Caliphate

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 asked.

"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 Satan 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.

Still, I must try.

He gave his men the order, "Try to hit the pilot or the engines."

Gay he might have been; a sissy Lee was not. He held steady even as the first burst of fire passed through the deck of the cockpit and exited the ceiling above. Bits of plastic and insulation flew about the cockpit.

Yeah, sure. You can be brave as Hell. It's easy for you to be brave and calm, Ling thought, but it's my body that's going to be shot, not yours.

Woman, he sent back. If it makes you feel any better, above all if it will get you to shut up, you can have my body if this one is killed.

Why would you do that? she asked suspiciously. Have they some way to preserve your consciousness and put it in a grown body?

No, they don't. As to why . . . because I really did volunteer, and you did not.

Oh. Look . . . I'm sor—

Just shut up and let me do my job.

"Nice job, Hans," Matheson said as his gaze took in the three captive and bound scientists, the containment unit holding the virus, and the computers all stacked on a table. He turned to the chief of the villagers he'd seized, pointed toward the captives and ordered, "Take these men onto the airship. Now."

The village headman simply told six of the men in his party to do so. In an instant, so used to obedience were these Germans, the three scientists were being bodily carried, still taped to their chairs, up the winding staircase that led to the battlements above.

"These things, too," Matheson said, pointing at the computers and the cold storage unit containing the virus samples. "Get them onto the airship."

* * *

Retief, with several armed ex-slaves still with him, saw the janissaries down below open fire on the airship. Only a matter of time, he thought, until one of them gets lucky and hits the pilot. Then we're all fucked. The cargo crew can't shoot . . . probably never held a rifle before last night. But I can shoot and they can draw fire.

"On the battlements," he ordered the cargo boys. "We've one chance to get away and that chance is the airship! Try to aim, as best you can. Shoot slowly. I'll be more deliberate."

His pistol was useless, of course. At this range the corbasi could hit the airship . . . maybe . . . if Allah really willed it. He didn't even bother. Nor was there any cover to speak of. Thus, when the first burst of fire came from above, the colonel's instincts, and those of his men, were to go back around the corner of the castle. Under the circumstances, men tend to follow their instincts.

Children will instinctively follow an adult. Even so, these children had learned, if anything, never to trust an adult who wasn't a parent. Thus, when Hans showed up at the gate to their pen, opened it and said, in German, "Follow me," the kids wouldn't. That none of them spoke a word of German didn't help.

The little boy, Meara's play toy, spoke up, saying, in his own tongue, "This is a good man. He saved me from the man who used me. Follow him."

At first reluctant, then with growing willingness and speed, the children massed at the exit, creating a traffic jam that Hans was only able to sort out by physically picking them up and moving them. In a short time, though each second seemed to Hans to last hours, he had them outside in a loose gaggle. With his hands, Hans gestured for them to follow.

Much like the Pied Piper, albeit sans fife, Hans led the boys and girls out of their pen, past the crematorium, into the lab and to the exit that led to the tower stairs. From there, he selected a couple of older children, perhaps ten or twelve years old, he thought, and pointed upwards. He prodded the other children to follow until he'd established that as a natural direction of flow. He hoped that someone up top would meet them and guide them onto the airship. If not, Matheson would pick them up on his way out. For himself, he had other things to do.

* * *

I was afraid of this, Dr. Richter sent to Matheson.

Afraid of what, Doc?

If we were running a bio war lab—and, of course, we are—we would have a failsafe, something to ensure the complete sterilization of the lab in seconds in the event of a failure of containment. I see nothing here to indicate that they've got that here—no pipes, no vents, no fixed neutralization agent dispersers, nothing.

How truly good, Matheson sent back.

No, Agent Matheson, it is not.

Do they send biological scientists to some special course to destroy, or to some surgical procedure to remove, their sense of humor, Doc? I know it's not good. What can we do?

Wait. Let me think.

Retief scanned fearfully through the crenellations of the battlement. I think maybe they've backed off for a while. I can't imagine why, though. All we've got is myself and some slaves who can't shoot. And these are janissaries, first-class troops. It's not like them to run unless they think they absolutely have to.

"Give me your rifle," the corbasi demanded of a janissary cowering with him behind the castle's corner.

"Here, sir," the soldier said as he, more thankfully than not, passed over the weapon.

The colonel took it and, being very careful to expose no part of his body he didn't need to, eased the thing around the corner. When no return fire came he risked showing a bit more. When he had the forward half the airship in his field of view, he stopped. Moreover, for the first time he had the chance to look at the thing more or less calmly and carefully. He saw, however dimly, the South African markings on the thing. This didn't surprise him as the Americans, and he was sure they were Americans, wouldn't stop to scruple over using a false flag.

Where would the cockpit be? he wondered. We put out a lot a fire initially and, so far as I can tell, apparently didn't hit anything. No matter. No doubt everything important is armored or has a redundant back up. What to shoot; what to shoot? The gas cells? I know this kind of airship, slightly. It gets a good chunk of its lift from its shape, not its buoyancy. And it has vertical thrusters. But it doesn't get all of its lift from those. If I puncture enough gas cells, it will start to fall.

Slowly, adjusting his point of aim very deliberately between shots, the corbasi began shooting out the gas cells.

In the cockpit, Lee/Ling saw red lights start to appear on the control panel.

How truly fucking good, the pilot cursed, even as he increased power to the vertical thrusters and began to release more helium into the punctured gas cells.

"Matheson, this is Lee," the pilot sent over the communicator attached to his ear. "We've got a problem and you're going to have to hurry."

Shit, Doc, Matheson sent, you've got to come up with something quick. We've not much time left before the airship either has to leave or it won't be able to.

Be calm, Agent Matheson, I've had to do some stubby pencil drill.

For what?

For whether the one source of massive heat we've got is up to the job.

What source? Matheson asked.

The crematorium, Richter answered. It's got its own fuel supply and oxygen source. It has to have. We can use it to increase the temperature of the lab.

You mean as in leave the door open and turn on the flame?

Precisely.

What if it has a fail safe so it won't fire up if the door is open?

Silly question, Agent Matheson. If it has a fail safe you break it.

The nausea and the stumble-causing disconnect between eyes and brain were still pretty bad. And moving quickly only made it worse. Twice on the way to Hamilton's position Hans had to stop to vomit. Once he nearly fell over. Even so, Hans eventually clattered up the twisting stairs to Hamilton's position. He was nearly shot for his trouble.

"Jesus Christ, Hans! For God's sake announce yourself."

Exhaling forcefully—for, immediate stress-wise, the only thing worse than being shot is coming close to shooting a friend— Hamilton lowered his weapon.

"Sorry, John," Hans gasped, putting a defensive hand out. "I'm a little disoriented."

"Never mind," Hamilton conceded. "What's going on back there?"

"The children are freed. I don't know if they're aboard the airship yet. The airship's sinking. We've not much time."

At about the same time the janissary sergeant of the guard decided he should get back to the serious business of breaking down the gate. He opted to do it in the same way the colonel had, assigning men to keep the windows of the towers covered. The sound of the pounding down below quickly changed in quality, too—the earlier battering must have had some effect. The door was clearly weakening.

"I think it's about to give," Hamilton said.

"Yes," Hans agreed. "And that's why you have to go back, to get Petra, if she's still alive. I can hold the fort here. As long as I'm lying down and not moving, I can shoot."

Hamilton hesitated. "What about Ling?" he asked, cocking his head slightly.

Hans sighed. "Ling is important to me, yes. I might even be important to her. But it's mostly important that she be freed, if she can be freed, and have a decent life. This, you and your people can give her better than I can. And for Petra . . . you're her future. I'm only her past."

Hamilton stood for a moment in indecision. He called for Matheson, "Bernie, how much longer do we have?"

"Not much, John. And when you and Hans head to the airship, don't come by the lab; take the upper passages. It's going to be very warm down here."

"Roger," Hamilton answered. "Do we have a few minutes anyway?"

"That much, sure."

Hamilton reached out a fraternal hand to Hans' shoulder. "There's some solid furniture down below. If you're going to stay here, let's make you a fighting position facing the gate that can take a hit."

Nobody was hit racing through the cleared path in the minefields facing the castle's main gate. For this beneficence, Sig and the baseski both said a special prayer of thanks.

"Sergeant of the Guard!" the first sergeant bellowed as he passed through the checkpoint and took a crouch behind a concrete barrier.

"Over here, Top," the sergeant answered from his position in the alcove. The sergeant had to shout to be heard over the pounding of the battering ram. "We're almost through."