Caliphate полностью

Hamilton couldn't really feel his arms and hands anymore. Petra's grip around his neck had relaxed to the point he'd had to switch from a breaststroke to a sidestroke, hooking his other arm under her armpits to hold her. At this point, her life vest had become critical to keeping her—and perhaps both of them—afloat.

He still talked to her, when he could spare a breath. His lungs were sacks of icy flame, containers more of pain than air.

Still, he pressed on. His sidestroke drove his right hand down, deep into the water. He thought he felt something solid brush his fingers but when he interrupted the stroke it was gone. He kicked to establish forward movement again, and resumed the sidestroke.

And there it is again. He didn't stop this time, but redoubled his efforts at moving the two forward. His next two strokes found nothing, but the third was interrupted by what had to be a rock. He stopped, and allowed his feet to sink. They, too, found solid ground beneath them.

With difficulty, Hamilton stood with Petra still caught fast in one frozen arm. He began to walk forward in a daze, barely noticing that the water level dropped beneath him, to waist, to hams, to knees, to ankles. And there, wonder of wonders, was a tree, growing right by the water's edge. He walked a few steps farther, to the sheer bank.

Hamilton bent and put his free arm under Petra's thighs and lifted her, placing her body on the dry land above the lake. He then crawled over her, and lay down beside her, covering her as best his could with his chest, arms, and legs. Eventually, the Swiss would find them.

"Welcome to Switzerland, honey," he whispered, as he drifted into unconsciousness. "Welcome to freedom."

Epilogue

Zurich, Switzerland,

12 December, 2113

The reception was not exactly secret, even though it was held in one of the super-secret, underground forts, or reduits, that the Helvetian Confederation had maintained for over one hundred and fifty years, with a few short breaks. It was, in any case, secret enough that Hamilton didn't know exactly how he'd arrived in it.

The purpose of the reception? Switzerland, which had first crack at the computers in the castle, had discovered that they were on the target list. A little reception, and a few medals, seemed a small price to pay for not being exterminated.

Ling was there, bandaged in spots, with her arm in a sling, but wearing her new medal and holding hands with a tall brunette in the uniform of the Swiss Armed Forces. They didn't seem to be in love . . . exactly . . . yet. Lust, however, was written plain.

"It's good she found someone, though," Petra whispered to Hamilton. "Isn't it?"

"It can't be bad," he whispered back. "Speaking of which . . ." He looked over at Caruthers.

"The Han have agreed to release her to our care," Caruthers said. "For a price. Don't sweat the price; we've met it. She's scheduled for surgery to have her chip deactivated—too dangerous to remove it— next week."

"She'll be free then, at last," Petra said.

"You're both free now," Caruthers said.

"Speaking of which," Hamilton began to ask, "now that you're free and, thankfully eighteen, how would you like to be re-enslaved?"

Petra glared at him. Her features softened under the realization that Hamilton would never re-enslave her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I'm thinking about going back to the Army—"

"Big frigging mistake," Caruthers interjected. "You have a future with us, son."

Hamilton ignored him, except to say, "A future as a slave dealer? That's a filthy future." To Petra he repeated, "I'm thinking about going back to the Army. I could use a wife."

"A wife?" Speechless, she began to cry.

"A wife. If you would consent."

"But I'm . . . I mean I was—"

"A wonderful girl," he cut her off. "A girl whom life crapped on and who didn't let it turn her rotten."

"There's another option," said Caruthers. "And it wouldn't involve the slave trade."

"Would you please just butt out. I'm trying to propose here."

"Trying, shmying," Caruthers scoffed. "Stop being melodramatic. She's going to accept; aren't you dear?"

Petra's head nodded, briskly. She was still crying too much to speak.

"See? That's settled. Now instead of being a dumb ass and turning your lovely future bride into a widow while gallantly leading your men across the altogether too fire-swept beaches of the English Channel in a few years, why don't you stay here and become our chief of station? I believe I once told you we like husband and wife teams. And I can sweeten the deal," Caruthers added.

"How's that?" Hamilton asked.