Caliphate полностью

The pilot reached for the control to add gas to the central and main lifting cell. Rather, he wanted to do so but discovered that he couldn't move his arm.

For the last time, where's Hans?

"She what?" Hamilton asked incredulously.

"She wants to know what happened to Hans. Who the fuck is Hans?" the pilot asked in Ling's voice. "If I don't come up with a good answer, she's not going to let me fly this airship. She's got me frozen. Look, I've got barely the horses to get up to Switzerland. Will you please tell her."

Listening in on the circuit, Hans asked, "Ling . . . can you hear me?"

"She can hear you . . . if you're Hans," the pilot answered.

"Then listen carefully," the man said. "I want you to release the pilot. It's important to me."

"Okay . . . she's unfrozen me."

"Ling . . . honey," Hans' voice continued. "Someone had to stay behind. I chose me . . . "

"Aiaiaiai!" the pilot screamed, then said aloud, "Goddammit, woman, I felt that."

"Ling . . . I chose me for a lot of good reasons. I'm sorry . . . .more than I can say. They're getting ready to rush me now. I have to go. I love you."

The last Ling heard was the pffft . . . pffft . . . pffft of Hans' submachine gun.

Down below, below the airship and even below Hans, the crematorium was fed from two tanks, each containing a mix of LPG, liquid petroleum gas, and oxygen. These tanks, for ease of installation, had been placed under the floor of the lab. That floor was growing very, very hot.

In those tanks under the floor, the oxygen-LPG mix was likewise growing very, very hot. Indeed, it was beginning to boil. This boiling was forcing more and more of the gas out through the crematorium's nozzles, lowering the liquid volume in the tanks and increasing the pressure on those tanks.

For one minute give me control, Ling demanded.

Too dangerous, Lee answered. Besides, I don't know how to cede partial control. I don't know how you were able to freeze my limbs and still let me talk.

Neither do I. So what? Give me control. Please, she begged. Weren't you ever in love?

That's a low blow . . . Oh, all RIGHT! I wish there were some fucking way to give you only vocal control. But if there is, I don't know it. And do try to keep your hands steady on the controls, eh?

Hans' hands and gaze were steady, steadier than anyone had a right to expect, given that the fire of his former soldiers was chipping away at the edges of the oaken table and wearing at its surface. Already bullets had made their way through, only to be stopped by his torso armor. Even if stopped, they hurt. Eventually—and probably very soon—a bullet would find its way to an uncovered spot. After that? Well . . . After that I die.

They were in the foyer with him now, he knew. More than a dozen but less than a score. And I don't have enough ammunition left to deal with that number if they all lined up and just let me shoot them.

Unconsciously, Hans reached for the dagger at his side and loosened the retaining strap. If he had to die—and he did, and was even "comfortable" with the idea—it wouldn't be without a weapon in his hand.

He heard in his earpiece, "Hans, this is Ling, not the pilot. He won't let me talk for long. But I wanted you to know that in all my life I never loved anyone but you and your sister. And you two I loved with all my heart. Goodbye."

Hans smiled, a last smile. That was warming. He then stood, fired once, twice, and a third time. His vision had narrowed under the stress. Whether he actually hit anyone he didn't know and, perhaps, at that point, didn't much care. He flung the empty submachine gun at a janissary aiming his weapon at him, causing the janissary to duck. Hans then pulled the dagger from its sheath, screamed "Deus vult!"— God wills it—and charged like a berserker, a force of nature in himself, right over the table.

Down in the lab the stone walls began to glow. Mortar, old and solid, likewise crumbled from in between set stones. Under the floor, the twin tanks of oxygenated LPG boiled and frothed furiously, albeit unseen. In the crematorium, the flames jutting from the burners were like flamethrowers pretending they were crossed swords. A mass of flame poured from the crematorium's open portal.