Ling's shoulders shrugged. "Push all you want. They don't all look like me or like this"—Ling's own finger pointed at her breast—"vessel. Besides, didn't it ever occur to you that you
"Maybe so," Bongo conceded. "Whatever the case—"
He was interrupted by a steady
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
Uniquely, the janissaries' weapons were left behind, locked in their barracks room. The men were going on an all-expense-paid night to paradise and, as Hans had announced, "There's no need to upset the houris."
Preceded by the first sergeant, who announced the name of each soldier before Hans inspected, Hans walked the lines checking uniforms. There was little to object to, predictably, as the janissaries were so eager to get out from under Hans' heavy thumb. They were even more eager to get at the houris, so eager, in fact, that they'd taken extra care to look perfect.
Hans stopped in front of one man and accused, "You've been over- trimming your mustache, soldier."
The accused soldier answered, "Sorry, sir. It's that we've been in the field so much lately, dirty and sweaty so much, that my skin underneath was starting to get inflamed."
Hans pursed his lips and seemed to think about it. "Well," he said, at length, "I won't pull your pass and send you back until the thing grows back properly. But I will hold you to letting it grow back."
Breathing a sigh of relief, the janissary answered, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I promise I will."
am-Munch Airport, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
The airship's charter called for it to proceed north for a bit under seven hundred and fifty miles to Slo, in the Caliphate's northern provinces, there to receive a mixed cargo of high grade lumber and blond, blue-eyed female slaves to stock the higher class brothels of
Cape Town and Jo'burg. Flight time, so the captain announced, would be approximately five and a half hours. Loading? Well, who could say about loading when picking up a cargo in a city of the Caliphate? If Allah wanted it to proceed swiftly, it would. If not, then not.
"Not that it makes a shit," muttered Lee with Ling's mouth, "what the flight time is, since we aren't going there."
The ship around them shuddered as mooring locks were undone. There came a rising, high-pitched whine as downward pointing, vertically mounted turbofans kicked in, raising the airship upwards on an even keel. Ascent under power was slow; the ship got about two thirds of its lift from the helium it contained.
Bongo checked the time. "Still a while to go." He reached into one of the bags dropped off by the airship's crew of slaves and withdrew a small earpiece which he mounted to one ear. "Hamilton, this is Bongo. Come in Hamilton."
Highway 310, Northwest of ar-Rebchel, Province of Baya, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
Hamilton and Hans dug frantically in the deep shadows of the woods south of the 310 road to unearth the directional mines Hans had buried there before. There wasn't room for three to dig; Petra stood nervously watching.
"A little . . . fucking . . . close . . . to the fucking . . . road . . . isn't it?" Hamilton grunted.
"I needed . . . a sheltered place . . . where . . . Petra could see . . . the road . . . and . . . still be . . . protected . . . from the blast," Hans answered.
"All right . . . makes sense."
Hamilton's shovel scraped along something that didn't feel remotely like a mine. It was the protective cloth Hans had draped over the cache against the dirt and the weather. "I think . . . we're there," he announced.
In Hamilton's ear there was a beep, followed by, "Hamilton, this is Bongo. Come in Hamilton."
"Hamilton here, Bernie. We've just uncovered the mines. Fucking things look heavy. It's going to be a while."
"Right. We're just getting ready here."
Flight Seven Nine Three, am-Munch to Slo, 23 Muharram,
1538 AH (3 November, 2113)
