announced, as she and Petra practiced Petra's reading by a flashlight hidden under the covers of Besma's bed. "I'll be gone most of every day. I'm frightened of leaving you alone with al Khalifa."
Petra didn't say anything but began to chew her lip nervously. "Please don't," she begged. "I'll do anything . . . carry your books for you . . . anything. But that woman will hurt me every day; I know she will."
"I know. I'm terrified of it, too. But I don't know what to do about it."
Petra began to rock and softly to cry. "I'm just a poor slave girl," she whimpered. "Why does she hate me?"
Besma shook her head. "I don't even think you exist for her," she said. "It's me the bitch hates. She'd much rather have me stretched over the table with my skirt up, but she doesn't dare."
"Your father's a good man," Petra said, still crying. "Can't he help? He helped me before."
"My father is a good man," Besma agreed, putting one arm around Petra and using the hand on the other to gather the slave girl's head into her shoulder. She rested her own cheek on the top of Petra's head. "But he is also a pious one and the law gives the management of the household to the woman. He would never interfere. Oh, he might beat al Khalifa himself if she ever gave him cause, but she never does. If he calls for her she will come even if she's in the kitchen making bread. And she lets him plow her as he will; I've heard them."
"Plow her?"
"I'll explain when you're older. Now stop crying and get back to your reading."
Mindanao, Philippine Islands, 4 July, 2107
The Philippine Scout, in this case a genuine tracker and not a mere infantryman, read the signs by the charred corpse. The scout—he went by Aguinaldo—was perhaps forty, though the years, the sun and the rain had aged him beyond those years. He had probably been an Imperial retainer since youth. His English was, in any case, quite good though he still had some of his native accent.
Some of what there was to see was obvious: the single bullets in the power packs that had rendered two suits helpless, the scraps of armor chiseled apart . . . the tripod under which one soldier had apparently been roasted with his belly down towards the coals.
Hodge had taken one look and run off, vomit pouring into her helmet and down the flexible neck guard to gather on her breasts.
Well, it had been her man, after all. Originally she had dispatched two soldiers on a patrol. One of them was still missing.
Hamilton refrained from following her, in both senses, but just barely.
"Over there," the Filipino said, pointing towards some vine- shrouded rocks. "They fired from over there." The finger rotated to a cave in the side of the jungle-clad hill to the east. "Some ran in there from the west. Your men followed. They were ambushed. Then the Moros in the cave came out and dismembered their armor. They want you to think they roasted this man alive but he was already dead when they strung him up over the fire. The other they dragged off, I think . . . alive. Initially they went south. I can't tell from here if they kept going that way."
Thompson nodded. He'd had opportunity enough these last few weeks to have learned to trust the scout's eyes and senses. "Can you track them?" he asked.
Aguinaldo said he could but, "Captain . . . they want you to follow. They didn't have to leave the trail so well marked and they usually don't. Then, too—" the scout hesitated.
"Yes, go on," Thompson commanded.
"You're the least suitable type of unit to track them."
"I know," the captain sighed. "But we're here . . . and nobody else is."
Thompson had already radioed for a light infantry unit to insert and track down the Moros. None had been available. He'd had high altitude aerial recon check out the area for twenty miles around. They'd seen nothing.
And yet, Thompson thought, we know they're out there. If they can't be seen that means they're ready, waiting and, just as Aguinaldo said, they want us to
Petra didn't say anything but began to chew her lip nervously. "Please don't," she begged. "I'll do anything . . . carry your books for you . . . anything. But that woman will hurt me every day; I know she will."
"I know. I'm terrified of it, too. But I don't know what to do about it."
Petra began to rock and softly to cry. "I'm just a poor slave girl," she whimpered. "Why does she hate me?"
Besma shook her head. "I don't even think you exist for her," she said. "It's me the bitch hates. She'd much rather have me stretched over the table with my skirt up, but she doesn't dare."
"Your father's a good man," Petra said, still crying. "Can't he help? He helped me before."
"My father is a good man," Besma agreed, putting one arm around Petra and using the hand on the other to gather the slave girl's head into her shoulder. She rested her own cheek on the top of Petra's head. "But he is also a pious one and the law gives the management of the household to the woman. He would never interfere. Oh, he might beat al Khalifa himself if she ever gave him cause, but she never does. If he calls for her she will come even if she's in the kitchen making bread. And she lets him plow her as he will; I've heard them."
"Plow her?"
"I'll explain when you're older. Now stop crying and get back to your reading."
Mindanao, Philippine Islands, 4 July, 2107
The Philippine Scout, in this case a genuine tracker and not a mere infantryman, read the signs by the charred corpse. The scout—he went by Aguinaldo—was perhaps forty, though the years, the sun and the rain had aged him beyond those years. He had probably been an Imperial retainer since youth. His English was, in any case, quite good though he still had some of his native accent.
Some of what there was to see was obvious: the single bullets in the power packs that had rendered two suits helpless, the scraps of armor chiseled apart . . . the tripod under which one soldier had apparently been roasted with his belly down towards the coals.
Hodge had taken one look and run off, vomit pouring into her helmet and down the flexible neck guard to gather on her breasts.
Well, it had been her man, after all. Originally she had dispatched two soldiers on a patrol. One of them was still missing.
Hamilton refrained from following her, in both senses, but just barely.
"Over there," the Filipino said, pointing towards some vine- shrouded rocks. "They fired from over there." The finger rotated to a cave in the side of the jungle-clad hill to the east. "Some ran in there from the west. Your men followed. They were ambushed. Then the Moros in the cave came out and dismembered their armor. They want you to think they roasted this man alive but he was already dead when they strung him up over the fire. The other they dragged off, I think . . . alive. Initially they went south. I can't tell from here if they kept going that way."
Thompson nodded. He'd had opportunity enough these last few weeks to have learned to trust the scout's eyes and senses. "Can you track them?" he asked.
Aguinaldo said he could but, "Captain . . . they want you to follow. They didn't have to leave the trail so well marked and they usually don't. Then, too—" the scout hesitated.
"Yes, go on," Thompson commanded.
"You're the least suitable type of unit to track them."
"I know," the captain sighed. "But we're here . . . and nobody else is."
Thompson had already radioed for a light infantry unit to insert and track down the Moros. None had been available. He'd had high altitude aerial recon check out the area for twenty miles around. They'd seen nothing.
And yet, Thompson thought, we know they're out there. If they can't be seen that means they're ready, waiting and, just as Aguinaldo said, they want us to
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