Caliphate

ammunition?'

The slave looked crestfallen. 'You didn't say anything about ammunition,' he said to Latif.

'Put down the weapons,' the first sergeant ordered the slave. He then called out two names and ordered, 'Go with this slave back to wherever he found these and bring all the ammunition there is to be had.' The baseski shook his head with disgust. 'Fuck! What does Allah have against me?'

Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)

'God has turned his face from us,' Hans whispered, as he watched the janissaries pour out of the back of the truck. 'And what's happened to Petra? If these got through, are the others hunting her like an animal through the woods?'

He'd called for his baby sister many times on the communicator he'd snagged days before. She didn't answer. This ate away at him, causing a rise of nausea in his stomach. He was certain she'd have answered if she were still alive. He thought back to the day the tax collector had taken her away; felt anew—as fresh as if it were just yesterday—the humiliation of being unable to defend her.

Taking a last glance at the security board to ensure all the perimeter mines were still functioning, Hans checked his submachine gun, stood and walked out of the control room and toward the lab. He walked as if going to his death as, indeed, he felt he was and perhaps even should be.

'Boy,' he said to Meara's toy. 'Boy, follow me.'

'Are there any other samples of this virus anywhere in the Caliphate?' Hamilton asked. He'd already placed every sample identified as virus or useful to creating the virus into the containment unit he'd been given back at Langley. Immediately, the three heads began shaking 'no' in unison. From Meara flew tears, so hard did he shake his head.

Cleverly, Hamilton had asked mostly innocuous questions to begin. After a dozen of those, and three pulped toes each for the renegades, he'd trained them not to lie. From there he'd gone after the rest of the lab samples. Now his questions were oriented toward the spread of the danger.

'Bernie? Hamilton,' he sent over his communicator. 'High degree of confidence that there are no other samples anywhere in the Caliphate. How far out are you?'

'Maybe twenty-five minutes, John,' Hamilton heard in his earpiece. 'I'll send word to higher.'

'It would be a good thing not to get nuked as we escape,' Hamilton agreed, sardonically.

'Escape will be highly problematic,' Hans announced, as he entered the lab.

At Hamilton's quizzical eyebrow the janissary added, 'Petra didn't get them all. About twenty—at least that many—have joined the guards outside. Maybe worse, I suspect that the people I sent to the other castle are on the way back. We're about to be outnumbered about forty to one, and this time there's no surprise on our side.'

'How truly good,' Hamilton said.

Interlude

Nuremberg, Federal Republic of Germany,

10 July, 2022

Gabi had done her best to raise Amal to be kind, sensitive, considerate of the feelings of others, tolerant, accepting . . . in all, a human monument to multicultural decency. She was also, and this had come rather harder to both mother and daughter, a good student. In her school, of course, she had friends of all stripes and persuasions; boyfriends, as well.

In fact, Amal had a lot of boyfriends. And why not? She was one of the, if not the, prettiest girls in the school. From her mother and father she'd garnered a meter, seventy-five in height . . . and she still had a couple of years to grow. Her baby-blond hair had darkened to a lustrous auburn not untypical of the province of Franconia. Her body was already that of a woman, enough so to set young boys to daydreaming in class, much to the detriment of their grades.

Between the height, the hair color, such features as she'd inherited from Mahmoud, her slightly darkened skin and light brown eyes, and her Arab given name, she could pass for an Arab or a Turk easily enough and was often taken for one. In the peculiar circumstances of Germany in the year 2021, this could be a problem.

'There's the slut now,' whispered Abdul-Halim to his four friends, Taymullah, Mansur, Zahid, and Jabir. Of the five boys, two, Mansur and Jabir, were sons of German reverts to the faith. They were, if anything, more devout than the other three.

'Shameless,' said Mansur. 'The cunt should be veiled properly, her hair covered properly.'

'It's the filthy Germans, polluting the world,' added Zahid. 'It will be a better place once it belongs to us, once the law of God replaces the nonsense they adhere to.'

'And that is our job,' said Taymullah, clutching a blanket in both hands. 'As the imam said yesterday at the mosque, it is up to us to bring the word and the ways of Allah to this Godless place.'

Amal was only human and thoroughly female. She enjoyed the admiration she received from people, men and women both, as she walked the street toward home.

Thus, it came as quite a shock to her, so much of a shock that she didn't even cry out, when five boys surrounded her, exclaimed, 'This is our sister,' dropped a blanket over her head and pulled her into a cellar.

Germans and German law had, long since, stopped defending Muslim women. Turks and Arabs, often terrified of retribution and having lost any faith that German law would protect them, simply turned away.

The 'smiley,' the cutting of a Muslim girl's face from one ear to the corner of her mouth in retribution for her dressing as a westerner, had been something of an urban legend in the early part of the century. Many had written and spoken of it yet no examples had ever been produced, no criminal cases had ever been launched.

Yet life can imitate art. Barraged with reports of the phenomenon, the urban legend had been adopted and turned into horrific reality. There were girls with 'smileys,' now, and in every corner of western Europe.

It was, after all, an excellent way to make a girl cover her face, in accordance with the hadiths and the sunna.

'You can't do this,' Amal wept. 'I'm not a Moslem. I've never been a Moslem.'

'In the name of Allah we can do as we wish,' insisted Abdul-Halim. 'Besides, everyone is born a Moslem, that's what the imam says. It's just that some of them, like you, are apostate.'

'You see,' added Zahid, 'there are only two kinds of women in the world. There are those who follow the law of God, and then there are sluts. Which are you?'

Chapter Eighteen

I will not blame Norwegian women for the rapes. But Norwegian women must understand that we live in a multi-cultural society and adapt themselves to it.

—Professor Unni Wikan, Oslo, Norway,

6 September 2001