by Tom Kratman
Grolanhei, Province of Affrankon, 2 Shawwal,
1530 AH (1 October, 2106)
"Jizya!" demanded Rashid, the tax gatherer, his fist pounding the old oaken table in the Minden's kitchen. But for his beak of a nose, the gatherer did not look noticeably different from the Nazranis. Rashid's ancestors had converted early and then married into the dominant group.
"But, sir," Petra's father began to explain, "the harvest has been bad this year. The early frost . . . the rain . . . "
"Silence, pig of an infidel!" The jizya is a head tax. It is flat. It is fixed." Fixed by me. "It makes no account of the piddling troubles Allah sends you filth to encourage you to give up your decayed and false faith."
Seeing that Minden was still minded to dispute the collection, the tax gatherer's lip curled in a sneer. Cutting off further discussion, he said, "You realize, do you not, that the jizya is what permits you the status of dhimmis? That without it, without the pact, the dhimma, we are in a state of war, of holy war, of jihad with you and yours? That your lives are forfeit? Your property forfeit?"
"But . . . please, sir . . . "
Being inside the walls of her own home, Petra was uncovered. Neither she, nor her mother, had anticipated the arrival of the taxman today. Indeed, they'd all been so distraught and overworked with the gathering of the very skimpy harvest, they'd not thought of much of anything but how they were going to eke out an existence over the winter. They had to hope others had had better luck this year. If it was a question of letting the Nazrani farmers eat, or taking the food to feed their own, the masters had no compunction about letting filthy Nazrani starve.
Though only nine, and though she feared hunger as much as the next, Petra was ashamed to see her father beg. She was ashamed of his dhimmi status, now that she'd grown and learned enough to understand what that meant. She was ashamed of her people who submitted to this humiliation. And, when the tax gatherer looked over at her—more accurately, so she saw, looked her over—she was ashamed of herself. She remembered something Sister Margerete had told her class:
"Mohammad consummated his marriage with his favorite wife, Aisha, when she was nine years old."
Petra hadn't quite understood what "consummated" meant.
"Mark down the boy for gathering to the janissaries," Rashid told the chief of his four guards. "Take the girl now.
"And next year, you filthy swine, when I come for our taxes and demand silver, you had best give me gold or you'll see yourselves joining your daughter on the auction block."
One of Rashid's guards went to Petra. He took handcuffs and a chain from a pouch that hung at his side. The cuffs he ratcheted shut around her wrists, tightly enough to make her wince. The chain he attached to the cuffs.
Hans lunged. "Get your hands off my sister!"
The guard with Petra ignored the boy; that's what the other guard was for. That other guard caught Hans halfway through his lunge, wrapping one arm around the boy's waist. He then put Hans' feet back on the floor, stood and slapped him across the face several times, hard enough to stun and draw blood. The guard then knocked the boy down as his mother wailed and his stoop-shouldered father hung his head in helpless shame.
Petra, who had begun to cry when the cuffs were put on her, screamed when she saw her brother hurt. A slap from Rashid—hard enough to hurt without damaging the merchandise—quieted her.
She was sobbing as they led her away for her first ride in an automobile.
A crowd gathered outside the Minden's hovel, curious but too frightened to help. After all, what help could they give in a country no longer their own?
Interlude
Kitzingen, Federal Republic of Germany,
9 April, 2003
"No blood for oil! No blood for oil!"
It wasn't a huge crowd, gathered under the crooked-topped tower that was the town's most well-known symbol and landmark. No larger than one might expect in a small city like Kitzingen, the crowd, a mixture of Germans and Moslem guest workers and residents, legal or otherwise, chanted, "No to war . . . no war for oil . . ."
Of the Germans, some were principled pacifists, some leftists of various stripes. Some were just young boys gravitating to young girls. Of the Moslems, few if any had any connection to terrorism. They did, of course, have some connection to their fellow Moslems, wherever they might live. And some of those fellow Moslems had been and were plainly on the target list for the armed forces of the United States.
The television cameras ate it up.
The demonstrators had been more enthusiastic earlier in the year, back when it had still seemed possible to dissuade the United States from the illegal, immoral, imperialist venture its despised President seemed set on. That possibility had proved illusory.
Today was a particularly unpleasant one for them as all the newspapers were carrying photographs of the American military helping a less passive crowd in Baghdad pull down a giant statue of the dictator, Saddam Hussein. Most of the crowd found the pictures, as they found the easy American success and the Iraqis' rapturous welcome, "annoying."
Gabrielle von Minden was annoyed, certainly. She stood in the snowy cold of an early German spring holding a protest sign. It wasn't the cold that annoyed her though. Rather, like the rest of the crowd, what annoyed, or infuriated, was that their best hopes for an Anglo- American defeat in Iraq had been blighted. It was just so . . . unfair. Bastard Americans. How she hated those arrogant bastards.
No, that's not true, she corrected herself. I hate their government and the power they wield. The Americans I've known, even the soldiers, were mostly pretty nice people. I mustn't forget that; it is a government and a set of policies I loathe. I must not ever let myself begin to loathe an entire people.
That said, or thought, Gabrielle didn't feel the need for restraint in her message of protest. Lifting her sign high and waving it, she increased the volume of her chant, "Kein Blut für Oel. Kein Blut für Oel. Kein Blut . . . "
Later, chilled to the bone and shivering, Gabrielle and several friends repaired to a nearby coffee shop. It seemed like half the protestors had had the same idea. It was not a large coffee shop and still it held them all easily. That, too, was a little annoying.
Ah, well, Gabrielle thought, maybe I can't save the world but at least I can try.
She smiled up at the waiter, a handsome, olive-skinned boy about her own age, and gave her order. "And please, might I have some cognac in the coffee?"
"Will Asbach-Uralt do, miss?" the waiter asked.
"Wonderfully," Gabi answered.
Mahmoud didn't feel any of the irritation many of his co- religionists might have felt at being asked to serve alcohol. His Islam was pretty nominal. In fact he was known to take a drink himself from time to time.
And why not? He'd come to Germany to escape from Islam.
"Surely then, miss," he answered, returning her smile. "Right away."
Gabrielle looked at the waiter, saw that his name tag read, "Mahmoud," and thought, Yum.
Chapter Two
"They [those who claim Islam is against slavery] are merely writers. They are ignorant, not scholars . . . Whoever says such things is an infidel. Slavery is a part of Islam. Slavery is part of jihad, and jihad will remain as long there is Islam."
— Sheik Saleh Al-Fawzan, Saudi cleric, author of the bestselling textbook, al Tawheed (Monotheism) and imam of the Prince Mataeb Mosque, Riyadh, 2003 (circa 1423 AH)
Kitznen, Province of Affrankon, 4 Shawwal,
1530 AH (3 October, 2106)
"Nobody's going to bid on a crying girl," the auctioneer-cum-slave dealer said to Petra, lifting her chin with the quirt he'd carried for so long he was hardly aware of it as anything but an extension of his right hand. "Or, at least, nobody you would want to bid on you. Do you understand me, girl?"
Lips crinkling and quivering with deepest sorrow, Petra sniffed and rubbed at her face, trying to push back the tears. She nodded her head three or four times, briskly, and answered, "I'll . . . try. But I miss
my famileee." The last word ended in a wail that Petra, herself, cut off abruptly. "I'll try," she said.
The auctioneer smiled at her and answered her nod with one of his own. He'd seen it so many times before. And yet slaves must come from somewhere. They don't replace themselves, generally. This child, at least, has a chance of finding a reasonably happy position. How much worse for the ones who are older, the ones over nine?
"That's a good girl," he said. "I'll tell you what; let's make a deal. If you can stop crying I'll do my best to get you into a decent family that won't make you work too hard and won't beat you. And—" the auctioneer reached into a pocket of his robe and pulled out a bar of halawa, waving it slightly under Petra's nose—"if you'll show me how well you can smile, I'll give you this."
Petra hadn't been fed since being taken from her family. Though the slaves were watered, feeding slaves who weren't expected to be here in the stables long was something of a wasted and unnecessary expense. She licked her lips at the sight of the bar of honey-sweetened, crushed sesame.
"Can you smile for me?"
Slowly, and with difficulty, Petra forced her face into something that was approximately a smile.
"There's a good girl!" the auctioneer congratulated, patting her gently on the head. He took her little hand in his own larger one and placed the sweet in it. "Here, this may help you keep that pretty smile."
"What's the reserve on this one?"
The speaker was a Moslem, Abdul Mohsem, a man, a merchant, in his late thirties, with a substantial roll of prosperity-born fat about his middle. Stealing a glance upward from where she knelt on the straw of her cell, Petra thought he looked kindly, despite the rifle slung across his back.
Few of the Nazrani in the province even had the wherewithal to buy a slave. Fewer still were interested, though some were, notably the brothel keepers. These sometimes took a chance on a pretty girl, even if she was still far too young to put to service. Abdul Mohsem knew this, and hated the idea.
True to his word, the slave dealer had sought out a decent family for the girl. Indeed, he'd sought out the most decent patriarch he knew in the community.
"Ten gold dinar," the slaver answered, then, seeing that Adbul didn't blanch, added, "plus twenty silver dirhem."
Abdul Mohsem scowled, inducing the dealer to further amend, "But for you, just ten gold dinar."
"Ten gold dinar seems fair," Abdul said, "but I wasn't scowling over the price; I was scowling over the fact."
"The fact?"
"Facts, actually. One, that we sell young girls and, two, that if I don't buy this one she'll end up in a brothel."
"It is not for us to forbid what Allah permits," answered the dealer, who considered himself, not without reason, to be a pious man.
"Neither does Allah require of us everything that he permits," observed Abdul Mohsem, still scowling.
To that the dealer shrugged. It was not for him to question the words or the workings of the Almighty. "Do you want the girl or not?" he asked.
Without answering, Abdul Mohsem knelt down and pushed aside Petra's long blond hair. With his thumb he brushed off a smudge on the girl's cheek.
"Would you like to come home with me, and become a companion to my daughter, Besma?" he asked, smiling.
Shyly and fearfully, forcing a smile, Petra nodded.
"Be happier, girl," Abdul chided. "We'll not work you too hard, nor force you to give up your faith. And my Besma is sweet, if maybe a little too strong-willed. You'll like her. And it's better than the alternative."
Of that, Petra had little doubt, even if she was hazy on the details.
Leading Petra by the hand, Adbul Mohsem brought her through the Marktplatz, past a dozen or so tables where men chatted while sipping at thick Turkish coffee. Ultimately they arrived at a large house guarded by a doorkeeper in one of the town's better residential neighborhoods.
The doorkeeper nodded respectfully at Abdul Mohsem, smiled down at the girl, and then held the heavy oaken door open for them. Abdul Mohsem's was a happy household; smiles were not rare.
"Besma!" the patriarch called, "Besma, light of my life and pearl of my heart, come here."
Petra heard the pitter-patter of feet little or no larger than her own, coming down a hallway to the expansive foyer in which she stood with her new master. She soon caught sight of a girl, about her own size if a little older, very pretty with huge brown eyes and slightly olive skin. The girl's smile was brilliant, and why not? "Besma" meant "smile."
Besma took one look at Petra and began to dance around the foyer, shouting, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, Father, a friend for me! Oh, she's beautiful; she's wonderful! And I've been so lonely. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Seeing Besma jumping and twisting in the air, her feet kicking lightly, set Petra to laughing, shyly at first but growing with each new step, leap, twist and kick. Finally, worried that she might offend, she covered her mouth and forced herself to seriousness, pushing her chin down to her chest.
Besma, however, was having none of that. She stopped her dancing, walked over to Petra and took her by the hand. "I only have one sister," the Moslem girl said, "Aisha. And she's a lot older than me, with her own family now. I miss having a sister at home. Will you be like my sister?"
Fort Benning, Georgia,
5 October, 2106
Cars were no longer a matter of right for an American. Between the strains of the war, the taxes, the limits on gaseous and liquid fuel and the priority the military had on it, not all Americans could afford an automobile. Of those who could, not all were permitted to own one. The country had changed in many ways over the last ninety years, and many of those changes were not for the better.
As a military officer, Hamilton was in the privileged class. He could have a car. He was allowed to have one, though, not for his own pleasure and convenience. Rather, he was allowed to have one to take care of military business at personal expense and to ensure he could make it in to his unit in the event of an alert.
The car drove itself, leaving Hamilton free to interlace the fingers of both hands between his head and the headrest, and simply to relax. After the last couple of months, relaxation was something he would never take for granted again.
The car—it was a two-seat, multifuel job made down in Guadalajara to a Japanese design—left the strong smell of overdone french fries behind it.
"Building Four coming up on the left," the vehicle announced.
Hamilton glanced leftward out the window and smirked at the bronze statue in front of the main academic building on the post. The building dated back to 1964 and had seen many renovations in its time. The last one had, with something less than full success, attempted to make the thing match the more tasteful architecture of the Infantry Center's early days, all stucco and red tile.
The statute, bronze and about as old as the building, was of a lieutenant in the act of leading his men forward. The lieutenant wore a helmet of a design obsolete more than a century past. One hand gripped an even older style rifle while the other gestured onward, poised forever at about neck level.
"I've had this shit up to here, too, buddy," Hamilton whispered.
He'd graduated from the Imperial Military Academy, though it had been touch and go the last month, with most of his free time spent walking off his myriad sins. He'd won the Martinez Award, too, as everyone had predicted. Then, to everyone's shock, Hamilton had finished Ranger School as the Distinguished Honor Graduate. This was no mean feat in a class that size or with competition that fierce. As such, under the regulations, he'd had his choice of branch and chosen Suited Heavy Infantry. He really didn't want to freeze his ass off hunting the northern rebels he still—punishment tours or not— thought of as Canadians.
On the other hand, Hamilton had lost forty pounds in the school, half wrecked his health, and damaged both knees. Fortunately, he'd done non-suited jump school a couple of years prior. Otherwise, he thought, he'd probably not have made it. His knees really were a mess and fiv
e hundred deep knee bends followed by a five- to seven-mile run were not a formula for success.
Fortunately, suits don't jump as a rule. Better, they take a load off my ever-so-fucked up knees.
On its own, the car queried the nearby parking lots and determined that there was a spot reasonably convenient to the building's main entrance. It sent out the signal to claim the spot, then turned left, left again, then right and entered the lot. On its own, it parked, raising the "driver" side door and shutting down the engine. It would secure itself once Hamilton had exited.
Taking only his government issue Mark XVII tactical handheld with him—the thing was light and only seven millimeters by twenty by twenty centimeters, EMP hardened and with holographic screen and virtual keyboard—Hamilton walked as briskly as sore knees would permit from the lot, around the building, and in through the flag-flanked main entrance.
