War World X: Takeover (33 page)
“I want his body,” Saral said, and Kev gestured to a Deacon, who took some acolytes to try to claim it despite the threat of unmarked graves.
A man in Russian uniform eased up to Wilgar, then said, “Excuse me, but—”
“Ibansk,” Wilgar said, surprise allowing him to stifle sobs.
The Russian said, “Don’t call me that ever again.” He glanced back at the stage, then all around himself, then lowered his voice and said, “When they grabbed Cole, I bailed out.”
“But if you were up on stage,” Kev objected. “then you’re one of them.”
Ibansk glared for an instant at Kev, who was crying along with all the other Harmonies and many of the crowd. He shrugged, then shook his head in disgust. “No, I was never one of them. But whatever I was, I think I’d like to become a Harmony now.”
“He was one of Doxie’s best contacts, when he could sneak away from Splashdown Island,” Wilgar said, wiping tears and standing straighter. “Even gave us access codes so we could hack into CoDo computers.” He touched Kev’s arm. “He’s Russian, and he knows all too well the kind of thing we’re going through. He’s a friend, he’s helped us.”
“Us?” Kev asked.
But Wilgar had already begun leading the Harmonies back to the Compound.
2060 A.D., Earth
A
bdullah Hassan lay on the hot deck, gasping for breath. The air was hot, too, and offered little comfort. It reeked of many things—unwashed bodies, urine, the tang of rusting metal, and over it all, the cloying smell of bunker fuel. He felt feverish, and retched from time to time, but nothing came up. Abdullah was completely dehydrated and his body had no moisture left to spare.
He knew when he bought his ticket that there was no air conditioning in steerage on this ancient ship, but thought he could handle it. He hadn’t realized that the ship would break down and that even the limited breath of fresh air from the vents on the deck would stop. Nor had he realized that the water would stop, too. He hadn’t understood that there were people in the world who would let others die or how much he could grow to hate this vessel: hate the light green paint that had been used on the bulkheads, hate the yellowed paint on the ceiling he lay under, which may have been white in past decades.
It had sounded so romantic when he started out. Leave Boston, quit M.I.T., go to Somalia, find his roots, the family his father had worked so hard to leave behind. On to other parts of Africa, India and finally Pakistan. Then from Karachi, travel to Saudi Arabia, make his pilgrimage, the Hajj, to see Mecca. But after a long trip, even after taking odd jobs here and there to support himself, money was short, and steerage in this weather-beaten ship, the
Sidi Ferrous
, was the best he could afford. And now he realized that price had been no bargain.
All around him, other pilgrims were sprawled among their sparse belongings. Some were silent, many cried, others prayed, some moaned wordlessly. Most were resigned to accepting the will of Allah, but some still held hope that Allah’s will would be to intercede and aid them. At first, as conditions in the below-decks area had worsened, Abdullah had tried to help the others, the youngest and the oldest that were first to fall. But soon he had no strength for anyone else, and eventually, no strength even for himself.
A scream cut through the still air, then shouting, thumps and crashes and the sound of metal on metal. When he heard shots, Abdullah struggled to his feet, and moved forward. The old man next to him tried to rise as well.
Abdullah put a hand on his shoulder. “Rest, pilgrim. I will find out what is going on.” The Arabic he had spent a lifetime learning had become fluent in these last few months.
The old man nodded and sank back down, his head on a small pack.
He climbed a rusting stairway, stepped out onto the long covered walkway that ran the length of the ship on this level, and started for a ladder. He squinted as the burning sun overwhelmed his eyes. A body came tumbling down. It was almost on top of him by the time he realized what it was. He reared back in horror. It was a crewman—the man’s throat was cut, and blood pooled around the body, the eyes already blank and vacant. A man leaned into the ladder well above him, and beckoned. “This way, boy.” he snarled. “If you want to be any help at all, you will follow me.”
So Abdullah followed him, up the ladder, then another and another, a mad corkscrew dash for the upper decks. When they reached the top deck the scene was pure chaos. The last few crewmen were on a ladder leading up to the bridge wing, holding rifles at the ready. At the foot of the ladder, pilgrims in their flowing robes gathered, armed with knives, axes and whatever makeshift weapons they could gather.
A burst of automatic weapon fire came from the crowd. The crewmen fell, and the pilgrims surged onto the bridge. Abdullah stared at the man, standing not too far from him, who had fired the shots. He was a large man with a thick red beard. His nose had been broken and there was a cruel scar across the right side of his face. He caught Abdullah’s eye and grinned. There was no joy in that smile, it was more a feral baring of teeth.
Another man, a tall man in indigo blue robes, swept past them. “Follow me,” he barked, and the scarred man immediately obeyed, as did other hard looking men in the crowd, all moving with a purpose. They swept up the ladder, into the bridge, and there were more shots, shouting, and after a hideous scream—silence. The tall man in blue stepped back out of the bridge and stopped at the head of the ladder. He was an impressive man, with a hooked nose, thick black hair and beard, and dark eyes.
“We have taken this vessel to prevent further suffering. Water, food and comforts will be distributed equally. Help us and you will live. Oppose us, and die.
Allahu Akbar!
”
His followers raised their voices in unison, “
Allahu Akbar!
”
The scarred man with the red beard came down the ladder. His weapon was held at waist level, but ready for immediate use. “You, you and you,” he said, pointing at Abdullah and two others. “Follow me, we will find containers and water to bring back to the lower decks.”
The next few hours passed in a blur. Abdullah saw great compassion, but also quick cruelty. Passengers who fought the mutineers were killed without mercy, while others were aided, given water, brought to cooler parts of the ship. The mutineers took everyone’s phones, data devices, cameras, anything that would make a record of what had happened. Abdullah did what he was told, too frightened to think.
A man came by, calling, “English, English, we need someone who can speak English.”
Abdullah raised his hand. “I can speak English.”
“Then come with me,” the man said, and they made their way to the bridge.
When they arrived, the man in blue turned to Abdullah and asked, “You speak English, African?”
“Yes,” Abdullah said, “I went to school in America.” He wasn’t any darker than many of the other passengers, but his ancestors were definitely from sub-Saharan Africa. Better, however, to leave out the fact that he was American, let their assumptions stand. His nationality was not one that brought you friends in this part of the world.
The man gestured at the radio. “Tell me what they are saying.”
Abdullah went to the radio, and translated as he listened. “They are talking about our ship, they have not heard from it. There is some sort of schedule for communications. There is talk of deploying forces, launching helicopters, sending a hovercraft.”
“Who are they sending?” asked the man in blue. “Egyptians? Saudis?”
“No,” answered Abdullah. “American Marines.”
“The Great Satan!” the man snapped, and turned to his followers. “Weapons and any evidence over the side, along with bodies and weigh them down so they sink. If anyone who opposed us is still alive, kill them now. Spread the word among the passengers that we were attacked by pirates who came from a submarine, and have escaped. All of us are victims, trying to help those the pirates have harmed.”
The man turned back to Abdullah. “You, follow me, I will have need of your skills with the language of the infidels.”
Abdullah sat in the shadow of the white wooden barracks building, staring helplessly at the barbed wire that surrounded them. He was in Africa, but where, he had no idea. The Marines had turned them over to some sort of camp run by the CoDominium. The camp was near a spaceport, and day and night the huge lasers lanced up from the ground, igniting the fuel that launched ship after ship into orbit. The glare of the lasers pouring through the windows at night, and the roar of the ships, made sleep difficult.
He tried to take refuge in his faith. There were copies of the Qur’an available, he listened to sermons from imams who were among the prisoners, and he joined in the prayers five times a day. Because of his faith, he had often been the odd man out at home. But here among those of his own kind, he found he missed the diversity, the many viewpoints, the happy chaos of life back in Boston. He even missed baseball, and wondered how the Red Sox were doing. He tried to console himself that Allah would care for him, that he could trust that all was happening for a purpose, that his faithfulness would lead to fortune.
Abdullah knew more about the men he had been captured with. The man in blue was Tawfiq al Tabib, a noted Arab rebel, long wanted for violence against the Western forces that had meddled in the Middle East for over a century. The scarred man with red hair was called Barbarossa and was Tawfiq’s principal lieutenant.
The U.S. Marines that had swept aboard the
Sidi Ferrous
met no resistance as they dropped from helicopters or climbed accommodation ladders. Tawfiq was the spokesman, and used Abdullah as his translator. The Marines listened to their story with skeptical glances among themselves, then they culled out all of the men who looked healthy enough to fight shackling them together. Their lieutenant was a hard man paying no attention to the rough treatment his men gave the prisoners. Abdullah kept his identity secret, telling the men he was African. He was afraid that if his fellow prisoners knew the truth, they would tear him apart.
When they reached the camp Tawfiq proved himself to be a force of nature. Abdullah had heard the term “larger than life,” but this was the first time he had seen it personified. When Tawfiq found out Abdullah had some education he put him in charge of organizing classes, finding others among the prisoners who could teach things like history and mathematics.
Morning prayers were followed by an hour of calisthenics with another hour of exercising before supper. Work parties were organized to keep the camp clean. Sports leagues were organized with rugby becoming a favorite competition. There were also boxing and martial arts contests, and fighting techniques were among the lessons. At first, there was resistance to these new ideas from those who had been at the camp the longest. But Tawfiq and his lieutenants, by enlisting or beating down their strongest opponents, soon became the law
And so here Abdullah was, part of this group, but not
part
of it—trapped and alone. He had tried to talk to guards when he thought he would not be overheard, get them to listen, get them to understand he shouldn’t be here. But they wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t believe him. Once he got a rifle butt across the side of his face, and perversely the welt brought him positive attention from Tawfiq’s men. Anyone who made enough trouble to provoke the CoDominium was okay in their book.
One morning voices were raised and people began moving, heading for the parade field that lay in the center of the camp. There were no guards in the camp. Unless they entered in force, the closest they came was in the guard towers and by the gate where food was delivered. They crowded around the center of the field, where Tawfiq stood on a chair, his chief followers gathered around him.
He raised his voice, in both volume and pitch, obviously used to addressing crowds.
“I have been told what the CoDominium wants to do with us. They want to transport us, ship us to other worlds, send us away.”
The crowd erupted in cries, shouts, questions, conversations. Tawfiq’s lieutenants yelled for silence, while the man himself stood silent, waiting for quiet.
“They think that they are hurting us,” Tawfiq continued, “But I say they are doing Allah’s will.”
The crowd erupted again, but was shouted back into silence.
“The infidels have destroyed this world, despoiled our homelands, made us slaves and lackeys. They took our oil, plowed under our crops, beat down our leaders. They think sending us away will destroy us. But I say that it will make us strong again. Let our struggle, our jihad, spill out across many worlds, throughout the universe. If they want to give us new worlds, let them. They also give us new chances, new lands, new resources. This would not be the first time in history that Allah has worked on the hearts of infidels to help his people.”