by Tom Kratman
"Maybe twenty-five minutes, John," Hamilton heard in his earpiece. "I'll send word to higher."
"It would be a good thing not to get nuked as we escape," Hamilton agreed, sardonically.
"Escape will be highly problematic," Hans announced, as he entered the lab.
At Hamilton's quizzical eyebrow the janissary added, "Petra didn't get them all. About twenty—at least that many—have joined the guards outside. Maybe worse, I suspect that the people I sent to the other castle are on the way back. We're about to be outnumbered about forty to one, and this time there's no surprise on our side."
"How truly good," Hamilton said.
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
10 July, 2022
Gabi had done her best to raise Amal to be kind, sensitive, considerate of the feelings of others, tolerant, accepting . . . in all, a human monument to multicultural decency. She was also, and this had come rather harder to both mother and daughter, a good student. In her school, of course, she had friends of all stripes and persuasions; boyfriends, as well.
In fact, Amal had a lot of boyfriends. And why not? She was one of the, if not the, prettiest girls in the school. From her mother and father she'd garnered a meter, seventy-five in height . . . and she still had a couple of years to grow. Her baby-blond hair had darkened to a lustrous auburn not untypical of the province of Franconia. Her body was already that of a woman, enough so to set young boys to daydreaming in class, much to the detriment of their grades.
Between the height, the hair color, such features as she'd inherited from Mahmoud, her slightly darkened skin and light brown eyes, and her Arab given name, she could pass for an Arab or a Turk easily enough and was often taken for one. In the peculiar circumstances of Germany in the year 2021, this could be a problem.
"There's the slut now," whispered Abdul-Halim to his four friends, Taymullah, Mansur, Zahid, and Jabir. Of the five boys, two, Mansur and Jabir, were sons of German reverts to the faith. They were, if anything, more devout than the other three.
"Shameless," said Mansur. "The cunt should be veiled properly, her hair covered properly."
"It's the filthy Germans, polluting the world," added Zahid. "It will be a better place once it belongs to us, once the law of God replaces the nonsense they adhere to."
"And that is our job," said Taymullah, clutching a blanket in both hands. "As the imam said yesterday at the mosque, it is up to us to bring the word and the ways of Allah to this Godless place."
Amal was only human and thoroughly female. She enjoyed the admiration she received from people, men and women both, as she walked the street toward home.
Thus, it came as quite a shock to her, so much of a shock that she didn't even cry out, when five boys surrounded her, exclaimed, "This is our sister," dropped a blanket over her head and pulled her into a cellar.
Germans and German law had, long since, stopped defending Muslim women. Turks and Arabs, often terrified of retribution and having lost any faith that German law would protect them, simply turned away.
The "smiley," the cutting of a Muslim girl's face from one ear to the corner of her mouth in retribution for her dressing as a westerner, had been something of an urban legend in the early part of the century. Many had written and spoken of it yet no examples had ever been produced, no criminal cases had ever been launched.
Yet life can imitate art. Barraged with reports of the phenomenon, the urban legend had been adopted and turned into horrific reality. There were girls with "smileys," now, and in every corner of western Europe.
It was, after all, an excellent way to make a girl cover her face, in accordance with the hadiths and the sunna.
"You can't do this," Amal wept. "I'm not a Moslem. I've never been a Moslem."
"In the name of Allah we can do as we wish," insisted Abdul-Halim. "Besides, everyone is born a Moslem, that's what the imam says. It's just that some of them, like you, are apostate."
"You see," added Zahid, "there are only two kinds of women in the world. There are those who follow the law of God, and then there are sluts. Which are you?"
Chapter Eighteen
I will not blame Norwegian women for the rapes. But Norwegian women must understand that we live in a multi-cultural society and adapt themselves to it.
—Professor Unni Wikan, Oslo, Norway,
6 September 2001
Flight Seven Nine Three, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
"There's the castle," said Lee/Ling, looking through the airship's own night vision. "But . . . oh, oh . . . they've got company and there's more on the way."
Matheson, who had more than a little time under fire while praying for air support, answered, "Pity this thing doesn't have a loaded bomb rack, or a 25mm pod."
The Chinese shrugged. "Nothing we can do about that. And the winds here are going to be a pure bitch when I try to hold her steady above the castle walls."
The black nodded, then keyed the earpiece he wore. "Hamilton, Hans, this is Matheson. Report."
"We've got problems here, Bernie. More when I can talk."
Matheson heard the pffft . . . pffft . . . pffft of a silenced submachine gun in his earpiece along with the louder ringing of bullets careening off stone.
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
The corbasi had a simple, if inelegant, solution to the problem of the mines. He'd turned to the truck driver and asked, "Do you believe in Allah?" When the driver had, very nervously, answered in the affirmative, the colonel had said, "Go then, and drive your truck through these mines to clear a path."
Much to the surprise of both men the driver had survived the ordeal, though the truck was now considerably the worse for wear.
Through the broad, cleared path, the colonel and his remaining janissaries had poured, linking up with the dozen or so remaining to the sergeant of the guard. Not one for indecision, the colonel immediately detailed off ten men, five to each side, to watch the towers flanking the main entrance to the castle and keep anyone from shooting down at the gate. He then told the sergeant of the guard, "Get your men back on that battering ram. Make me a passage."
Hamilton felt more than heard the steady pounding coming from somewhere upstairs. "They're at it again," he told Hans. "Watch these; I'm going up to block the door."
Hans nodded, causing his face to twist and his eyes to open wide with the pain. He looked at Meara, the pederast, and said, "I think it would be simpler just to kill them now."
All three of the renegade scientists began squealing their objections through the tape over their mouths.
Hamilton shook his head. "No, not just yet anyway. But if I can't stop the people at the gate, kill these and then thoroughly destroy everything in lab. Then put all the virus containers into the crematorium and toast it."
"What about the kids?" Hans asked.
"I'll leave that to you and your conscience," Hamilton answered, glancing at Hans' weapon.
"We're going to lose, aren't we?" Hans asked.
"I don't know. I think so."
"Do you think you can use a rifle?" Matheson asked of Retief.
"Yes, of course. I did my military service."
"Good. Where's the best place to shoot from?"
"From the airship? Out either port or starboard ramp."
"Fine. We use port. Come with me. Lee? Take us over the group around the castle but put them between us and the walls, with the port side facing the castle."
"How low do you want me to go?" Lee/Ling asked.
"How big are your balls?"
"Well, at the moment, they don't exist," the pilot answered. "But you know, even if I were here in my own body . . . well, I'm only Chinese. Small penis. Not like you Americans . . . BIIIGGG penis," he mocked.
"Just take us in as low as you dare."
That was more serious. "Roger."
"Can you bring us in quietly?" Matheson a
sked.
"With all the firing down there, I hardly need to," the pilot answered.
"Yeah, come in quietly anyway. Let me know when we're broadside. And give me those goggles; you don't need them."
"Take them," the pilot said.
Asshole, Ling whispered mentally. That's my body you're taking risks with.
You knew it was dangerous when you volunteered, Lee answered.
I didn't volunteer. I was bred, chipped, and sold.
We all have these little issues, Lee answered.
Matheson and Retief crouched to either side of the ramp hatchway. Matheson still clutched his submachine gun while Retief held an assault rifle taken from one of the freed slaves. Retief wore the goggles taken from Ling's face.
"How's the armor on this thing?" Matheson asked.
"Armor?" Retief laughed. "What fucking armor?"
"Silly me. Open the hatch."
Retief's hand reached up to a button set into the wall. He pressed it, causing the hatch to slide open with a whoosh. Cold air streamed in through the opening.
"Hamilton? Matheson."
Hamilton eased the muzzle of his weapon out a window, hoping like hell that return fire wouldn't destroy his hands. He loosed a long, and almost certainly futile burst at the landing below. There was shouting and a single man cried out.
Sometimes the law of averages works in your favor, Hamilton thought.
"Hamilton? Matheson."
"I'm a little busy right now, Bernie," Hamilton answered, while dropping an empty magazine and inserting a fresh one.
"Yes, I can see. You're about to get a little, very temporary, relief. Look up."
The corbasi looked up and behind him. He wasn't sure why he did so, then or ever. He was, however, very glad that he had. At first, his mind refused to register the great, raylike shape that swung across the darkened sky without a sound. It was only when he saw the muzzle flashes that the threat registered.
"Duuuckk!"
"We're not hitting shit!" Matheson cursed.
This wasn't strictly true. Both men had fired into the covered alcove over the castle's main entrance. Normally, they couldn't have really expected to hit anything much. The stone walls of the alcove, however, caused bullets to ricochet. Several janissaries went down from these, even though only one was hit by a nonricocheting bullet.
Hamilton heard and answered. "I think you are . . . or did . . . or something. They've stopped trying to break through the gate anyway."
"If you say so. We'll be back. I'm going to try to buy you a little time from the people coming from the other castle."
"The other castle?" Hamilton asked. "Fuck! How close are they?"
"Too."
"Not too much further, boys," Sig called out to encourage the flagging spirits of men dragged from Paradise and thrust without warning into something they fully expected to resemble Hell. Worse, they expected to be thrust into Hell without anything so useful as a fire extinguisher . . . or even an antacid tablet. They were hanging back, as if reluctant. This was something Sig had rarely seen in janissaries.
About half of them were armed with something that could throw a bullet . . . in theory . . . if they'd had a chance to clean them . . . which they hadn't. For those, they had a totally inadequate supply of ammunition for everything except the four shotguns the brothel had held. The other half were armed with a mix of knives, swords, spears, whatever could be found that might be useful.
That, too, added to their already considerable demoralization. Despite his intentions, Sig's encouragement only made it worse.
Thus, when the airship passed to one side, and began to open fire, and the janissaries could barely return fire, half of them (and mostly the half with cutting implements) bolted into the woods.
"Come back, you stinking cowards," Sig screamed. "Back here, you filth," the baseski demanded. The fleeing troops paid them no mind.
"Well, Top," Sig said. "At least the ones we have left are good soldiers and true. Better those than a rabble."
The baseski, who was more observant than the armorer, disagreed. "No, the difference was that those who ran, ran because they felt outclassed and useless. But in running, they also took with them half the spirit, such as it was, of those who remained."
"Hans? Hamilton? Matheson. I think we delayed reinforcement of the garrison by a bit. But we've got a decision to make and I can't make it."
"What decision, Bernie?" Hamilton asked.
"I can have the airship continue to give you the little bit of fire support we have to give. You can't load like that. Or I can have the pilot bring us to the castle itself and you can begin to load. But—"
"But if you do that, the ship's going to be vulnerable while we load," Hans said.
"Worse than that," Hamilton added. "If I stay here watching the gate, I can keep them out even if they manage to batter it down. Or if not quite keep them out, keep them from rushing in and overwhelming us. But if I stay here, you can't hope to load everything, get the kids out, and guard the renegades."
"Well, as far as that goes," Matheson said, "I've got a considerable loading party here aboard the airship, if we have to use them."
Hamilton thought about that for a minute, then said, "Hans, be sure to get Petra where we told her to meet us. Bernie, bring the airship in and start to load."
The corbasi's first thought, when he saw the airship coming back, was that they intended to attack his men again. "Take cover!" he shouted.
He was surprised, then, when the ship continued on its way, circling the castle to the right, without firing so much as a single burst.
Odd, that, the colonel thought. Or maybe not so odd. Maybe—no, certainly—that's their way out.
He pointed in turn at the ten men he'd positioned to cover the twin towers flanking the gate. "You lot! Follow me!"
One of the janissaries shook his head, thinking, I've had this shit up to here.
The cross section of the airship was enormous. In these winds, it took a pilot of Lee's skill and experience to put it in position hard by the castle walls and hold it there. Even then, it was all he could do.
"Hurry, Yankee," the pilot said to Matheson. "We get a sudden gust from the wrong direction and we're paste."
"Roger," Matheson agreed. "Retief, you with me?"
The Boer nodded. "And otherwise miss the chance to do something absolutely right for once in my life? Let's go."
The ex-slaves, some of them armed from the airship's small armory and still others from the galley, followed Matheson down to the hold where the kidnapped Germans huddled in terror.
Ask them to volunteer to fight? Matheson wondered. No . . . I wish but . . . no. Look at their faces, every one a mask writ in terror. I can use them for labor, but they're too beaten down and degraded to actually stand on their own feet. And this was a people that more than once made the world tremble? It's sad.
Matheson still wore his makeshift robes and headdress. He was counting on the Germans being too terrified to notice just how threadbare his disguise was. He shouted, "You! You Nazrani filth. On your feet, all you men and the grown women, too." He waited a few moments for the captives to spring erect and ordered, "Now follow me."
Matheson, Retief and the cargo slaves led the Germans upward to the passenger deck. There, Retief opened the hatch and extruded the boarding ramp. Beneath the power buttons there was a small wheel coming from a maneuverable ball, an auxiliary emergency control, that he used to position the ramp on the pseudo battlements next to a tower. A collective moan escaped from the Germans when they realized that their new, temporary master intended to lead them out onto the pitching ramp and into the blackness.
"Stay here to make sure none of them escape," Matheson shouted to Retief. To the German serfs he repeated, "Follow me."
* * *
The corbasi and the ten men with him emerged around the corner of the castle. The colonel stopped in shock. The airship—it had to be some new technology from the infidels' pact with Sa
tan to have penetrated so far into the Caliphate—was hovering there. Worse, so the colonel could see by the dim light, the ship was disgorging dozens, scores of soldiers.
It must be a company of their Rangers, he thought. There's no hope of taking back the castle now, not with the few men I have left. And it will be hard indeed to knock down that airship. The thing must be armored to the gills. And I'm sure their Rangers are.
