Caliphate

her.

'Bad, honey?' Ling asked.

Petra sniffled, 'He didn't even grease my ass first . . . and I had to pretend I liked it. Oh, God, Ling . . . I hate my life.'

'There are worse things,' Ling said, thinking of the computer- controlled creatures down below.

'That's the worst part,' Petra wailed. 'I know there are worse things and I'm terrified of them.' She spun within Ling's arms and buried her head in the Chinese slave's neck and hair.

Under the circumstances, Ling didn't even try to make love to Petra. Instead she just held her tightly and softly kissed her hair while the sixteen-year old houri cried herself to sleep.

When the Ministry of State Security recalls me, Ling thought, I will take this girl with me.

For while Ling had told the truth about having been sold when she was four, she'd neglected to mention that she had a chip in her head as well, one planted there when she was purchased by MSS and just before she was 'sold west.' In her case, however, nothing had been removed from her brain. Instead, she'd had a whole suite of things implanted—little things, mostly: loyalty, duty . . . code words and phrases . . . field craft.

Not even the Hindus did better human programming than did the Celestial Kingdom of the Han, once known as the Peoples Republic of China.

If possible, said a small voice in Ling's head.

OSI Headquarters, Langley, Virginia, 19 June, 2112

'My local contact is a what?'

Caruthers sighed. 'She's a slave girl, a prostitute. More specifically, she's an implanted agent. She has a chip in her head. The Chinese have been doing this kind of thing for thirty years. It's the major reason we stopped allowing immigration from China.'

'That's abominable.'

Caruthers gave a characteristic shrug. 'We do the same things with convicted criminals. So they don't bother with convictions? Not our problem.'

'But we're at war with them.'

Caruthers put out one hand, palm down and fingers spread. He wagged it, saying, 'Not by declaration. Almost everybody is at war with almost everybody, these days, and all the time, too. What that means in practice though is that nobody's at war—not emotionally, anyway—unless bullets are actually flying. So, yeah, we're at war with them but, also yeah, we can cooperate.'

'Do we know anything else about this woman?'

'We have a picture, sort of,' Caruthers answered, then produced a hologram of that. The hologram was . . . decidedly odd, out of focus, as if taken through a bad lens.

'Awfully white, for a Chinese. Unusually large breasts, too. Why is the picture so fuzzy?'

'She's also relatively tall. The chinks were coy. We think she was specially bred, maybe even genengineered, for exoticism. As for the picture . . . our best guess is that the camera was her own eye, tapped by the chip in her head.'

Hamilton had a sudden thought and as suddenly looked ill. 'Jesus, that's vile. This poor girl was chipped, then sold as a hooker, and everything she does is recorded for anyone to see. And she knows this? Knows she's performing for a camera?'

'Look, I didn't make the world,' Caruthers said testily. 'I don't even approve. I just observe and report. They sell us—we buy from them— redundant human organs and we should balk over a little incidental voyeurism?'

Rocking his head from side to side, Hamilton grudgingly agreed. 'Okay. Sure. Go on. What's her name, by the way?'

'Zheng Ling.'

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban, 1536 AH (18 June, 2112)

'Petra, Honey, wake up,' Ling said, while gently shaking the girl awake.

'What is it, Ling?' Petra asked sleepily.

'I just got the word. There's a big group of new-minted janissaries coming to the castle for their graduation party. We have to prepare. It's going to be a busy few nights.'

Petra groaned. After all, she was still sore.

'Oh, stop it, you. At least they'll be young, strong and virile, with normal urges, and not grotesque, smelly, perverted old men. Now get up, lazy bones, and start making yourself gorgeous. There's money to be made and fun to be had.'

'I don't want to have any 'fun.' The money, on the other hand . . . '

'Exactly!' Ling said. 'Now pull on a robe and let's get down to Costuming and Jewelry before all the nice things are taken.'

Sometimes Petra thought she could see elaborate paintings under the plain, off-white of the walls. Certainly the gilt, the blue and purple columns of what some of the staff still called 'the Throne Room,' suggested that the original builder—of whom Petra knew precisely nothing—had intended something very elaborate. Yet the masters insisted on 'no graven images,' and took this to include paintings of living creatures. She understood that if there ever had been paintings on the walls, these would have been covered up or destroyed.

Hurrying with Ling along one covered and arched walkway, framed by blue columns on one side and walls covered with erratic geometric shapes on the other, Petra stopped for a moment to gaze down at the 'Throne Room.'

It's makes no sense . . . it was not part of the builder's design . . . that this room should be only color. It calls out for something . . . more . . . something alive.

'Hurry, silly!' Ling demanded, impatiently.

Most of the girls were still asleep from the night's revelries. Of those who were awake, not all had heard of the arrival of a large party of janissaries. Of those who had heard, not all cared. Of those who cared, none had quite the fire of Ling.

She raced through Costuming and Jewelry, pulling this dress from that rack, that dress from this. Some she held up to herself. Still others, more others, actually, she sized and colored to Petra. For herself, Ling settled on a simple but painstakingly embroidered black silk, thigh- length tunic, the embroidery being of golden dragons and silvery phoenixes. Ling had learned over the years to accentuate her exoticism. The little voice in her head, the one she never told anyone about, pushed her in that direction as well. Ling sometimes wondered about the double standard the masters showed regularly: paintings on walls of real things were right out for them; embroideries of mythical beings for infidels were just fine.

Petra though . . . she was classic and only classic, in Ling's opinion, would do. For the Nazrani slave, Ling selected an ankle-length gown of white, crumply material, mostly silk as well, cut in the Empire fashion (the French Empire, not the American). The gown was high- waisted, with a golden belt just under the breasts. Those the gown left half-exposed, covering only the nipples and—were a girl a bit daring—not necessarily all of them.

'Try it on! Try it on!' Ling urged. 'I've wanted to see you in this for ages.'

Once satisfied with the fit of Petra's gown, Ling dragged her to Jewelry. There she selected pearls—earrings and necklace both—for herself, and golden pendants for Petra. Unsatisfied with just the pendants, however, Ling insisted that the slave managing the Jewelry department also produce a pair of gold torques for Petra's upper arms. For her necklace Petra could continue to wear the crucifix she always did.

'Classic,' Ling said when Petra had donned both gown and gold. 'Now take it all off and change back. We have time to make love before everything is ready and before we have to report to Cosmetics and Hairdressing—yes, I've already made us appointments. And you're too beautiful for me not to show my appreciation for it.'

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban, 1536 AH

(18 June, 2112)