by Tom Kratman
"It's not for you to promise, master, it is for me to."
The stop by the mullah for him to pronounce a properly contractual temporary marriage was brief. The only question was, "For how long?"
"Two days," the exotic girl had said, explaining to Hans, "You may tire of me after that, though I guarantee you will not before then."
Hans had agreed. What, after all, did he know about the heavenly delights of the houris?
Hans let the girl lead him upstairs, through several ornate halls, down a corridor and into a room furnished in ways he'd never imagined before, all hanging silks and rich wood. Once in the room she'd removed the diaphanous veil she'd worn across the lower half of her face. She was very beautiful, Hans thought. No . . . that wasn't strong enough. He had to admit to himself that he'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
The girl had sat him in a chair, then knelt to untie and remove his boots. The carpet on the floor felt amazingly plush and soft to Hans' march-hardened feet.
"Wait here," the girl had said. "I have a small surprise for you."
Impatiently, and with some small amount of bad grace, Hans had agreed. The girl slipped out silently through a side door.
A few minutes passed before Hans heard someone, not his exotique, saying, "No . . . I won't go . . . this is wrong . . . I said . . . "
A woman, tall and blond and, if anything, more beautiful than his temporary wife was pushed into the bedroom. She turned around and tried to push her way back but the door was blocked by the slender almond-eyed one. "Zheng Ling," she'd given her name as.
"Master," she said. "Meet your sister."
At that, the blond girl wailed and crumpled to the floor.
"In the name of God, what's wrong with her?" Hans asked frantically, while helping Ling move Petra's inert form to the bed.
"Mostly, she's ashamed," Ling answered.
"Of . . . oh."
"Oh."
"But it isn't like she did this to herself," Hans objected.
"Does that matter in our world?" Ling asked, rhetorically.
They laid Petra out on Ling's wide bed. Ling tactfully neglected to mention how frequent an occupant of that bed Petra was.
While busying themselves with silly, ineffectual things like rubbing Petra's wrists, Hans asked, "Why did you show her to me when she didn't want to be seen?"
"She said she didn't want to, but there are two people about whom she can never talk without love creeping into her voice. You're one of them. She didn't want to see you because she was afraid of what you would think and say . . . that, and that she didn't want you to have to endure the shame among your friends of having a houri for a sister."
"I knew she was a slave," Hans said. "All else follows from that. And what does she think I am, but a slave soldier. As for which of the professions chosen for us by others is the more obscene? That I leave for God to decide."
Ling stopped rubbing for a moment and, smiling warmly, said, "You know, master, I think I am going to make good on the promise I made you."
Far up in one of the towers, the one where Latif made his personal quarters, the brothel owner poured three large vodkas for himself and his two guests.
"I get it from across the border," Latif said. "You can get anything for a little baksheesh."
"The Holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain or grape," Rustam objected.
Latif nodded piously. "Very true," he agreed. "But vodka is made from potatoes; Allah will be none the wiser."
"And neither will the caliph," said Abdul Rahman.
"Well . . . as for the caliph," Latif said, "he prefers scotch; or so my contacts tell me. And are your boys settling in well?"
"They seem to be," said Abdul Rahman, sipping at the frosty glass. "They seem to be settling in very happily, indeed."
It was a time for tears. By the time Petra was awake, and Ling left for Petra's room to leave the siblings some privacy in her own, the two were weeping onto each other's shoulders, hugging, and each trying— and failing—to get a word in edgewise.
I never knew any family of my own, Ling had thought, glancing over her shoulder as she'd left. The idea of having actual blood relatives is . . . fascinating. And strangely . . .
Ling cut off the dangerous thought, closing the door between the rooms. For her there never would be, never could be, such a thing as family.
What wouldn't I do to have a family?
A little voice in her head told her, Don't even think about it. You have your duty to your people. That should be enough.
But what if it isn't?
OSI Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, 20 June, 2112
"No, I won't do it," Hamilton snarled. "That goes way past any duty I owe to you or the company or the country. Two hundred and fifty years ago my people fought against this monstrosity. Nothing you can say can make me. It's evil."
"Yes, you will," Caruthers said with great assurance. "It's the only ingress to the place we have. You can't pass for Chinese. The Japanese are too close to us to be permitted in and you couldn't pass for one of them either. The only way we can get you in there is as a South African and just about the only ones of those who are allowed in are slave traders. Which is why the only cover we've been able to prepare for you is as a slave dealer. So you will do it."
"Couldn't I be a buyer, instead? Then we could free the slaves after the mission, rather than leaving them behind in mines and workshops and whorehouses."
"South Africa doesn't buy much. Mostly, they sell. It just wouldn't wash. Even if it would, your target area is the kind of place that buys slaves, not one that sells them."
Hamilton turned away, looking sick. "Please don't ask me to do this."
"No other way." To drive home the point, Caruthers asked, "You did read that paper Claude O. Meara was working on, didn't you, John?"
When Hamilton didn't answer, Caruthers said, "Atkinson, you shithead: read back the introduction to Meara's research paper on artificial smallpox variant VA5H."
The little box answered, "Yes, sir. Proposed artificial smallpox, variant VA5H, is a completely genengineered pathogen which very nearly approximates the ideal biological weapon. VA5H is not actually smallpox at all but has very similar symptoms at one stage of its development. It can be expected to produce ninety-seven percent fatalities in the affected population if left untreated and fifty to sixty percent if full medical care is available. Because of the society-wide spread of the disease, most victims could not be given full treatment. Due to the artificial virus' ability to use any conceivable mode of transmission—contact, air, or vector—coupled with the long delay between infection and the onset of symptoms, defense is highly problematic.
"The cleverest part of the disease is in its pattern of morphing, which follows five stages. In stage one, which is the stage at which it is released from deepfreeze, the disease is asymptomatic and is spread mostly by air and, more rarely, bodily fluids or insect vector. This stage lasts thirteen days, after which it mutates into something which closely mimics the symptoms of the common cold. The coughing and sneezing act as an aid to transmission and, because colds are, in fact, common, can be expected to create no great interest. This stage, stage two, lasts twenty days. It then mutates into something harmless again, and lies dormant for a period of five days. In stage four, the disease turns deadly, killing virtually all who are infected within seven days, and more usually within four. This stage lasts nine days. In stage five the disease once again turns harmless and becomes incapable of reproduction.
"Moreover, every offspring of the virus begins life at the same stage of morphing as the original parent. This is achieved by the genengineering of excess segments on the virus' DNA, which decay or slough off at the times given, leaving a DNA strand with the pathogenic characteristics listed. Subsequent generations breed true to the stage the parent was at, at conception.
"Computer simulations show that nearly one hundred percent of a given population will encounter VA5H and be in
fected by it sometime in the forty-seven days prior to it mutating into stage five. Of the three percent who survive exposure, approximately one third can be expected to go blind, while another third will become sterile. Casualties among the very young and very old will closely approach one hundred percent. It is a civilization destroying disease.
"There is no known cure and no known vaccine. Natural immunity can be expected to be quite limited. Creation of a vaccine would be highly problematic without a sample of the original. In effect, VA5H would operate against a target population as a virgin field epidemic.
"As the virus will be very large, physical defense in the form of air filtration and isolation is possible but dependent upon warning. The major transmission stage, the long stage two, should aid in defeating any such attempts.
"The symptoms of the disease in its fourth stage are similar to Hemorrhagic Smallpox rather than to its less deadly cousins, Malignant Smallpox and Variola Major and Minor. In essence, VA5H causes the victim to fall apart, beginning with the mucous—"
"Stop!" Hamilton shouted, causing the machine to go suddenly silent. "It doesn't make me feel any better about committing one obscenity by hearing about another."
Caruthers set his face into a mask of anger. "Look at me, John," he said. "Look at me!" Caruthers held out one hand and pinched a fold of skin with the fingers of the other. "See that? What's that color? John, I'm black! How do you think I feel about it? Do you think those lily white bastards below the Sahara are selling off any of their precious white volk? Hmmm? Do you think I'm not going to see the faces of the people you sell to my last day? There is no good choice, none that works well enough. Not for something this serious."
"God," Hamilton sighed, "how did the world ever get to be like this?"
"I think they used to call it 'progress.'"
"Yeah . . . I guess the decay of a corpse is progress, too . . . from the point of view of the bacteria."
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 24 Sha'ban, 1536 AH (20 June, 2112)
Graduation holiday was over. From a high window overlooking the courtyard Petra watched her brother's company of janissaries forming in the courtyard next to the great, golden-domed mosque. She wondered if she'd ever see him again. She doubted it. Even so, she thanked a God she was not at all sure even existed (and, to be fair, Petra had reasons for doubt, if anyone did) that she'd had at least this one last chance to be together.
Ling wasn't taking it particularly well. She'd grown genuinely fond of Hans in the few days together. Petra thought that "fond" might be something of an understatement, yet that was all Ling would admit to.
Her eyes say something else though, Petra thought. Who would ever have thought it; little Ling-ling in love? And Brüder Hans as much so?
Petra asked directly, "Are you in love with my brother? You told me, when I first came here, never to get attached to the clients."
Ling sighed. "I don't know what love is. I know this, though: Of the thousands of men who've had me only one ever treated me like a princess, rather than a piece of meat."
She didn't say, but thought, And I might not be a real girl . . . but I have a real girl's feelings. The breeders couldn't breed that out of me. And when I look down there and see your brother marching away, I feel like a part of me is leaving, too.
Ling stood up and left. On the outside she seemed calm enough. What she was feeling inside Petra could only guess at.
Petra watched as the boys turned right and began filing away down the mountain path. She saw Hans turn around several times and look up at the windows. Whether he was seeking her or Ling, Petra didn't know. It was probably both, she decided.
When the last of the boys had disappeared, Petra turned away from her perch and began searching the castle for Ling.
She found Ling sitting alone on a wooden bench in what some of the staff called, "The Singer's Hall." The janissaries had banqueted there, each night of their stay.
Ling didn't notice her at first, or didn't seem to. That the Chinese slave was fully aware of Petra's presence became obvious once Petra was within a dozen feet.
Though Ling didn't turn her eyes from the painted wall upon which she had been gazing, she said, "There's a picture under there, you know."
Petra didn't know. As far as she could see the wall was blank.
"I can't see anything but white. What do you see?" Truthfully, Petra thought Ling was simply seeing things that weren't there. This would have been troublesome if their lives weren't already so miserably blighted.
"It's a man on a horse, an armed and armored man. He's dressed in silvered armor. His horse is roan and draped in red. Over the armor the man is wearing red as well. There's a castle in the background. Not this one, some other. The red clothed, armored man is fighting someone in brown."
"I can't see anything," Petra repeated.
Ling said nothing. A little voice in her head, however, said to her, Shut up about it. Now.
"Hans promised me he'd write to us," Petra offered.
"They often say that," Ling answered. "And sometimes, for a little while, they do. It never lasts. After all, we're just houris, polluted and polluting. Not real people, just slaves. Not someone real people care about."
"Hans is a slave, too."
Ling sighed. "I know. That's why I'll allow myself a little hope that he really cares."
"Both of us do."
Ling's brown, almond eyes looked up into Petra's rounder, blue ones. "Did I ever mention how much you two look alike?"
"A couple of dozen times, yes. It's the other reason I hid all the time my brother's company was here. If they'd seen me they'd have known his shame."
Ling stood and yawned. Taking Petra by the hand she said, "Well . . . if I can't have the boy I want, I'll just have to take the girl. Come on; it's bedtime."
Hand in hand the two houris walked toward their quarters.
OSI Headquarters, Langley, Virginia,
27 November, 2112
There was snow on the breeze. Hamilton and Caruthers walked under a covered walkway between one of the academic buildings and the nearest cafeteria.
"Man, I hate Afrikaans," Hamilton said to Caruthers, following a language lesson. He could have been implanted, or "chipped," and learned the language quickly and perfectly. No free man ever gladly submitted to being "chipped," though it had uses for the disabled.
"Cheer up," Caruthers answered. "You don't have to learn it perfectly; just well enough to pass as a Cape English type who learned it as a second language. You do, on the other hand, have to get the Cape English accent down perfectly."
Hamilton nodded. "Working on it."
"I know. You had best concentrate, though, because there's not a lot of time before you have to go to D-D-S,"—Demolition, Destruction and Sabotage—"refresher, then the Mission Course"—special courses of instruction designed for particularly high value operations—"then into LCA"—local cultural assimilation—"followed by insertion."
"To say nothing about the knife," Hamilton said, his distaste palpable. Yet there was no choice but to send him to plastic surgery to alter his features and change the color of his eyes. It was altogether too possible that the Quebecers had managed to send off a picture of him before their ring was broken.
Caruthers shrugged. "There are worse things. At least you get to keep your mind and your thoughts to yourself. Even though I think that's a mistake."
Early on, when the chips had first been developed, OSI had made it a requirement that all foreign service operatives had to be implanted. The Han had been the ones to figure out how to hack into those chips. OSI was still not recovered from that particular disaster. And while the chips were infinitely more secure now, the prejudice remained. It remained so strongly that OSI couldn't force its operatives to be chipped; they'd resign first and in droves.
"No one is going to chip me," Hamilton answered. "Even before I knew about that poor Chinese slave, I thought the idea was disgusting. Since then . . . " He let the thought
trail off.
"Well, . . . as to the Chinese girl . . . the Ministry of State Security is now telling us she's become somewhat unstable."
"Oh, great. Now what?"
"Nothing important. We still think we can make use of her. And she has been able to confirm the presence of Meara, Sands and Johnston in the castle we had thought them in."
"Any word on their 'progress' to date."
"No, and we don't think we can make any good guesses. I mean, how much can you read into it when one of them beats a slave girl half to death? When he normally beats the slaves?"
"Not much, I suppose."
"No," Caruthers said. "Not much."
