Caliphate полностью

"'There are no 'Canadian' rebels," Hamilton parroted. "There are Americans. Then there are imperial subjects. There are also rebels, allies—'"

"'—and enemies. No Canadians, however.'" Miles shrugged. "Yes, John, I know the Pravda. In any case, the rebels in the frozen north have been quiet for a while now. And with the Latin provinces being admitted to Class Two, slowly but surely, troubles down that way are dropping, too. Basically, we've got the world pretty much the way we want it."

Not entirely, Hamilton thought. Not entirely the way I want it. If it were, I'd still have Laurie.

"I hear Charlie Company is opening up and the colonel's thinking of putting you in command," Miles said.

"I heard the same rumors," Hamilton agreed. He shook his head in negation, "I'm really not interested. I've had it with burned villages and resettlement and feeling like some kind of monster. Thompson had it right; you've got to find a reason to sleep at night and I never did. What's worse, I deliberately never looked for one. After Laurie was killed . . ."

There was, after all, a reason the colonel was considering putting Hamilton in command of Company C. For the last two years he'd been the most unflagging butcher of Moros in the battalion. There was also a reason the colonel hadn't yet put Hamilton in command. In those two years he'd lost something of his soul, or "whatever it is that keeps a man on two legs instead of four."

Miles shrugged again. "I know. You still thinking of punching out? You've got two years to go, you know."

"There's a way around that. The Office of Strategic Intelligence"— this was the successor to the old Central Intelligence Agency which had been renamed following the purges—"can get two years waived— even three, actually, though I don't need three—for people who sign up with them. As to whether I want to or not . . . I'll listen to them. I've an appointment with their recruiter at Kevin Barry's in Savannah when we get back."

"I have a hard time seeing you as a spook, even if you're thinner than a corpse."

"Just something I've been thinking about. I don't know myself. I know something though."

"What's that?"

"If I keep up at this Einsatzgruppen shit, I'll go crazier than I am."

"They do dirty shit, too," Miles said.

"Dirtier than us? Not possible."

"Never know what the future holds," Miles observed.

Kitznen, Province of Affrankon, 17 Jumadah II, 1533 AH (18 May, 2109)

Al Khalifa was thinking about the future. My first husband wants nothing to do with our son, preferring to lavish his substance on his Christian slave girl's bastard. If I am to secure my son's position for the future, it can only be by having Abdul Mohsem make him his heir. But he fawns on his bitch of a daughter so, spoiling the little tramp rotten.

She glanced up, to where twelve-year-old Petra scrubbed a hallway floor on her hands and knees. Al Khalifa snarled, thinking, Nazrani bitch! And soon enough Besma will be married off and I'll lose control of her unless I can keep this little twat under my control. I know they've been plotting to get the Christian girl her freedom. Bah! As if a Christian is worthy of freedom.

Then again, if I can't keep control of the Nazrani, and lose my power over Besma, perhaps I can make it so that Besma infuriates her father enough that he cuts her off from her inheritance? She's hot tempered; that will help. Maybe if . . .

I must consult the law, was al Khalifa's thought. And then, if the law supports what I have in mind, I must consult with my son . . . and he with his friends.

Savannah, Georgia, 25 May, 2109