CALIPHATE(118)

"Well, Top," Sig said. "At least the ones we have left are good soldiers and true. Better those than a rabble."

The baseski, who was more observant than the armorer, disagreed. "No, the difference was that those who ran, ran because they felt outclassed and useless. But in running, they also took with them half the spirit, such as it was, of those who remained."

"Hans? Hamilton? Matheson. I think we delayed reinforcement of the garrison by a bit. But we've got a decision to make and I can't make it."

"What decision, Bernie?" Hamilton asked.

"I can have the airship continue to give you the little bit of fire support we have to give. You can't load like that. Or I can have the pilot bring us to the castle itself and you can begin to load. But—"

"But if you do that, the ship's going to be vulnerable while we load," Hans said.

"Worse than that," Hamilton added. "If I stay here watching the gate, I can keep them out even if they manage to batter it down. Or if not quite keep them out, keep them from rushing in and overwhelming us. But if I stay here, you can't hope to load everything, get the kids out, and guard the renegades."

"Well, as far as that goes," Matheson said, "I've got a considerable loading party here aboard the airship, if we have to use them."

Hamilton thought about that for a minute, then said, "Hans, be sure to get Petra where we told her to meet us. Bernie, bring the airship in and start to load."

The corbasi's first thought, when he saw the airship coming back, was that they intended to attack his men again. "Take cover!" he shouted.

He was surprised, then, when the ship continued on its way, circling the castle to the right, without firing so much as a single burst.

Odd, that, the colonel thought. Or maybe not so odd. Maybe—no, certainly—that's their way out.

He pointed in turn at the ten men he'd positioned to cover the twin towers flanking the gate. "You lot! Follow me!"

One of the janissaries shook his head, thinking, I've had this shit up to here.

The cross section of the airship was enormous. In these winds, it took a pilot of Lee's skill and experience to put it in position hard by the castle walls and hold it there. Even then, it was all he could do.

"Hurry, Yankee," the pilot said to Matheson. "We get a sudden gust from the wrong direction and we're paste."

"Roger," Matheson agreed. "Retief, you with me?"

The Boer nodded. "And otherwise miss the chance to do something absolutely right for once in my life? Let's go."

The ex-slaves, some of them armed from the airship's small armory and still others from the galley, followed Matheson down to the hold where the kidnapped Germans huddled in terror.

Ask them to volunteer to fight? Matheson wondered. No . . . I wish but . . . no. Look at their faces, every one a mask writ in terror. I can use them for labor, but they're too beaten down and degraded to actually stand on their own feet. And this was a people that more than once made the world tremble? It's sad.

Matheson still wore his makeshift robes and headdress. He was counting on the Germans being too terrified to notice just how threadbare his disguise was. He shouted, "You! You Nazrani filth. On your feet, all you men and the grown women, too." He waited a few moments for the captives to spring erect and ordered, "Now follow me."

Matheson, Retief and the cargo slaves led the Germans upward to the passenger deck. There, Retief opened the hatch and extruded the boarding ramp. Beneath the power buttons there was a small wheel coming from a maneuverable ball, an auxiliary emergency control, that he used to position the ramp on the pseudo battlements next to a tower. A collective moan escaped from the Germans when they realized that their new, temporary master intended to lead them out onto the pitching ramp and into the blackness.

"Stay here to make sure none of them escape," Matheson shouted to Retief. To the German serfs he repeated, "Follow me."

* * *

The corbasi and the ten men with him emerged around the corner of the castle. The colonel stopped in shock. The airship—it had to be some new technology from the infidels' pact with Satan to have penetrated so far into the Caliphate—was hovering there. Worse, so the colonel could see by the dim light, the ship was disgorging dozens, scores of soldiers.

It must be a company of their Rangers, he thought. There's no hope of taking back the castle now, not with the few men I have left. And it will be hard indeed to knock down that airship. The thing must be armored to the gills. And I'm sure their Rangers are.

Still, I must try.

He gave his men the order, "Try to hit the pilot or the engines."

Gay he might have been; a sissy Lee was not. He held steady even as the first burst of fire passed through the deck of the cockpit and exited the ceiling above. Bits of plastic and insulation flew about the cockpit.