CALIPHATE(22)

Hamilton likewise slowed down and his boys and girls, quick on the uptake as pretty much all SHI troopers were, began forming from the column of twos they'd been in on the airship into a column of fours to mirror Hodge's 1st Platoon.

Thompson wasn't as precise in signaling to Hamilton as he had been with Hodge; Hamilton should have gotten the general idea of where he belonged from where Hodge was. In fact, he did. Leading his platoon to form up next to Hodge's, as soon as he was aligned with her he raised one arm and changed from a double time to running in place.

Third Platoon and Weapons likewise formed to the left. Only when they were properly lined up did Thompson order, "Company . . . halt. Parade . . . rest," then snap to attention, turn about (which took practice in a suit), and come to parade rest himself.

The rest, the welcoming speech by General Miguel Maglalang of the Philippine Army, the pass in review, and the march off to the barracks, was anticlimactic.





Al Harv Kaserne, Province of Affrankon, 30 Jumahdi I, 1531 AH (23 May, 2107)


"There shall be no compulsion in religion!" thundered the muscled, graying drill instructor, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, to the one hundred and nineteen newly gathered boys in the Hall of Arms. One of those boys was Hans Ibn Minden. "None whatsoever!"

The boys, none of them over twelve years of age, were positioned in what the Imperial Army would have called "the front leaning rest." Most of the world would have recognized it as the pushup position. They'd been that way so long that tears ran down faces even as arms, quivering, threatened to collapse.

In fact, some did collapse until the heavily booted feet of their overseers brought them back up to the pushup position. From those, the tears flowed without cease.

"No compulsion in religion," the senior drill instructor repeated. "Yet there is bounty, under the mercy of Allah, for those who forswear their false religion."

One of the boys, apparently no dummy, raised his head and gasped, "Bounty?"

"Indeed. It is our custom to fete those who join the faithful. It is very hard to do so with someone in the position you are in and so we relieve them of it."

Hans gritted his teeth. His mother's parting whispers echoed in his ears. My son, whatever they may take from you, do not let them have your soul as well. Keep true to our faith. God will not forget you.

Yet it was hard, hard. The work of a rural fellahin should have built good muscle in Hans' arms. And so it would have, if food had not been perennially scarce. As it was, he was not so strong as he might have been, either in body or in soul. With the rising agony in his arms, his mother's parting words grew fainter and fainter. When one by one the other boys took the drill instructor up on his offer, repeating the words, "La illaha illa Allah: Mohamedan rasulu Allah," There is no God but God; Mohamed is the prophet of God; Hans' will weakened and finally broke.

And this, thought Abdul Rahman, himself a Nazrani weaned from the faith of his fathers, this is why we take them so young.





Kitznen, Province of Affrankon, 2 Jumahdi II, 1531 AH (25 May, 2107)


Even as Hans and his newfound barracks mates underwent conversion in the Al Harv Kaserne, Petra, too was learning new things. Her instruction was even less pleasant than his was.

Besma, held fast by Fudail's, her stepbrother's, strong arms, struggled and wept and pleaded for her father's wife to lay off the beating. Petra, the object of that beating, wept and begged and chewed with her teeth upon the table over which she was bent. Petra's long skirt was lifted over her back, exposing her buttocks. Al Khalifa, the stepmother, held her neck to the table with one hand while she lashed those buttocks mercilessly, raising welts and occasional bright red drops of blood.

Al Khalifa stopped the beating just long enough to turn to Besma and say, "Didn't you ever wonder why I let your father waste money on this Nazrani slut? He might not let me punish you as you deserve, but he'll not say a word over punishing a slave."

She turned back to Petra and laid on four more strokes. "Think about that the next time you think you can talk back to me, or disobey me, or fail in any way to show me the respect I am due."

"Please," Besma begged. "I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry. I promise I'll be good but please don't hit her anymore."

"PLEASE!" Besma shrieked as al Khalifa turned back to the slave's bare buttocks and began to thrash her even more viciously than before. "Please!"

Only when the Nazrani girl fainted did al Khalifa leave off. "It will be like this, only worse, every time you fail to please me," the woman said. To her son she said, "Let Besma go," before she, and he, left.

"I didn't do anything; I didn't do anything; I didn't do anything," Petra repeated, over and over, hysterically, without there being anything Besma could say or do to make her stop. Instead, she just held the younger girl and rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair and whispering how sorry she was.