Caliphate полностью

"Well, at the moment, they don't exist," the pilot answered. "But you know, even if I were here in my own body . . . well, I'm only Chinese. Small penis. Not like you Americans . . . BIIIGGG penis," he mocked.

"Just take us in as low as you dare."

That was more serious. "Roger."

"Can you bring us in quietly?" Matheson asked.

"With all the firing down there, I hardly need to," the pilot answered.

"Yeah, come in quietly anyway. Let me know when we're broadside. And give me those goggles; you don't need them."

"Take them," the pilot said.

Asshole, Ling whispered mentally. That's my body you're taking risks with.

You knew it was dangerous when you volunteered, Lee answered.

I didn't volunteer. I was bred, chipped, and sold.

We all have these little issues, Lee answered.

Matheson and Retief crouched to either side of the ramp hatchway. Matheson still clutched his submachine gun while Retief held an assault rifle taken from one of the freed slaves. Retief wore the goggles taken from Ling's face.

"How's the armor on this thing?" Matheson asked.

"Armor?" Retief laughed. "What fucking armor?"

"Silly me. Open the hatch."

Retief's hand reached up to a button set into the wall. He pressed it, causing the hatch to slide open with a whoosh. Cold air streamed in through the opening.

"Hamilton? Matheson."

Hamilton eased the muzzle of his weapon out a window, hoping like hell that return fire wouldn't destroy his hands. He loosed a long, and almost certainly futile burst at the landing below. There was shouting and a single man cried out.

Sometimes the law of averages works in your favor, Hamilton thought.

"Hamilton? Matheson."

"I'm a little busy right now, Bernie," Hamilton answered, while dropping an empty magazine and inserting a fresh one.

"Yes, I can see. You're about to get a little, very temporary, relief. Look up."

The corbasi looked up and behind him. He wasn't sure why he did so, then or ever. He was, however, very glad that he had. At first, his mind refused to register the great, raylike shape that swung across the darkened sky without a sound. It was only when he saw the muzzle flashes that the threat registered.

"Duuuckk!"

"We're not hitting shit!" Matheson cursed.

This wasn't strictly true. Both men had fired into the covered alcove over the castle's main entrance. Normally, they couldn't have really expected to hit anything much. The stone walls of the alcove, however, caused bullets to ricochet. Several janissaries went down from these, even though only one was hit by a nonricocheting bullet.

Hamilton heard and answered. "I think you are . . . or did . . . or something. They've stopped trying to break through the gate anyway."

"If you say so. We'll be back. I'm going to try to buy you a little time from the people coming from the other castle."

"The other castle?" Hamilton asked. "Fuck! How close are they?"

"Too."

"Not too much further, boys," Sig called out to encourage the flagging spirits of men dragged from Paradise and thrust without warning into something they fully expected to resemble Hell. Worse, they expected to be thrust into Hell without anything so useful as a fire extinguisher . . . or even an antacid tablet. They were hanging back, as if reluctant. This was something Sig had rarely seen in janissaries.

About half of them were armed with something that could throw a bullet . . . in theory . . . if they'd had a chance to clean them . . . which they hadn't. For those, they had a totally inadequate supply of ammunition for everything except the four shotguns the brothel had held. The other half were armed with a mix of knives, swords, spears, whatever could be found that might be useful.

That, too, added to their already considerable demoralization. Despite his intentions, Sig's encouragement only made it worse.

Thus, when the airship passed to one side, and began to open fire, and the janissaries could barely return fire, half of them (and mostly the half with cutting implements) bolted into the woods.

"Come back, you stinking cowards," Sig screamed. "Back here, you filth," the baseski demanded. The fleeing troops paid them no mind.

"Well, Top," Sig said. "At least the ones we have left are good soldiers and true. Better those than a rabble."

The baseski, who was more observant than the armorer, disagreed. "No, the difference was that those who ran, ran because they felt outclassed and useless. But in running, they also took with them half the spirit, such as it was, of those who remained."

"Hans? Hamilton? Matheson. I think we delayed reinforcement of the garrison by a bit. But we've got a decision to make and I can't make it."

"What decision, Bernie?" Hamilton asked.