the first inklings of a heavy engine, somewhere up ahead. The boat that Hamilton had seen seemed to loom in the darkness. She aimed her submachine gun at it and was just about to pull the trigger when Hamilton began to laugh. That was odd enough that she lowered her weapon . . . and then screamed as the boat bearing down on them opened fire.

Hamilton saw immediately, as Petra didn't, that the patrol boat ahead was firing high. He immediately ducked low into the little stolen rental, dragging her down with him. For her part, her finger was still on the trigger of her submachine gun. The twin shocks of having fire pass overhead, and being dragged downward, caused her finger to tighten. The weapon fired into the bottom of the boat, three rounds before the thing further shocked her into releasing the trigger.

That was too late, of course. Water immediately began spurting up through the newly created holes.

"Ah, shit," Hamilton said, as a stream of icy water took him in the neck. The boat wouldn't sink; he was sure of that much. Between the walls of the hull it was sealed foam. Even so, as it sank its resistance to the water would increase to the point it would be faster—and with the boat rapidly filling, no colder—to swim.

The patrol boat in front of them suddenly leapt forward, missing the little pleasure boat by feet and rocking it dangerously. It might have capsized but that its center of gravity was already somewhat lower.

Hamilton struggled to put his rear on the seat and his hands and feet at the controls. "Bail!" he shouted to Petra, as the boat began moving ahead.

"Bail?"

"Use your hands . . . anything you can find, actually, to get the water out of the bottom of the boat."

Petra, being careful this time to put the safety on the submachine gun, bent over and began to scoop. That wouldn't do more than buy a little time, but it was better than nothing. With a naval battle developing furiously behind them, Hamilton pushed the little boat toward shore for all it was worth.

"Which isn't too bloody fucking much," he muttered. The water rising above his ankles sent a chill up his spine. Petra bailed even more furiously, crying with frustration that the water was still rising.

"Matheson!" he shouted aloud. No answer. They might have put him under. Crap. "Ling?" Nothing. Probably hurt in the landing. Shit. I think I can haul Petra to shore . . . but we'll both be better than half frozen.

"Get out of your burka and put on a life vest, honey," he said.

"Why?" she asked, still bailing.

"We're not going to get picked up by the Caliphate; that Swiss patrol boat will see to that. But we're going to have to swim for it."

"I CAN'T!"

"No matter, honey, I CAN."

* * *

Hamilton didn't put on a life jacket. It would have interfered with his swimming and hauling Petra to safety. Besides, he was a very strong swimmer and simply didn't think he needed one.

The top of the boat was almost flush with the water now, the little engine deader than chivalry. The firefight between the patrol boats behind them had ended, but without knowing who had won, Hamilton didn't think they should risk staying with the foundered recreation boat. Odds are only fifty-fifty of being found by a friend if we stay here, he thought. Our odds of making the swim are a little better than that. He could see the far shore in his night vision goggles but, with those giving no depth perception, he couldn't be sure of how far away it was. No worse than fifty-fifty, anyway, he amended.

"This is going to be really cold, Petra," he said, very gently. "Over the side now."

Nodding, she bent at the waist, put both hands on the gunnels, and stepped over into the water. Her mouth opened into a wide, round "O" with her silent scream.

Bracing himself, Hamilton eased himself over. Oh, God, this is cold. He moved his body to be almost parallel to the surface and said, still gently, "Grab hold."

Petra didn't move, but just clung to the side of the boat. Instead of telling her again, Hamilton took her hands, one by one, and placed them around his neck, interlacing the fingers. Twisting within the circle of her arms, he kicked away from the boat and began a slow, energy-conserving, breaststroke. Though she made no answer, Hamilton talked to Petra constantly to keep her awake and alive.

"You're going to like freedom, Petra . . . I can't wait to take you on a boat where no one's trying to kill us, honey . . . Babe, wait until you see the shopping in New York City . . . Love, scuba is just more fun than you can imagine . . . "

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."