War World X: Takeover (35 page)

One day, after leaving the lessons, Abdullah saw a man moving furtively down a passageway. He was carrying a bundle in his arms. Abdullah recognized him, it was one of the men who worked with him in officer’s country.

“Ibrahim,” he called. “Where are you going?”

The man turned, and dropped the bundle, running away down the corridor. Abdullah opened the bundle, and found china, silverware and spices from the wardroom. He brought the bundle to Irfan, the lieutenant Tawfiq had put in charge of internal discipline. When he told him the story, the man’s eyes narrowed.

“I will handle this,” said Irfan. “You just go about your business.”

The next day, a man came and told him to follow. They went deep into a part of the ship where Abdullah had never been before. In a gloomy, triangular compartment, he found Tawfiq, Irfan, Barbarossa, and between two guards the man Ibrahim who had dropped the bundle.

“Tell us your story,” said Tawfiq. So Abdullah repeated what he had told Irfan.

Tawfiq turned to Ibrahim. “And now, tell us what happened.”

“Why bother,” snapped Ibrahim. “You wouldn’t believe me anyhow. Not with your African so certain of his facts.”

Tawfiq stared at the man for a moment, but that was all he would say.

“Very well,” Tawfiq said. “We live at the mercy of the crew of this ship. Our success at the end of our journey depends on their success during the journey. They leave us alone to do as we wish and we want it to remain that way. This man does not deny his guilt. He deserves the punishment of a thief.”

Ibrahim groaned. One of the guards brought out a cutting board and cleaver from the galley. As they pushed his arm down toward the cutting board, Ibrahim struggled, crying out, “Mercy, mercy for Allah’s sake!”

Abdullah was horrified. “You can’t do this. This is barbaric. It’s not legal.”

Tawfiq looked at him. “Are you retracting your statement? Did it not happen as you said? Are you saying my word is not law?”

“No. I mean yes, I mean, whatever this man did, does he deserve this?”

“This is the punishment of the Qur’an, and I am the leader Allah has set in front of you,” said Tawfiq. “We must show that there are true consequences for actions. Harsh punishments prevent future infractions. There is too much at stake to be soft.”

He glared at Abdullah. “And never tell me what I can do, or cannot do. Now, you will watch this, and consider the results of your own actions.”

They put a tourniquet around the man’s forearm, and the cleaver flashed. The clunk of the blade and the scream were nearly simultaneous. Abdullah realized that one of their doctors had been waiting in the corner of the room, and the man moved in and began to dress and stitch the stump. Tawfiq reached down, picked up the severed hand, and put it in a bag. He handed the bag to Abdullah.

“Dispose of this in the incinerator,” Tawfiq said, “And think carefully of the consequences of disobedience.”

Gettysburg
was a huge ship, designed to deploy a Line Marine Regiment onto a frontier world that had no support to provide. The forward part of the ship was a giant ring that spun to create a semblance of gravity—vital on this journey, since Haven was about a year’s journey from Earth. Along her central spine area, off limits to all until they reached their destination, were the five hundred drop capsules that would bring troops, vehicles, weapons and supplies to a planetary surface. Although, in this case, they had all been converted for personnel, two hundred per capsule. In the rear were the reaction drive motors that drove them through normal space, and the Alderson drives that twisted open paths to other solar systems. From the conversations Abdullah heard in the wardroom, he gathered that these Alderson drives were at the end of their useful life, and overdue for yard work. That, along with the sub-standard performance of the capsule system, was another reason
Gettysburg
was on her final voyage.

When he wasn’t involved in teaching, or scullery work in the crew areas, Abdullah found himself in twice daily exercise sessions and combat training. He suspected that all this physical activity was not just to prepare the Faithful for arrival on the new world, but also to tire them out and prevent the restlessness, fights and friction that would otherwise result from too many people confined for too long in too small a space.

Abdullah had always been athletic and had even been a starting shortstop on his high school baseball team, but he hadn’t been in a fight since the fifth grade when he took on a kid who had mocked his mother’s head scarf. While there were many areas of Boston, mostly the Citizen enclaves called Welfare Islands, where fighting was part of daily life, the Cambridge school system was far more genteel. Here on the ship, he found himself in a fighting class taught by Barbarossa, the huge red-bearded military leader. He suspected this was deliberate and that Barbarossa, uneasy about a newcomer being so close to the inner circle, was taking his measure.

Abdullah found that he understood the theory of fighting well. He moved gracefully enough that he could evade a punch or kick, and move around a block. He was even able to adapt to the quirks of momentum that the ship’s spin brought, the subtle differences between that and normal gravity. One thing that gave him trouble was the uncertainty of a fight. He had trouble guessing what his opponent would do next. He supposed it would come to him in time, like reading pitches when you were in the batter’s box—trying to read the little quirks each pitcher had that indicated a fastball, changeup, curveball or slider was coming to you.

But his worst problem was being hit. It didn’t always hurt, but it always rattled him, threw him off balance. And when it did hurt he really lost his cool. After one class, Barbarossa held him late to spar. The two circled around each other as the older man taunted him.

“Come on, book lover. Show me you mean business. Show me that you can be a man.”

Abdullah came in fast, but the old man caught his legs, tripped him, and as he came down on his knees, put a fist in his stomach. Abdullah’s breath whooshed out of him.

“Come on, get up. Kneel there panting in a real fight and your opponent will get a chance to finish you off.”

Abdullah pushed himself upright, and took a defensive pose. “This time,” he wheezed, “You can come to me.”

“Good,” answered Barbarossa. “You are learning, at least a little bit.”

The big man came in fast. Abdullah countered one punch, but took the other in the ear. They circled around each other. Abdullah was sick of this, sick of the taunting. Barbarossa got him again, a hard blow to the shoulder. But this time, instead of pulling back, Abdullah moved in. He was able to land two blows to the big man’s midsection before he took one in the chin that rocked him back on his heels. He caught his balance, and kicked out at Barbarossa’s knee, or at least where the man’s knee had been a moment ago. He parried a flurry of blows, and finally landed one right on Barbarossa’s cheek. He grinned in triumph, but dropped his guard. A punch to his solar plexus took him off his feet.

Abdullah struggled to get up, but the big man said, “Enough for today. You are beginning to learn. To fight, you must learn to take punishment. If you cannot take pain, you cannot succeed. The Mahdi selected you for your learning, but every man who stands beside him needs to be a warrior. And in that, I will not let you fail.”

After that lesson, Abdullah found that he did better and better. He learned to keep his focus in spite of blows, not to drop his guard ever and to always press his opponent. He would never be one of the best fighters in the group but he could finally hold his own with many of them.

Even Tawfiq would come down to fight. More interesting to Abdullah than his fighting style was the way he won even when he lost. When someone bettered him, he praised them, pointed out their value to their jihad and talked of putting men like them at his side so he would never fail. And those he did better always got an explanation, a lesson on how they lost, and how they could win another time.
Perhaps
, thought Abdullah,
he really is blessed by Allah.

Abdullah was in the wardroom again, standing in the scullery, waiting to finish cleaning up after the Captain and Exec finished their coffee. He was daydreaming, thinking of a little joke Faryal had told, a joke that had the women’s English class twittering like birds. She had a quick wit and a gentle way of poking fun at the silly things in life.

“Can I ask you a question?” the Executive officer said, his voice carrying into the scullery. Abdullah stirred from his reverie. The Exec rarely asked questions of the Captain. This might be something important.

The Captain nodded.

“This Tawfiq, this Mahdi, is a frightening man,” the Exec said. “I’ve been watching the security cameras. He has the whole bunch back there training more fiercely than any CoDo Marine unit we ever carried. These people have a vision and a purpose; I don’t believe it’s one that is going to make anyone happy on Haven. I’ve been on that planet before and there’s not a lot there, just a battalion of the 26th Marines and they’re garrison troops, not line. These people could cut through our forces there like a knife through hot butter.”

The Captain looked pensive. “We’re dumping this bunch on the northern plains,” he said. “Up above what the settlers in the Shangri-La Valley call the Atlas Mountains, and the Arabs call the Wall of Allah. Consul General Bronson has had problems with previous Muslim transportees and the Harmonies system of integrating transportees into their society has been overwhelmed by BuReloc in the past few years, so we’ll be dropping them right on top of the mining area where they will be working.”

“Shouldn’t Bronson be warned?”

The Captain grimaced. “We won’t be doing that,” he said. “Not everyone in the Senate favors the Bronson family, and not all want them to succeed.”

“But this won’t just hurt a few people,” the Exec said. “This could rip civilization apart. On a world where civilization is only a veneer.”

The Captain rubbed his cheeks and sighed. He reached for his coffee and took a sip. “Let me repeat something. Not everyone in the Grand Senate wants to see the Bronsons succeed. Whatever happens on that moon,” he said, “is not our problem.” He looked sharply at the Exec. “And as far as anyone is concerned,” he said, “our load is simply another group of transportees.”

Abdullah hid a smile. Perhaps Allah had a plan for them after all. Perhaps the suffering he had seen in his travels was only a beginning for the Faithful. Perhaps Tawfiq was right and they were destined to succeed out among the stars.

The next day, Abdullah relayed this report to Tawfiq, who smiled and nodded.

“Sir?” asked Abdullah. “Could I ask you a question?”

Tawfiq nodded.

Abdullah swallowed, but pressed forward. “Does Allah speak to you?” he asked. “Are you the Mahdi?”

Tawfiq arched an eyebrow. “A brave question. But one you are wise to have asked me when we are alone. And my answer is for you alone, not to be shared with anyone.” Abdullah nodded, while Tawfiq paused for a moment. “Allah speaks to me,” he said, “in my heart, the same way he speaks to all men. And as to being the Mahdi, I do not think it is up to me to decide that, nor even my followers to decide. It will be up to history to decide that.”

He looked sharply at Abdullah. “I will tell you one thing, however. I hope from the bottom of my heart, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head, that I am the Mahdi, and that I will lead our people to freedom!”

Abdullah felt his spirits soar. He had been ripped from his home, from everything he knew. But perhaps here, because of whatever forces led him to this place, to this point of his life, he would be part of something greater than himself, part of a grand journey.

As Abdullah left the compartment and went down the passageway, he heard a soft voice from a door, left ajar to his right. He entered, and found it was a storage compartment, full of mops, brooms and other cleaning implements. Faryal stood there beside him and pulled the door closed.

“We should not be alone,” Abdullah said, feeling a thrill in his heart, which was much different than the one he had felt listening to the Mahdi.