Caliphate полностью

Our best consensus, for the moment, is to ask him for proof, the little voice in Ling's head said. It is not perfect but, if he turns out to be an agent provocateur, you can claim you asked for proof in order to denounce him. In the interim, it moves us a bit along toward confirming his true thoughts.

Did you know they made a whore of his sister and that she's my best friend and lover here? Ling asked back.

We watch your every move. Of course we knew. That is still not proof. The Caliphate produces only one thing of genuine excellence, and that product is fanaticism.

True, she agreed.

If you had access to a laboratory, we could teleoperate you to create a first grade truth serum. Sadly—

—I don't. And the still where Latif makes the poor stuff won't do. In truth, Ling hated the very idea of being teleoperated, which involved surrendering complete control over her own body to another. It was bad enough sucking and fucking people she didn't want to. Teleoperation was, in its way, even more degrading.

Still, in vino veritas. What he said last night while drunk is a good indicator of his true feelings. We're still reviewing the tapes. We'll get back to you. In the interim, ask for proof. And try to be clever about it, won't you?

"Reviewing the tapes"? Ling sent back. I'm sure you voyeuristic bastards are.

Be nice, Ling. We can teleoperate you without permission, you know.

Breakfast for the two was delivered to Petra's quarters by a eunuch. It didn't have any bacon, or pork sausage, of course, but was otherwise decent.

Hamilton already had the name of the girl sitting opposite: Petra. Moreover, she was already, technically, his wife for the next thirteen days.

"I've never had a wife before," Hamilton said.

"You don't really have one now," Petra answered, perhaps a little sadly. Clothed in a nightgown, still her young, firm breasts showed through the front opening. Her nipples were pink, Hamilton saw. "It's just something they do to get around the law. Doesn't mean anything."

I will not ask, "how did a nice girl like you end up in a place like this," Hamilton thought. I will not ask . . .

"How did you ever end up here?" he asked.

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, sure I do."

"It's a sad story," Petra said. Saddest of all for me.

"Even so."

She sighed, cast her eyes upward and then down to the floor. "I was a pretty little girl—"

"I can believe that."

"The tax gatherer picked me and my brother. First he set the jizya—"

"Jizya?" Hamilton asked.

"A tax non-Moslems pay here as part of their surrender," she explained. "Anyway, he set it so high my father couldn't pay . . . and when he couldn't the taxman took me instead. I was nine. My brother, Hans—he's the one who attacked you last night—they took later."

"They sold you to this place when you were nine?" And how are they any worse than Bongo and I? We've just sold some six year olds.

"No . . . no. That came later. Though my friend, Ling, was sold even younger. At first I was sold to a wonderful family . . . I thought they were wonderful anyway. Their daughter, Besma, really was. We still write. She's married—really married, I mean . . . not the travesty we have here—and has two children now. She named the girl for me. She's says she will come for me, and not to lose faith. Faith! Like I have any reason for faith."

"It's okay," Hamilton said, disconcerted at the pain growing in Petra's voice. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want."

"You are my Lord and Master, for the next two weeks," Petra said, a trifle bitterly. She sensed, somehow, that with this client she could get away with a lot more than with most. "You asked; it is my duty to tell you."