War World X Takeover

Gettysburg was a huge ship, designed to deploy a Line Marine Regiment onto a frontier world that had no support to provide. The forward part of the ship was a giant ring that spun to create a semblance of gravity—vital on this journey, since Haven was about a year’s journey from Earth. Along her central spine area, off limits to all until they reached their destination, were the five hundred drop capsules that would bring troops, vehicles, weapons and supplies to a planetary surface. Although, in this case, they had all been converted for personnel, two hundred per capsule. In the rear were the reaction drive motors that drove them through normal space, and the Alderson drives that twisted open paths to other solar systems. From the conversations Abdullah heard in the wardroom, he gathered that these Alderson drives were at the end of their useful life, and overdue for yard work. That, along with the sub-standard performance of the capsule system, was another reason Gettysburg was on her final voyage.

When he wasn’t involved in teaching, or scullery work in the crew areas, Abdullah found himself in twice daily exercise sessions and combat training. He suspected that all this physical activity was not just to prepare the Faithful for arrival on the new world, but also to tire them out and prevent the restlessness, fights and friction that would otherwise result from too many people confined for too long in too small a space.

Abdullah had always been athletic and had even been a starting shortstop on his high school baseball team, but he hadn’t been in a fight since the fifth grade when he took on a kid who had mocked his mother’s head scarf. While there were many areas of Boston, mostly the Citizen enclaves called Welfare Islands, where fighting was part of daily life, the Cambridge school system was far more genteel. Here on the ship, he found himself in a fighting class taught by Barbarossa, the huge red-bearded military leader. He suspected this was deliberate and that Barbarossa, uneasy about a newcomer being so close to the inner circle, was taking his measure.

Abdullah found that he understood the theory of fighting well. He moved gracefully enough that he could evade a punch or kick, and move around a block. He was even able to adapt to the quirks of momentum that the ship’s spin brought, the subtle differences between that and normal gravity. One thing that gave him trouble was the uncertainty of a fight. He had trouble guessing what his opponent would do next. He supposed it would come to him in time, like reading pitches when you were in the batter’s box—trying to read the little quirks each pitcher had that indicated a fastball, changeup, curveball or slider was coming to you.


But his worst problem was being hit. It didn’t always hurt, but it always rattled him, threw him off balance. And when it did hurt he really lost his cool. After one class, Barbarossa held him late to spar. The two circled around each other as the older man taunted him.

“Come on, book lover. Show me you mean business. Show me that you can be a man.”

Abdullah came in fast, but the old man caught his legs, tripped him, and as he came down on his knees, put a fist in his stomach. Abdullah’s breath whooshed out of him.

“Come on, get up. Kneel there panting in a real fight and your opponent will get a chance to finish you off.”

Abdullah pushed himself upright, and took a defensive pose. “This time,” he wheezed, “You can come to me.”

“Good,” answered Barbarossa. “You are learning, at least a little bit.”

The big man came in fast. Abdullah countered one punch, but took the other in the ear. They circled around each other. Abdullah was sick of this, sick of the taunting. Barbarossa got him again, a hard blow to the shoulder. But this time, instead of pulling back, Abdullah moved in. He was able to land two blows to the big man’s midsection before he took one in the chin that rocked him back on his heels. He caught his balance, and kicked out at Barbarossa’s knee, or at least where the man’s knee had been a moment ago. He parried a flurry of blows, and finally landed one right on Barbarossa’s cheek. He grinned in triumph, but dropped his guard. A punch to his solar plexus took him off his feet.

Abdullah struggled to get up, but the big man said, “Enough for today. You are beginning to learn. To fight, you must learn to take punishment. If you cannot take pain, you cannot succeed. The Mahdi selected you for your learning, but every man who stands beside him needs to be a warrior. And in that, I will not let you fail.”

After that lesson, Abdullah found that he did better and better. He learned to keep his focus in spite of blows, not to drop his guard ever and to always press his opponent. He would never be one of the best fighters in the group but he could finally hold his own with many of them.

Even Tawfiq would come down to fight. More interesting to Abdullah than his fighting style was the way he won even when he lost. When someone bettered him, he praised them, pointed out their value to their jihad and talked of putting men like them at his side so he would never fail. And those he did better always got an explanation, a lesson on how they lost, and how they could win another time. Perhaps, thought Abdullah, he really is blessed by Allah.





Abdullah was in the wardroom again, standing in the scullery, waiting to finish cleaning up after the Captain and Exec finished their coffee. He was daydreaming, thinking of a little joke Faryal had told, a joke that had the women’s English class twittering like birds. She had a quick wit and a gentle way of poking fun at the silly things in life.

“Can I ask you a question?” the Executive officer said, his voice carrying into the scullery. Abdullah stirred from his reverie. The Exec rarely asked questions of the Captain. This might be something important.

The Captain nodded.

“This Tawfiq, this Mahdi, is a frightening man,” the Exec said. “I’ve been watching the security cameras. He has the whole bunch back there training more fiercely than any CoDo Marine unit we ever carried. These people have a vision and a purpose; I don’t believe it’s one that is going to make anyone happy on Haven. I’ve been on that planet before and there’s not a lot there, just a battalion of the 26th Marines and they’re garrison troops, not line. These people could cut through our forces there like a knife through hot butter.”

The Captain looked pensive. “We’re dumping this bunch on the northern plains,” he said. “Up above what the settlers in the Shangri-La Valley call the Atlas Mountains, and the Arabs call the Wall of Allah. Consul General Bronson has had problems with previous Muslim transportees and the Harmonies system of integrating transportees into their society has been overwhelmed by BuReloc in the past few years, so we’ll be dropping them right on top of the mining area where they will be working.”

“Shouldn’t Bronson be warned?”

The Captain grimaced. “We won’t be doing that,” he said. “Not everyone in the Senate favors the Bronson family, and not all want them to succeed.”

“But this won’t just hurt a few people,” the Exec said. “This could rip civilization apart. On a world where civilization is only a veneer.”

The Captain rubbed his cheeks and sighed. He reached for his coffee and took a sip. “Let me repeat something. Not everyone in the Grand Senate wants to see the Bronsons succeed. Whatever happens on that moon,” he said, “is not our problem.” He looked sharply at the Exec. “And as far as anyone is concerned,” he said, “our load is simply another group of transportees.”

Abdullah hid a smile. Perhaps Allah had a plan for them after all. Perhaps the suffering he had seen in his travels was only a beginning for the Faithful. Perhaps Tawfiq was right and they were destined to succeed out among the stars.

The next day, Abdullah relayed this report to Tawfiq, who smiled and nodded.

“Sir?” asked Abdullah. “Could I ask you a question?”

Tawfiq nodded.

Abdullah swallowed, but pressed forward. “Does Allah speak to you?” he asked. “Are you the Mahdi?”

Tawfiq arched an eyebrow. “A brave question. But one you are wise to have asked me when we are alone. And my answer is for you alone, not to be shared with anyone.” Abdullah nodded, while Tawfiq paused for a moment. “Allah speaks to me,” he said, “in my heart, the same way he speaks to all men. And as to being the Mahdi, I do not think it is up to me to decide that, nor even my followers to decide. It will be up to history to decide that.”

He looked sharply at Abdullah. “I will tell you one thing, however. I hope from the bottom of my heart, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head, that I am the Mahdi, and that I will lead our people to freedom!”

Abdullah felt his spirits soar. He had been ripped from his home, from everything he knew. But perhaps here, because of whatever forces led him to this place, to this point of his life, he would be part of something greater than himself, part of a grand journey.

As Abdullah left the compartment and went down the passageway, he heard a soft voice from a door, left ajar to his right. He entered, and found it was a storage compartment, full of mops, brooms and other cleaning implements. Faryal stood there beside him and pulled the door closed.

“We should not be alone,” Abdullah said, feeling a thrill in his heart, which was much different than the one he had felt listening to the Mahdi.

“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that I like you and that is something I could not do unless we were alone. You are not like the other men I see. You are gentle and funny.” She moved toward him, and lifted the veil of her burqa to uncover her mouth. “I find myself wanting to kiss you,” she said, bringing her lips toward his.

Abdullah put his arms around her, and their lips met, hesitantly at first, but then more passionately. He felt her body against him. He had always thought of Faryal as a girl, but this curvy body he held was a woman’s body. He stopped suddenly and backed away. Her veil fell back into place.

“But your father,” he said.

She sighed. “Yes, my father. Always my father, always the goal, always the mission. Regardless of who my father is, I wanted you to know how I feel. You might not think so, many men don’t, but how a woman feels is important. And while you worry about my father, I want to tell you another thing: My mother does not know I am here and would not approve of my actions, but she likes you, too.”


She touched him briefly on the cheek, opened the door and went down the passageway. Abdullah fell back against a workbench, his head whirling. He had dreams like this, but this was no dream. It had been almost a year since he had been with a woman and now it appeared to him that he was cared for by a woman he could not possess. His life had suddenly become very complicated.





Abdullah clipped his harness closed and leaned back into the canvas jump seat. His stomach was knotted and his mouth dry. Even though he had used the head before boarding the drop capsule, he still felt like his bladder was full. He sat near the front of the capsule, his back toward the stern, and if he craned his neck, he could see the twenty people strapped in behind him. Along the floorboards (at least, what they hoped would be the floorboards when they landed), cargo and supplies were lashed to railings. Tawfiq was not in this capsule, instead, it was Barbarossa in the front row beside Abdullah. The Mahdi and his family were in another, as the leaders of the Faithful had scattered themselves among the different capsules to ensure continuity of leadership in the event a capsule was lost.

Abdullah couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation he had overheard in the wardroom so many months ago. He had at least a ten percent chance of dying within the next hour or so. And a significant chance of being hurt or maimed by a rough landing. The crewman looked into the capsule, nodded to Abdullah, and shut the hatch. The wheel in the center spun, the dogs around the edges engaged, and Abdullah heard the thump thump of the man’s fist, indicating that the hatch was sealed and ready to go.

There was a sudden bam as the docking lugs broke free. The capsule was underway. Abdullah felt the pressure of his body against his seat and the dull roar of rocket engines. Then there was a long period of silence, followed by a hissing noise and more pressure. They were entering the atmosphere now. The interior of the capsule began to get warm, which they had been told would not happen. The ride was not smooth, with lots of turbulence, and Abdullah was thrown around roughly in his seat. Then there was a strong yank, which would be the drogue chute deploying. When the main chutes deployed, there was a savage jerk on the capsule and cries of pain all around him.

“Shit,” said Abdullah, in English. Then, as the capsule’s motion smoothed, he was embarrassed. If there had been a problem, he would have died with that obscenity on his lips. They fell for what seemed forever. Abdullah found himself tensing, breathing shallowly.

When the impact came, he felt his spine compress, his neck crack and the capsule tumble, once, and then again. Gear broke free and flew around the capsule, as did a few of the people. There were cries, screams and shouts all around him. Then with a crunch, the capsule came to rest. Abdullah was sideways, the port bulkhead of the capsule now being its floor. There was sobbing behind him and excited conversation. Abdullah carefully unbuckled his straps, unable to prevent himself from falling when the final strap was loosened. He went to the forward hatch and turned the wheel. There was a hiss, and then a pop when the hatch unsealed, the pressure in the capsule being much higher than the air outside.

Abdullah clambered out. They were on a broad and rocky plain near the shore of a large lake. The weather was cool and breezy. They must have landed near their destination, because a few kilometers away from them was a dusty town on the shore of a river that ran from the lake. On the other side of the river, a crude fortress sat on a bluff, with another town before the fortress. Above him, the sky was a faded orange, with a small yellowish sun, and a huge striped planet filling a large part of the sky. The other capsules were hanging in the sky under gleaming white chutes, like seeds from a dandelion. Abdullah knew it was hundreds, but they looked like thousands. He finally looked down and saw there were plants among the rocks at his feet, none that he recognized, and an odd creature running from rock to rock for cover. He needed to take his eyes off the sky. This was his new home.





The losses among the capsules had been lighter than expected, perhaps because Haven’s gravity was a bit weaker than Earth’s. Out of the five hundred capsules, only forty-one failed entirely, mostly due to parachute or retrorocket failures. The injuries in the other capsules were light, many sore necks and backs, and a lot of sprains, but only a scattering of broken bones. Tawfiq, who Abdullah was pleased to see survived the journey, called it a blessing from Allah. Abdullah hid his further pleasure at seeing Faryal at her mother’s side, safe and sound.

Nonetheless, the first order of business was burying the dead. The Qur’an was clear, this task could not wait. There were ceremonies all around them. With every body, they were already making the soil of this world their own.

The mining company, Dover Mining Development, sent out representatives, from the town beyond the fortress, the town called Eureka, flanked by large groups of well-armed CoDo Marines. They asked for a leader, and were pleased to find that the new arrivals were well organized. They told the Mahdi that they would begin providing rations from a nearby protein plant immediately. Water was available from nearby irrigation channels that ran from Dire Lake. They gave strict orders for sanitation. They asked for fifty men who would attend classes on Haven: How its days and nights occurred, its wildlife, its dangers, on the work the mining company had in store for the newcomers. They had two weeks to get themselves settled before three thousand men reported for mine work.

After they left, Barbarossa grumbled. “Are we slaves, to just stand and listen?”

“We have been over this,” the Mahdi said. “Until I say otherwise, we listen, we obey, we watch and we learn. Strike before we are ready and Allah will smite us for our stupidity.”

The first morning brought a welcome sound, the sound of an imam echoing from the buildings of the nearer town, calling the Faithful to prayer. That was about the only welcome surprise they had for the next few weeks were filled with brutally hard work. They discovered that the nearer town, almost exclusively Muslim, was called Medina, and the fort overlooking the two towns was called Fort Camerone. There was also a bridge between the towns and they discovered that Muslims who did not have work or other business in Eureka, the town on the other side of the bridge, were discouraged from crossing.

The cool, thin air made things even harder and they panted for breath as they worked to lever the capsules into a more orderly array. They could not move them far, but at least they could align them in a way that would accommodate streets and other buildings in the future. They also set up tents, many tents, using the parachutes for material. The capsules held only two hundred people when packed tight.

Most unmarried men would be sleeping outdoors for the immediate future. Canvas seats were refashioned into canvas beds and people fanned out into Medina to find out what might be available for sale, what resources there were, where mosques were and which way to face when they prayed.

The land was barren and flat, with hills visible to the north and west of town, and a large mountain range on the far northern horizon. There were a few small farms in the surrounding area, mostly to the north of town, irrigated by water drawn from the river. But mostly the ground was rocky and the soil poor, with thin grass and a plant called bindle weed growing wherever they could. So most of the food came from a CoDominium protein plant located on the outskirts of Eureka.

Trees were sparse and odd looking; bottle trees with their thick trunks and tufts of leaves on top and squat fan trees with their broad but strange looking leaves. Domesticated animals were mostly Earth livestock, with mountain animals like sheep and alpacas heavy in the mix. Horses were in common use as were muskylopes. The only powered vehicles in town were those driven by mining company officials, and CoDominium Marine tanks and trucks.


Barbarossa, always thinking of military matters, obtained a number of wooden staffs, and also materials to fashion bows and arrows. The mining companies and Marines would not let the Faithful buy weapons, but Barbarossa refused to let them remain unarmed. He argued that they needed to be able to defend themselves, but also wanted to continue to hone the martial abilities the Faithful had learned aboard ship.





One truenight, a large man from Medina, with a thick, brown beard, reddish robes, and a dirty turban came to meet with the Mahdi. He had a gun on each hip, a large knife in a sheath stuck through his belt in front. He had four toughs with him, hard men, even dirtier than him, armed with pistols and assault rifles. He had asked to meet with the leaders of the newcomers, and Tawfiq had all his lieutenants around him, even Abdullah sitting in the corner quietly.

The visitor cleared his throat, looked like he wanted to spit, but then thought the better of it. “Are you Tawfiq?” he asked.

Tawfiq nodded.

“And you call yourself the Mahdi?” the man asked, in a voice caught between scorn and wonder.

“Some know me by that name,” Tawfiq replied. “And you are?”

“I am Kabir,” the man said, “and before you get too settled and set in your ways, we need to get some things straight.”

“Continue,” said Tawfiq, with an arched eyebrow.

“Well, first of all, we get five percent of what the mining companies pay everyone. I run a protective service, with roving guards, and it takes money to do that. And no one around here sells liquor without going through me, Or drugs, for that matter.

“And if you have the money,” he said with a grin, “we would be happy to provide you whatever you need.”

Abdullah looked around. Tawfiq had trained his lieutenants well. All sat quietly, as if this man were discussing the weather.

The man went on, “And I have a number of fine whorehouses, where you can find delights that would please any man. I am always looking for fresh girls, or young boys, and offer finders fees, if you know of any good ones who arrived with you.”

At this, there was an audible but faint response, a kind of collective growl. Barbarossa looked pointedly at Tawfiq, his face red. Tawfiq sighed, and nodded, and his lieutenants erupted into action. Before the thugs could even get a shot off, they were overwhelmed and pinned to the floor. One whimpered from the pain of a broken forearm.

“And now?” Barbarossa asked.

“No mercy,” replied Tawfiq. “These dogs will probably not even be missed by their wives. Make sure the bodies are buried deeply.” He turned and stepped out of the capsule, as knives flashed, and the floor ran red with blood. Abdullah stared silently at Barbarossa, who wiped a bloody knife clean on the robes of his victim, a broad smile on his face. Abdullah trusted Tawfiq’s intentions, but he wondered if the protective services, the drug and alcohol sales, the prostitution, would simply continue under new management.





One day, when Abdullah was away on errands for the Mahdi, a man rode into what had become known as Capsule Town, astride one horse and leading another, obviously a traveler, equipped lightly, but for a long journey. He was an infidel, but he rode into the camp of strangers with great confidence. Abdullah saw him pause a few times to question people, and when one pointed at Abdullah, he stopped to wait for the man.

The stranger was tall and lean and dressed in plain, dusty brown trousers and shirt, with high riding boots. He had a leather harness on, which except for its material, was similar to the belt and suspenders combination that CoDominium soldiers wore. From it hung an automatic pistol in a cross-draw holster, a large knife, canteen and a variety of pouches. A rifle was balanced across his saddle bow, an old fashioned bolt-action model, but well maintained, and ready for quick use. His hat was a broad brimmed brown felt, similar to those many of the infidels wore, but with its front brim pinned up.

The face revealed by this was weather-beaten, but young. The stranger had black hair and blue eyes, with a straggly attempt at a goatee making him look younger instead of older.

He reined in his horse, raised a right hand in greeting, and said, “Mornin’. They tell me you speak English.”

“Yes,” said Abdullah. “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” the young man answered, “to get right to the point, I’m a scout, and I happen to be lookin’ for work, and wonderin’ if you folks might need my service. M’name is Patrick, Patrick Flynn.”

“My name is Abdullah Hassan. Good day to you. Have you eaten?”

Patrick grinned, shedding any pretense of reserve, “Not yet today and I’m feelin’ peckish. You know where we can get some food?”

Abdullah smiled back. The young man’s name and something about his accent, made him think back to Irish friends he had back in Boston, a lost lifetime ago. “Follow me,” he said.

They went to an inn made of adobe blocks and ordered breakfast. Abdullah usually settled for a piece of bread and a cup of coffee, but Patrick looked hungry, so he ordered rice, mutton, bread, cheese and coffee for both of them. Abdullah had used English to argue with CoDominium soldiers, government officials and mining leaders for so long, he had forgotten what a pleasure it was to use his native language for casual conversation. And Patrick seemed to have saved up a surplus of conversation in his lonely journeys.

Patrick spoke about his childhood as an orphan in Castell City, his mother having died during the year-long journey from Earth. He had ended up in an orphanage, under the care of the Church of Harmony monks who oversaw not only the orphanage, but also the training of newly arrived transportees.

He hadn’t fit in well there, and always seemed to be getting into fights. One of the monks, Brother Miller, had taken a liking to him, and had arranged for him to be apprenticed to an old friend of his, Sam; a noted explorer, wilderness guide and hunter who lived in a small village in the hills north of Castell City. Sam’s wife, Moira, ran a pub in the village, kind of a combination restaurant, bar and music hall. Sam and Moira had met in Castell City, and moved out of town just in time to miss the troubled years that started when the CoDominium governor set up shop. In fact, some of their friends ended up following them out of the city, including Brother Miller, who became the teacher at the village’s school.

Patrick said Moira was Irish and loved to talk about the Emerald Isle, while Sam wouldn’t talk about his life on Earth, only saying that he came to Haven for a fresh start. Even though they were starting a family of their own, they treated Patrick like a son. And starting when he was sixteen, Sam had started bringing him on his journeys, training him as a guide and scout. His wandering had taken him through the passes north of Lake Eden, and into the plains beyond, land he was eager to explore. He told Abdullah he would like it back home, the folks were all very friendly.

Patrick also mentioned that he was a baseball pitcher in his home town.

“They play baseball on Haven?” exclaimed Abdullah.

“Sure do,” Patrick answered, “It’s our favorite sport. People all through the hills come from miles around to see town teams compete against each other. The year before I lit out on my own, our team went to Castell, and we placed second in the World Series, playin’ against teams from all up and down the valley. There are only six teams on all of Haven, but some of those players are top notch. I was our pitcher in the final championship game and gave up two runs, which was one more than I should have, and decided that would be the end of my baseball career.”


Abdullah told Patrick about his own days playing baseball in Eastern Massachusetts, traveling from high school to high school in the springtime. He spoke of games in Fenway Park, seeing the best baseball players on any world. Abdullah found himself able to tell his whole story for the first time since leaving Earth: he spoke of his father, the Harvard professor, and his lofty goals for himself and his son; his mother, warm and friendly, but unable to muster the courage to say anything that might contradict her husband. He spoke of Boston, the excitement of city life, the challenges of school at MIT.

Patrick was amazed by all of this. So Abdullah took the luster off life on Earth, also describing the tensions between Taxpayers and Citizens, the erosion of liberties as the bureaucracy of the CoDominium encroached on the old United States government. He described running away to see the world, being swept up by the mutiny and into the Mahdi’s movement.

“You sure have had an interestin’ life,” said Patrick.

“As have you,” Abdullah answered. “Now, what kind of work are you interested in?”

“Well, I figured you folks, bein’ new to the planet and all, would want someone to show you around, help you get the lay of the land. The CoDominium troops use a lot of local scouts, but my family has never had much use for those folks. And the mining companies have work, but they just make my skin crawl. I don’t know much about you Arab folks, but I figure that anyone who doesn’t get along with the mining companies and the Marines is okay in my book.”

Abdullah said, “You found the right person. The Mahdi has been talking about sending out parties to explore the area around the lake and it sounds like the work would be right down your alley.”

Abdullah’s new friend was hired by Tawfiq and became a frequent visitor to both Medina and Eureka. He would often lead small parties of the Faithful out on horseback to explore the lands about them, returning after a few weeks eager for a good meal and friendship. He tended to avoid the company of what many thought were “his own kind,” which drew comments from the Faithful. When Abdullah mentioned that to him, Patrick said, “If you knew a bit more about this planet, you would know that most people don’t think of the mining companies, nor the Marines, as their own people.”

He did sometimes take Abdullah into Eureka to a small pub that he enjoyed. There, a group of musicians played, not professionals just local people who played for the love of it. Patrick was dating a woman who played fiddle there and often sat in, playing his tin whistle. He found out that Abdullah had played some guitar in the past and, from somewhere, he obtained a small mandolin for him and taught him to play a few of the tunes. This brought Abdullah some acceptance among the townspeople who frequented the pub. The music had made him, in some small way, one of their own.

Tawfiq encouraged this. While many of his followers could not pass freely in Eureka, Abdullah, with his perfect American English and non-Arab looks, could move about with much less notice. He was encouraged to remain clean-shaven and wear trousers and a shirt instead of the traditional robes so many others of the Faithful wore. There were many blacks among the enlisted ranks of the CoDominium Marines and Abdullah struck up acquaintances with some of them. As always, the Mahdi was looking for intelligence and information that he could use to his advantage.

One day, Abdullah was walking past a field where CoDominium troops were playing a scratch baseball game. They had convinced a couple of Arab boys to come to bat, and then mocked them as they swung and missed, their robes tangling about them as they did so. Abdullah barked at the boys in Arabic and told them to come with him. The taunts at their backs continued as Abdullah lectured them about maintaining their dignity. The boys protested saying that they were just having fun, so he told them some of the things the soldiers had been saying about them in English.

The incident left Abdullah with an idea that he brought to Tawfiq. He spoke to him about forming a baseball team. “Let’s show the infidels a thing or two by beating them at their own game,” he said.

Tawfiq laughed, and dismissed the idea.

English lessons continued for Tawfiq, his lieutenants and others of the Faithful, whose work put them in contact with the infidels. Leaders among those who worked in the mines were chief among his students. They wanted to know what the supervisors were really saying about the mines, especially safety issues. DMD cared less about safety than profits and were constantly putting the miners at risk, and then blaming them for any problems that would result.

And there were still English lessons for the women as well. Many of the women just learned a little, and moved on, but the advanced class still held A’isha and Faryal. This class was still Abdullah’s favorite, a special time in each day.

After one class, however, A’isha paused to speak to him. “You like my daughter,” she said, without preamble.

Abdullah was caught off-guard. “Yes, I do.”

“It shows. Too much. I like you, but do not overstep your bounds. She is a wonderful girl, but she is also the daughter of the Mahdi. Remember the stories of clashes between the descendents of the Prophet, blessed be his name, and think about what being with such a woman means.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Abdullah gaping like a fish and wondering what had just occurred.