by Tom Kratman
Gabi was just finished taping the diaper in place when the phone rang, setting her to running for it even as it set Amal to crying.
"Hello?"
"Gabi, it's Mahmoud. What's that crying in the background?"
I suppose there's no sense in trying to hide it now, she thought.
"Ummm . . . the baby. Your baby . . . errr . . . our baby."
"And you didn't fucking tell me?"
"I didn't want to trap you," she said, softly, less certain at the moment that she'd done the right thing. "Or to seem like I was trying to trap you."
Mahmoud, on the other end of the line, sighed heavily. Gabi could almost see him nodding in his fatalistic and accepting way.
"Okay," he said. "What now?"
"I don't know," she answered. "I still won't go to the United States."
"And I won't live in Europe."
Chapter Twelve
Certain persons have been begging me for the past five years to write about war against the Turks, and encourage our people and stir them up to it, and now that the Turk is actually approaching, my friends are compelling me to do this duty, especially since there are some stupid preachers among us Germans (as I am sorry to hear) who are making the people believe that we ought not and must not fight against the Turks. Some are even so crazy as to say that it is not proper for Christians to bear the temporal sword or to be rulers; also because our German people are such a wild and uncivilized folk that there are some who want the Turk to come and rule.
—Martin Luther, "On War Against the Turks," 1528 AD
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,
1538 AH (21 October, 2113)
"You'd never been drunk before, had you?" Ling asked.
Hans, a study in misery, just shook his head and said, "That's the second kind of virginity I gave to you. I much preferred giving you the other kind. Much."
"I'm sure," Ling said, grinning widely. She hadn't known she'd been his first and that was . . . warming. That he remembered and appreciated was much more so.
Find out, if possible, why he attacked your contact, said the little voice in Ling's head.
She asked.
She asked and was surprised as such a torrent of hate and loathing poured out of Hans as she had never heard before. Not just hate for Hamilton, whom Ling only knew of as "De Wet," but Hans also felt deep hatred for the Corps of Janissaries, for Moslems, for all slave dealers, and for the Caliphate. He hated the boys who'd raped Petra, the dealer who had auctioned her, and the bastard tax gatherer who had taken both the siblings away from their home. Hans hated the laws that had made him crucify a priest. He hated everything.
"Everything?"
"Okay, not everything. Not you. Not Petra. But I hate everything else about this land."
I wish we could be sure it's not an act, said the little voice. He would be a great asset.
Is there a way to test him? she thought back.
We are considering this.
Hamilton lay on his side, head propped up on one elbow, considering the face and form of the sleeping girl next to him. Seventeen, he thought. Maybe eighteen. So much skillful wickedness in so young a girl. Almost . . . almost, I can see the attraction of Islam if it enables a man to own such beauty. Better, she makes it seem as if she's a lover, not just a whore playing a part. Perhaps that's only because she's a natural whore, though, if she is. It's possible, too, that she's just been very well trained. Or both.
Only things I can be sure of are that she's both beautiful and an amazing fuck.
Christ, what kind of pervert am I, fucking a seventeen-year-old?
A little contrary voice said, Hey, look at the bright side; maybe she's eighteen.
Oh, that helps a lot.
Could have been worse. She could have been thirteen and you would still have had to fuck her to keep up your cover.
Unable to stand it anymore, Hamilton reached out one hand, shook the girl awake and asked, "How old are you?"
"Seventeen," Petra answered groggily. "Why?"
Pervert.
Our best consensus, for the moment, is to ask him for proof, the little voice in Ling's head said. It is not perfect but, if he turns out to be an agent provocateur, you can claim you asked for proof in order to denounce him. In the interim, it moves us a bit along toward confirming his true thoughts.
Did you know they made a whore of his sister and that she's my best friend and lover here? Ling asked back.
We watch your every move. Of course we knew. That is still not proof. The Caliphate produces only one thing of genuine excellence, and that product is fanaticism.
True, she agreed.
If you had access to a laboratory, we could teleoperate you to create a first grade truth serum. Sadly—
—I don't. And the still where Latif makes the poor stuff won't do. In truth, Ling hated the very idea of being teleoperated, which involved surrendering complete control over her own body to another. It was bad enough sucking and fucking people she didn't want to. Teleoperation was, in its way, even more degrading.
Still, in vino veritas. What he said last night while drunk is a good indicator of his true feelings. We're still reviewing the tapes. We'll get back to you. In the interim, ask for proof. And try to be clever about it, won't you?
"Reviewing the tapes"? Ling sent back. I'm sure you voyeuristic bastards are.
Be nice, Ling. We can teleoperate you without permission, you know.
Breakfast for the two was delivered to Petra's quarters by a eunuch. It didn't have any bacon, or pork sausage, of course, but was otherwise decent.
Hamilton already had the name of the girl sitting opposite: Petra. Moreover, she was already, technically, his wife for the next thirteen days.
"I've never had a wife before," Hamilton said.
"You don't really have one now," Petra answered, perhaps a little sadly. Clothed in a nightgown, still her young, firm breasts showed through the front opening. Her nipples were pink, Hamilton saw. "It's just something they do to get around the law. Doesn't mean anything."
I will not ask, "how did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this," Hamilton thought. I will not ask . . .
"How did you ever end up here?" he asked.
"You don't want to know."
"Yes, sure I do."
"It's a sad story," Petra said. Saddest of all for me.
"Even so."
She sighed, cast her eyes upward and then down to the floor. "I was a pretty little girl—"
"I can believe that."
"The tax gatherer picked me and my brother. First he set the jizya—"
"Jizya?" Hamilton asked.
"A tax non-Moslems pay here as part of their surrender," she explained. "Anyway, he set it so high my father couldn't pay . . . and when he couldn't the taxman took me instead. I was nine. My brother, Hans—he's the one who attacked you last night—they took later."
"They sold you to this place when you were nine?" And how are they any worse than Bongo and I? We've just sold some six year olds.
"No . . . no. That came later. Though my friend, Ling, was sold even younger. At first I was sold to a wonderful family . . . I thought they were wonderful anyway. Their daughter, Besma, really was. We still write. She's married—really married, I mean . . . not the travesty we have here—and has two children now. She named the girl for me. She's says she will come for me, and not to lose faith. Faith! Like I have any reason for faith."
"It's okay," Hamilton said, disconcerted at the pain growing in Petra's voice. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want."
"You are my Lord and Master, for the next two weeks," Petra said, a trifle bitterly. She sensed, somehow, that with this client she could get away with a lot more than with most. "You asked; it is my duty to tell you."
"Anyway," she continued, "life with Besma was pretty good. If you don't count her stepmother who used me to control her. And then her stepbrother and two friends decided I was just the thing f
or a dull afternoon—"
And then the tears came forth. The force with which they gushed took Hamilton completely by surprise.
"I never talk about it," Petra sobbed, "I never talk about—"
After which she couldn't say anything, as Hamilton was kneeling beside her chair, holding her in his arms, and pressing her head into his shoulder. "Shhh," he said soothingly. "It's all right. You don't have to talk about it and I am a complete ass for even asking. I'm really sorry."
* * *
"Hans, I need you to listen carefully to me," Ling said. "This is important and the answer means everything. Why did you attack that man last night?"
Hans drew in a deep breath and then exhaled forcefully. "He's a slave trader, and I saw his cargo. They were just children, Ling, even younger than Petra was when they took her away. He's a stinking slave trader."
Ling chewed on her lower lip, wracked with indecision. Finally, she asked, "What if he wasn't?"
Hans just shook his head in confusion. "What if he wasn't what?"
"What if he wasn't a slave trader, but was something else?"
"Something else? Like what?"
"I can't tell you. Not won't; can't. Someday you'll understand, maybe someday soon. But what if he really wasn't a slave trader?"
"I saw what I saw," Hans insisted.
"Yes . . . but you didn't necessarily understand what you saw." Ling started chewing her lip again. She continued at that for several confused minutes—confused for both her and Hans—before saying, "I need you to prove to me you're not with the Caliphate."
"I'm a dead man," he said, "dead before I can do any good, if I can't trust you. Everything I've told you so far would get me nailed up to a wooden cross. How much more can I do?"
She insisted, "I need more, Hans."
He thought about that for a minute. Then he went to his overnight bag, dropped off in her quarters by a servant the previous night. From the bag he pulled out a Koran. He opened in to a random page and spit on it. "That's one," he said. "Now follow me."
There were, after all, reasons why Abdul Rahman had thought Hans had a future. If he had flaws, lack of decisiveness wasn't among them.
Ling followed Hans to her bathroom. There he thumbed through the book, apparently looking for a choice passage. When he'd found it, he tore that page from the Koran, bent over, and wiped his rear end with it. "That's two." He dropped the page in the toilet, spit again, and flushed.
Hans walked back to the bedroom and picked up his bag again, feeling inside for a small box. This he withdrew from the bag and opened. From the box he pulled out a crucifix, kissed it and said, "This was given to me by a man, a priest, I helped murder . . ."
* * *
"These mountains are murder, I know," Hamilton said in sympathy, as he helped Petra over a rock lying across their path.
Feeling like an absolute rat, Hamilton had offered anything to make up to her his—"stupid, insensitive, moronic, unfeeling, idiotic"—question.
Shyly, she'd asked, "I don't get to go out much. If I dress properly, could you, maybe . . . take me for a walk?"
He'd had to leave a six hundred dinar deposit, but that was within his means. (Why six hundred when her purchase price had been three? The cost of her training had been added to her value.) Other than that, the management had had no objections whatsoever. Since Hamilton had "hospitality of the house," they'd sent for a picnic lunch for the two from the kitchen. The two had left by the main gate to the castle, before the mosque and between the minarets.
From the castle they walked down to the town, and then to the lakeshore.
"I have a place," she confessed, still full of shyness, "up in a tower where I can see this. I dream sometimes of being free to walk the lake. Sometimes—yes, I know it sounds foolish—but sometimes I dream I'm a princess up there and a hero will cross the lake and take me away. Silly, no?"
"Maybe not so silly. Anything's possible."
"Not in the Caliphate," she said. "Not in the Caliphate for a woman . . . or a Christian . . . or a slave . . . or a whore."
"Stop it," he said. "What you have to do is not the same thing as what you are."
"Thank you, Johann," she said, quietly. "But even if that's true there are many things that I can never do that also define what I am." She stood facing the lake, wind blowing through the few loose strands of her hair, and continued, "I don't know how to cook. I can't sew or weave. Unless they decide to breed me they'll keep me from ever getting pregnant until it's too late for me to be a mother. If they did breed me it would be to produce a slave. I'd strangle the baby with my own hands, before I let that happen. No respectable man would ever marry me, not now. Independence for a woman is simply not possible here, except as a freelance whore.
"At least I can read and write. Well," she admitted, "I can read. My writing is not . . . good."
"That's okay," he said. "You could learn."
"Like you learned German?" she asked. "Yours is so much better than mine, so much more formal and correct. I was just a country girl, you see and . . .
"And this isn't even my country anymore."
Hamilton shook his head in agreement. No, it wasn't her country anymore.
"I've read of back when it was," Petra said. "My great-grandmother kept a journal. It's the only thing I really own for myself. I'd like to have lived back then. I wouldn't have done what she did. I'd either have fought, back when we could still fight, or I'd have left. She knew she should have done one or the other, too. By the time she knew that, though, it was too late."
"All right. Enough!" Ling said. "I believe you."
Yes, we do, said the voice in her head.
Hans stopped his gleeful dancing atop the Koran and said, "Okay. Now what was this all about?"
Tell him. Bring him to our side.
Ling exhaled heavily. "Where to begin?"
At the beginning is usually a good spot.
She nodded.
Stop nodding. You know how annoying that is to watch on a viewing screen back here. Now tell him.
"Your sister doesn't know any of this, but I'm not human," Ling said. She laughed at the expression on Hans' face, an even mix of disbelief and horror. "I mean I'm not human the way you are. Not born of woman. No father. I'm a genetically engineered being."
Hans' horrified look was like a dagger to her heart. She hastened to add, "I am one hundred percent human genes. But surely you noticed my skin and my breasts. Those are not normally found where I came from . . . where I was sold from. But Hans, I am all human inside. I can have children, provided that my pregnancy blocker is removed or allowed to run down. I feel. I think." She shrugged and let her head fall to one side. "What more do you want?"
"I'm sorry," he apologized, forcing his face to something less objectionable. "It was just a shock. You're wonderful. Please go on."
"Okay. I'm also a chippie. I have a thing planted in my brain."
My, this is a day for shocks, thought Hans.
"The reason I have a chip in my brain, and the reason I was genengineered, and the reason I was sold here, is that I am an enemy agent."
"Here to work against the Caliphate?" he asked. "Be still my heart."
"Yes," she admitted. "And that man you attacked . . . "
Hamilton spread out the thin blanket he'd found in the picnic basket, then walked to the lakeshore to look for some rocks to tack down the corners with. He was lucky to find two and an old brick; it just wasn't that kind of lake. He returned with these, adjusted the sheet slightly, then tacked down the three corners that were most into the wind. He invited Petra to sit.
She kicked off her shoes—more slippers than shoes, really; that was part of what had made the walk down "murder"—and stepped lightly onto the blanket. Moreover, she sat with a sheer grace he found utterly delightful, like a film of a growing tulip shown in faster than real time but in reverse.
Hamilton looked at the girl, sighed and said, "You really are incredibly lovely, you know."
"Ling?" He really didn't need to ask but it would have been odd not to have.
"The girl who was with me when my brother attacked you."
"That was your brother?" Hamilton suddenly had an altogether too kinky hint of something. It must have showed on his face.
Petra laughed. "No, no, no. It's nothing like that. He and Ling are . . . special to each other. It happens sometimes, even with houris. I, on the other hand, am going to have to go to some pains to make sure no one from my brother's new command ever sees my face. It would be a great shame to him."
