Carnifex

27/7/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Lands

Khalifa, wife of Abdul Aziz, was as much a part of the movement as her husband, so she felt. She not only cooked and cleaned—for her husband, yes, but also as part of the communal kitchens for all the holy warriors of the base—but she raised the children who would go on to carry forth the movement, the boys, and to breed warriors, the girls. She had only had two, so far, but this was quite good considering her age, nineteen, and that she had only entered into marriage a bit over five years before.

She'd not met her husband before the marriage, of course; good girls rarely did. She had been pleased, though, at the choice her parents had made for her. Not only was Abdul Aziz good looking, to the extent her limited experience allowed her to tell good looking from bad, but he had a bright future. Everyone said so.

It was really only that bright future that had caused her family to go past first cousins to second, which Abdul Aziz was, in searching for a husband for their daughter. With no particular background in genetics, indeed without even the ability to read, Khalifa saw nothing wrong with either sort of match. It was not forbidden by the Holy Koran, of course, and was therefore permitted.

In any case, Abdul Aziz's tall and lanky frame was well matched to Khalifa's shorter and much more well rounded one. Though for all that, she was not a short woman at a meter, seventy. That height came from her pure Bedu ancestry. Along with it, she had inherited large, well shaped, not-quite-almond eyes, full lips and high cheekbones. Her husband, she knew, was as pleased with her appearance as she was with his. At least, in the five years they had been together his ardor had never flagged nor had it shown any signs that it ever would. This was a pleasure to the girl, and in more than her body.

Her two children were a boy, four, and a girl, two. She'd been disappointed in herself for failing to deliver a second boy. But her husband—wonderful man!—had shushed her apologies and told her, in all seriousness, that it was the women who would deliver this world to the sons of Allah. She should be proud, he'd said, as proud of her as he was. How could she not love such a man?

Khalifa knew a little, but only a little, of the outside. She knew she and her sisters were pitied by the women of the industrialized world who believed them to be little more than chattels. She could not for the life of her understand that. Oh, yes, there were men, even Salafi men, who abused their wives. But didn't those "modern" women understand that every Salafi girl had a father and brothers who loved them so long as they were worthy? A father and brothers, uncles and cousins, too, who would not only take a very dim view of their female relatives being abused but were very likely to abuse right back? Salafis who mistreated their wives tended to wind up dead. Fortunately, her parents had chosen well. Her husband cherished her.

It was with that thought; that, and the warm glow still remaining from the night before, reinforced by anticipation of the night to come, that Khalifa ground the beans for the morning's coffee happily and with a smile.

* * *

"Well, you check out," an unsmiling Noorzad announced to Bashir, alone, over the morning coffee. The rest of the company had already eaten and drunk and was back at work on the cavern.

"You are remembered both at the camp from which the lost column set out and in your home area. But I have some very bad news . . . " the grizzled old fighter hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Your family has been taken by the infidels."

Bashir had to feign shock. He inhaled sharply, then allowed himself to exhale as his chin sank down upon his chest. "Have they been . . . "

"No," Noorzad answered. "No word of a trial. None of any murders, either. They're just being held, apparently for questioning."

"How . . . ?"

"The infidels have their ways," Noorzad answered. "They can find your whole life story and family tree from the smell of your camel's three-day-old fart, so say some. If they took your brother, or even the smallest part of his body, they can find out where he came from."

"The crusaders will know I am missing," Bashir wailed. That, too, had taken practice. "They'll torture my parents to tell them where I am."

"No matter," Noorzad answered with a shrug. "Your parents don't know. Nothing they can say can hurt the cause. Besides, the infidels rarely bother to torture, no matter what we might say to the contrary, unless they have some particular reason to justify the effort."

Bashir restrained himself from saying, They'll beat the crap out of you for the slightest lie, or the merest failure to come clean, if they've got an interest. After all, he wasn't supposed to personally know that.

But I really want to know, need to know, what the hell is supposed to fit into that huge cavern we're excavating. Unfortunately, I can't ask you about it, just like I can't ask you about . . . or maybe I can.

"Will Mustafa want to speak to me again do you think?"

Noorzad shook his head. "Not this week. Maybe next. He often commiserates with those who either have given, or may soon give, much for the struggle."

"Okay . . . well, if he won't need me any time soon, I'd just as soon join the rest of the company at work."

"Good lad," Noorzad answered with a personable and friendly slap to Bashir's shoulder.