And that was as close as he could come to telling Petra that he loved her.
Interlude
Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,
11 September, 2015
The city was a better place for an artist than Kitzingen had been. This was true not only in the scenes and people there were to be drawn or painted, but in the ability to sell her work as well. There was more for Amal, as well; more culture, especially. This had figured into Gabrielle's decision to relocate a few years earlier, too.
Then, too, the EU was still growing jobs almost entirely in the public sector. With the country graying, young people leaving, and fewer paying taxes, Gabi needed the improved sales. Worse, given a choice between keeping up welfare payments and reducing the size of the bureaucracy, Europe had no choice. She was incapable of reducing either the number or the living standards of the bureaucrats. Indeed, she could not only not reduce, she had to expand. The bureaucrats were her most important supporters.
Mahmoud helped. He'd still not given up on getting Gabi and Amal to the United States. He called from Boston at least weekly and at least half of any given conversation was, subtly or openly, about just that. He was, in fact, nagging Gabi at the precise moment that the phone screeched and then went dead.
'Mommy,' Amal called from the living room of their small apartment. 'Mommy… something on television… something bad.'
Gabi stood facing the television, tears coursing down her face and her little fist wedged between clenching teeth. The screen was split in three, each section showing a mushroom cloud over an American city. One of those cities was Boston and she knew now why the phone had shrieked and died.
The commentators were all as shocked as Gabi. People were bandying about inconceivable numbers of dead and dying. The bombs were apparently very old technology, very primitive, very powerful, and highly radioactive. Four million dead seemed likely, as each city had been caught during the work day, when the offices and buildings were most full.
Thank God, Gabi thought, even through her tears, her loss, and her pain, thank God I didn't take Amal there. Then, realizing what she'd been thinking, she amended, Thank fate, in any case.
Everyone was sure the United States would retaliate in some heavyhanded, murderous fashion. Thus, Gabi's art took a back seat for a while to her demonstrating, with other fair-minded people, against any such thing. Amal in tow, she was to be seen in Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, Hamburg, Munich. Wherever there was a gathering to remind the United States of its own responsibility for what had been done to it, there she was.
Nor was her voice subdued. Almost uniquely, she could point to Amal and say, 'This baby lost a father and she is not crying out for a mindless vengeance.' That voice could claim as well, 'I lost my lover and I am not crying out for vengeance.'
For a while, even, Gabi was something of a star. That stardom lasted until, eventually, everyone realized that the United States was not going to continue the game of mindless retribution, of the 'eye for an eye' that left everyone blinded.
And after all, as the President of the United States said, 'The perpetrators are all dead. Who is there to take revenge against?' That this was a lie was obvious to no one who wanted to believe it was true.
So, instead of revenge, the United States government reduced its aid to Israel and much increased the aid to Hamas, which had come out on top in the bitter feud with Fatah. It withdrew the last of its soldiers from Islamic soil. It accepted without demure a sudden, and serious, rise in the price of oil. It even changed the immigration rules to permit more immigrants from Moslem countries. It called off the pursuit of Osama bin Laden, which meant little in any case as Osama hadn't been heard from in years.
Of course, the President was only one woman, with one voice. There were other voices… carrying very different messages.
Chapter Fifteen
We have the right to kill four million Americans-two million of them children – and to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands.
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
Bernie Matheson-no, he was Bongo again-shuffled like a proper kaffir in boarding the airship anchored near the shabby, run-down terminal. Ling walked behind, wrapped in a burka. Their bags were carried aboard by a short coffle of slaves, owned by the airship line. As chartering customers, rather, as the servant and presumptive slave of a chartering customer, there was none of the usual customs and security nonsense.
The flight engineer, Retief, met them at the hatchway. It really wasn't his job but he was doing a favor for the normal receptionist, the ship's purser, who was a bit late in getting back aboard ship.
'Welcome back, Mister Mathebula,' Retief said. 'Your quarters, and quarters for Mr. De Wet and his… guest… are prepared. We can leave in about two hours. Might I suggest a meal or, perhaps, a drink?' Retief's fingers indicated the direction of the cabin.
Bongo thought, A frigging polite Boer? I hope we don't have to kill him.
'You have booze here, baas?' Bongo asked. 'I thought… '
'The locals almost never inspect international carriers, Mr. Mathebula. When they do, a minimal bribe is generally sufficient to get them to leave our stocks alone.'
'Might take drink, baas. Old Bongo plenty scared flying. No like it.'
'No need to worry, Mr. Mathebula,' Retief answered. 'The ship's captain and executive officer are both very competent and even I am qualified to fly the ship, provided I don't have to make any fancy maneuvers or landings.'
'Thank you, baas. Bongo feel much better.'
While Bongo and Retief spoke, Ling walked past them in the direction Retief had indicated. Neither Retief nor Bongo could help noticing how really delightful the sway of her hips was as she walked ahead.
Later, in the cabin, Ling asked, in colloquial English, 'What's this shuffling, 'Please don't beat yo' nigga, baas,' bullshit?'
'You're not Ling,' Bongo said immediately. 'Who are you and what are your qualifications?'
' Zhong Xiao Lee Gen, Celestial Kingdom's People's Liberation Army Air Force,' Ling's lips answered.
'No surprise there,' Bongo said. 'But where did you pick up the language?'
'Mil attache in Washington for a few years,' Lee answered. 'Masters at UC San Francisco before that. Fun times. The powers that be figured I'd be a good fit for this purpose, Lieutenant Colonel Bernard Matheson.'
'Man, I am so going to push to clean out the infiltrators when I get home,' Bongo said.
Ling's shoulders shrugged. 'Push all you want. They don't all look like me or like this'-Ling's own finger pointed at her breast-'vessel. Besides, didn't it ever occur to you that you want a certain number of infiltrators, in case you need to send us a message you want us to believe? One of our problems is we don't have any of your people in our system, which means we have to be really unsubtle sometimes to get you people to pay attention. Unsubtle is not something my people are good at doing or being.'
'Maybe so,' Bongo conceded. 'Whatever the case-'
He was interrupted by a steady ding-ding-ding and the announcement, 'All passengers and crew, this is the captain. Lift off in ninety minutes. I say again, Flight Seven Nine Three, am-Munch to Slo, lift off in ninety minutes.'
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
Uniquely, the janissaries' weapons were left behind, locked in their barracks room. The men were going on an all-expense-paid night to paradise and, as Hans had announced, 'There's no need to upset the houris.'
