Echo of Tomorrow: Book Two (The Drake Chronicles) (27 page)

“We will have to assume they know we have spy devices in their camp and are in the process of actively disabling them,” Shariatmad replied moodily. The spy devices were the main reason they’d learned so much about the deviants’ plans. Adding to that, the information and technical data theirs spies had stolen meant they could stay several steps ahead of anything this Scott Drake person planned.

“One thing is clear. Very soon our esteemed President Westwood will have to go.” He said at length.

Randolph murmured softly, knowing he was treading on shaky ground, “As much as I agree that he has been far too helpful to these deviants, it might be a little premature to get rid of him yet.” The fact that Westwood had bent over backwards in the beginning to provide a place for these people to live and work, all in the belief he was doing the best for the world, didn’t help Randolph’s cause. The Supreme Ayatollah vented his spleen when he’d heard about it, but since Westwood wasn’t a member of the inner council, the president wasn’t aware he should have reported to Shariatmad first, and received his instructions on what to do next.

The Ayatollah shook his head, hearing Randolph’s cautionary words. “His usefulness as a figurehead is becoming limited now that these people have taken the corporate leader’s children hostage. Couple that with him becoming a little too inquisitive about our prehistory. Westwood also appears to be siding with these deviants more and more.” Ayatollah Shariatmad shook his head slightly and pursed his lips. “This last move, of rounding up scientists and technical people and shipping them to Zealand, is very troubling, so I think it’s time we replaced him with a more … um … pliable candidate.”

Randolph realized he’d have to change course. “I agree. His sympathies and loyalty to us … to the people, is waning. After our last conversation, and his refusal to consider using more drastic means of controlling these people … this leads me to believe he is no longer a true son of Islam.”

Shariatmad nodded, understanding Randolph’s tack. “I’m sure our president is well aware of the penalty of being an apostate. Not that we have had to use this penalty in the last two hundred and eighty-odd years. But, with him seeming to allow the introduction of these new religious philosophies, Christianity, Buddhism, Judaism and the like … it seems to me we will have to reintroduce those penalties, if these apostate religions start springing up in the general population outside of Zealand.” The Ayatollah looked around at the council members with dark, hooded eyes. Time to crack the whip.

“There is no god but Allah, blessed be his name, and Muhammad is a messenger of Allah,” he intoned. “Let those who do not believe beware.”

The words echoed around the room, as each of the council members repeated the words. It was also a not-so-subtle reminder that he, the Supreme Leader, held the power of life and death of each member in his hands.

“If I might suggest,” Council member Lumumba raised his hand. “Perhaps we should employ stronger measures to eliminate these people, maybe even jihad.” Being the youngest member of the inner council permitted him a slightly greater degree of forgiveness.

“True, we might employ stronger means of combating, or controlling these people once we have sufficient weapons, but what about the aliens?” Randolph asked before the Ayatollah could reply. The young man’s dark face pulled into a frown. Either through ignorance, or blind loyalty, Lumumba didn’t grasp the simple fact, that even if the Supreme Leader did call for a jihad against these people, bare hands or sticks were no match for even the simple battle rifles these people used. He either hadn’t watched, or dismissed the sheer slaughter these deviants had handed out to fully equipped alien combat troops.

Lumumba quickly said, “Surely, your eminence, you can prevail on Allah to guide you in finding a way to placate these beings from the stars?”

The Ayatollah smiled mirthlessly and nodded. He knew that Allah had nothing to do with placating these beings. Keeping them supplied with an endless stream of surplus young people would. What they wanted them for, he didn’t know, nor was he particularly interested. Reducing the overcrowding in the major cities was. No matter how much money they spent, the overcrowding became worse every year, but introducing any sort of birth control was out of the question, being against the very foundation of Islam. Allowing it would cause the very revolution he wanted to avoid, like the one that brought his family to power in the first place, and threaten his position.

And yet, if his economists were correct, within a few years they wouldn’t be able to produce sufficient food to feed everyone. That brought up the specter of food riots and mass starvation. Hungry people would look to the government for a solution, one they couldn’t address. His only solace was that few knew he and this inner council ran everything. For a while, he could hide behind the shield of their ignorance. Publicly, he called for the resignation of the minister of supply, or food production, and would even have the minister publically beheaded as an example. That would only hold the masses back for a while. What then?

“I will prevail upon Allah, blessed be his name, in my prayer to guide me in this matter.”

The hypocrisy of his words didn’t bother him at all. Religion was about power and control, rather than faith, and like any other corporation, he and his inner circle were in the business of selling a product. Their product was intangible, so they never had to prove it existed in the first place. They didn’t have to abide by any consumer regulation, never had a product recall, and never had to prove what they were selling was real. PR and advertising had always been the key to selling a product, and, like any good con, you only had to get the consumer to believe. Once he did, he was yours for life. In many ways, religion was like insurance, where the reward was in the next life, not this one. The promised reward was paradise, and so far no one had ever come back to complain they didn’t get what was promised.

In his youth, Shariatmad had believed, and even though he’d never admit it, a small part of him still wanted to believe. His father had shown him the truth, however: that all forms of government were based on deception, no matter what they called themselves. You just had to package it in such a way that the people never realized the sham until it was too late. Once you’d gained the power and control, it didn’t matter what the people thought. A religious form of a socialist government was even more deceptive, his father taught him, since they claimed their authority came from an unseen god called Allah, and through his imams and acolytes, they spread the word of reward for the faithful, and punishment for the non-believers. It was a great system, and even if challenged, leaders like him could always hold both hands up, look pious, and proclaim, “Insha’Allah,” it is the will of Allah. After seeing the day-to-day workings behind the scenes, the young Shariatmad saw behind the curtain, and soon after followed in his father’s footsteps to the leadership.

At last the meeting ended, with no real answers or new orders being given. With so little new information to go on, all they could do was continue on the way they’d been going, and hope for the best. Shariatmad retired to his private meditation chamber and locked the door. That was the signal to everyone in the palace that he wasn’t to be disturbed. Sitting on the soft divan, he prepared his hookah, and drew in the fragrant smoke while he contemplated the future. The room was well lit with soft, discreetly hidden lighting, except for one dark corner behind him, and it was from there he heard something stir. Supreme Ayatollah Mohammad Kazem Shariatmad shivered, knowing without looking what it was, remembering stories his grandmother told him about jinn and monsters from the dark pit of the underworld. He’d only dared look upon the horrible monstrosity once, seeing a black, shapeless something, seething with some unearthly energy, that morphed into a vaguely humanoid shape dressed in equally black robes. It spoke to him now in a hollow, grating voice that whispered promises of power and immortality, of spreading the word of Islam to the stars and beyond, with Shariatmad at the pinnacle of power. The voice was seductive as always, feeding his fears and his lust for power for such a small price. Reducing the world population by harvesting the unwanted people answered so many of his earthly problems of overpopulation and growing world hunger. In this, the voice spoke truth. It was only when the first harvester ship arrived and began taking only the young that Shariatmad realized the terrible bargain he’d struck. He’d been assured that his children were in no danger of being taken, or those of his most trusted circle, but it did little to help relieve the guilt he felt. Then these deviants arrived via cold sleep, and the creature’s requests became demands. Demands for information he couldn’t answer. That was the first time he’d felt the pain the creature could inflict on his body and soul. That first time felt like an eternity of torment, yet lasted barely ten seconds.

“What information do you have for us?” the creature whispered.

“None, holy one. Our sources have told us little other than these people are building new warships and preparing better weapons for the next visitation of the aliens.” A hair-thin filament of pain wormed its way down Shariatmad’s body, from head to foot, contorting the Ayatollah’s body into strange positions. The hookah dropped from his nerveless fingers.

“Find more information, or else.” Then the pain was gone, and Shariatmad sobbed in relief.

“Yes, holy one,” he whimpered, dropping to his knees in abject submission. As silently as it arrived, the creature retreated back into the shadows from which it came, and vanished.

* * * * * *

With guards in tow, Scott strolled rapidly from the bachelor officers’ quarters to his office, meeting Brock on his way. They chatted about nothing in particular, still leery of bugs and what-have-you until they were safely inside the anti-bug field now set up around all major buildings. If all went well, every building on the base would soon be protected, with the additional security of a bug detector and zapper over each entranceway. Finding that some bugs were as small as a grain of rice was an eye opener, and it didn’t take their R&D boys long to come up with a detector and zapper. At least now, they knew how the information was getting out, and with luck, they’d soon find the collection unit for the short-range bugs, and who was retransmitting them to the mainland.

As they walked into Brock’s office, a young woman shot to her feet and came to attention. She looked from one to the other, half raising her hand in a salute, but not sure which one she was saluting. Scott smiled, wondering how long she’d been out of boot camp.

“At ease, trooper.” As he spoke, the young woman pulled herself up and finished the salute to Scott. He returned it, seeing Brock cock an eyebrow at him behind her back as he walked to his desk and sat.

“So, what brings you to Colonel Brock’s office this early in the morning, trooper?” Scott asked.

“I … I was told by Captain Mitchell to report to him, sir.” She held out a file. Scott took it and passed it to Brock as he sat in an easy chair beside Brock’s desk.

“At ease, Marine, and you are?” Brock asked.

“Allway … um … Private First Class Akilah Allway, sir.” At what Scott judged to be four feet ten inches tall, she was a little short for the usual Marine Corps standards, but with the influx of so many young people from the “mainland” begging to join, that standard had to be relaxed a little.

She wore her long hair in a tight bun, as regulations required, and looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. In appearance, she didn’t look much younger than Scott or Brock, who looked to be about twenty-five to anyone who didn’t know their history. Young they might look, but they saw the world with old men’s eyes, and, and no one meeting them for the first time could dismiss them as inexperienced young men. Yet the same couldn’t be said for the nervous young woman standing before them, ill at ease. Ever suspicious, Brock wasn’t above thinking she might be a plant. “And where are you from, Private First Class Akilah Allway, and how did you get here?”

“I’m … I’m from a little town called Fenway in the Western Prefect, sir. I heard about you from the imam during a sermon on obedience.”

Neither Brock nor Scott had ever heard of the place, but what was now called the Western Prefect was once the United States. “Go on,” Brock said.

“The imam was talking about how deviant women here in Zealand … I mean New Zealand, went about without a hijāb, or niqab.”

“Deviant, huh.”

The girl blushed. “I’m … I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply …” She stopped when Brock held his hand up.

“No need to apologize, Private. We’ve heard it all before, and spoken less politely,” he added, reading the file as she spoke.