War World X: Takeover

by John F. Carr

  “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.

  “Ahem.” Her mother cleared her throat, reaching for a scarf, expertly twisting it over her hair and across her face. Faryal sighed, then went to a hook on the wall, took down her burqa, lifted it over her head and put it on.

  Abdullah realized Barbarossa was glaring at the two of them with narrowed eyes, an angry stare that made the hair on Abdullah’s neck stand up. A’isha also looked at them with an arched eyebrow, coolly appraising what the unguarded moment had revealed.

  Two guards burst in quickly followed by Tawfiq. He laid a comforting hand on his daughter’s shoulder as he passed her, strode to the bed, hugged his wife and picked up his son. He snapped at his followers to close the hatch and restore pressure to the capsule. As they took care of that, he heard the story again. He showed almost as much surprise as Barbarossa at his daughter’s use of the handgun.

  “You taught her to shoot?” he asked his wife.

  “Of course, it’s a good thing I did. Do I look like I am in any condition to defend myself?” A’isha asked fiercely. Tawfiq did not reply, just leaned down and kissed her. He turned to his daughter.

  “I thought I was the father of a new lion,” he said, with a smile on his face. “But I find that my family is full of lions.”

  A few weeks later, Abdullah woke up with thoughts of the recent incident and, of course, with Faryal’s face on his mind. He had tried to see her again, but the extra security around the Mahdi and his family now made that impossible. He knew she was safer than she had ever been and wished there was something he could do himself to protect her. They were able to exchange notes which spoke more explicitly of their feelings, but that was all.

  The mystery around the attack was not diminished by time. People were split on whether the object was murder or kidnapping. The guard who had been posted on the birthing chamber had vanished and people suspected that if he hadn’t been paid off and fled, he was probably sleeping with the creatures at the bottom of Dire Lake.

  There were some Muslims who felt, as did most inhabitants of Eureka, that someone within the Islamic community was vying for power. But most Muslims suspected, or were convinced, that the CoDominium was somehow behind the attack. Abdullah hoped that bringing everyone together on the ball field might ease the tensions, that a day of shared athletic competition would help the situation.

  As soon as Abdullah had returned from his long journey, he had gone to the garrison commander and challenged the Marines to a baseball game. The request was met by laughter at first, but they finally agreed. In the weeks that followed, despite tensions caused by the attack on the Mahdi’s family, excitement built on every side of town. No one thought the Muslim team, who called themselves the Faithful, had a chance, but they also knew the Marines would not have been challenged by the Faithful, if they didn’t have something up their sleeves.

  Abdullah rushed to the latrine, then back to his tent, changing into his new uniform. The trousers and cap were black, and the shirt was green. There were no numbers, but a white crescent adorned the left side of his chest. As he walked toward the field, he met the other players and Patrick. Soon they were at the head of a parade of excited people, some with picnic baskets, heading toward the game.

  The field was no island of green grass as it would have been back home. They’d picked a wide flat area with hills behind it for the spectators. The bases were down, the base paths and foul lines limed, and a row of poles adorned with rope marked the limits of the outfield. The Marines were looking sharp and capable, dressed in white, with red trim on their uniforms, and blue hats with a red 26, the number of their Regiment. Abdullah and Patrick went up to the old man who had agreed to be an umpire. He was considered the fairest and most impartial umpire in town, and was known for keeping his officiating crew on a short leash. The CoDominium sergeant who led the military team was already at the umpires side and scowled at their approach.

  “He isn’t one of you,” the sergeant said, pointing at Patrick.

  “Well,” said Patrick, “I ain’t one of you either.”

  “You know what I mean,” the sergeant said, “He’s no Arab.”

  “Neither am I,” replied Abdullah.

  “You know what I mean, damn-it. Not a Muslim. Your team is called the Faithful, and your skinny friend doesn’t look like the praying type.”

  Patrick grinned. “I may not be much for church, but I have faith in God and like these fellahs say, ‘there ain’t no God but the one God.’”

  The umpire stepped between them. “No rules in this game about religions. If he suits up with them, he plays with them. Now, since you’re both the home team, we want you to flip to see who ha
s home field advantage.”

  The Marines won that toss and would have the last ups, already an edge in their favor. Their pitcher was good, and the first three batters of the Faithful went down swinging.

  Patrick took the mound and made the first two Marine batters look like idiots, which he mowed down swinging. The third hit a weak grounder to short, which Abdullah scooped up and threw to first.

  The crowd had split based on team loyalty, Marines and townspeople from Eureka on the first baseline behind their dugout, and the Faithful with the townsmen from Medina along the path from third to home. They cheered and clapped at every pitch, and both sides waved flags in their respective colors. Vendors moved among the crowd, smiling with glee at this opportunity to make a little extra money, nothing to be sneered at in this hardscrabble region at the edge of civilization.

  First up in the second, Abdullah was able to get onto first with the next batter bunting him over to second. But the Marines turned a double play, and then a strikeout ended the top of the second. They also got a man on base when the third baseman couldn’t get the ball to first quickly enough, but he was stranded on second.

  There were a few hits, and a few walks, on each side, but the game remained scoreless until the fifth, when the Faithful’s catcher, a stocky man who was still recovering from a brigand arrow in his thigh, clubbed a home run over the left field fence.

  “I had no choice, I can barely run today,” he exclaimed when he limped back to the dugout to be pounded by his teammates.

  In the bottom of the seventh, the Marines began to get something going. With no outs, they got a man on first, another man walked, and their sergeant hit a double that brought both men home. It was now 2 to 1 in favor of the Marines.

  Abdullah called for time and went to visit Patrick on the mound, motioning to the catcher to join them. Patrick was rubbing his arm, he was obviously tiring.

  “I’m losin’ velocity on my fastball, he said. “I’m gonna have to start getting tricky.”

  “But you’ll blow out your arm,” protested Abdullah.

  “Hell,” Patrick replied, “my baseball days are over, might as well leave it all on the field today.”

  And what Abdullah saw then was amazing. Patrick started mixing up his pitches and the Marines, who thought they had seen all his moves, were seeing a whole new pitcher. Abdullah realized that this might end up working to their advantage as Patrick was able to end the seventh by mowing three men down in order.

  In the top of the eighth, Abdullah was able to get onto second on an error. The man who followed him hit a dribbler that got through the gap into center field and got on first. From the dugout, Patrick signaled for a double steal and on the next pitch the runners went, both diving into the next base.

  As Abdullah came up on third, dusting the dirt off of his front, he realized that there were cheers coming from the crowds beside him and groans from behind first base. They had done it!

  On the very next pitch, the man hit a high fly ball. But the Marine in center field was not able to get under it and it fell for a double—both Abdullah and the man on second scored. The crowd behind their dugout roared with delight. It was now three to two in favor of the Faithful. The eighth ended with no further scoring. Patrick let on two base runners in that inning, but both were stranded on base as their teammates struck out.

  The Faithful tried their hardest, but the Marines were pitching to the bottom of their order with a fresh relief pitcher, a good one, and even Patrick went down swinging. Now it was the bottom of the ninth and it all came down to their defense. Patrick walked the first man, but the second hit a weak grounder to short. Abdullah flipped it to second while the second baseman relayed it to first for a double play. Only one out left. But the crowd was soon hushed as Patrick, who was losing his control, walked three men in a row. Abdullah looked out to him, but Patrick shook his head no. They had no real pitchers on their bench.

  It was the sergeant who came up next, one of the best hitters on the team. Patrick got ahead of him in the count with two quick strikes, but then followed it with three balls for a full count. He gave the next pitch everything he had, right down the middle of the strike zone. The sergeant, a lefty, wasn’t able to turn on it fully, but hit a solid grounder to third. The Faithful third baseman scooped it up and Abdullah screamed, “Home, home, throw it home.” It was a high throw, but the catcher was able to get the ball, and dropped down to block home plate.

  “Out,” screamed the umpire and the Faithful bench exploded onto the field. Everyone converged on the pitcher’s mound, and Patrick was hoisted into the air.

  No confusion about who’s the MVP of this game, thought Abdullah.

  The Marines lined up, and invited every one of the Faithful team to shake their hands. “You did good,” the sergeant told Abdullah. “I never would have thought you could beat us, but I guess on any given day.…”

  He and Abdullah grinned at each other. Abdullah left the field in a happy glow. Maybe sporting events like this could help ease tensions, bring people together. The path to the capsule settlement rang with gunfire as celebrants fired into the air. There was a huge party that went on for hours, a party that grew hazy for Abdullah toward the end.

  A few hours later, he was shaken out of a deep sleep. The celebrations had turned ugly on both sides of the bridge between Eureka and Medina and there had been riots. There were dead on both sides. So much for the healing power of athletic competition.

  The next few weeks were bad. The movement of people on the bridge between Medina and Eureka was almost completely shut down. Commerce ground to a halt. In better times the merchants would have complained, but now they feared losing everything in further rioting. There were skirmishes between both sides with toughs and rowdies taking advantage of the chaos to cause trouble, loot and even old scores.

  Patrick pitched a tent on the edge of capsule town as he was no longer welcome in Eureka—even his musician girlfriend from the pub would no longer speak to him. He talked to Abdullah about it being time to leave. He said he had met some nice people and learned some new things, but a man like him knew when it was time to move on. Fall was coming and if he waited too long, it would be winter and too cold for journeying, especially on these high plains and through the mountains.

  Patrick didn’t say so, but it was obvious that Barbarossa’s ruthlessness in dealing with the brigands had an effect on him. He talked about heading home, a three thousand mile journey, but a journey he now looked forward to. He had come to Medina by traveling north through the Atlas Mountains, down the Titan River and then via trade routes that crossed the hills and plains on their way to Dire Lake in the east.

  This time, Patrick planned to take an easier path, down trade routes that led to the south and the pass guarded by Fort Stony Point. From there, he could enter the Shangri-La Valley and travel to the headwaters of the River Jordan, from there riverboat passage would take him close to home. He even suggested that Abdullah join him on this journey.

  In their meetings to discuss the growing crisis, Tawfiq’s lieutenants grew fractious. Barbarossa was chief spokesman for a faction that wanted war now and argued that the people were fired up and ready, while Tawfiq and the majority of lieutenants wanted to move much more cautiously. There was no doubt that the Faithful would need to prepare for conflict which was what they had been doing before the riots. The recent hostilities had made that fact even stronger.

  Abdullah thought of the friendships he had forged with Patrick and with people at the pub in Eureka, wondering if there wasn’t another way—a way of peace. He wondered if armed conflict was the only way for the Faithful to further Allah’s will. But he kept that unpopular thought to himself.

  Barbarossa was authorized to send five hundred men to the new base that the Brotherhood was equipping for them, to prepare the way for a much larger force. Military training was stepped up and men went about the towns openly armed. Dover grew more difficult to deal with, continuing to blame problems
on the workers, and threatening to stop food supplies, even to evict the Faithful from Capsule Town.

  One afternoon, Abdullah finally found a chance to speak to Faryal. They were in a supply tent with two entrances and only a canvas wall in the middle. This was a favorite meeting place of theirs, a good place where they could have privacy, and enter and leave separately after their conversation. They spoke through a hole in the canvas.

  Faryal said in a trembling voice. “My father spoke to my mother. Barbarossa has been asking for my hand in marriage.” There was a catch in her voice. “Father thinks it might be a good idea, as it would bind Barbarossa’s interest more closely to his and because I might distract him from his anger. Me, nothing but a distraction,”

  She was openly weeping now. Abdullah thought about the look on Barbarossa’s face, that day in the birthing chamber, and a chill went down his spine.

  “Come away with me,” Abdullah blurted.

  “What?” she replied.

  “Come away with me,” he repeated, becoming more decisive as he spoke. “Patrick is thinking of leaving, we can go with him, to his home in the south. It’s nice there, very quiet, with people of all faiths living in peace.”

  “And leave Mother?” she replied, “And everything I know? And ignore my duties? Oh, Abdullah, if only I could.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes, but Abdullah was unable to change her mind. He went to Patrick, and told him the plan. Patrick agreed to wait for a few more days to give Abdullah time to get through to Faryal, said it was the least he could do for a good friend.

  Two days later, a note came to Abdullah from Faryal brought by one of her attendants in a sealed envelope. It simply said: “Yes I will go with you. Meet me at the corrals, a half hour before the start of the next brightday.”