by John F. Carr
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.”
A man cried out. “He is the Mahdi! The Mahdi has come in our hour of need to guide us.”
The cry was taken up by others, and soon the whole crowd had joined the chant. “Mahdi! Mahdi! Mahdi! Mahdi! Mahdi!”
Abdullah was a Sunni, but he knew the legend of the Mahdi, the Shiite Imam who had disappeared centuries ago and was reputed to be waiting to return to lead the Faithful to victory. He stared up at Tawfiq surrounded by his lieutenants. They stood silently waiting for the noise to die down. They did not look like they had expected this and the men from the camp staring up at Tawfiq, who stood silently, dignified, firm. The entire crowd grew silent, and soon all were staring up at Tawfiq awaiting his reaction.
“If you want me to lead you, I will. I will lead you to the stars. As Allah wills. To the stars! As Allah wills!”
The crowd again took up the refrain. “To the stars! As Allah wills! To the stars! As Allah wills! To the stars! As Allah wills!”
After weeks of trying, Abdullah finally got an audience with a CoDominium Bureau of Relocation official. The man was fat and uncomfortable looking. A fan whirred on the table behind him, but despite the breeze, sweat still stained his shirt. A CoDominium Marine stood by the door, his eyes never leaving Abdullah looking bored but prepared for trouble. The official looked at Abdullah with disdain. He asked in Arabic, “What is your complaint?”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Abdullah protested in English, “I’m an American citizen.”
“Your name?” the official asked.
“Abdullah Hassan, of Boston, Massachusetts.”
The man typed the name into a desktop device. He scrolled through information, and his face hardened.
“No,” he said, “I have your file and your picture here. You are Somali, and your name is Abdullah al Ibrahim. The file talks about your many attempts to claim the identity of a young American. It also talks about how you are in the inner circle of Tawfiq al Tabib, a murderer and troublemaker.”
“I am not in his inner circle,” Abdullah protested.
“But you were arrested with him,” the official said.
“I was on the same boat as him, and when the Marines came aboard, I translated for them, I was trying to prevent more bloodshed.”
“And you still stay in his company?”
“It’s not like I have much choice,” Abdullah replied, slumping back in his chair. “This is unfair, this is a mistake.”
“Well, in the end it doesn’t matter where you’re from. Whoever you are, you were captured among enemies of the CoDominium. These files are clear and unambiguous. You are an associate of al Tabib and you will share his fate.”
“And what fate is that?” asked Abdullah, his heart sinking.
“Transportation,” the official said. “Your lot ships out in two weeks. To the planet Haven, I believe.”
The official turned his eyes toward his computer, and Abdullah could see that the interview was over. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach. The Marine gestured toward the door and Abdullah rose and walked out unsteadily. He had left home to see the world, not to see worlds, not to be caught up in this nightmare, surrounded by people who scared him as much as the guards did. He would trade anything for a lecture from his father, to be called foolish, to be called a young idiot, to be safe at home in Boston. But it didn’t look like there was anything his father could do; it was doubtful his father or mother would ever learn his fate. It appeared that Allah’s will was leading him away. He was bound for the stars.
The day they were to depart, they waited in line to be loaded into busses long before the dawn, and were carried to another camp near the launch pads, this one austere, with only un-walled tents to provide shelter. There they waited in lines to be searched. Each of them had a small bundle of belongings which was checked three times along the way. They waited in lines for medical screening. They waited in lines to use toilet facilities, to get water and to get food.
Abdullah was kept close to Tawfiq in case any translating was required. The sun was low on the horizon by the time they reached the tunnels that led to the shuttles. There, at a holding area where low buildings without walls offered some shelter from the sun, was a scene of chaos. There were hundreds of women in burqas jammed together with children. And not just any women. There were shrieks of delight, shouts of joy, laughter and excited conversation.
Tawfiq barked to his lieutenants to find out what was going on. There were reunions going on all around him. Suddenly, Tawfiq stopped in his tracks. Two women ran towards him, one older, one younger. He gave a shout and fell to his knees, his face in his hands, weeping. The women fell to their knees beside him. He put his arms around them, and they hugged him back.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
The older woman spoke. “Your call to go to the stars has gone out throughout the world. The CoDominium decided to accept petitions from families of men and women being transported for other worlds and is allowing us to come with you. To them, it is a good way to get rid of more of the Faithful.”
“But the danger—” Tawfiq blurted.
“Oh my husband, you are still as naive as you are dedicated. Your jihad would be a short one without women and families. Do you really want your struggle to end after a sin
gle generation? What does our favorite proverb say about a good wife?”
Tawfiq answered, his voice husky, “She is more precious than rubies, my love, more precious than rubies.”
Abdullah stood beside them, feeling awkward at the raw emotion of the moment.
The woman rose to her feet and looked at him. “And now husband, remember your manners. Who is this young man who accompanies you? I see many of your old cronies around us, but him I do not know.”
“The African?” replied Tawfiq, standing up himself. “This is Abdullah. He speaks fluent English and has been translating for me. I plan to have him give English lessons during the journey, as part of our efforts to be ready for what faces us on the new world.”
He turned to Abdullah. “This is my wife, A’isha. And my daughter, Faryal.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Abdullah. A’isha was a tall woman, and even with the burqa concealing her, he could see that she was a strong woman, who carried herself with strength and dignity. The daughter was smaller, and her dark eyes, though full of tears, were very pretty. Her hands, clasped in front of her, were slender and delicate.
“It is good to meet you as well. My daughter and I will also receive your English lessons.”
Abdullah looked at Tawfiq, who uncharacteristically shrugged. “You will learn, Abdullah, that there is one person in the world who feels free to give orders without looking to me for approval.”
Around them, the chaos was beginning to subside. Lines were beginning to form again, the last lines they would stand in on this planet. It was time to go.
“You will teach me, my lieutenants, and my family, English.” said Tawfiq. “But to the crew, you will know no English at all. The guards have told us that they want workers in the crew areas, workers to do the dirty work, like mopping decks, and washing dishes, they do not wish to do. So you will do this, and listen and learn.”
The spaceship reminded Abdullah of the Sidi Ferrous in many ways. He slept with forty other men in a tiny compartment with canvas racks stacked four high. There were warrens of interlocking corridors and compartments, all with airtight doorways separating them. Many of the walls were even painted with the same hideous green that haunted his memories from those hot days on the Red Sea. The ship spun, so there was a semblance of gravity in most areas, and many of the passageways were curved in some manner. The galleys were simple and the food, often based on protein paste, nourishing but bland. The air was thin and dry with a metallic tang that never escaped notice.
The ship was somewhat shabby, with a crew too small to keep up with maintenance, and not well designed for all the passengers.
To help him gather information, Tawfiq made sure that Abdullah drew an assignment as a scullery worker in the ship’s wardroom serving the ship’s officers. Surprisingly, even though the transportees were controlled by BuReloc guards and officials, the ship they were on, the Gettysburg, was a CoDominium Navy vessel, and these were military officers Abdullah was serving. The ship was a military drop ship, its midsection lined with capsules designed to land troops from orbit.
After one of the first meals of their journey, as Abdullah was collecting dinner plates and serving dessert, the Captain made some comments to his officers that explained this mystery for Abdullah.
“Lift your glasses to Gettysburg’s last mission. We stop in Haven long enough to drop off our ‘passengers,’ and then head to Makassar, where she will become an orbital base for the Fleet.”
After the toast, a young ensign spoke up. “Why are we using drop capsules to deliver the transportees to the surface?”
“First,” answered the Captain, “The Humanity League has complained that the settlers in the Dire Lake region have not been given enough support. The capsules are designed to be converted into barracks, warehouses and office space after landing. So they are our parting gift to our ‘guests.’
“And second,” he continued, “If you repeat this, I will deny I ever said it. There’s a problem with the capsule system. When we dropped troops on Xanadu we lost twelve percent of them on the way down. There were many injuries, and even deaths, in the capsules that did make the drop. You can’t deploy troops with a system that decimates the force before they even put their boots on the ground. The ship has been in service for over thirty years and is about to be retired. The Fleet decided to use the remaining drop capsules for one more mission, a mission where a few casualties won’t bother anyone. It’s a two-edged sword, but like I said, just one more parting gift for our guests!”
He raised his glass again and took a long drink as the room erupted with laughter. Abdullah kept his head down trying not to visibly react. His stomach muscles were tight, and he felt ill.
When he was not in the scullery, Abdullah taught English to large classes of Tawfiq’s lieutenants and advisors. Another man, a Chechen, taught Russian. The focus, beyond basic vocabulary, was on the language of war. The students wanted to know the language of military weapons, tactics, the terms that soldiers knew. Abdullah cautioned them that he had never been a soldier, but did his best to satisfy their needs.
Tawfiq explained to him the importance of his efforts. If the people of Islam were to succeed on other worlds, they needed to press every advantage, turn their efforts toward self-improvement, pursue the inner jihad of self-improvement to serve the larger struggle. He made Abdullah feel good about what he was doing, as he did with everyone, his leadership turning the long months of being trapped on the ship into an opportunity to prepare.
But what Abdullah enjoyed most was his lessons for the women. Had there been a woman who knew English, he may not have been allowed to spend so much time with them. The harsh interpretations of social rules that fundamentalist groups like the Taliban had practiced around the turn of the century had faded. There was music among the Faithful, and even drinking, but no public dancing or displays of affection with unmarried men and women still leading mostly separate lives. Because of his knowledge, though, Abdullah spent an hour every day surrounded by the women some in traditional burqas, others simply in head scarves. He took pleasure in their laughter, and taught them to appreciate jokes and puns.
The women delighted in embarrassing Abdullah, pressing him to teach them the terms for body parts, for childbirth, medical terms that made him blush.
Tawfiq’s wife A’isha was the acknowledged leader of the classes. Tall and dignified, she exercised the same natural leadership as her husband. The burqas that she and her daughter wore lent them an air of mystery. The daughter, Faryal, was a quick study, her hands always in motion when she spoke, swooping like graceful birds. Her eyes would sparkle when she was happy and Abdullah discovered he could tell when she was smiling simply by watching the corners of her eyes. He found himself leaving the classes relaxed and happy.
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.”
“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.