Caliphate

liberated slaves of the Moros, during the Philippines campaign.

Alice then proceeded to empty out Hamilton's two suitcases, leaving alone only the contents of the locked carryall. The suits were hung in a large armoire, one of a pair to one side of the queen-sized bed. Underwear and socks went into drawers inside the armoire, while Alice carried his toiletries to the suite's expansive bath. Shoes she placed on a tree, without comment.

It was always a pleasure to watch an expert at work. Deciding that Alice knew what she was doing better than he did, Hamilton sat down in a comfortable stuffed chair and watched her work. She spoke very little.

It doesn't matter; a girl with an ass like that doesn't need to talk to be entertaining. Not that she's beautiful, but she's at least very pretty and her body is . . . amazing. If I weren't on mission I'd be a fool not to at least think about asking her out.

Some of Hamilton's clothing she found faulty upon examination. These she separated out for the maids to take care of.

And then she was done, standing there in the middle of the room. 'Why don't you take a shower, baas,' Alice suggested.

Hamilton's hair was full of shampoo and his eyes burning with soap when he heard a small click and felt a cool draft on his wet body. There was somebody inside the shower with him. He immediately backed into one corner, putting out one hand to guard while trying desperately to get the soap from his eyes.

He stopped himself, feeling inexpressibly silly, when he heard Alice laugh. 'Didn't you understand?' she asked. 'I come with the room . . . like a piece of furniture. I'm here for your enjoyment.'

'How did you end up here?' Hamilton asked, later, as the two lay in bed, half- exhausted.

'I was born,' Alice answered, cryptically. 'I'm sorry,' she amended. 'That wasn't fair. I wanted to go to school. I couldn't afford it. KHR made me an offer. I get room and board—and it's a very nice room, don't you think?'

'Very nice,' Hamilton agreed.

'Yes. The company gave me a budget to decorate and I did it myself. I was even able to save a little.

'Anyway . . . well, I get room and board, a small stipend, and can go to class when I don't have duties here. It may take me six years to get a degree, instead of four, but six years is better than never.'

'And for that?'

'For that I signed a contract of indenture . . . I have to be nice to men assigned to this suite.' She smiled warmly. 'I was happy when you were assigned, baas. Usually the men are a lot older and I don't care for them much.

'Someday, if I graduate well, I'd like to put in papers to emigrate to America . . . or maybe some of its possessions where the rules for immigration are a little easier.'

Hamilton said nothing but thought, You should try and I wish you luck, Alice. We may suck . . . but the rest of the world is just one giant vacuum that pulls away hopes and dreams and runs them through filth on the way to the garbage can.

Hamilton's last thought, as he drifted off to sleep, was, Amend will. Give ten thousand? No, that wouldn't be enough. Give twenty-thousand Imperial New Dollars to Alice Mbatha, of KHR House, Cape Town, with hopes that it helps her make her way . . .

Slave Pen Number Five, KHR House Holding Facility, Cape Town, South Africa,

17 October, 2113

'If you wince,' Bongo said, on the elevator ride down to the pens, 'if you give any indication that those kids are anything more than cattle, you are out of here.' It was an idle threat, after spending so much time training Hamilton for this one mission, he was not going to be replaced. Still, Bongo thought, perhaps he didn't understand that.

'I won't,' Hamilton assured his ostensible servant and genuine boss. 'But I've got to ask: How the hell do you stand it, day after day, year after year?'

'You can get used to anything,' Bongo replied. The subterranean elevator doors opened to the sound of wailing and moaning and utter human misery. 'Some things are just a lot harder than others.

'This is one of the hardest,' Bongo whispered, before taking the lead and saying aloud, 'This way, baas, your lot is right over this way.'

There were six pits below the elevator walkway. Separated by some kind of tough, clear plastic, they allowed the staff of the complex to walk between them to distribute food and water. The oddest thing, to Hamilton's eye, was that to one or two sides of each of five of the six pits women, some black, some brown, a few obviously with some white in their ancestry, stood staring at the sixth, their hands seeming desperate to push through the clear barriers that held them.

'Why —'

Bongo answered before the question was fully formed. 'Those are mothers, pining for their children. The children—our cargo—are in the sixth pen.'

Unbidden, Hamilton walked to stand above the sixth pen, the one obviously holding nothing but wide-eyed, mostly silent in shock or weeping with terror and despair, black and colored children aged from about six to nine or ten.

God is never going to forgive me for this, he thought. For that matter, I am never going to forgive me for this.

'You seem upset, baas,' Alice said, standing in front of a seated Hamilton and wearing little but a short silk robe. 'Can I help?' Before Hamilton could answer she dropped to her knees and began to undo his trousers.

'Later, Alice,' he said. 'Please. Later tonight I'd be very happy to have you again. For now, I just need to think.'

'As you wish, baas,' she answered, rising to her feet gracefully. 'If you change your mind, just call. I'll be at the desk working on my studies.'

South Africa had produced high quality wines and beers for centuries. Wine or beer, however, just wouldn't do. And the local whiskey was . . . charitably . . . not good.

The brandy, however, was superb. Hamilton poured his own drink from a net-wrapped, amber bottle labeled 'Klipdrift.'

Damned shame, he thought, that I can't allow myself to get drunk. Crimes like the ones I'm engaged in cry out for sweet oblivion.

Is there a way out of this? Caruthers was right; better two hundred should be enslaved than that four or five billion, and civilization itself, should die. But it would be better still if nobody were enslaved and all those billions, plus civilization, lived.

Is that possible, though? Is there any way I can save these kids? Save their mothers down in the slave pens? Do that while still stopping VA5H? I doubt it.

And what if I do? I mean, just imagine I had the money to buy every one of them down there and free them. What does that do? It improves the market so that more people get sold off. I could save those kids . . . but I can't do a damned thing about the two hundred that will be enslaved to make up for them. The demand will still be there . . . and that demand will be filled. And there is precisely nothing I can do about it.

Fuck.

As it turned out, Hamilton couldn't make love to Alice. She tried her very fine best to make it happen, of course, but under the circumstances her very fine best was not up to the task. No woman's would have been.

Even after he told her to give it up, and waited until she began softly to snore beside him, he still lay awake thinking of the problem of the slave children . . . and of slavery in general.

It has always existed, John, he told himself. Wars have been fought to end it, and it survived those. Alliances were formed to crush it; still it endured. Almost the whole world united against it, and still it survived.

It makes no legal sense, in that it puts an undue burden on everyone to protect the intelligent, self-willed, and dangerous property of a few. It makes no economic sense; you can get more profit paying a free man well than you will ever get from a slave that you pay nothing. Morally, it is not better than killing them; slavery is just death drawn out, the absence of liberty which is the absence of everything life is about, of everything that makes it worthwhile to live.

And then, too, what values does a slave learn? Looking out for number one, if they have any sense. And still they get manumitted, regularly. Hell, some Moslems buy slaves expressly to manumit to earn a few brownie points with God. But those slaves enter civil society with the 'looking out for myself' attitude they learned as slaves. And they never lose it . . . but pass it on to the next generation . . . and the next.

And I'm going to deliver