Intellectually she knew that she could start the car and get some heat that way. The keys were, after all, under the driver's seat and she had seen the car started before. It was just a matter of putting in the key and turning it. But an idling automobile was a guaranteed attention gatherer. Too, she could get out of the car and try to exercise to put some warmth back in her limbs. But if an idling automobile in twenty-second-century Germany was an attention gatherer, how much more so would be a woman in a burka doing jumping jacks? It was a formidable problem that she settled by simply remaining in the car and shivering as her limbs slowly went numb. The steel of the bolt cutters clutched in her arms didn't help.
Hamilton felt a wrenching pain in his left knee as he hit the rooftop and rolled to his left side. Almost, he screamed of it. For a brief moment, even, he felt the urge to cry over it.
That urge passed, surpassed by the greater need to find Petra and bring her to safety. He arose to hands and- oh, my frigging God!knees, and then to both feet. His first steps were awkward. Very nearly he stumbled over. Still, by keeping his leg stiff he was able, if barely, to remain upright.
First thing is I've got to get off of the roof. Hmmm… no fire escape. There's that shedlike thing though; it may be stairs.
Hamilton walked over stiffly, wincing from pain, and determined that, yes, the shed covered some stairs. He descended one step at a time, careful to keep his left leg stiff. At the bottom, he discovered a latched gate. He opened and left, emerging onto a street he didn't recognize.
He had a fair innate sense of direction. Hauptstrasse's over there, he thought. And from there I can find the car and, I hope, Petra.
Flight Seven Nine Three, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
'I hope to fuck we can shake them,' the pilot said to no one in particular.
'Shake who?' Retief, now returned to the cockpit, asked. He noticed that the pilot's cheeks were wet, but that no tears flowed for the moment.
'Shanghai informs me we've got four fighters inbound in a couple of minutes. There are more after that.'
Retief shook his head. 'Shaking them isn't going to happen. But they're going to have problems lining up on us without violating Swiss airspace.' Sitting in the copilot's seat, he reached for a headset and put it on. Then he adjusted a dial on the control panel, flicked a switch, and began to broadcast.
'Swiss Airspace Control, Swiss Airspace control: This is South African Airship Lines Flight Seven Nine Three. We are inbound to cross your borders bearing about three hundred escaped slaves, mostly children, from the Caliphate. We demand sanctuary under the laws of God and man. We are being pursued by jet fighters from the Caliphate. If you are still true Swiss, help us.'
'Think it will work?' the pilot asked.
'Think it will hurt?'
'No, but those will.'
As the pilot spoke a dual line of tracers crossed in front of the airship, to be followed by the sharklike image of a fighter.
A voice came over the cabin's loudspeaker. It was a woman's voice, throaty and, for some other man, inherently sexy. 'Flight Seven Nine Three this is Swiss Airspace Control. We cannot cross the border to help you. But if you can make it halfway across Lake Constance we will escort. Moreover, if the Caliphate fires across that border we will engage them to defend Swiss sovereignty. Understand, you will be interned once you land… if you land.'
'Swiss Airspace, Seven Nine Three. Roger. Understood. But we're not going to land; we're going to crash. And'-Lee stole a glance at his altimeter-'there's a good chance we'll crash into the lake.'
'Then crash on our side, Seven Nine Three. We'll send some boats out. Best we can do. Good luck and Godspeed.'
The pilot spoke. 'You better do better than your best, Switzerland. Escaped slaves aren't all we're carrying. Call your foreign ministry. Right about now the ambassadors from the American Empire and the Celestial Kingdom are explaining just why it would be better for you to declare war on the Caliphate than let us fall back into their hands.'
Speechless, Retief looked at the pilot and raised one eyebrow.
'I'll tell you later,' Lee/Ling said. Much later. an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
He was running late, very late. Running late, my ass. I'm staggering late.
Hamilton cursed at the knee, swelling now and badly, that held his progress down to that of a snail. He wondered at the absence of any policeman on the street. True, it's just a small town and, true, it's nighttime. But you would expect at least one cop. And, between the goggles and the weapon, it's not like I look exactly normal. Then again, I expected to be able to sneak into town, or to drive in a janissary truck. For this and other things, O Lord… thanks.
Flight Seven Nine Three, 24 Muharram,
1538 AH (4 November, 2113)
Retief heard screaming from the rear, even through the many bulkheads separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment and the lounge holding the mass of children. The airship shuddered with the impact of light cannon fire.
'Christ!' The pilot exclaimed. 'Go back and see to the damage. See to the kids, for that matter, the poor little bastards.'
'I'm on it,' Retief agreed, then pushed himself out of his chair, turned, and ran for the rear. He didn't make it before another burst of cannon fire hit the airship, not far from where he ran. The force of the blasts, coupled with the shuddering of the ship, knocked him from his feet, leaving him temporarily stunned on the deck.
Claude Oliver Meara lay on one side on the deck, taped and trussed to his chair like a Christmas goose. He'd shat himself when the cannon fire struck. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. What was wrong with these people? Didn't they understand that if he was unhappy, the world would be unhappy, that if he died the universe would end. Madmen! Devils sent to torment him!
Two children, one boy, one girl, crawled up to him. Meara recognized the boy as one of his favorite new toys. He breathed a sigh of relief; the boy was so grateful for his attentions he was going to free him! The children, their faces very serious, spoke to each other in a language he didn't understand. No doubt they were discussing how best to free him.
The girl produced a small pencil. The boy unlaced a shoe. Meara thought he understood the purpose of the pencil, to weaken the tape that bound him so the children could tear it. But why did the boy tie the shoelace loosely around his neck? Why did the girl put the pencil through the loop and begin to twist it?
Retief looked down at the buggy-eyed, blue-faced corpse with its tongue swollen and blackened. The corpse, still bound to its chair, was of the one he thought of as the 'fat prisoner.' There were two children nearby, coloreds, looking down at the grotesque, obscene thing with an odd mix of innocence, hate and pure satisfaction.
No time to worry about that now. Later, maybe. If there's a later and if it matters. Besides, there are enough children hurt here not to worry too much about one renegade.
He reached for an intercom button. 'Retief here. It's not as bad as it felt. We've got some kids hurt. Some of them might be dead. And one of the prisoners is definitely dead.'
'Can you toss them to lighten the load?' the pilot asked. 'Every inch might count.'
'I won't toss the kids. I can toss the dead prisoner,' Retief answered. 'He's so fucking huge he might give us the lift we need all on his own.'
'Do it.'
Retief, though no weakling, found it impossible to pick up and carry Meara's obese corpse. After a couple of attempts, he gave up the notion. Instead, he stepped over the corpse and began to roll it, chair and all, towards the back of the airship's lounge, to where the viewing ports had been completely shattered. He had to kick some of
