Caliphate (37 page)

"I suppose," he conceded. "That is,
you
don't.
I
do."

"Does it bother
you
?" she asked, then glanced down and, giggling, said, "I see that it does."

Her face grew serious. "You own me for the next week or more. I am your field. You know you can have me, if you want me."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "I know. And I know it wouldn't mean very much to you. Or maybe it would be nothing. And . . . I'd rather not have you if it doesn't mean anything. Call me old fashioned."

"You're 'old fashioned,'" she echoed, and then laughed.

"I like the sound of your laughter," Hamilton said. "Truly, I do."

"No one's ever said that to me," she admitted. "Tell me more of what it's like where you live."

"It's a long way from perfect," Hamilton said. "And it used to be better, so I'm told . . . so I've read. It's more free for individuals, especially for women." He reached over and fingered the small crucifix that rested against the inside of her right breast. "Christians are in charge, though they're not all all
that
Christian. Some are though.

"We're a lot richer than in the Caliphate. Poor people there are generally better off than rich ones here."

She thought about that for a minute before asking, "Autos? My great-grandmother wrote that back then almost everyone had a car. Not that she approved of that, mind you."

"No," he shook his head. "Those are kind of rare. I own one, and have since I was twenty-one. But that was because I was in a position where I needed to be able to get around without relying on public transport. Now, of course, I still have one and for much the same reason."

"Could I have one? If I lived there, I mean."

"Probably, if you had the need and could pay the tax and pay for the fuel. Portable fuel is rare, expensive, and rationed. Most of it goes to the government. Most regular people get around by public transportation.

"You could drive mine," he offered. "Once you learned how to drive, anyway. Or at least how to tell the car where to take you."

That was a nice dream. But it was also, possibly, a suggestion of some future relationship together.
He's not really thinking about what I am, what I have been. I think I owe it to him not to let him forget, not to let him be taken in by a false picture.

"I had a client who used to take me for drives," she said, "back when I was fourteen and fifteen. But I never saw anything. From the moment he started his car until the moment he stopped it I had to have my head bent over him. He was older than you . . . maybe forty."

Got no words for that one,
Hamilton thought,
except . . .
"Well . . . if I drive you somewhere you won't have to unless you want to."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. She chewed for a few moments on her lower lip. Then she said, "You know . . . for
you
I might just want to. Especially because I won't
have
to."

"You don't have to do anything now, either," he said.

"I know," she answered, bending her head while reaching down with one hand. "Maybe that's why I
want
to."

"
When
do you turn eighteen?" he asked, just before she engulfed him. She didn't answer and he, for a while, lost the ability to think.

While Hamilton groaned under Petra's ministrations, Matheson's body worked under the guidance of Doctor Richter. The entire apparatus looked something less than professional. Above, on a small table, rested a drip bottle containing ferric ferrocyanide, or Prussian blue dye. This was nontoxic. From the bottle a tube led into the stainless steel pressure cooker, through a hole Bernie had hand cut and then sealed. Exactly beneath the hole, a burner projected, located so that the drip from the tube would drop Prussian blue right onto the flame. The burner had its own oxygen supply, fed in before combustion took place, from a medical bottle.

Another tube led from the top of the stainless steel vessel to a stoppered glass beaker. The tube extended nearly to the bottom of the beaker. Above the level of the end of that tube was the lye he'd obtained at the bakery. A tube above the level of the lye led out through the stopper and to another beaker containing a slurry of charcoal and water. A further tube from that last beaker led to a just- slightly-opened window.

Matheson lit the burner and started the Prussian blue drip.

Petra lifted her head away.
I don't have anything to offer
, she thought,
except for this. Maybe it will be enough to make him really want to take me away. Or maybe it will just remind him that I'm a filthy whore. I wish I had more to give. Might as well wish to turn back the clock and change history.

She looked up into Hamilton's eyes, hoping to find that she'd pleased him. Instead she saw a look she had never seen before on any man's face. She really didn't know what it meant.

Nor did Hamilton explain. He just pulled her up along the bed, toward the pillow. Then he spread her legs, and took a position very similar to the one she had held until a few moments before.

This wasn't exactly new to Petra, after all, she and Ling had been lovers for years now. But none of her clients had ever shown any interest.

He's not as good as Ling,
she thought, dreamily,
but he's better than any
man
who's ever had me. And . . . he
smells
more . . . right than Ling does.

Bernie was a mere observer as Richter stopped the drip and then turned off the burner. Almost immediately, gaseous bubbles that had been rising in both of the beakers stopped. In one beaker, bathed in lye, was a layer of whitish crystals. He shared minds, to a degree, with Richter and knew that these were hydrogen cyanide, harmless in the current form. The crystals Richter separated out, storing them in one of the larger glass jars. The used lye was thrown away and replaced. The charcoal-water slurry likewise went down the toilet and a new batch was added to the second beaker.

I can smell almonds,
Bernie thought.

Good,
answered Richter.
That means you're not one of those people who can't smell cyanide. Don't worry, this is not a dangerous concentration.

If you say so, but that's my body you're exposing.

I'd feel your death
, said Richter, in defense.

Sure, but you'd still wake up back in Langley, safe and sound, while my corpse cooled here.

Relax.

Bernie tried. Nonetheless, the potentially deadly bubbles arising on the second batch reminded him continuously that this chemist operating his body from thousands of miles away held his life in his hands.

And they were going to be at this all night.

I said, "Relax,"
Richter thought.
I can do this without you. Why don't you let your mind go to sleep?

Because I might wake up dead. How much of this shit do we need?

By your plan? To put a sufficient concentration into four barracks rooms of thirty-two thousand cubic feet each to kill everyone in them in a couple of minutes? More, a
lot
more.

Fuck.

Relax. It's a piece of cake.

"Can't you tell them to knock it off?" Ling's mouth asked as her torso bent over the tuning set attached to the first of the five communications systems Hans had lifted from unit supply. She gave a dirty look toward the room in which Petra and the American, Hamilton, were staying. "It's unnerving."

"Jealous?" Hans asked with a smile.

"Since I am not Ling, how can I be jealous?"

"Oh. Sorry, I forgot."

"I understand. Now go tell them to shut up and you do the same."

Hans arose and started to go but then stopped.

"I can't," he said.

"Why?"

"She's my sister. It would be too . . . embarrassing. For both of us."

With Ling's head shaking with annoyance, the teleoperator went to the door and knocked. When there was no answer—indeed, the couple in the other room seemed not even to notice—she opened the door, walked to the bed, grabbed Hamilton by the hair and pulled him away from Petra's body. In a voice that was only half Ling's, the body said, "Stop it. You're ruining my concentration. Fuck; if you
must
fuck. But do so
quietly
."

Ling's body turned around brusquely and marched out of Petra's room, slamming the door behind her.

"Jealous, you think?" asked Hamilton.

"No . . . no, that wasn't my Ling."

"Still, the suggestion was a good one," Hamilton said

"Suggestion. Ooohhh . . . her 'suggestion.' But I don't think I can do it quietly . . . not with you," Petra said.

"Let's try."

"Yes," she said with a wanton smile. "
Let's
!"

The sun was already over the horizon and streaming in through the suite's windows.

Is that enough?
Bernie asked, looking at four large glass jars, partly filled and sealed with the hydrogen cyanide crystals, standing against the wall. There were other jars, smaller ones, containing an oily liquid. Those were all in the sink. In addition, several more small jars were better than half full with the crystals. Of the lye and Prussian blue dye, almost none remained.

I think so. You've enough for the four barracks, plus some more for just in case. If you need to change the distribution around, the crystals are safe enough. Just don't get any acid on them.

I won't. Time for you to go?

Yes.

Well . . . not to be rude or anything but . . . get the fuck out.

You'll still need me for the thermobaric bomb you may need to sterilize the laboratory,
Dr. Richter pointed out.

Later. If we need it. For now . . . just go away. This shit is worse than rape.

Finally they've quieted down
, thought the Chinese communications specialist controlling Ling's body.

What's your problem, asshole? I'm the one who's losing a lover; I'm the one who has to give up my own body.

I am not used to working in these kinds of circumstances
, thought the specialist.

I don't see what's so difficult about it,
Ling thought back.

It's reading the proper settings here and then transferring them through your body to the set. And it isn't difficult; it's
tedious
. Worse, distractions mean I might set it wrong, input the wrong codes, so that either you won't be able to talk to each other or, worse still, the Caliphate's people will hear you. Now shut up and quit pestering me.

The colonel was gone, trying to bring some order and discipline back to the border troops at af-Fridhav. This left Hans alone with the company. He spent the time usefully, inspecting weapons in the arms room. The weapons were not common issue; the janissaries in the security force slept with theirs. Rather, these were extras and special purpose arms, along with some of the pricey electronics purchased from China or the tsar that made the Corps of Janissaries near equals of Imperial Infantry.