Download the Book - Islam and Science Fiction

"I'm thinking about it."
"Think hard. Think a week in Rome. We'll see how it sets up after that."
"Naw, how about somewhere by the water? Tangiers."
"You got it! Soon as we clear debriefing."
Wilson searches for the place behind her eyes, the place every woman's
got where they keep their soul ray shuttered, and feels it from her. "We're
not getting out of this," he says.
She holds steady. "It's still a promise."
They stay locked, and then she says, "Fuck the monsters! We're the real
monsters here."
"Fanged motherfuckers!" Wilson says. "We rule the goddamn world!"
"We're poison in a plastic pill. They eat us, they'll crap blood and
scream for their mamas."
"They won't eat us, we'll eat them. We'll burrow into their bodies and
live there. Raise our babies on their dead flesh."
"We're too cool to die! Too sexy!"
"We're movie stars with mad fucking weapons!"
"We're scrap iron …"
"We're wild dogs!
"… we were born for the shit!"
· · · · ·
1323 hours
On waking, Baxter exhibits a passive attitude. He doesn't seem to care what
they do. He's obviously been running high levels of down. GRob draws
Wilson aside and suggests they leave him, he's likely to become a liability.
Wilson tells her he can't do that yet. He tries talking to Baxter, says they're
thinking about trying the forest, and Baxter just goes, "Whatever."
The three of them stand in front of the pearl, their rifles set to fire minigrenades,
and walking forward together they clear a path of smoldering
brass wreckage. They walk, stop, fire, walk. Wilson plays his tunes to
muffle the detonations. Globules of melted brass accumulate on the ground.
The trees on either side are blackened, their leaves shredded by shrapnel.
Shattered glowing twigs snatch at their suits. Acrid smoke mixes with the
rising steam. Big brown rats scurry underfoot, some of them burning. There
must be thousands. Their squeaking becomes a shrill tapestry of sound that
comes like feedback to Wilson's ears. Ten minutes in, Baxter calls for a halt
and GRob says, "Fuck you, Jim!" and then, to Wilson, says, "Keep firing!"
Baxter hesitates, drops behind, but catches up after a few seconds. He fires,
however, only intermittently and doesn't react when urged to give an effort.
It takes almost an hour to carve a four-foot-wide path to within a dozen feet
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