Caliphate

am-Munch Airport, 23 Muharram,

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.'

Preceded by the first sergeant, who announced the name of each soldier before Hans inspected, Hans walked the lines checking uniforms. There was little to object to, predictably, as the janissaries were so eager to get out from under Hans' heavy thumb. They were even more eager to get at the houris, so eager, in fact, that they'd taken extra care to look perfect.

Hans stopped in front of one man and accused, 'You've been over- trimming your mustache, soldier.'

The accused soldier answered, 'Sorry, sir. It's that we've been in the field so much lately, dirty and sweaty so much, that my skin underneath was starting to get inflamed.'

Hans pursed his lips and seemed to think about it. 'Well,' he said, at length, 'I won't pull your pass and send you back until the thing grows back properly. But I will hold you to letting it grow back.'

Breathing a sigh of relief, the janissary answered, 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I promise I will.'

Now there's a fair officer, thought Sig, the armorer, standing at the far end of the first rank. And everyone was bitching about what a hard ass he was. I told them he was a good man.

am-Munch Airport, 23 Muharram,

1538 AH (3 November, 2113)

The airship's charter called for it to proceed north for a bit under seven hundred and fifty miles to Slo, in the Caliphate's northern provinces, there to receive a mixed cargo of high grade lumber and blond, blue-eyed female slaves to stock the higher class brothels of

Cape Town and Jo'burg. Flight time, so the captain announced, would be approximately five and a half hours. Loading? Well, who could say about loading when picking up a cargo in a city of the Caliphate? If Allah wanted it to proceed swiftly, it would. If not, then not.

'Not that it makes a shit,' muttered Lee with Ling's mouth, 'what the flight time is, since we aren't going there.'

The ship around them shuddered as mooring locks were undone. There came a rising, high-pitched whine as downward pointing, vertically mounted turbofans kicked in, raising the airship upwards on an even keel. Ascent under power was slow; the ship got about two thirds of its lift from the helium it contained.

Bongo checked the time. 'Still a while to go.' He reached into one of the bags dropped off by the airship's crew of slaves and withdrew a small earpiece which he mounted to one ear. 'Hamilton, this is Bongo. Come in Hamilton.'

Highway 310, Northwest of ar-Rebchel, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,

1538 AH (3 November, 2113)

Hamilton and Hans dug frantically in the deep shadows of the woods south of the 310 road to unearth the directional mines Hans had buried there before. There wasn't room for three to dig; Petra stood nervously watching.

'A little . . . fucking . . . close . . . to the fucking . . . road . . . isn't it?' Hamilton grunted.

'I needed . . . a sheltered place . . . where . . . Petra could see . . . the road . . . and . . . still be . . . protected . . . from the blast,' Hans answered.

'All right . . . makes sense.'

Hamilton's shovel scraped along something that didn't feel remotely like a mine. It was the protective cloth Hans had draped over the cache against the dirt and the weather. 'I think . . . we're there,'