War World X Takeover

Days turned into weeks, and then months. Abdullah began to feel less out of breath. He wasn’t struggling constantly to get enough of the thin air into his lungs. He began to get used to the odd cycle of days and nights on Haven, which repeated over the two hundred and sixty hours that made up a local week. Because it was almost impossible for people to adapt to Haven’s odd patterns of light and dark, this was arbitrarily divided into eleven days that fell just short of being twenty-four hours long. So each day was different, and not divided into repeating periods of light and dark. Some days were “brightdays,” with the sun up for hours. Some days were “dimdays,” when only the gas giant planet, Cat’s Eye, was above the horizon. And twice during the H-week were “truenights,” a period where nothing but the stars appeared in the sky, nights that were piercingly cold on the hills and steppes surrounding their towns..

Every three or four T-months, the cry rang throughout the towns of Medina and Eureka, “Incoming!” This signaled the fact that splashships were arriving, amphibious craft that landed on Dire Lake, holding supplies and human cargo destined for the mouth of the river. They would pull up to the docks and off would stream a parade of transportees, mostly Muslim, who were herded to tents for processing. In return they would be loaded with ore for the trip back to the ore carriers in low orbit above Haven.

In warehouses lining the docks sat the gallium that had been mined and processed in the hills at the head of the Dire River. The cargo came down the river on rafts made from the wood of egg and steelwood trees. Upon arrival, the cargo was offloaded, and the wood was brought to sawmills to become building material for the ever-expanding towns. Along with each raft of hafnium came a crew of broken men, men who had washed out at the mines and had twisted backs and broken bones, or had lost fingers and limbs in mining accidents. The mining company blamed this on the men and their carelessness, calling them un-trainable. The survivors told a different story of lax safety procedures, sketchy preparations and outdated or makeshift equipment.


But even though the pay was paltry, there were few jobs on Haven that paid anything, there was always a steady supply of transportees and new workers riding the steam tugs back up the river.

When the gallium was loaded on the shuttles, they were fueled with liquid hydrogen and oxygen separated from the lake water. They then backed away from the docks, skittered across the lake until they became airborne and clawed their way back into orbit. This process would take days with shuttles arriving every few hours until all the transportees were offloaded and the gallium was in orbit. The towns would become a hive of activity with every business humming and every able-bodied man working. Spacers would spend a day or two in town, enjoying what rough pleasures they could find and buying some fresh food before departing for the next leg of their journey.

New arrivals were always a problem. The amount of supplies and equipment that came with them was pitifully small. The personnel needs of the mining companies had long since been satisfied, but still the transportees came. It made Abdullah think of a cartoon he had seen in his youth, where the young Sorcerer’s Apprentice had summoned animated brooms to do his chores and draw his water, but then found himself overcome with too much help and drowning in far too much of that water.

It was obvious that the CoDominium didn’t care about the local economy, as long as the mining operations continued. This was a dumping ground, a place to send the excess population of Earth, undesirables who were no longer welcome. The mining ships might as well carry something on their deadhead trips from Earth to Haven. Many of the newcomers arrived glad to be off of Earth and full of hope, but were cruelly disappointed to find that the Muslims of Haven were still an oppressed people and that the time of liberation had not yet come. The new arrivals found a land so chilly and barren that had it not been for the CoDo’s protein plant in Eureka the local settlements would not have been possible. So they found what work they could in town, tried their luck at farming on the lakeshores around Lake Dire to the north or spread across the plains in a desperate search for someplace to eke out a hardscrabble existence.





One day, Abdullah was summoned to the presence of the Mahdi. He smiled at A’isha, as she led him into the room and at Faryal as she brought tea.

Abdullah nodded to Tawfiq, who gestured for him to sit.

“Pregnant women are losing their babies, and sometimes losing their lives,” Tawfiq said.

Abdullah was surprised. Tawfiq usually asked about how he was doing; starting the conversation with polite chitchat, rarely getting right to the point.

“You are a learned man,” Tawfiq said. “Talk to the people in all the towns. Find out what they know of this. Talk to doctors, and midwives. We must solve this problem. As my A’isha is so fond of telling me, a jihad without women and families ends after a single generation.”

Abdullah looked at A’isha, and saw her hands knotted in her lap, her knuckles white. He looked closely at Tawfiq, and saw pain in his eyes. He realized that this problem was not just a theoretical one, the person Tawfiq was worried about most was sitting in this room. His eyes must have widened, because A’isha caught them and nodded. He said nothing, because Tawfiq was a deeply personal man who would not want to discuss this with someone outside the family, even someone like Abdullah, who had become so close to them during their travels.

So Abdullah set out to research the issue. He found that the rate of successful pregnancies in the highlands above the Shangri-La Valley were less than four out of ten. And at least two or three out of each ten pregnancies led to the death of the mother. There were midwives in Medina who did their best with what was little more than folk remedies. The CoDominium Marine medics were useless, saying female problems were “not their department.”

The mining company doctors in Eureka were more sympathetic, but offered little more than theories—something in the water, or the thin air, or diets or the odd cycle of days and nights. One of them, an older man, gave Abdullah access to his desktop computer, and Abdullah quickly realized how much he missed a world where so much information had been at his fingertips.

He spent hours in front of the computer, learning more than he ever thought he would about the subject. He interviewed women in the towns and would have gotten a reputation for being a bit odd had not A’isha put out the word that he was doing work for the Mahdi, work that would improve the chances of life for the children of the Faithful.

He did learn that some of the wealthier men in town sent their wives south through the Karakal Pass and Fort Stony Point into the Shangri-La Valley below. Success rates for pregnancies in the valley were apparently much better than they were here in the north.

In the end, though, he discovered his answer one night while taking a break, with his mandolin in his lap, and a pint of beer at his side. They were at the pub, and had just finished a set of reels, the “Banshee,” and “Far From Home.” Far from home, indeed, thought Abdullah as he took a drink.

“What ails you?” asked his friend Patrick, in town after one of his many scouting trips, his tin whistle on the table in front of him.

Abdullah explained the task that Tawfiq had set before him and how his research was hitting dead end after dead end.

“I know whatcha need,” said Patrick. “A birthing chamber.”

“A what?” asked Abdullah.

“A chamber, like in a hospital, where pregnant women go if they are having trouble.”

“What do these chambers do? What do they look like?”

“I don’t know what they do,” answered Patrick. “But the doors look like the doors on those tin cans you folks came in. Except ya go through two of ’em, one after another. I saw ’em when I went to visit Moira, when she was pregnant with her third kid, and havin’ problems. Made my ears hurt to go in and out, even though I swallowed hard, like they told me to. There aren’t many of them, but people travel hundreds of miles to use ’em. Don’t they have any ’round here?”

Abdullah’s thoughts whirled. Two doors indicated an airlock, and what Patrick was describing was a pressurized chamber. He remembered reading about complications of pregnancies at high altitudes. He thought about their camp, with hundreds of capsules, each one a potential pressure chamber. He wondered if any of them had air handling systems that had not been scavenged for metal and parts. All along the answer had been right around them.

He whooped, and clapped his friend on the shoulders. He threw a coin on the table.

“Drinks are on me,” he shouted, as he ran out the door.

The next morning, the hard work began. He’d had the one percent of inspiration, now came the ninety-nine percent of perspiration. He got Tawfiq to assign him assistants, an Afghan machinist, a Pakistani electronics technician and a couple of other men who were handy with tools. They surveyed the capsules and found a pair, fairly close together, that still had their equipment intact. These were occupied by senior lieutenants of the Mahdi, who were too well-off to need to scavenge and sell off components. These lieutenants soon found themselves moved to other quarters.

The capsules had been designed without airlocks, since they docked with their carrier, and were not designed to open until they reached the surface of a habitable planet. So there was welding and reworking required to fit each with a working airlock, and then he had the few men with engineering background design compressors that would keep the pressure inside the capsule and adjust the pressure in the airlock when it was used.


Abdullah found himself reporting directly to A’isha on this project and was surprised, but pleased, to realize she was not thinking just of herself, but also of other women of the Faithful. In fact, she said, if this would work, they could build more chambers, and make money from the townspeople.

He sometimes found opportunities to talk to Faryal after these meetings, stealing moments together in supply tents, having rambling conversations about everything except what was most important to them, whether or not they would ever have a chance to be together. He didn’t dare tell her that he sometimes thought about running away, finding that place in the Shangri-La Valley that Patrick called ‘real friendly.’ She would never agree to leave her family, or her duties.

It took months, but finally, the chambers were ready. Midwives who had been trained as nurses went inside the chambers with women who were nearing their final trimester. In a few months, they would know if they were successful. A’isha herself was one of the first women to go into the chambers. It was hard to tell in her burqa, but sometimes, when the breezes swirled, you could see the bulge at her middle.

Tawfiq was bemused by all of this construction and activity. He didn’t understand how the air pressure could make a difference, in fact, he seemed to worry that this experiment could do his wife more harm than good. But he trusted Abdullah, and he certainly listened when A’isha spoke to him.

“The prophet was a man,” he once told Abdullah. “But he was born of a woman, and married a woman, and raised girls in addition to boys. And no man is wise who ignores the counsel of women.”





One night, Abdullah was called to a meeting with Tawfiq and Barbarossa. There was a stranger there, a blond-haired man with a thin beard Abdullah was called upon to translate.

“I represent people who want to help you in your cause, Mahdi,” said the man. He went on to describe how they could help with a stand alone protein factory, light and heavy weapons, ammunition, radios, radar. Barbarossa’s eyes widened at this description, almost licking his lips at the thought.

“I am not at war,” said Tawfiq. “Why do you offer me these things?”

“Because you do not wage war now,” the man said, “that does not mean you do not desire to overthrow the current order of things. I suspect that is what you would do if you could find the resources to support the effort. When the CoDominium controls most of the food, and leaves you unarmed, you have no choice but to accept their boot heels on your necks.”

“But why would you do this for us?” asked Tawfiq. “What is in it for you?”

“I represent those who want to see the CoDominium fail. We do not have the manpower to oppose them directly. But we do have the ability to help others who share our desires.”

The man went on to invite Tawfiq to send a delegation to a meeting in the hills to the east. There they could meet their representatives, see some of the resources that were being offered and meet with others who opposed the CoDominium on Haven.

“Barbarossa,” said Tawfiq. “You can barely contain your excitement over this development. You will go as my representative. Take our young African with you to translate and take the infidel scout, Patrick to guide you.”

“And Abdullah,” he continued. “You will help Barbarossa pick the young men for this mission. I want them picked based on their potential to play this game of baseball. Your idea of beating the Marines at their own game intrigues me. And even if we lose a hard-fought game, we will still gain advantage in their eyes. Train them on your journey.”

Barbarossa objected that this would be a meaningless distraction, but Tawfiq was insistent, and so, before they left, Abdullah and Patrick taught the women how to make the necessary leather gloves and bought bats and balls. From his few possessions, Patrick took out his Red Sox cap for the first time since he had started his journey; the women used it as a pattern for other caps, and made uniforms. Abdullah and Patrick also presided over tryouts, timing sprints, measuring the distance of throws, watching people catch, watching them swing, searching for potential five-tool players among the Faithful.





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.

“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 has 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.”

Abdullah rushed to Patrick, who told him to pack up, suggested he tell people he and Patrick were off for another scouting expedition. Their meeting was not for another nine hours. His packing took only a few minutes, as he had few belongings. He didn’t dare draw a weapon from the armory, that would have required authorizations he didn’t have. He spent the night staring at the roof of his tent, unable to sleep. He was up an hour before the meeting and spent his time sitting on a rock, staring at the two towns and fortress, so close to each other, yet so full of hatred.

He was excited to be leaving with Faryal, but now his thoughts began to turn to the future: Would they be safe traveling? How would he support her? Would they be accepted at their destination?

The time finally came and he went to the corrals. Patrick was not there yet. Instead, there was a stranger, a short, thin man with a thick black beard and a large dark turban on his head. The man was dressed in a coat and trousers and armed for travel, with two pistols and a rifle. He had a heavy pack on his back and a large wicker basket in his arms. Abdullah turned to walk in the other direction, but was halted by a loud whisper.

“Abdullah,” the man said with a strange voice. “It’s me.”

“Me who?” he replied, confused.

“Faryal, you silly man. Now get over here.”

Abdullah gaped. Yes, she was the right size, but hardly the right shape. She must have bound her breasts. And now that he looked more closely, the beard did not look very real. He gaped in surprise as she continued to speak in low tones.

“Here, take this chit to the stable master. It is for six mounts and saddles. For you, Patrick and me. My name is Jamal, if anyone asks. Take the chit now and get our horses. I am not sure how convincing this disguise would be at close range.”

Just then, Patrick came up. “And who might you be?” he said to Faryal with a grin. He was obviously more quick on the uptake than Abdullah.

“Jamal,” she replied and then turned to Abdullah, “Now, go and get our horses.”

Off Abdullah went.