CALIPHATE(123)

"Fine then," Petra whispered to herself, her fingers reaching down to caress the journal, tucked into a belt underneath her burka. "I'll fight."

She slowed her pace and began to glance from side to side, looking for a deserted alley. After half a minute she came upon one, off to her right, with no lights showing. She turned down it. Behind her, the policeman's footsteps picked up as he closed for the kill . . .





Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)


After throwing his weight against the door repeatedly, Matheson emerged onto the bleeding body of one of the former cargo slaves. The top of the man's head had been blown off and the body had been blocking the exit.

"Retief!" he bellowed.

"Here, Bernie," the South African answered.

"What the . . . never mind, you didn't have a communicator. But why didn't you move the body out from the door?"

"I figured the kids were safer down there than they'd be out here," Retief answered.

"Oh. Fair enough. But we've got to get them loaded now."

"Fine, but there's one little problem. The janissaries can bring the loading ramp under fire and I haven't been able to permanently drive them back."

"From where?" Matheson asked.

"Corner of the castle where we can't see but they can see the ramp and the airship."

"Really? Well . . ." Matheson took off at a sprint, or as much of one as his bad leg would permit, across the ramp. No bullets came in until he was nearly across, and those missed.

He threw himself onto the deck of the passenger compartment and then swung his body around to face back towards the hatch. He dropped his night vision goggles back over his face. Then, slithering like a snake up to the hatch, he paused to make last minute check of his submachine gun. Satisfied, he whispered a prayer, and then poked weapon and head around the edge of the hatch.

Just as a janissary exposed himself to engage the airship again, Matheson fired.





an-Nessang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)


Petra stood with her back to a wall. The alleyway was a dead end. A dozen feet before her, the policeman approached with a gleam in his eye that even the dim light could not conceal.

"I knew you would be waiting for me," the policeman said. "I could tell by the way you nodded."

"Yesss," Petra answered, her voice a throaty purr. "I knew you would follow."

Petra leaned her back against the wall, and spread her legs slightly apart in invitation. So excited and incited was the man that he began to fumble with his belt even as he walked forward.

When Petra judged he was close enough that even she could be certain not to miss, she raised the submachine gun, pointed it at his chest, and fired.





Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 24 Muharram,

1538 AH (4 November, 2113)


Matheson saw the janissary spin and fall, and the rifle he bore go flying. His night vision was enhanced as much by the chip in his head as the goggles on his face. With those, he turned his head to look across the ramp to where Retief stood back from the wall with his arm across the door that led to the children.

"Send 'em now, Retief," Matheson shouted. "Send 'em fast!"

"You must hurry, children; do you understand?" Retief asked of the group nearest him. "You must hurry and run and get aboard and then get out of the way. Don't look down. Don't fear the pitching and swaying of the ramp. Don't pay attention if anyone else is hurt or falls off.

"Are you ready?"

Somberly, the children nearest him nodded, or said, "Yes," or even shouted it.

"Then go, go, GO!"

Off they flew, the foremost, as fast as tiny legs would carry them. Ahead the ramp bucked and twisted. Even so they ran for it. At the edge of the ramp two of the former cargo slaves waited. These helped the children, largely by shoving, or picking them up, or even throwing them onto the ramp as circumstances dictated.

Matheson stood now, on the airship's end of the ramp, encouraging the children on with shouts and open arms. Mentally, he did his best to keep count as the children passed: "One eighty-six . . . one eighty- seven . . . " He still had his submachine gun in his hand. Which helped him not at all when one of the janissaries below, perhaps enraged at his colonel's death (for it was the corbasi whom the agent had shot down), stepped out into the open and fired.

Hamilton had arrived at the tail end of the mass of children just as the gaggle began to move forward. He couldn't have them lie down, as Matheson had, to allow himself to pass, not if they were to have a chance to escape. Thus, he had to wait until the line moved ahead and the last children exited the door before he was able to get onto the battlemented roof.