Petra, being careful this time to put the safety on the submachine gun, bent over and began to scoop. That wouldn't do more than buy a little time, but it was better than nothing. With a naval battle developing furiously behind them, Hamilton pushed the little boat toward shore for all it was worth.
"Which isn't too bloody fucking much," he muttered. The water rising above his ankles sent a chill up his spine. Petra bailed even more furiously, crying with frustration that the water was still rising.
"Matheson!" he shouted aloud. No answer. They might have put him under. Crap. "Ling?" Nothing. Probably hurt in the landing. Shit. I think I can haul Petra to shore . . . but we'll both be better than half frozen.
"Get out of your burka and put on a life vest, honey," he said.
"Why?" she asked, still bailing.
"We're not going to get picked up by the Caliphate; that Swiss patrol boat will see to that. But we're going to have to swim for it."
"I CAN'T!"
"No matter, honey, I CAN."
* * *
Hamilton didn't put on a life jacket. It would have interfered with his swimming and hauling Petra to safety. Besides, he was a very strong swimmer and simply didn't think he needed one.
The top of the boat was almost flush with the water now, the little engine deader than chivalry. The firefight between the patrol boats behind them had ended, but without knowing who had won, Hamilton didn't think they should risk staying with the foundered recreation boat. Odds are only fifty-fifty of being found by a friend if we stay here, he thought. Our odds of making the swim are a little better than that. He could see the far shore in his night vision goggles but, with those giving no depth perception, he couldn't be sure of how far away it was. No worse than fifty-fifty, anyway, he amended.
"This is going to be really cold, Petra," he said, very gently. "Over the side now."
Nodding, she bent at the waist, put both hands on the gunnels, and stepped over into the water. Her mouth opened into a wide, round "O" with her silent scream.
Bracing himself, Hamilton eased himself over. Oh, God, this is cold. He moved his body to be almost parallel to the surface and said, still gently, "Grab hold."
Petra didn't move, but just clung to the side of the boat. Instead of telling her again, Hamilton took her hands, one by one, and placed them around his neck, interlacing the fingers. Twisting within the circle of her arms, he kicked away from the boat and began a slow, energy-conserving, breaststroke. Though she made no answer, Hamilton talked to Petra constantly to keep her awake and alive.
"You're going to like freedom, Petra . . . I can't wait to take you on a boat where no one's trying to kill us, honey . . . Babe, wait until you see the shopping in New York City . . . Love, scuba is just more fun than you can imagine . . . "
She never answered, vocally, but an occasional squeeze of her arms told him she was still alive and, in her own way, fighting to stay that way.
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."