Ah . . . that's easy. "I am a member of the corps of janissaries. I have no family but my corps. Certainly I have no family that are filthy, stinking, worthless, infidel Christians and, just as certainly, if I did I would approve of them being enslaved and fucked silly on a regular basis. That I have an infidel last name is just a way for the corps to keep track of me and to remind me to be grateful for being brought out of the darkness and into the light." That's it; my defense is in apparent fanaticism.
Hans felt rather than saw the approach of three janissaries. A quick glance confirmed them as two rankers and one junior noncom.
"Sir, I'm Corporal Mashouf ad-Din, corporal of the watch. I am here to take you to the commander. These men will bring your bags to your new quarters in the castle."
"Very good, Corporal. Lead on."
Hans hadn't known, from anything his written orders had said, the rank of his new commander. Thus, he was a little surprised to see a full-fledged corbasi, or colonel, in charge of this one company. He said so.
"In fact," the colonel explained, "I am not just in charge of this one company. It's just the most important thing we do in this area. Over and above that, there are four more companies stationed at af-Fridhav who fall under my command and are responsible for border security. They, however, have nothing to do with this facility. We don't rotate personnel.
"I'm actually very pleased to see you, ibn Minden," the colonel said. "I've had no competent commander for this company and have had to give it most of my attention. As you might imagine, the wretches down at af-Fridhav have taken advantage of that and become sloppy. The bayraktar"—ensign or second lieutenant—"here is not very good. Enthusiastic? Yes. Dedicated? Yes. Faithful? Yes. Stupid? Also yes. On the plus side, your baseski"—senior noncom, or first sergeant—"is quite competent.
"Come, I'll show you around and introduce you to the company and the infidels whose project we are guarding. Be prepared for frightening things, ibn Minden."
"Infidels?" Hans asked.
"The right number of dinar; the right slave girls, and we can buy infidels like beans," the colonel explained. "These ones, however, cost a lot of dinar and go through slave girls—other slaves, too; you'll find out about that—at an amazing rate. Frankly, ibn Minden, without these infidels we would be facing the extinction of our faith here."
Now isn't that an intriguing idea, thought Hans. I must learn all there is to learn about this place . . . and these renegades.
Honsvang, Province of Baya,
20 October, 2113
Despite the cold, Hamilton was relieved beyond measure to finally get out from the auto, stretch his legs and relieve the pain in his ass. The pounding of the road—Road? What road? I saw and felt only a linear arrangement of asphalt and rock chunks interspersed with potholes, and lined with garbage to either side—he'd had more than his fill of.
From the town square where Bongo pulled the auto up to park Hamilton could see one crenellated gothic castle not too far away. Turning his gaze in another direction he saw an altogether more impressive structure. For all that, though, both castles, and the town, as well, showed significant signs of poor maintenance and general decay.
Still looking at the more impressive of the pair of castles, Hamilton said, "I've seen that before . . . in pictures. It looks different though."
"Used to be called 'Neuschwanstein,' before the creation of the Caliphate," Bongo said. "They modified it some . . . but haven't really kept it up. That golden dome is new, for example, where 'new' is defined as less than seventy years old. It's a high-end bordello now. You can visit it if you like. Later."
"How do the Moslems get away with having bordellos?" Hamilton asked.
"Sheer moral ingenuity," Bongo answered. "They temporarily marry the girls to customers . . . for an hour . . . a day . . . a weekend." The agent laughed. "You can marry up to four at a time, if your tastes run to the kinky," he added.
"What's the going rate?" Hamilton asked but, before Bongo could answer, laughed and said, "No, I'm really not interested."
"Actually," Bongo said, "you need to visit the place and make use of the . . . facilities. For one thing, in case you've forgotten, our chippie contact is in there. For another, it will give me a chance to nose around the castle that we really are interested in."
"Oh, the sacrifices I make for the Empire."
"Speaking of sacrifices for the Empire," Bongo said, "we'd best deliver these human sacrifices. And that's not something to laugh about."
Castle Honsvang, Province of Baya, 10 Muharram,
1538 AH (21 October, 2113)
"There are, of course, a few side benefits of being stationed here," the colonel told Hans, as they walked through the stone corridors of the castle. "One is that we get a substantial discount at the whorehouse. At least, the officers do. And the manager, Latif, prides himself on providing only the best. You can even get a decent vodka there."
"Vodka? But—"
"The holy Koran forbids the drinking of fermented grain and grape. Vodka is made from potatoes . . . "
"Ah," Hans said.
"After what I have to show you," the colonel added, "you're going to need a drink. If it makes you feel any better about it, I'll have the regimental surgeon prescribe it for you."
"Maybe," Hans half agreed. "And I've been there, actually, though I didn't drink. It's a very nice place."
The colonel cocked his head. "Really? When were you there?"
"My senior instructor at al-Harv Barracks, Abdul Rahman von Seydlitz, brought the entire company there for our graduation party," Hans explained.
The colonel smiled warmly. "I know Abdul Rahman. A fine old janissary, if a little too softhearted."
"His softheartedness was tolerably hard to see, for a new recruit," Hans said. "And I think it's mostly that he's just a man filled with the love of Allah and for his fellow man . . . and perhaps for women, as well."
"That would be Abdul Rahman. Turn right here," the colonel said. "Down those stone stairs and I'll introduce you to the renegades. And remember what I told you about awful things."
A heavy clattering coming from outside stopped the two janissary officers in their tracks.
"What the Hell is that?" Hans asked.
"Delivery of the new batch of experimental subjects, I suspect," the colonel answered. He walked to the window and beckoned Hans over. Hans saw several trucks, what looked to be a couple of hundred children, a black man in livery and a well-dressed white he took to be a slave dealer.
The colonel said, "You'll see where they're going down below."
It was a small mercy, Hamilton thought, standing in the chill air, his breath frosting before his face, that we packed the kids in like sardines. They'd have frozen to death otherwise.