War World X: Takeover (39 page)

That was how Abdullah found himself astride a horse for the first time in his life and wearing a pistol, an ancient revolver. The mining companies and Marines had banned sales of weapons to the Faithful, but enough of them had been obtained to arm the thirty odd men who rode into the hills. The horses had cost the Faithful dearly, both in treasure, and in talent. In addition to buying their own horses, the Arabs had shown themselves expert at breeding and had insisted they be paid for their services with mounts of their own.

This trip was going to be a long one, hundreds of miles to the northwest into a deep ravine in the Girdle of God mountains. Even though it was summer, the air was cold during dimdays, and downright frigid in the wee hours of the dark truenights. They rode through high plains, dry lands with scrubby vegetation and nasty creatures lurking among the rocks.

Provisions were not as much of a problem as Abdullah had expected despite the barrenness of the land. Thanks to Patrick’s knowledge of the steppes, they were able to find and kill a wild muskylope on almost a daily basis, butchering them as a staple of their diet and saving their beans and rice for days when game escaped them. They were careful to share what passed for livers in these animals to get necessary vitamins, although the taste left much to be desired. Water was rare in the area, but Patrick had a knack for reading the land for signs of it and they kept their many water bottles and skins full.

Abdullah learned about saddle sores and that a horseman spent as much time walking, leading his mount, as he did riding. He learned to watch for the hazards of the land: Razorgrass that would open a horse’s leg in an instant. Dens of land gators, vicious reptiles that could bring down a horse and kill its rider before anyone could ride to his aid. Vicious little lizard-like tamerlanes that hunted in packs like jackals. Rocks and holes that could trip a mount or a man.

Fortunately, the most common sight was simply the inedible reddish screwgrass that grew in patches on the low ground, made even more red by the light of the gas giant, Cat’s Eye, that hung in the sky almost constantly.

Each day, during rest stops, they played baseball, awkward games at first. So Abdullah and Patrick had them run drills for fielding, catching and throwing. They tried everyone out as pitchers and catchers, searching for that elusive talent required for those two positions.

Barbarossa grumbled at first, but soon took an interest in the game himself and began to act as an umpire, calling balls and strikes. He always insisted, though, that they have sentries out whenever their games distracted them from their surroundings. And the blond man watched these proceedings with an air of amusement, keeping to himself as they traveled.

After weeks of journeying, they finally found the outpost they were looking for. It was set far into a mountain ravine and camouflaged with netting and tarps above the simple buildings. At the bottom of the ravine sat two vertical launch landers, also heavily camouflaged.

The blond man showed Abdullah and Barbarossa into one of the buildings and they sat at a large table with a group of men of varying nationalities.

“Before we proceed,” said Barbarossa. “I need to know more about your organization. Who you are, what you want?”

A heavyset man at the head of the table nodded. “Fair enough,” he replied. “We call ourselves The Brotherhood. The CoDominium is a marriage of convenience between two powers that do not trust each other, because they trust the other powers of the world even less. And this alliance brings out the worst in both nations. Now that man has moved out into the stars, power is shifting away from Earth, fragmenting among new worlds. Our organization does not want these new worlds to be united and dominated by the CoDominium. We want them to be free.

“So we support groups like yours of people who want freedom and are willing to fight for it. And in fighting for your own freedom, you draw the power of the CoDominium to many worlds, spreading their forces thin, thereby making them easier to defeat. We can also put you in contact with other friends who might want to aid your cause.

“So you see,” he continued. “We help you not just to be generous. We help you because it serves our interests and furthers our cause.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” replied Barbarossa.

“Precisely,” the man answered.

The discussions moved quickly. Soon, there were charts of the northern regions of Haven spread out over the table. They needed to find a base where their protein plant and military supplies could be delivered. They discussed how many men could move into the area to begin building the backbone of their military forces, how they could be trained, and deployed to fight guerilla actions until they had the strength for open combat.

These discussions went on for days, days Abdullah found tedious and unsettling. And even more unsettling was a statement from Barbarossa as they left one of the long meetings.

“This is my chance,” he said. “To show the Mahdi that I am truly worthy of his trust. And to show him that I am the man to marry his daughter.”

Abdullah’s heart went into his throat. There was no man he wanted to hear those words from, least of all this cruel and powerful man.

Their trip back was quiet at first. The blond man stayed with his fellows, although two microwave line-of-sight transceivers traveled back with them on a packhorse. They covered many miles and Abdullah learned that riding a horse was something that got easier with time, as you learned to move with the animal instead of against it.

They were practicing baseball during a gloomy dimday when there were shots, and cries from the sentries. The ball players rushed for their weapons. A hail of arrows flew into the camp and there were howls of pain. A band of screaming men came charging in behind the arrows, wielding clubs and axes. Abdullah held his pistol before him in the two handed grip Patrick had taught him. He squeezed the trigger carefully and on his third shot, a man went down.

Beside him, Patrick stood like a statue, shooting as if this were target practice, his right hand smoothly working the bolt on each shot, an attacker falling with every round fired. Around them, both sides fought bravely, and it was soon hand-to-hand in places

One of the men tackled Abdullah and he fell back, the man’s foul breath hot on his face, his hand around the haft of the axe that was moving toward his face. There was a crack, and the man fell against Abdullah, blood spraying from his nose. Patrick stood above them, the butt of his rifle bloody.

Abdullah nodded in thanks, but Patrick was already turning to look for the next threat. As he got up, Abdullah saw Barbarossa howling like an animal, picking up attackers and throwing them at their comrades. And before long, modern weapons overcame numbers and a pitiful few of the attackers fled over the rocky ground.

The attackers looked smaller as they lay on the ground dead and wounded, dressed in wretched rags.

“Who were they?” Barbarossa asked Patrick. “Do you recognize them?”

“Brigands,” said Patrick.

“Who are brigands?”

“That’s what we call men who go savage, head out on their own, form raidin’ parties and live out on the fringes. They’re prob’ly loyal to no one but their own band,” Patrick replied.

“I hope you are right,” Barbarossa said. He pitched his voice higher, calling out. “I want every one of them dead. Do not waste bullets, use their own axes on them.”

As they went about this bloody business, Patrick whispered to Abdullah, “I hate to say it, but you folks’re sometimes a bit too bloodthirsty for my taste.” Abdullah was still catching his breath. He gulped, and nodded in agreement.

The Mahdi paced outside the door of the capsule like a caged lion, back and forth, forth and back. He growled like a lion, too. His lieutenants, some, like Abdullah, who had just returned from their long journey to meet with the Brotherhood, were gathered around him not wanting to face his wrath but wanting to be here with him. They did not know what to say, so they said nothing, gathering silently around a small fire in the dull glow of a dimday, drinking sweet hot tea. Tawfiq tried to ask Abdullah some questions about the upcoming baseball game against the Marines, but his heart wasn’t in it and he paid little attention to the answers.

Abdullah could hear raised voices inside the capsule, muffled and indistinct. A couple of times, there were screams, and each time, Tawfiq flinched. Then they heard muffled cries and the wheel at the center of the hatch began to spin. The door opened and the midwife stuck her head out.

“The mother is tired, but fine. All went well. The child is healthy.”

Tawfiq asked, “Is it a boy, or a girl?”

The midwife looked grouchy, as if this was a fact that made no difference.

“You are the father of a fine, strong son,” she said.

“A son!” cried Tawfiq, and he turned and grabbed Abdullah, who stood next to him. “He will be called Nabil. A son, at our age! Abdullah, you have saved her life, and his life. You have saved my life! My name will not die with me. Truly Allah has blessed me.”

Barbarossa raised a gun and fired into the air and soon Capsule Town and Medina rang with gunfire. As word spread, they heard cheers in the distance. The midwife shook her head in disgust at this display, disappearing back into the capsule.

“Tonight, there will be music and drink! Tonight, we celebrate,” cried Tawfiq. “I have a son!”

The party lasted far into the night. Abdullah was one of the first to succumb to the drink; it was something new to him, grain alcohol from a still on a local farm, tasteless but strong. He awoke to find himself lying on the ground, covered by a blanket, with a cottony mouth and a head that felt like it was filled with rocks. He heard gunfire nearby and couldn’t believe people were still firing off rounds in celebration. A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard.

“Get up, you fool,” the man hissed. It was Barbarossa, who had been among the lieutenants at their outdoor party. “A’isha is under attack at the birthing capsule.”

He shoved a revolver into Abdullah’s hand, and they both ran toward the capsule. There were men running from all directions now. Whoever had attacked would find it difficult to escape. They ran up the wooden stairs that led to the hatch and swung inside. There were three men sprawled just inside the capsule and a nurse splayed against a bulkhead, her chest red with blood and eyes open and vacant.

“Check them,” snapped Barbarossa, bending over the first man and pulling a gun from his hand, roughly looking for signs of life. “If they are alive, we want to find out who they are and who sent them.”

Abdullah checked the second man, while Barbarossa went on to the third. The men were all armed and all dead. The inner hatch was open as well, and the capsule was un-pressurized. Barbarossa went to one side of the hatch, and motioned to Abdullah to stand across from him. Abdullah felt his stomach clench tight. He was afraid of what he was going to see in the inner part of the chamber.

“We have the capsule surrounded. Your only chance to live is to surrender now,” Barbarossa yelled.

“I would hope you have the situation under control by now,” a woman’s voice snapped from inside the room. “I wish you had it under control a few minutes ago. Now, get in here.”

Barbarossa entered the room, followed quickly by Abdullah. They were met by Faryal who was crouched behind a chair, an automatic pistol clutched in her hands, aimed firmly at the door. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were hard looking. On the bed behind her, propped up on one elbow was her mother, her bare face pale and drawn. She had her new son gathered in the crook of her arms.

“Has the danger passed?” Faryal asked.

“Yes,” Barbarossa replied.

She sighed, turned the chair around and slumped into it. Faryal laid the gun on a table beside her.

“The nurse?” she asked.

“Dead,” replied Barbarossa.

At that, she slumped a little further, making a small cry that pierced Abdullah’s heart.

“What happened?” asked Barbarossa.

Faryal took a moment to compose herself. “There was a knock on the outer hatch. The nurse went to see what it was. I heard her scream and got my gun. When the hatch swung open, I was ready for them. I killed the first and might have died myself, but the nurse knocked over the other two men and their return fire was ineffective. She took one of the bullets instead of me. I was able to shoot both of them…and put extra rounds in all three to make sure. Then I took a defensive position in front of mother.”

“You have a gun?” asked Barbarossa, his mouth gaping.

“Of course I do. I am of the Mahdi’s family. We are all prepared to fight for him.”

“Are you all right?” blurted Abdullah.

Faryal looked at him, and she smiled, “Yes, and mother and Nabil as well, praise be to Allah.”

“Praise to Allah, indeed,” sighed Abdullah.

“Your face…” Abdullah continued, suddenly realizing that he could see her face for the first time, not just her eyes. He saw her father’s strength in those features, but softened. And beautiful. Her hair was long, dark and thick, a cascade of beauty. He smiled and her smile grew wider in response.