All That Is In The Heavens [Part 16]: The Imam’s Tale

Captain Rahman meets an old friend on the highliner, and is given a mysterious message, and a warning.

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories.

This is a multi-chapter novel.  Previous Chapters:  Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3| Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15

LOCATION: PERSEUS ARM OF THE MILKY WAY GALAXY

YEAR: 4097 HIJRI – 565 UNITED ARMY CALENDAR

United Army Squad 3690 of the UA Starburst, in order of rank:

1. Yasin “Cutter” Rahman – Captain. Combat strategy master.
2. Weili Menco Zhang – Corporal. Xeno-geographer. Calm and cool in battle. Carries a lasgun and a tekpi (trident).
3. Ammar Abuzaid – Master Sergeant. Botanist and combat trainer. Oldest member of the squad. Quran hafedh.
4. Bilal Mustafa – Fleet Officer. Xenobiologist, married to Rowaida.
5. Rowaida Ali – Fleet Officer. Ship’s pilot, mechanic and fabricator, married to Bilal.
6. Samir “Smasher” Sufyan – Specialist. Drone tech and explosives expert. Carries an ax. Multiple awards for valor, but also repeated misconduct violations.
7. Ami Abdulghaffar – Specialist. Medic and psychotherapist.
8. Amina Quraishi – Private First Class. Computer tech and AI diagnostics. Hijabi. Silat expert. Fearless.
9. Hisham – Private. Grenadier, plus supplies & requisitions.
10. Summer – Private. Riflecarrier and food services.
11. Tarek – Private. Riflecarrier and janitorial. 18 years old.

* * *

Excerpt from The Life and Death of Yasin Rahman, By Dr. Ami Abdulghaffar:

In a saheeh hadith, Abu Hurayrah reported that the Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa-sallam, said, “At the beginning of every century Allah will send to this ummah someone who will renew its religious understanding.”

Such a person is known as a mujaddid, or renewer. It’s my personal belief that Yasin Rahman was the mujaddid of our time.

* * *

A Sanctuary

The masjid was a single, huge, high-ceilinged room with plush carpets on the floor, and rows of windows with artificial lights behind them, mimicking the effect of sunlight streaming in. There were a few hundred people in attendance, but nevertheless the place had a hushed, untroubled vibe. The smells of sandalwood incense and musk oil took Rahman back to the neighborhood masjid in his home district of Salmaniyyah, on the outskirts of Selangor. There were small bottles of perfume oil by the door, and Rahman applied some to his neck.

Men sat on the floor reading Quran, reciting dhikr, or simply resting their hearts, and women did the same on the other side of the room. Rahman felt like he’d just stepped out of the war and into a remote sanctuary on a mountaintop, or a cathedral in the heart of a great forest. Immediately he felt his shoulders relax, and his breathing soften. Just by being here, some of the terrible burdens he carried seemed to loosen and fall away.

This was the house of Allah . It was a place of purity. As long as he remained in this place, no evil could befall him.

Rahman and his squadmates sat with their backs against the wall, near the partition between the two halves of the room, so they could remain near each other. Peaceful atmosphere or no, battle habits were hard to break.

You Forgot About Me

Rahman closed his eyes, began to drift toward sleep – and saw Mamdooh, his pilot on the Starburst, dead at his feet with a piece of hull plating in his head. He’d never had time to properly mourn the man, and now it seemed as if Mamdooh’s gray eyes stared at him, saying, You forgot about me, Lieutenant. You left me on a burning ship and forgot about me. You could have at least taken this thing out of my head.

One by one he saw them all – Rasool, who’d been sucked into the cold death of space while manning the aft guns. AbdulAzeez, torn in two by a crab bullet while rappelling into the queenship. Jamaluddin, run through by a sword. Khabib, turned into jelly by a pulp gun. Jamshad, who’d bought all their lives with her guns, as she took rear guard and shot the crabs down like the angel of death, until she herself finally fell under the unrelenting assault. And finally Suhaib, who had been placed in an autodoc and ejected into space, and never seen again.

One by one he faced them, and it was as if his tongue had been taken out. Nothing came out of his mouth but saliva and stutters. Someone began to call him from far away, but he couldn’t make out the words. They called again and again, and he struggled to understand.

A Voice Like Bubur Cha-Cha

Someone touched his shoulder and he jerked awake with a muffled shout. He was sitting on the floor of the masjid, and someone was calling the adhaan.

“You need to make wudu, Captain,” Abuzaid said.

He wiped his mouth with the back of a shaky hand, and rose. It seemed that even in the masjid, he could not escape the ghosts of the past.

The salat began. Standing in line beside Abuzaid, Rahman raised his hands in takbeer and tried to block worldly concerns from his thoughts.

The imam was a middle aged man with mostly white hair, short of stature and slightly chubby. When he recited the Quran, his voice was so sweet and melodious that it reminded Rahman of the bubur cha-cha his mom used to make, with its tapioca and coconut milk, and the bright colors of purple sweet potatoes, yams, and black-eyed peas. There was something familiar about the voice as well, but Rahman could not place it. He stood and let himself be transported as the imam recited a long surah that Rahman did not know, then a short one that he did – Al-’Aadiyaat.

After the prayer, the imam sat cross-legged and began to lecture. Rahman noted that the man wore a major’s insignia. Some people left, but others gathered round. In Persean standard, the imam translated Surat al-’Aadiyaat:

Al-’Aadiyaat

By the galloping, panting horses,
striking sparks of fire with their hooves,
launching raids at dawn,
stirring up clouds of dust,
and penetrating into the heart of enemy lines!
Surely humankind is ungrateful to their Lord—
and they certainly attest to this—
and they are truly extreme in their love of worldly gains.
Do they not know that when the contents of the graves will be spilled out,
and the secrets of the hearts will be laid bare—
surely their Lord is All-Aware of them on that Day.

“In this surah,” the imam said, “Allah first describes a striking scene: a group of war horses, carrying soldiers, launching a dawn raid, and thundering deep into enemy lines. Allah swears by this scene that humankind is ungrateful to their Lord. What is the relationship between the scene, and the statement that humankind is ungrateful?”

No one answered right away, and the imam waited. Finally Abuzaid spoke up. “It refers to an incident that occurred eight years after Hijrah. An army of polytheists were planning to attack Madinah, and Ali ibn Ali Talib led a raid that defeated them.”

A Faithful Animal

“Indeed,” the imam replied, “some say so. It was a battle known as Dhat as-Salasil, in which Ali and his group defeated an army of twelve thousand disbelievers who were intent on attacking Madinah. Ali himself, however, said that this surah referred to the camels that ran between the stations of Hajj, carrying the pilgrims. Still others have claimed that it describes the horses of the kuffar as they attack the Muslims.”

“In short, we do not know for sure. Let’s understand it in a broader sense, as a reference to the noble and wondrous animals that Allah placed in our service. Consider the horse. An animal that once carried its rider into a battlefield, where men screamed and died, and where guns and cannons roared. And yet this animal, whose instinct was to run away, charged with a heroic heart. A faithful animal, who remembers a man years later, and comes to him to nuzzle and kiss. Long-necked, graceful, its mane blowing in the wind. SubhanAllah! A living miracle.”

“Allah placed it in our hands as a gift, to carry us and be cared for by us. Just as He gave us gifts so great in number that we cannot count them. Take a breath, let it out. That is a gift.”

Rahman did so, and saw others around him also inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“Now we ride a starship that our ancestors could never have dreamed of.” He waved a hand to encompass the ship around them. “Another gift. There are the gifts of family, food, shelter, and love. Yet some men reject Allah , and commit evil deeds in pursuit of wealth. One day Allah will make all of this plain. The contents of the graves will be laid open, and secrets will be exposed to light.” The imam’s face seemed to take on a bitter cast with this last sentence, and he looked directly at Rahman. Rahman was puzzled. Was the man trying to tell him something?

The Imam’s Tale

“We have one among us,” the imam went on, “who I personally consider a gift to me, in my life. Maybe he will say a few words. Captain Yasin Rahman.”

Rahman jerked back and frowned. The man wanted him to speak? What for? About the attack on the queenship? More of this hero nonsense? Forget it. He shook his head. He saw people craning their heads, and heard his name being whispered.

“Ah, he’s shy,” the imam said. “I’ll tell you why he is a gift. Rahman and I met in boot camp, when we were fifteen years old. We didn’t know each other, but we’re from the same district, so we became friends. But while he was tough, I was that one boot who couldn’t climb ropes, swim fast, or shoot straight. I’d pass out on a 10k run, and I always threw up after the high-G spinner. And when the DI screamed in my face, I cried. As a result I was punished. I really don’t know what the point was, unless it was to humiliate me and break my spirit. And they would have succeeded, except that Rahman was there. When I had to do pushups for four hours in the rain and mud, Rahman was beside me, doing them with me, telling me to be strong. ‘You’re a Besar,’ he’d say. ‘There’s a light in you, and no one can put it out.’ The DI would order him to return to barracks, and Rahman would ignore him. What could they do? He was already performing punishment duty. When they made me run extra 10ks after dinner, clean the toilets, polish the officers’ boots fifty times each, Rahman was there, working beside me. I don’t know why. Who cares that much about someone else? But I survived because of him. Say Allahu Akbar.”

With a chant of Allahu Akbar, the lecture ended. People rose and filed out of the masjid.

Riki “Numbers” Shahbaz

All during the imam’s talk, Rahman had been staring at the man with growing astonishment, and now he said, “Numbers? Numbers Shahbaz?”

The imam laughed. “No one has called me Numbers in a very long time.”

“But…what happened to you? The last time I saw you was twelve years ago, when we were fifteen years old.”

The imam grinned. “It’s not what happened to me, brother, it’s what happened to you. Relativity. You’ve been zipping around the galaxy at warp speed. I’ve been stationary. It’s been fifty years for me.”

“Fifty years!”

The imam laughed again. “Come, give an old man a hug.” He and Rahman stood and embraced. As the rest of squad 3690 gathered around, Rahman – with his arm still around the imam’s shoulders – said, “This is Riki ‘Numbers’ Shahbaz. He’s a math genius. Give him a math problem.”

“Nine times seven,” Ami said.

Rahman gave her an annoyed look. “Really?”

“I’m terrible at math,” Ami said. “Nine times seven is a challenge.”

“1062,” Zhang said, “times 9843, plus 444, divided by 7.”

“1,493,387,” Imam Shahbaz said instantly. “With a bit left over.”

Everyone oohed and aahed over this.

“He could have made that up,” Ami objected. But Zhang had done the problem on her skinpad, and held it up to show that Numbers was right.

“Fifty years where?” Rahman wanted to know.

Imam Shahbaz patted his belly. “Can we eat and talk? Ever since I came on this ship I can’t seem to stop snacking.”

Couscous and Poached Eggs

There was no true night or day on a starship, but highliners artificially maintained a circadian rhythm of a 16-hour day and a 10-hour night, and right now it was nighttime. Lights were dimmed in the hallways, and the only people working were those who tended to vital ship functions. Rahman had expected that the mess hall would be sparsely populated this late at night, or even deserted. But more than a thousand men and women of all races and colors were packed in at long, narrow tables. Most wore UA uniforms, but many were in civilian clothes as well. The noise level was high, from hundreds of people conversing.

The hall was so large you could barely see the opposite wall. Rahman waited in line with his squadmates, took a tray, and passed by the serving counter. Soon the squad was seated at a table with heaping trays of food. It was a kind of Arabic food that was unfamiliar to him. There was a mound of some kind of grain – Rahman didn’t recognize it, but Zhang said the server had called it couscous – along with poached eggs cooked in tomato sauce with peppers, garlic, and onions. The spicy flavors burst in Rahman’s mouth like fireworks. It was utterly delicious.

A Real Life

The imam, who Rahman could not help thinking of as Numbers, had loaded up a hefty plate for someone who just wanted a “snack.” In between bites, he explained that because of his talent for numbers he’d been channeled into accounting right out of boot camp, and was sent to UA Alpha. He worked his way up the ranks, and lived in a small but comfortable apartment on that jam-packed planet. He married a fellow officer, a woman who worked in cryptography, and they had two children and eventually grandchildren. Numbers had never been in battle, and had never even fired a weapon since boot camp. He’d always found comfort in religious practice, and had devoted himself to the study of the Quran.

“When my 25-year term expired,” he said, “I re-upped for another 25. Why not? I was earning a good salary, and life on Alpha isn’t that bad. It’s secure, it has good restaurants, holo theaters, gyms, all of that. When the second term ended we decided to retire and emigrate. We want our grandchildren to grow up someplace with blue skies, oceans, trees. InshaAllah. They’re all here, on this ship. My whole family.”

Rahman gazed at the man. He started to say something, stopped. He felt happy for Numbers, but at the same time there was a bitter taste in his mouth. “You had a real life,” he said finally.

“So do you!” Numbers said. “You’re famous. And young, mashaAllah. Look at me.” He ran a hand through his white hair.

Rahman set down his fork. “You think I care about that? I’d rather live without nightmares. I’d rather not be responsible for the deaths of people I care about. I’d rather not know what it feels like to carry a human leg, or to try to put someone’s intestines back into his belly. I’d rather not keep waking up in an autodoc with yet another piece of my body gone. I’d rather not be responsible for the massacre of two thousand crab civilians. I’d rather be free. I’d rather have a family, like you.” His eyes shot for a second to Zhang, who sat across the table, engrossed in conversation with Ami. “I’d rather be back on NewMalaysia, looking out over the Tioman River, feeling the sunshine on my face.”

Allah Will Hear You

Numbers nodded. “I understand, akhi. Ask Allah . Make dua’. Allah will hear you, He will take you where you need to go. But brother, NewMalaysia is not the place to be.”

“Why?”

Numbers tapped a finger nervously on the table. “Nothing, just that life there is hard, from what I hear.”

“Aren’t you going there to retire?” He and Numbers had grown up only a few kilometers from each other and had even attended the same secondary school, though they had not been friends at that time. His family, as Rahman recalled, ran a rice processing factory.

Numbers shook his head soberly. “No. We’ll disembark at Hira station, then book a civilian transport to Turkestan. Most of my relatives have already emigrated there.”

Rahman had heard of Turkestan. Another Muslim world, only two light years away from NewMalaysia. The populace there were Naturals. Almost no advanced technology. They farmed and fished.

WFO

Numbers took Rahman’s hand in apparent affection, but then with a finger from the other hand – his hands were smooth and soft, Rahman noticed, in spite of his age – he traced letters on Rahman’s palm. He did it surreptitiously, with Rahman’s hand facing downward so no one could see. It was the word Aurangzeb.

“My boss on Alpha. I handled accounts for all kinds of projects.” He spoke quietly, close to Rahman’s ear. “I’ve seen huge amounts of money being diverted into one project in particular.” Again he wrote on Rahman’s palm. Three letters: WFO. Rahman frowned. WFO? What did that mean? Wiffo? Waffo? It meant nothing to him

“And there’s a name that comes up.” Now Numbers wrote, NM. That must mean New Malaysia.

Numbers leaned in so close that his lips touched Rahman’s ear. The older man smelled of hair cream and pipe smoke, and Rahman found it pleasant. He still found it hard to grasp that this dignified imam was his overwhelmed young friend from boot camp.

“Be careful,” Numbers whispered. “Warn your family.” He stood up and clapped Rahman on the back, smiling widely. “It’s been wonderful to catch up with you, subhanAllah. It warms my old heart. You’ll always have a place with me. Come see me on Turkestan when you get out of the UA. If I’m gone, my children and grandchildren will welcome you. They know your name.” His tone grew serious. “I mean it. I’m not just saying that. You have a place with me. You are a Besar, Yasin. There’s a light in you, and no one can put it out.”

He said his goodbyes to the others and departed.

The Female Crab

To Rahman’s right, Abuzaid and Amina Quraishi were conversing about martial arts.

“Have you heard of this Chinese grappling style called Earth Art?” Abuzaid wanted to know. “I have a theory that it could blend well with tiger styles of Silat.”

“That would be useless against the crabs,” Amina pointed out.

“Maybe, but one never knows what enemy he might face.”

“I only care about killing crabs. Speaking of which, I’m going to the combat training room.” She stood.

“To meet with Smasher?” Rahman asked.

Amina paused, her expression serious. “He is a skilled sparring partner. Are you telling me not to train with him?”

“No. Just asking.”

Amina left. Across the table, Zhang and Ami were talking quietly. Rahman listened in, and understood right away that they were talking about a strange incident that had occurred during the battle on the queenship, when a UA soldier had been injured. Rahman remembered it with crystal clarity: Ami was down on her knees, treating the wounded soldier and trying to keep him from drowning in the foul water. A female crab stood over her, and Zhang was threatening the female, telling her to back off. A male crab warrior threw a spear at Zhang, and the female crab blocked it with a section of hull plating that she gripped in one hand. Again it threw, and again the female blocked it. Then Smasher came around the corner and killed the female. As she fell dead, her shield speared the wounded soldier, crushing him.

“I thought at first she was going to smash you both with that hull plating,” Zhang said. “I was about to stab her with my trident. Then she blocked those spears and I realized she was protecting you. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Ami shrugged. “I didn’t see any of that. I was so focused on trying to save that private.” Her tone turned bitter. “I might have, if Smasher hadn’t killed him. Stupid idiot.”

“No way. Sorry Ami, but that guy was burnt roti. His guts were hanging out like flags on independence day. Nothing you could have done.”

“Maybe the female was pregnant. Maybe her maternal instinct was activated. A primal drive to protect, that she couldn’t even control.”

“I don’t know. I just feel bad about what happened. And you know me, I’m not sentimental.”

Genmods

A couple of soldiers sitting on Ami’s other side had tuned into the conversation. They looked Chinese, but must have been from one of the genmod colonies, because they were both huge, two meters tall and packed with muscle. Their skin glowed with health. They wore UA uniforms, and had the look of infantrymen.

“Hold on,” one of them said, leaning in toward Ami and Zhang. “What the warp are you talking about? You saying some girl crab was your friend? That you liked her? What kind of warping crap is this?”

“That’s why you shouldn’t have women in the army,” the other genmod hulk said. “Warping biǎo zis don’t have the heart for it.”

“Guǎn hǎo zìjǐ de shì,” Zhang said calmly in Chinese. “You don’t know anything about us, and you didn’t see what we saw.”

But the genmods’ mood had turned sour. Rahman recognized the battle stress of men just off the front lines. Plus, from what Rahman had heard, some of these genetically modified colonists were not good with emotional control. When you went screwing with the genome, sometimes you ended up with side effects.

“Warping biǎo zi,” the one beside Ami said, and threw his cup of water in her face.

Rahman was on his feet in a flash. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. He leaped up onto the table with his dinner tray in his hand, food flying. He took a single step and kicked the genmod in the face with the sole of his boot. The man’s nose snapped audibly, and he flew backward out of his seat. The other brute had only begun to rise, and with Rahman’s accelerated system, the genmod didn’t stand a chance. Rahman slammed him across the side of the head with the edge of the dinner tray. The man crumpled in place, unconscious, blood pouring from a wound above his ear.

Chaos

Shouts rose in the dining hall. Someone grabbed Rahman’s leg from behind and tugged, nearly toppling him. He spun, delivering a side kick with the other leg, and felt the impact as his boot crashed into the chest of a Caucasian man in a lieutenant’s uniform, who tumbled out of his seat.

Chaos erupted. It seemed that nearly the entire mess hall was on its feet. Around Rahman, people were brawling in the aisle. There were screams of panic, no doubt from frightened civilians. But Rahman and his companions seemed to be forgotten in the insanity. The hum of a laser rifle sounded and something exploded overhead, sparks showering down from the roof. Rahman instinctively reached for his own laser pistol – and his hand froze. He couldn’t move it.

“No need to escalate, Boss,” Sayana said inside his head. “I estimate an 82% likelihood that the discharge you heard was accidental. These are your own people. I can’t have you getting killed.”

Rahman fought to move his hand, not because he still wanted to draw his gun – Sayana was right – but out of an obstinate refusal to accept her control over his body.

Abuzaid grabbed him and shouted in his ear. “Captain, let’s get out of here!”

“Fine,” Rahman said, ostensibly in reply to Abuzaid, but knowing that Sayana would understand. “You’re right.”

The hold on his hand was released. Ducking down, he called out to his people, and led them out of the dining hall.

A Blessed Life

Safely outside and once again in the hover car, they laughed. But Rahman did not join in the laughter. He was thinking of how Sayana had once again taken control of his body.

Tomorrow was the medal ceremony. And the day after that they would arrive at Hira station above NewMalaysia. Rahman had been given a nasty job, and he hadn’t even studied the file yet. He couldn’t put it off any longer. If Bakri had been telling the truth, millions of lives depended on it.

What would it be like on NewMalaysia? Fifty years would have passed there too. Was his mother alive? And his brothers and sisters? Was his home still there? What had Numbers meant, that NewMalaysia was not a good place to be? And that he should warn his family. Warn them of what? And what was WFO? Maybe Rahman would be able to see Numbers again before he left, and ask him. Whatever it was, it was so terrifying, or so secret, that the man had been unwilling to speak it out loud.

Seeing Numbers again had left him with a bittersweet feeling. What a kind and educated man his old friend had turned out to be. And what a blessed life he’d lived, mashaAllah. Was it too much for Rahman to want some of those things for himself? Was it impossible?

* * *

Next: All That Is In The Heavens, Part 17 – On His Own Terms

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.