—Martin Luther, "On War Against the Turks," 1528 AD
Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,
1538 AH (21 October, 2113)
"You'd never been drunk before, had you?" Ling asked.
Hans, a study in misery, just shook his head and said, "That's the second kind of virginity I gave to you. I much preferred giving you the other kind. Much."
"I'm sure," Ling said, grinning widely. She hadn't known she'd been his first and that was . . . warming. That he remembered and appreciated was much more so.
Find out, if possible, why he attacked your contact, said the little voice in Ling's head.
She asked.
She asked and was surprised as such a torrent of hate and loathing poured out of Hans as she had never heard before. Not just hate for Hamilton, whom Ling only knew of as "De Wet," but Hans also felt deep hatred for the Corps of Janissaries, for Moslems, for all slave dealers, and for the Caliphate. He hated the boys who'd raped Petra, the dealer who had auctioned her, and the bastard tax gatherer who had taken both the siblings away from their home. Hans hated the laws that had made him crucify a priest. He hated everything.
"Everything?"
"Okay, not everything. Not you. Not Petra. But I hate everything else about this land."
I wish we could be sure it's not an act, said the little voice. He would be a great asset.
Is there a way to test him? she thought back.
We are considering this.
Hamilton lay on his side, head propped up on one elbow, considering the face and form of the sleeping girl next to him. Seventeen, he thought. Maybe eighteen. So much skillful wickedness in so young a girl. Almost . . . almost, I can see the attraction of Islam if it enables a man to own such beauty. Better, she makes it seem as if she's a lover, not just a whore playing a part. Perhaps that's only because she's a natural whore, though, if she is. It's possible, too, that she's just been very well trained. Or both.
Only things I can be sure of are that she's both beautiful and an amazing fuck.
Christ, what kind of pervert am I, fucking a seventeen-year-old?
A little contrary voice said, Hey, look at the bright side; maybe she's eighteen.
Oh, that helps a lot.
Could have been worse. She could have been thirteen and you would still have had to fuck her to keep up your cover.
Unable to stand it anymore, Hamilton reached out one hand, shook the girl awake and asked, "How old are you?"
"Seventeen," Petra answered groggily. "Why?"
Pervert.
Our best consensus, for the moment, is to ask him for proof, the little voice in Ling's head said. It is not perfect but, if he turns out to be an agent provocateur, you can claim you asked for proof in order to denounce him. In the interim, it moves us a bit along toward confirming his true thoughts.
Did you know they made a whore of his sister and that she's my best friend and lover here? Ling asked back.
We watch your every move. Of course we knew. That is still not proof. The Caliphate produces only one thing of genuine excellence, and that product is fanaticism.
True, she agreed.
If you had access to a laboratory, we could teleoperate you to create a first grade truth serum. Sadly—
—I don't. And the still where Latif makes the poor stuff won't do. In truth, Ling hated the very idea of being teleoperated, which involved surrendering complete control over her own body to another. It was bad enough sucking and fucking people she didn't want to. Teleoperation was, in its way, even more degrading.
Still, in vino veritas. What he said last night while drunk is a good indicator of his true feelings. We're still reviewing the tapes. We'll get back to you. In the interim, ask for proof. And try to be clever about it, won't you?
"Reviewing the tapes"? Ling sent back. I'm sure you voyeuristic bastards are.
Be nice, Ling. We can teleoperate you without permission, you know.
Breakfast for the two was delivered to Petra's quarters by a eunuch. It didn't have any bacon, or pork sausage, of course, but was otherwise decent.
Hamilton already had the name of the girl sitting opposite: Petra. Moreover, she was already, technically, his wife for the next thirteen days.
"I've never had a wife before," Hamilton said.
"You don't really have one now," Petra answered, perhaps a little sadly. Clothed in a nightgown, still her young, firm breasts showed through the front opening. Her nipples were pink, Hamilton saw. "It's just something they do to get around the law. Doesn't mean anything."
I will not ask, "how did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this," Hamilton thought. I will not ask . . .
"How did you ever end up here?" he asked.
"You don't want to know."
"Yes, sure I do."
"It's a sad story," Petra said. Saddest of all for me.