Good News!

I’ve embarked on this writing journey a few years ago when I decided to start this blog. My love of science fiction coupled with my mounting frustration at the glaring absence of Muslim voices in this genre motivated me to launch Muslim Futurism. In this little corner of the blogosphere, I’ve come to find a space that not only allowed me to explore my own imagination, hone my writing skills, but also get some lovely feedback from those of you who kindly took the time to read my stories. This space as well as the encouragements of my close friends finally gave me the courage to branch out from the confines of my little blog and out into the world.

Sharing one’s stories with an audience is intimidating and nerve-racking; after all who wants to be told that they are bad at something they love so much. Nonetheless, the desire to share the stories that live in the depths of one’s mind can overcome one’s initial fears. Your comments and encouragements gave me the boost I needed to finally take a chance and get out of my comfort zone, and for that I want to thank you all.

It is with a great deal of pleasure that I’d like to announce the publication of my story “Matrimonial Quest at Luna Prime and Other Existential Dread” in Fireside Magazine. You can take a gander at it here.

Many thanks again for your continued support.

Pilgrim (Part 2)

It heard them from the depths of its perpetual slumber; bursts of electrical signals emanating from far away, jumbled and faint. It tried to sink back further into the tranquility of its tenebrous stillness but sleep was hard to find, driven away by the promise of something far more alluring…..life! This aroused in its core a long forgotten sensation dancing at the very edge of an insatiable craving. It slowly stretched itself out into the void, chasing these echoes, trying to pinpoint their exact origin. Life! It was beckoning to its, now fully, awakened hunger. Spurned by this urge, it franticly searched in every fold of the void’s ever-entangled networks, expanding and retracting only to travel into a new direction. It searched for what could have been millennials or just the blink of an eye as it stretched itself further; pouring out into the void’s manifolds, fracturing and splintering across immeasurable expanses. The echoes grew louder as it got closer to a tiny nexus dancing brightly in the darkness. Life!

***

Location: Hyperspace

Date: Dhul Qadah-15th-1956 (Hijri calendar) / March 6th, 2025 (Gregorian calendar)

Captain Yassin Umarov squeezed the armrest of his chair as he watched his devoted crew working diligently. The Howling Storm was a monster of a ship, a gigantic cruiser built to ferry passenger from the outer planets to the core systems. A marvel of engineering, it was meant to withstand the instability of hyperspace. Despite its reinforced double-layered plating and its dual navigators, Umarov never underestimated the dangers of such a journey. As the convoy progressed through an unstable and hostile environment, where the very laws of physics that governed normal space broke down into chaos, Umarov became increasingly on edge. The convoy was larger this year than ever before. He had to increase the number of available cryo-pods and turned most of the fourth deck into a storage area for them.

One of the perks of travelling aboard the ships belonging to the consortiums was the relative comfort one could enjoy as their passenger. On long and gruelling journeys, suspended animation was a way for the wealthy to avoid the unpleasant effects of hyperspace on the human body. They slept comfortably in their rented cryo-pods and waited to be awaken from their artificially induced sleep, like the fairy tale princesses of olden times, once their destination was reached. The Howling Storm was the lead ship guiding the convoy through this journey. For Umarov, this was more than a simple voyage, it was a matter of reputation. To be the captain that lead the largest convoy of pilgrims to Hajj and back safely would ensure his entry in the annals of space travel.

“Yaqub, how are we holding up?” he asked his first mate.

“Our plating is holding for the moment, Captain. But, we had to dispatch more repair crews to deal with all the tears. I’m not sure if we can sustain this kind of tremendous pressure for too long.”

“What about the rest of the convoy?”

“We are getting reports of increased tears from almost every ship and even a few hull breach incidents from the smaller ships. We need to get out of hyperspace as soon as possible, Captain.”

“That won’t be possible, Captain. We are still far from the exit point,” replied the Howling Storm’s operations officer.

“Can the navigators plot a new course? One that would allow us to exit hyperspace quicker?” Yassin asked.

“Our current trajectory is the shortest one calculated by the navigators. Of all the possible exit points, this is the closest one to Earth.”

“Alright then. Yaqub, increase our speed and get us to the exit point as quickly as possible. Send a message to the rest of the convoy and tell them to match our speed and remain in a tight formation, we don’t want to lose anyone. Open a direct channel to the Nile, I need to speak to Captain Abdallah.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Yassin, what is this I hear about increasing our speed?” the booming voice of Ayman Abdallah, the captain of the Nile, resonated through the Howling Storm’s bridge.

“We can’t sustain this level of pressure for too long Ayman, it is getting too dangerous. We have to get out of hyperspace as soon as possible.”

“And end up hitting headfirst a tear or God forbid a rogue tendril? We might end up getting a little banged up along the way if we stay the course but at least we’re not going to destroy ourselves by going too fast and increasing the risk of an accidental collision with a micro-fissure by tenfold. This is a bad idea Yassin.”

“A little banged up? Is that what you call hull breaches? Listen Ayman, I have every intention of getting this convoy to Hajj in one piece. The last time I checked I’m the one leading this convoy and the one everybody is complaining to about all their woes along the way. Fall into formation and close the rear end of the convoy, make sure there are no stragglers when we increase the speed.”

Yassin cut the channel abruptly before the other man could respond. The last thing he needed was an endless back and forth with the notoriously stubborn captain of the Nile. He closed his eyes for a second and made a silent dua for wisdom and quietude. He had to remain calm to lead the convoy through this perilous journey. A burst of light suddenly engulfed the entire ship and violent tremors rocked the cruiser.

“What is going on? Yaqub, report”

“Captain, we are caught in….something,” Yaqub replied as he and the operations officer tried making sense of the readings from the external sensors.

“What do you mean something. What is going on exactly?”

“I don’t know Captain, I don’t understand these readings. I’ve never seen anything like this before. It seems we are trapped, but there’s nothing out there, Captain. Our sensors are not picking up anything.”

“What about the other ships?”

“The first half of the convoy seems to be trapped just like us. We are getting Mayday signals from almost all of them.”

“Open a channel immediately to the Nile.”

“Yassin, what is going on?”

“Ayman, it seems we, and half the convoy, are trapped in something we can’t identify yet. Take the lead and regroup with the rest of the ships away from our current position.”

“Subhanallah.”

“We’ll try to free ourselves but if we can’t, you’ll have to lead the rest of the convoy to Earth, Ayman.”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s just focus on getting you out of this thing.”

“We will attempt a reverse thrust. Inshallah, this will do the trick.”

“Inshallah khair,” Ayman replied before breaking communication.

“Alright, transfer all the power to our reverse thrusters and pull us away from our position. Tell all the other ships to do the same.”

“Yes, Captain.”

***

Safiya felt as if her head was about to explode. The throbbing and the waves of nausea were unbearable. All she wanted to do was crawl into the darkest corner of her shuttle to hide from all the stimuli overwhelming her senses. She could barely feel Shamsuddin and that only made matters worse. Forcing herself to push beyond the chaos in her mind, she reached out to her brother in a desperate attempt to find an anchor to hold her steady. Shamsuddin, help!

***

“We are drifting further from Safiya’s shuttle, Captain. We need to regain control of the ship,” Dahir yelled as he sat in the pilot’s chair and attempted to correct their trajectory.

Hamza cradled Shamsuddin in his arms as he gently put him on the ground. The young man suddenly lost consciousness just as a bright light engulfed the ship and hyperspace became even more unstable than usual. Suleiman rushed to the supply cabinet and grabbed the first-aid kit.

“Quickly, Suleiman!” Hamza yelled as he continued to hold an unconscious Shamsuddin.

“Safiya, come in. Safiya, can you hear me?” Dahir tried hailing the shuttle once more while struggling to stabilize the ship.

“Come on Shamsuddin, wake up!” Hamza tried coaxing him back into consciousness while Suleiman scanned him for injuries.

“I can’t find any injuries on him, captain,” said a rather worried Suleiman.

***

Shamsuddin was floating alone in the darkness. He felt small and weak as if his body was shrinking. For the first time in his life he was truly alone, but instead of the fear this should have elicited, he was strangely calm, becoming more and more lethargic as he continued to swim in the darkness. There is nothing he wanted more than to simply let go and sink deeper into the ambient quietude. He felt warm and tranquil.

Shamsuddin, help.

It was but a whisper in the darkness, the remnant of something forgotten. It lingered at the periphery of his consciousness, desperately trying to take hold of his mind. He turned away from it, seeking the comfort of the blackness instead.

Please, Shamsuddin I need you. I’m scared.

Safiya. The name suddenly came to his mind bringing in its wake a deluge of images, memories, feelings. Sister, a recognized kinship followed by twin, an undeniable bound and a part of himself. It was calling out to him, frail, scarred, and lost. Safiya! He yelled from the confines of his mind. She needs me! That thought stirred him out of his torpor. Safiya! He yelled louder this time.

Shamsuddin, I can’t move. Where are you? I’m scarred.

Awakened by his sister’s distress, his previously dormant mind was now alert. He realized, to his horror, that he was nothing more than a consciousness adrift in a sea of emptiness. The darkness he once found so inviting was now incredibly unsettling to him. The thought of Safiya alone in the dark, trapped and scarred sent his mind into a frenzy, shattering the lethargy that almost swallowed him. A single frantic thought inundated his mind; I need to find Safiya. In the midst of his restlessness, his senses caught a glimpse of a presence. At first he ignored it, driven by the urgent need to locate his twin sister. He convinced himself that his mind, in the absence of stimuli, was playing tricks on him.

Suddenly, a feeling of utter dread invaded his entire being. He felt like a prey being hunted, corralled, and stalked. He could sense it in the emptiness; something in the dark was watching him. Reaching out with his senses, he probed the darkness. But there was nothing tangible there, nothing that could explain what he sensed before. He persisted in his probing and calmly opened himself to the surrounding darkness. But he could sense nothing but the emptiness itself. Pushing his senses further, he decided to focus on a single area in the black to scrutinize. There, in the enveloping darkness there was indeed something. It was almost indistinguishable from the darkness itself, a part of it that somehow felt different….alive? Shamsuddin thought to himself. But how could it be? Was he simply going mad trapped in this all-encompassing emptiness? He continued probing the same focal point with his senses, trying to ascertain his initial intuition. He searched until he found it.

There was a small thread, imperceptible at first, floating gently as if carried by an invisible tide. How he didn’t notice it earlier, he couldn’t tell, but there it was, camouflaged in the darkness. He followed the thread only to realize he was ensnared in it, held tightly in its embrace. Panic flooded his mind as he watched it pulsating faintly like a tendril. Forcing himself to remain calm, he followed the path of the thread; he followed it until he reached a small light ensnared just like him. It was afraid, he could sense its fear and despair as it struggled to free itself from the thread’s embrace. Shamsuddin, the little light cried out.

Further in the darkness, passed the little light, he could sense a maelstrom of fear, confusion, and despair turned into a deafening tumult. The convoy! A horrified Shamsuddin realized that they were all prisoners of whatever was lurking in the dark.

End of part 2

Featured image from: https://wall.alphacoders.com/big.php?i=654778

Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited without the permission of the author.

 

Pilgrim (Part 1)

Location: Sawdakin (planet)

Date: Shawwal-20th-1956 (Hijri calendar) / February 11th, 2520 (Gregorian calendar)

The old man could still see in the far distance the beautiful constellations that populated the night sky, shimmering like strings of white pearls in the soft brightness of dawn. His eyes soon found their target shining faintly in a little corner of the heavens. A deep yearning took hold of his heart as he longingly watched the object of his interest streaking across the sky, leaving behind a fine white trail as it negotiated its descent.

“Alhamdulillah, it is here at long last. Maïmouna, we must get ready and let the others know. Send word at once,” the old man said to the young woman sitting nearby and playing with a small piece of rock laying on the ground.

Maïmouna lazily turned her head toward the old man calling out to her. Sighing deeply, she rose to her feet and slowly walked toward the small hand carved table tucked near the massive cage filled with cooing birds. She often pictured herself going on countless adventures in some distant lands, leading an existence filled with excitement; but life held no such wonders for those born in the farthest flunks of humanity’s ever-expanding civilization.

Life on Sawdakin, the only habitable planet in the system, was not easy, with its rugged and arid landscape peppered with desolate mountains, endless deserts, and deep gorges sheltering the last few rivers and oases from the constant dust storms. The perpetual pinkish hue that draped the land reminded the first settlers of the red shade so common to the rose flowers of their native Earth. The few cities built in this hostile and barren world were located in the oases scattered across the eastern shore of its southern hemisphere. This was not a planet teeming with natural resources nor was it located near any major trade routes. Only a few merchant ships came this far to purchase the multicolored minerals mined in its mountains and often used for decorative purposes. Despite the hardships, however, Sawdakin remained a cherished home to Maïmouna and her people. A place where they could chart their own destiny.

“Hurry. It is almost time,” the old man said, his voice laced with just a hint of impatience.

“Sorry,” Maïmouna muttered as she hastened her steps.

She opened the cage, gently retrieving a bird and placing it on the small perch affixed to the table. Maïmouna knelt on the meticulously carved slabs of stone covering the terrace and sat on her folded legs. She poured a small amount of water in a cup containing a thick black paste and gently stirred the mixture with a thin copper plated stick. Once blended to her liking, she held the cup atop the small flame emanating from the remainder of a well-used bougie, before pouring the now sufficiently heated black goo in a silver-inlaid cast brass inkwell.

“I am ready, grandfather.”

“Good. Tell them to make their way here as soon as possible. We depart in ten days,” the old man said.

He sat in a small section of the terrace adorned with multicoloured cushions and poured himself a cup of tea, enjoying the delicious spices simmered to perfection in his morning brew. He watched as his granddaughter retrieved a pen from its case, dipped it ever so smoothly in the freshly prepared ink and skillfully transcribed on a small piece of paper his message. She then rolled it up and placed it in a tiny sash that she attached to the bird’s leg before releasing it. As it took flight, it soared above the sprawling beige coloured city. Carved from the rocks mined from the surrounding mountains, Tenazzir gleamed in the morning light like an apparition emerging from the verdure of its oasis.

“Travel safely by Allah’s permission,” said the old man as he watched the bird fly West toward the mining encampments.

***

Location: Sawdakin (planet)

Date: Dhul Qadah-1st-1956 (Hijri calendar) / February 21st, 2520 (Gregorian calendar)

 

From the bridge of the Matahari Terbit, Shamsuddin gazed into the horizon, trying to ignore the presence lingering at the very edge of his mind. Behind him, he could hear Suleiman al-Masri, the operations officer, furiously debating Dahir Abu Bakr, the ship’s first mate, over the accuracy of his latest calculations. For Shamsuddin and his twin sister, these things came naturally; they didn’t even really need to think about it. Being born in the void has its advantages, he thought to himself. Suleiman, however, always insisted on meticulously verifying the precision of their charted paths. After all, it was out of the question that anything bearing his name should ever be qualified as sloppy or incompetent; professional pride obliges. But could Shamsuddin really begrudge him his obsessive behaviour when journeying through hyperspace involved so many perils? Probably not, the young man remarked to himself before returning to his contemplation of the rugged landscape sprawled at their feet.

Unlike her brother, Safiya never trivialized Suleiman’s apprehensions. Getting lost was not the worse fate that could befall them in hyperspace. Travelling outside of normal space was a dangerous endeavour. One had to not only safely access hyperspace but also navigate through its ever-fluctuating tendrils without colliding headfirst with the hundreds of thousands of tears that littered the space-time continuum, and miscalculating when and where to exit it was a sure way of getting irretrievably lost in this cosmic maze. However, as humanity spread across the vast expanses of space, travelling in this fashion became the only way of circumventing the constraining ramifications of distance on space travel.

If short voyages were possible with most navigation systems, longer journeys involving several jumps and longer excursions through hyperspace required far more sophisticated systems powered by very advanced AIs. Outside of military vessels, only merchant ships sponsored by rich proprietors and commercial fleets belonging to influential consortiums were outfitted with these types of navigation systems. Independently owned ships like the Matahari Terbit were relegated to shorter and less lucrative runs.

Safiya landed one of the Matahari’s short range shuttles while Zubair, a member of their engineering crew, made a last sweep of the shuttle’s interior. He looked through one of the shuttle’s windows and whistled as he set eyes on the crowd waiting patiently outside. 

“I think we’ll have to make a few more trips to get everyone,” he said. Safiya hummed in agreement as she continued to finalize the landing procedure. “Can you blame them? Most of them never thought they’ll ever see Earth, let alone go to Hajj,” she replied.

“They keep coming. I don’t think the captain expected so many,” Zubair remarked to Safiya as she opened the shuttle’s main door to let their passengers in.

“Salamu Aleikum, please come in and take the first seat you find,” she said to the excited crowd while helping the old lady ahead of the line into the shuttle.

***

Location: New-Cairo

Date: Dhul Qadah-10th-1956 (Hijri calendar) / March 1st, 2520 (Gregorian calendar)

 

“Candy for sale! All the flavours of the universe at your fingertips. Candy for sale!” the seller repeated anew.

This was a litany he knew too well, one that never failed to attract a passerby or two. The brightly colored taffy filling his metal tray to the brim was the secret of his trade. Once elegantly wrapped around a wooden lollipop stick, the multi-flavoured taffy syrup was sure to attract commoners and Sultans alike. After all, the mother of Suleiman the Magnificent was said to have sworn by the curative nature of Ottoman candy in her lifetime. His little kiosk nestled in the cobblestone street near the Caliph’s palace became, over time, a staple of life in New-Cairo. 

Much like the old cypress trees brought from Earth generations ago, and now, standing guard at the entrance of the palace, he saw himself as an integral part of the landscape. He had mourned his fair share of Sultans and regaled many young princes with his colourful candy. In more ways than one, his life was intricately linked to that of the palace’s inhabitants. Throughout the years he had learned to trust his instincts, and tonight the easterly wind blowing over New-Cairo carried a chill that seeped deep into his aging bones. Troubles are brewing again. Ya Allah! Protect us all, he thought to himself. Shivering lightly, he tightened his short jacket around his body before returning to his usual chant.

“Candy for sale! All the flavours of the universe at your fingertips. Candy for sale!”

Hamza could hear the old candy seller in the distance as he traversed the olive grove leading to the imperial gate of the palace. In the far distance stood the elaborate structures built to house the most affluent inhabitants of New-Cairo. Even the thick fog that blanketed much of the city couldn’t lessen the splendour of these towering odes to wealth and privilege. Hurry you fool! Tonight is not the time to be late, he scolded himself. Arriving at the palace’s gateway, he slowed his pace as he advanced toward the janissary bots guarding the entrance. Allowing them to complete their security scan from a distance, he slowly approached them to present his invitation card.

“Welcome, beyefendi,” said one of them after authenticating his invitation. The bot ushered him through the gate and instructed him on how to reach the second courtyard.

In the daylight, the impressive outer garden was always a sight to behold. The few times Hamza had the privilege of visiting the palace, he was always struck by the majesty of the tree-covered pathway leading to the middle gate. Cypresses, boxwoods, bays and myrtles formed a beautiful archway of greenery; a monument to the botanist guild’s talents in recreating landscapes reminiscent of humanity’s beloved cradle. At night, however, with the only source of light emanating from the torches and garden lanterns along the pathway, these immovable, omnipresent sentinels were casting long eerie shadows that left Hamza uneasy. Tightening his grip around his leather folder, he quickened his steps to leave behind the hauntingly beautiful garden.

Passing through the middle gate, he arrived in the second courtyard. He had never seen this part of the palace before. This was the nerve center of the empire, accessible only to the Sultan and the members of the imperial council. Awestruck by the majesty of the ornate pavilion housing the imperial council chamber, he walked hesitantly toward its imposing entrance guarded by heavily armed janissary bots to present once more his invitation. A young page wearing the distinctive green caftan of the royal pages arrived soon after to usher him inside. Despite the cortege of servants, pages, and guards bustling around the various corridors, the etiquette of silence was meticulously being observed.

Furtive looks and hushed whispers followed Hamza’s passage through the main hallway leading to the council chamber. Despite its importance, the chamber was surprisingly plain. Contrary to the opulence displayed in the rest of the palace, here minimalism reigned supreme. Long red sofas lined the walls, ready to receive members of the council, while a raised hearth, made of an assortment of energy nodules, stood in the middle of the room offering both warmth and light. As his eyes scanned the room, he recognized many of the faces glaring at him with open disdain.

“Please take a seat, beyefendi,” said the young page as he motioned him toward an empty seat.

***

Two palace pages opened the imposing doors of the council chamber and Orhan Pasha, the Sultan’s chancellor, sauntered in, flanked by two men. The absence of the remaining members of the imperial council further emphasized the singular nature of this gathering. The young pages quickly exited the room, closing the massive doors behind them as they left. The guests already seated on the divans stood promptly to great the chancellor and his cortege. 

“Salamu aleikum,” they said in unison.

“Wa aleikum salam, please be seated,” the chancellor replied from his assigned divan.

Mustafa Pasha, the Emir of New-Cairo, sat at his place of honour to the right of the chancellor while Sheikh Murad Abdulsalam, the head of the majlis ul ‘ulama, sat to his left.

“Chancellor, I have invited these guests as you’ve ordered,” Mustafa Pasha said, while motioning to the other men in the room.

“May Allah reward you for your diligence, Emir. As you know, the time for Hajj is upon us again. Every year, the difficult task of choosing which ships will transport the pilgrims falls upon the selection committee. We strive to make our decisions not on the basis of our personal feelings but rather in keeping with our sworn duty to put the interests of the Muslim nation above all else. Sheikh Abdulsalam, Mustafa Pasha, and I would like to thank you all for coming forward and proposing your services in such great numbers. May Allah reward you for your diligence and sincere efforts. After a thorough examination of your ships’ schematics as well as your careers and reputations in the field, we have made our final selection for this year’s convoy.”

“As the chancellor stated, these decisions are never easy. We hope that those of you who were chosen for this most honourable of tasks will fulfill it dutifully, and with distinction,” added Mustafa Pasha. A young page emerged from an adjacent antechamber to hand the Emir a reader emblazoned with the official seal of the Sultan. The Emir immediately started reading the names of the chosen candidates.

“As the head of the assembly of scholars, I would like to add a late addition to the list,” said Sheikh Abdulsalam.

A heavy silence fell upon the room as both the chancellor and the Emir looked at him, surprise and confusion etched on their faces.

“Sheikh, it is entirely too late to be changing the list. We’ve long debated this, and I have made my feelings on this matter perfectly clear. No changes will be made to the list.”

“Chancellor, this system cannot be allowed to continue. Every Muslim should have the opportunity to perform the hajj at least once in their life.”

“If they can afford it. The hajj is only incumbent upon those who have the financial ability to do so,” Mustafa Pasha quickly added.

“How can they? How can anyone who is not rich possibly afford these ridiculously exorbitant fees? What is first and foremost a religiously obligation has become for some quite a lucrative enterprise. We were promised that the Grand Vizier’s office would finally intervene and bring a semblance of order and decency to this situation. We were told that changes were pending to make the hajj more affordable to the masses. Instead, we’ve seen the prices rise even further. It is not that the average Muslim living in the colonies cannot afford to go to hajj, it is that they are purposefully being kept from it by those who have lost all moral bearings,” Sheikh Abdulsalam retorted angrily.

“With all due respect, Sheikh, travelling safely through hyperspace for such a long voyage requires the best possible navigators at our disposal. It is not price gouging that is driving the current increase in fees, it is the unfortunate reality of space travel,” said one of the chosen candidates.

“And of course, according to you Captain Umarov, the current stranglehold of the consortiums and their commercial fleets on said space travel has nothing to do with this situation.” Hamza added sarcastically.

“What stranglehold? Your ship could never withstand the fluctuations of hyperspace for too long and I doubt you own a decent enough navigator to get you halfway to Proxima Centauri. A healthy and competitive system where the best services are proposed by those who can offer them is advantageous to all. Free enterprise is the backbone of our entire industry,” replied the man.

“There is nothing free or particularly entrepreneurial about what you lot do.”

“And I suppose you could do better?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Enough! This is no laughing matter. I appreciate your concerns, Sheikh Abdulsalam, but we will not change the list, nor will I allow anyone to disparage the work of the committee by insinuating that we favour one group over another,” said the chancellor in a commanding voice.

“Let it be said that I, Murad Abdulsalam, remain opposed to what is nothing short of the systematic exclusion of the vast majority of Muslims from what is their right according to the Qur’an and the Sunnah. This will only force the desperate masses to take matters into their own hands.”

“Duly noted, Sheikh,” replied the chancellor, barely hiding his anger toward the scholar.

“As our Muslim nation spread across the stars, we had to devise ways of contending with the harsh realities of space. While I understand your trepidations, Sheikh, I believe that the current system, far from excluding anyone, prioritizes the safety and comfort of the pilgrims,” added Mustafa Pasha in an attempt to placate the recalcitrant scholar.

“Then you are deluding yourself,” retorted the Sheikh.

“Enough! This matter has already been put to rest, Sheikh. Mustafa Pasha see to it that only the ships listed on the official roster join the convoy. One last thing; what we’ve discussed here tonight is of a sensitive nature. In the interest of avoiding the spreading of unnecessary rumours, I ask you all to refrain from discussing it with others. What was said in the confines of this room must never leave its walls. Is that understood?”

“Yes, chancellor,” they answered in unison.

                                                                                  ***

Location: New-Cairo

Date: Dhul Qadah-11th-1956 (Hijri calendar) / March 2nd, 2520 (Gregorian calendar)

Sheikh Abdulsalam walked slowly through the university’s main garden before deciding to sit on a small bench tucked amidst the blooming orange trees. Apprehension once more gripped his heart as he remembered the recent meeting at the palace. He was so lost in his own musings that he barely noticed the arrival of his awaited guest.

“Did you really think that would work?” asked Hamza as he sat beside the Sheikh.

“Of course not.”

“What was the point of this exercise, then?”

“To cover our bases and give them one last chance to do the right thing.”

“You realize the consortiums will consider this as an act of war? They will come after all of us with everything they got.”

“Absolutely. Does that frighten you?”

“Only a fool would underestimate the greed and arrogance of the consortiums.”

“So, you still wish to proceed with our plan?”

“We have to leave tomorrow, if we want to beat the convoy to the punch. Both Umarov and Abdallah are experienced captains and they’ve done this several times before. Overtaking them will not be easy. Keep us in your prayers, Sheikh”

“Do you think your twins are up to this?”

“They were born in the void; hyperspace is more of a home to them than normal space ever was. It is hard to explain Sheikh, but I’ve seen them do incredible things. If anyone can do this, it is them.”

“There is a reason the majlis ul ‘ulama forbade giving birth in hyperspace. Some would even call your twins abominations.”

“They are nothing of the sort. They may not be like us, but they are not monsters either. Fear and ignorance have plagued their young lives enough as it is,” said Hamza his voice laced with anger.

“You care for them deeply, don’t you?”

“As if they were my own.”

“This will only make things worse for them. There will be questions about their identity and how they’ve managed to avoid the culling and your role in it, of course. Are you sure you want to go through with this mission?”

“They’ve made their choice, Sheikh. We all understand what is at stake. But the risk is worth it.”

“Very well then. When you make it there, don’t forget to immediately get in touch with our head office. Even the Sultan will not dare move against you once the Grand Mufti of Mecca extends his hospitality to you and your passengers. May Allah assist you in your perilous journey, captain.”

***

Location: Hyperspace

Date: Dhul Qadah-15th-1956 (Hijri calendar) / March 6th, 2025 (Gregorian calendar)

The Matahari Terbit slowly negotiated its way through the first tendrils, space fluctuating all around them in rapid succession between normal space and hyperspace. The constant vacillation alone triggered nausea and dizziness in several of its crew members and passengers. Unlike interstellar cruisers built to withstand the effects of hyperspace, Hamza’s ship felt every tremor and jolt along the way. The reinforced plating recovered from one of their previous salvage jobs protected the Matahari Terbit from the worse of it, but still the journey was not without its difficulties. In the cargo hold, Maïmouna distributed cold compresses and antiemetic sprays to the passengers reeling from the endless fluxes. Her grandfather, ever the wise elder, started preparing for this voyage months ago. Under his leadership, they gradually stockpiled the necessary supplies to get them through their journey.

She still had no idea how this voyage came to be, only that Captain Hamza’s ship came to Sawdakin about a year ago for the first time. Soon after, she heard whispers about a possible voyage to Earth. Her grandparents remained secretive about the Captain’s visits to their household. Two weeks after the Matahari Terbit’s departure, her grandfather announced during Jumu’ah that since the arrival of the very first settlers to Sawdakin two hundred years ago, pilgrims from their home planet will finally have an opportunity to perform the Hajj.

Like so many who took to the stars to escape the abject misery found in the poorest districts of Earth, Maïmouna’s own ancestors came to the Sannag System as stowaways on a mining frigate. Unlike those bound for official colonies and whose travels where sanctioned by the governments of the various nations on Earth, the vast majority of the people attempting these illegal voyages often experienced dreadful things; kidnapping, torture, extortion, and death were their constant companions throughout their perilous journeys. It was not uncommon for them to find themselves at the mercy of unscrupulous captains who would vent their cargo holds filled with migrants at the first sign of an impending inspection, spacing these poor souls with no remorse. Others simply offloaded their passengers onto mining barges, to be used as indentured servants, rather than taking them to their desired destinations. Maïmouna’s ancestors were to be counted amongst the lucky ones who found a new life amidst the stars.

After her grandfather’s announcement came the endless debates about who should join the expedition. So many were eager to undertake this journey, but Captain Hamza’s ship could only accommodate two hundred passengers. It was finally decided that the elders of Sawdakin should get the priority. Those who worked in the mining industry and who often suffered from the dust illness so prevalent in these encampments were also given priority. Others were chosen to partake in the voyage either as companions to their elderly relatives or due to their skills; Dr. Hassan was amongst the later.

“Maïmouna, bring some water quickly,” the doctor yelled. He was tending to a young woman doubled in half. She was heaving loudly between bouts of faintness and was incapable of keeping anything down. Maïmouna knelt beside the doctor, medication at the ready in case they needed to administer another dose to the ailing young woman.

“Doctor, I don’t think water is going to help,” she whispered to the man.

“We need to keep her hydrated. I’ve heard about the effects of prolonged stay in hyperspace on the central nervous system, but I didn’t expect it to be this bad,” said Dr. Hassan. Maïmouna could sense the helplessness in the young doctor’s voice. She felt bad for him, he was truly a good doctor but this was unlike anything any of them had experienced before. 

“You can only do so much, Doctor. This is a first for us all. No one from Sawdakin has ever undertaken such a long voyage. There’s a big difference between theory and practice. You are doing your best and that is all we can ask of you.”

“Here, let me show you a little trick I’ve learned when I first join this crew. May I?” said a young man wearing a mechanic’s coveralls. He was a member of the crew and had been tending to the microscopic tears littering the ship’s hull; yet another hazard of hyperspace. He approached the group with a warm and gentle smile on his face and knelt beside them.

“Please help her. We don’t know what else to do,” said the young woman’s grandmother.

He gently turned the young lady’s head to the side before grabbing a small disc from his side pocket. Once placed on her temple, she started to relax gradually.

“Sometimes, sleeping it off is the only solution,” he said, ever smiling.

“Jazak’Allah khair. I was running out of solutions,” said Dr. Hassan, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

“Wa iyaka. I’m Zubair, by the way. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask,” he replied before returning to his task.

***

The subtle bursts of colour produced by the bulk of her shuttle gently grazing the sides of the tendrils matched the tinges of pastel adorning Safiya’s hijab. Her mind was perfectly synchronised with her brother’s as they guided the Matahari Terbit through hyperspace. Locked in a perfect dance with each other, Safiya traced the path with her shuttle while Shamsuddin piloted the bigger ship.

“All the money and wealth spent on creating fancy navigators and none of them can match these two,” said Dahir.

“They are faster and more accurate than any navigator I’ve ever seen. It is almost as if they can predict where the fluctuations will occur. Everyone will want a piece of the twins once we reach Earth and they find out how we got there,” added Suleiman.

“Quit yapping, you two, we’re not out of the woods yet. Dahir, where is the convoy in relation to our current location?”

“We are right underneath them, Captain.”

“Safiyah, can we overtake them without them noticing us?”

“We have to wait until our current tendril collides with theirs. If we are not careful and we miscalculate our jump, the shuttle and the Matahari could become separated; each one finding itself trapped in a different tendril.” That elicited a spark of fear in the recesses of  Shamsuddin’s mind. Since their minds were always linked, like two halves of the same whole, the idea of being cut off from each other terrified him.

“Alright Safiya, we’ll follow your lead on this. Tell us what you need us to do,” replied Captain Hamza.

“Shamsuddin, bring the Matahari closer to my position. That way we’ll diminish the risk of an accidental separation. Captain, we’ve never done anything like this before. This is all very experimental.”

“I know. Do your best and we will leave the rest to Allah.”

“Understood captain.”

“We are very close to the convoy now,” said Dahir.

“Did they detect us?” 

“I doubt it, Captain. Almost all of their power is diverted to the navigators and they are too busy scanning for possible tears and holes,” replied Suleiman.

“The tendrils are approaching each other. This will get rough. Hang on,” said Shamsuddin as he moved the Matahari closer to his sister’s shuttle.

Hamza sat on his captain’s chair and braced for the turbulence to come. The bridge of the Matahari Terbit fell silent as the tendrils touched one another in an explosion of blinding lights and colours and the crew held their breath. 

“Say, ‘Nothing will ever befall us except what Allah has destined for us. He is our Protector.’ So in Allah let the believers put their trust,” Hamza recited as his ship negotiated its path through hyperspace.

 

  End of part 1

 

Featured image from: https://www.wallpaperbetter.com/en/hd-wallpaper-tqhvk

Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited without the permission of the author.

Star Crossed: Part Seven

When the shuttle left the boarding station, it traversed the densely populated coastal region known primarily for its exceptional agriculture before entering the semi-arid heartland. As it approached its final destination, it passed through the rugged country of the high plateaus created by the meeting of two great mountain ranges. High elevations, barren steppes, fertile basins, and endless rivers gave the region a distinctive beauty. The shuttle’s last stop was to be the city of Onruk, sprawled along the shores of the Tsenï delta. There, he would find his target. Travelling amongst so many Valdevians was unnerving to say the least; keeping the symbiote in stasis was the only way they could both avoid detection.
 
The hypnotic mantra repeating in a loop deep in the recesses of his consciousness was the only thing keeping it in a slumber. He had to keep himself calm and concentrate on the refrain; intense emotions could break the hypnosis. It was made clear to him that the target will be well guarded, hence the need for subterfuge. He painstakingly visualized his plan of attack and drew his snare around the target. Much like a spider, he wove his ever-expanding web with every bit of information he would receive about his victim’s life. Every new thread giving him yet another vantage point to explore for his final coup de grace. As the shuttle made its final approach to safely land at Onruk, he took a few moments to compose himself and let the stinging pain produced by the countless little tendrils of his new disguise, digging deeper into every pore of his body, wash over him. He was here at long last. 
 
***
 
His eyes, she couldn’t look away from them. His laboured breathing, the fine sheen of sweat clinging to his face and slowly dripping down his beard, it all seemed so surreal as if time itself came to a standstill. Her hand still trembling, she moved closer to him, desperately trying to school her face into impassivity as she lowered her gun to her side. I’m sorry was all she could think as she watched him take his last breath. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un, she thought when he finally closed his eyes. A hand landed on her shoulder and she looked up to meet the hardened and terrifying eyes of a man who bore a strange symbol cut into the very skin of his forehead. She felt uneasy, almost as if he was staring into her soul and could read her most intimate thoughts. I mustn’t let him see, she reminded herself under his probing glare. His face soon broke into a satisfied smile, cupping her face with his hands he said with something close to glee in his voice, “You came to us as a seeker and now you have proven your willingness to embrace the path of true enlightenment. You are ready at last to become a true acolyte.”
 
She forced herself to smile as the older man produced a strange looking knife from his belt and started cutting into her forehead. Rivulets of blood soon ran down her face, turning her vision dark brown. She could feel herself tensing up with every cut, fear surging through her entire being and drowning her in a sea of terror. She was screaming, her lungs burning, but couldn’t hear any sound. There was nothing more than the deafening silence punctuated by the sickening sound of skin ripping as the old man’s knife carved its way across her forehead. NO! NO! She was fighting will all her might to escape his grip. She was thrashing, screaming, biting, kicking, she was a mad woman fighting for her life. Ya Rab, Rescue me! she implored. Her screams finally broke through the silence, shattering the old man’s face into a million shards each one embedding itself into her face; but her mind could not register the pain and agony this should elicit, instead she felt herself suffocating. I’m dying, she thought. WAKE UP! Something yelled at her from the depths of her mind. WAKE UP! She suddenly found herself sitting upright on a bed in a dark room.
 
Where am I? Who am I? Confusion draped her mind like a blanket. She was desperately trying to find her way out of the fog that threatened to drag her back into obscurity. Breathing hard, drenched in sweat, and clenching the blanket laying haphazardly across the bed, she forced herself to take deep, long breaths to calm her racing mind. Soon, light started creeping into the room, gentle and warm at first, followed by the arrival of a young nurse. “Are you alright Zaya? I heard you scream,” the nurse said as she approached the bed and gently touched her shoulder. Still haunted by the sensation of the knife cutting into her skin and the warm blood gushing from it, she flinched away from the touch. “It is alright Zaya, you are safe. Do you know where you are?” the nurse asked. She shook her head and closed her eyes, trying to remember. One single thought overshadowed all the others, more of a memory really. The scent of flowers, a female voice in the distance, melodious and soothing, the  laughter of a child running into strong and welcoming arms: mother, father. She held on to this echo from the past and slowly made her way back to the surface, out of the fog and into the light. Zaya, I’m Zaya. Everything started falling into place one by one, like the pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.
 
“I’m at the Dadali Medical Center on Valdeva Prime,” she said with a sense of relief.
 
“Very good Zaya. Can you tell me what happened? What woke you up?” probed the nurse. 
 
“I don’t know….I can’t really remember. Sorry.”
 
“It is alright Zaya. You are undergoing an extremely gruelling treatment, your mind is still very fragile,” said the young nurse while gently laying Zaya back into her bed.
 
***
 
The old woman closed her eyes as she listened to her young student’s impeccable recitation. She was wearing the traditional blue and gray cloak of Valdevian master poets. Her hijab, adorned with drawings of blooming southern flowers, hugged her gentle face. Wisdom and nobility radiated from her as she basked in the melodious voice of her pupil. The dark grey color of her skin tone contrasted with her veil’s subtle tinges of pastel. Despite her advanced years, Tonbaya Sowen still bore a striking resemblance to her daughter. For many years her presence brought Jorran unbearable pain; she was a constant reminder of what he had lost. His self-imposed exile to Kilwa was the only solution he could conjure up to salvage his strained relationship with his mother-in-law. He knew no one was suffering more than her from the absence of her only child, that her pain was that of a mother.
 
He had tried at first to remain close to Zaya’s family, but he soon found himself consumed by his own sorrow. If his wife’s family allowed him to take her so far away from them, to a station on the fringes of Alliance space, it was out of respect for Valdevian culture which held bonded pairs in high regard. Once a year, her parents made the long journey to Kilwa in order to see their beloved daughter still lying unresponsive in her regeneration tank. Every year his heart clenched with sadness and guilt as he watched his mother-in-law gently reciting Zaya’s favourite poems to her unconscious daughter. When she finally woke up from her coma, Jorran sent a private message to his in laws asking them to keep this news to themselves, citing safety concerns. His unannounced return to Valdeva Prime, Zaya in tow, took her parents by surprise.
 
“Salamu aleikum my son. Do come in,” said the master poet.
 
Jorran was so lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the student’s recitation coming to an end. Since their return home, Zaya’s parents often visited the Dadali Medical Center to bond with their child anew. They were patient, kind, and above all else understanding of their daughter’s unusual condition. She no longer remembered them and couldn’t return their affection. Jorran knew all too well  just how painful that was. Despite all this, they remained the devoted and loving parents they’ve always been to her.  
 
“Wa aleikum salam mother. Forgive the intrusion,” he responded. 
 
“No need to apologize, Maryam was almost done with her assessment. Please come in and take a seat,” Tonbaya said as her pupil stood up to take her leave.
 
“Jazak’Allah Khair Odanji. I hope my performance was worthy of your teachings,” said the young woman.
 
“I am glad to see my efforts have not been in vain,” answered Tonbaya with a faint smile on her lips.
 
“I am honoured Odanji. Wa aleikum salam,” Maryam said before exiting the pavilion.  
 
“I am on my way to visit Zaya. Would you like to join me?” asked Jorran.
 
“It is very kind of you to invite me along. But I do not wish to intrude on your time with Zaya. You are also mending your relationship with her. You both need time to get reacquainted.”
 
“I assure you mother, you are not intruding. I know Zaya would love to see you as well. Please, do me the honour of your company.”
 
Tonbaya gave her son in law a warm smile and nodded. Jorran could clearly perceive the deep sense of affection emanating from his mother in law, but guilt quickly overtook his initial happiness. I’m sorry, he thought.
 
“Enough of that Jorran. I can sense your guilt from here. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You have suffered just as much as us. Let us no longer dwell on the past and embrace instead the blessing Allah has bestowed upon our family,” Tonbaya said.
 
“You are right mother. Alhamdulillah for all things,” Jorran replied. 
 
They both walked out of the pavilion and slowly made their way toward Jorran’s shuttle parked at the very end of the sprawling garden surrounding the Institute of Arts. 
 
 

Featured image from: https://wallpapercave.com/hd-futuristic-wallpapers

Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited without the permission of the author.

 

Star Crossed: Part Six

The soft morning light hit the Masjid’s beautiful dome. Bouncing off its reflecting surface made of millions of crystals, the light passed through its towering prism-like minarets producing a breathtaking display of soft and warm colours encasing the entire structure. It was surrounded by a massive garden dutifully maintained by the botany guild and sectioned off into smaller parcels, each one showcasing a different style of landscaping. The masjid stood at the centre of this lush and intricate maze like a mesmerizing coral gently swimming in a sea of greenery. Four small pavilions were scattered around the garden, embodying various approaches to Valdevian architecture. These ornate buildings provided shelter from the hustle and bustle of the outside world. Reserved for quiet contemplation, they were also a productive space for those committed to the memorization of the Holy Qur’an. The fruit orchard located near the eastern pavilion offered an exceptional view of the surrounding mountains and their renowned beauty.

The glaciers of Genci, standing proudly at eight thousand feet above sea level, served as a majestic backdrop to the city of Onruk. From the heart of these mountains flowed the endless stream of clear blue waters that gave birth to the Batsyang river. As it coursed through the valley bellow foaming and frothing, the watercourse bifurcated along the way into several smaller distributaries driving the precious water further into the confines of the vale. The tumultuous peregrination of the one so often referred to as the mighty flow in Valdevian folklore ended when it poured its sweet waters into the massive repository of the Tsenï delta. Onruk meandered along the shores of this river like a snake slowly stretching into the aptly named valley of thousand lights.

The isle of Sanog stood like a lone sentinel in the middle of the delta. Its shores battered from all sides by powerful tides were carved over time into steep jagged cliffs. A strange spectacle, known to attract many wildlife enthusiasts, unfolded every year in these escarpments as thousands of oürdans converged to the shores of Sanog. These massive bicephalous birds travelled immense distances to complete their annual migratory journey from the woodlands to the delta. The giant cracks, crevices and holes found in these cliffs offered the perfect shelter for their nests, and the Tsenï’s rich waters an irreplaceable source of nourishment for their offspring.

The interior of the Isle was covered by tall grasses and odd rock formations said to have been made by a long extinct hunter-gatherer culture. The Dadali Medical Center was the only structure built on Sanog. The extensive complex occupied a large terrain divided into various departments offering highly specialized care. Valdevian architecture always sought to blend into its surrounding environment, to never eclipse the natural wonders of their many worlds. This need for balance permeated much of Valdevian life: from their artistry to their politics. A subtle push and pull between need and duty; between the necessities of societal existence and the sacredness of all life. Much of the rocks used in the construction of Dadali were mined from deep within the valley. From afar, their natural greenish hue gave the impression that the center was indeed an extension of the surrounding grasslands. This optical illusion was further enhanced at night when, due to an enzymatic reaction unique to this valley’s flora, every plant and fungi emitted a bright bluish glow. The ambient bioluminescence shimmering on its well-polished exterior walls merged the contours of Dadali with the glowing tall grasses of Sanog; rendering the medical centre practically invisible to the naked eye from a certain distance.

***

Zaya was lying on a small bed held in suspension in the middle of the room, her mind still swimming in a haze of confused thoughts, partial images, and elusive recollections. The Memory Regression Chamber was deliberately kept bare, with the exception of the bed and three large probes affixed to the ceiling. Since her admission to the Dadali Medical Center two weeks ago, she underwent daily treatments to rebuild her fractured memory. Her mind was said to have been splintered in such a way that it seemed beyond repair at first; like a mirror pulverized into millions of shards floating in a vast sea of nothingness. Valdevians being a race of telepaths however, understood better than most the intricacies of the mind. A meticulous reconstruction of her shattered inner world was undertaken; every round of this intense therapy attempting to reclaim from the void a little more of her lost memories. The process was not without pain, however. Every session left Zaya exhausted and disorientated, her head spinning with a deluge of disjointed images while unbearable pain coursed through her entire being. During the memory regression process the room was always kept dark, which only added to her post-therapy confusion.

“Take long and deep breaths Zaya,” said the all-too-familiar voice.

She could feel the bile rapidly making its way up as nausea gripped her once more. Light crept back into the room when the previously darkened windows turned translucent. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to look at the landscape coming into view. Her eyes drifted toward the halo of vivid colors shining brightly around the little masjid situated on the other side of the delta. Transfixed by its beauty, she slowly regained control over her racing mind and serenity gradually overcame the dread and confusion. Her thoughts were once more turning toward pleasant memories of a small cloister garden, the sound of water gushing from a fountain, the smell of flowers….and Jorran.

***

The advent of The Great Reformation led by the Seven Enlightened Sages changed the very foundations of Valdevian life. This cultural and spiritual revolution triggered the extensive transformation of their society from a loose federation of warring clans, prone to raiding neighbouring systems, into a largely pacifist civilization. One entirely dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and the establishment of lucrative trade relations. This elevation of intellectual pursuits above all else, as the noblest of all endeavors, contrasted drastically with the prior social order organized along a strict caste system. Where once birth dictated one’s life and place in society, at the detriment of their talents, the reformation weakened the hold of this stringent hierarchical system over Valdevian society. One could now be born into a certain caste and yet find their calling elsewhere: sages becoming merchants, traders taking up the mantle of fighter, builders becoming sages, or warriors turning into farmers.

The sciences and the arts grew exponentially under the tutelage of rich patrons from the trader caste, turning their civilization into a technological juggernaut. In this post-reformation society, a particular disdain was often levelled against the warrior caste seen as the relic of a less evolved and violent past. With their superior technology and shrewd mercantilism, Valdevians who were once nothing more than a minor civilization in their native galaxy, became over the centuries a prominent power not to be ignored. They expanded their settlements to many systems, acquiring vast new territories and spreading their influence throughout the galaxy.

Three hundred years later, the writings of Brenya, a sage hailing from a little-known order, gained traction amongst certain clans of the warrior caste. He bemoaned the loss of what he called the true Valdevian spirit and railed against the prevailing mercantilism. He was particularly incensed by the abandonment of the social strata and customary interactions inherent to the caste system. His philosophy spoke of a return to the glory of traditional values through an ascetic warrior ethos. The current culture, he believed, promoted indulgence in excess and luxuries rendering the Valdevian soul feeble and prone to debauchery. Soon, many warrior clans found in Brenya’s teachings a renewed sense of identity and dignity.His followers called themselves Kadoj Brenya, the devotees of Brenya, and lived their lives according to the sage’s radical philosophy.

Two centuries later, the Kadoj splintered from the rest of Valdevian society and made the Lhail system their new home. Amongst them were those who settled in the mountains of Scatorr and whose dedication to the tenets of Brenya was unparalleled. Taming this savage and inauspicious land was, for the most fanatical of Brenya’s devotees, a testament to their faith. Unlike the rest of the Kadoj, the warrior clans of Scatorr adopted an extremely austere lifestyle prohibiting all luxuries and adhered to a strict code of conduct based on a literal interpretation of Brenya’s tenets. Rigorous self-discipline was for them the only path that could lead to a transcendental state of perfect existence.

Islam reached the Valdevian territories eight hundred years after The Great Reformation when Alduvian Da’ees en route to the Nadji homeworld crash landed on a small planet located in the Tenva System. From there, this new religion spread and quickly gained followers amongst the Valdevian population. As it grew and became the main religion, many reforms were undertaken. The last remnants of the caste system where finally abandoned. The predatory mercantilism, responsible for the staggering prosperity of the Valdevians, was also forsaken as it was deemed anathema to the core precepts of Islam. The Kadoj’s relationship with the greater Valdevian civilization was always difficult and tense. Their brethren’s newfound faith only widened the gap between them. They perceived the Valdevian mass conversion to Islam as yet another proof of their kin’s rejection of traditional Valdevian values. In response, the Kadoj banned all proselytism by Muslim da’ees on their territory, and even went so far as to exile those amongst their people sympathetic to the message of Islam. Eventually, a tenuous rapprochement occurred between the two entities, leading to the establishment of better diplomatic relations. For most Valdevians however, the Kadoj remained their misguided brothers and sisters still attached to backward ideals and in dire need of guidance.

***

The Tallinns belonged to a minor clan who made the Western plateaus of Scatorr their home. While small, the family took great pride in its lineage. They were amongst the first ones to have settled in the rugged and inhospitable mountains of Scatorr. The Book of Rectitude, containing all the writings of Brenya, rested on a prominent altar in their family’s home, serving as guidance to generations of Tallinns and molding them into true devotees. Torean Tallinn and his mate from the Maygare of the Eastern plateaus had three children, the youngest being a little boy named Jorran. As was the tradition, he endured from a young age the harsh training undertaken by the warriors of Scatorr. He was a vivacious child with a sharp and inquisitive mind who longed to see more of the galaxy. In his teens he joined the rangers who patrolled the southern border of the Lhail system. More than once, he watched from afar the alien ships travelling to and fro the neighboring Valdevian system; a deep yearning rising within him each time.

It is during a joint military exercise many years later that he finally had the chance to visit Stariia, the closest Valdevian planet to his home system. While Valdevians where far more technologically advanced than his people, he found them to be too dependent on their devices and lacking the raw warrior instinct and discipline of the Kadoj. He was nonetheless impressed by their capacity to adapt rapidly to change and their incessant curiosity that led them to continuously learn and innovate. A part of him felt strangely at home in this society where his desire to question and to learn new things was not met with disapproval and scorn but was rather encouraged and even welcomed. He started sneaking alone into the streets of Stariia, away from the prying eyes and ears of his fellow Kadoj.

Giving free reign to his overwhelming curiosity, he visited as many of the markets, libraries, houses of knowledge, and masjids as he could without raising suspicion and drawing attention to his frequent disappearances from their barracks. Raised as a devout Kadoj Brenya, he knew very little about the religion of the Valdevians; mostly he heard it came from a distant galaxy and was foreign to everything his people held dear. He asked as many questions as he could on all sorts of subjects and engaged in, at times, frustrating debates on matters ranging from warfare to politics. He quickly realized the severe gaps in his general knowledge and just how little he knew of the world outside of his Kadoj upbringing.

During one of his clandestine excursions, he stumbled upon a group of people offering a recital in one of the city’s public gardens. They all wore blue cloaks adorned with green bands and were reciting Valdevian poems to a growing crowd of enthralled spectators. He later found out that these were young apprentices studying to become master poets. A young woman wearing a light blue veil suddenly took the stage and started reciting The Morning Blossoms of My Beloved’s Heart, a classic of Valdevian poetry revered even amongst the Kadoj. Her melodious voice rose above the sound of water gushing from the fountain serving as centrepiece to the small cloister garden where he stood mesmerized by her recitation. His heart beating wildly, he continued to walk toward her, trying to get as close as possible to the young woman. A deep sense of longing invaded his heart as his mind reached out to hers of its own volition. Embarrassed by this inexcusable breach of decorum, he desperately tried to reign in his wandering mind, but it was too late. The recitation came to an abrupt end as the young poet stood still, her eyes locked onto his. Despite his efforts, his mind stubbornly continued to reach out to hers. A lifetime of self-discipline and strict training melted away as his entire being called out to this woman he had never met before. Somewhere in the inner recesses of his soul he knew what was happening; half intrigued and half horrified he surrendered to the inevitable.

***

Tonbaya Sowen, hailed from a long line of master poets whose achievements shaped Valdevian poetry. The Sowen committed themselves to the teaching and preservation of Valdevian traditional arts, of which poetry was the crown jewel. From a young age, they honed their talents to take up the mantle of master poets. Tonbaya was said to have been exceptionally talented and rose to prominence when she was still a mere youth. She found her mate in Arneda Briin, a young botanist newly arrived from the Tenva system and seeking to join the botany guild. A few years later, they were blessed with the arrival of their only child; a daughter they named Zaya to commemorate Tonbaya’s great grandmother, an illustrious Valdevian master poet. Much like her mother, Zaya took to the arts as a child and showed great promise. Under her mother’s tutelage she thrived and soon joined the prestigious Institute of Arts on Valdeva Prime. She brought honor to both the Sowen and the Briin with her rapid ascension to the highest ranks of apprenticeship. When time came for Zaya to embark on her own search for a mate, her mother had high hopes she would find him amongst the many orders of scholars or the artisan guilds. But, the destiny of Tonbaya’s daughter laid elsewhere.

While a political and economic rapprochement with the Kadoj was deemed necessary and desirable, most Valdevians looked upon them with a mixture of disdain and pity. Their continued rejection of Islam and their attachment to a lifestyle reminiscent of pre-reformation Valdevia further cemented this condescension toward the Kadoj. When Tonbaya Sowen learned that her daughter found her mate amongst these people, she was devastated. Both the Briin and the Sowen have been devout Muslims for countless generations. The idea that their child should be bonded to a Kadoj Brenya was inconceivable for her parents.

The bonding process at the heart of all Valdevian marriages usually takes months during which both parties gradually reach a level of harmony, eventually becoming bonded pairs for life. Both minds would find themselves being pulled inexorably toward each other like two halves desperately trying to become one. Thus, Valdevian courtship was not just a matter of getting to know each other’s proclivities and temperaments; it was also a period of adjustment where both parties forged a telepathic link allowing them to become of one mind and one heart. It is said however that in some rare cases when two minds are completely compatible and in sync, they immediately gravitate toward one another and form an instant bond, as was the case for Jorran and Zaya. Valdevian tradition always held these types of bonded pairs in the highest regard, even when it involved the Kadoj.

Both families begrudgingly accepted the situation, insisting however upon certain conditions. Zaya’s family demanded that Jorran not only embraces Islam but also dedicates the next two years of his life to an intense immersive Da’wah program. Both Arneda and Tonbaya were weary of having  in their family a son in law still beholden to the precept of Brenya. The Tallinns, for their part, insisted on Jorran maintaining the traditions of his warrior clan in his new household and passing it along to his progeny. This meant that Zaya was to abandon her apprenticeship as a poet to embrace instead a career in the military, since all Tallinns must be born of a Valen Sventor or a warrior womb. For Jorran and Zaya, this entailed a great deal of change, each abandoning their previous lives to build a new one together. While their relationship with their respective families was polite and cordial, they knew that centuries of disagreements and mutual disapproval would not simply fade away.

***

A handful of patients strolled quietly through Dadali’s topiary garden, taking advantage of the beautiful late summer weather. Zaya was seating on a stone bench carved from the same greenish rocks that made up most of the medical centre. The specialists had warned her that while she may never completely recover her memory, details of her personal life were most likely to be the first to resurface. To finally remember her past with Jorran, her parents, and parts of her childhood was a beginning she hadn’t hoped for when she first arrived here. But now, she was cautiously optimistic. She felt Jorran’s mind long before she even saw him approaching the bench, as if their bond was getting stronger a little bit more every day.

Featured image from: https://wallpaperbro.com/cool-futuristic-sci-fi

Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited without the permission of the author.

Narratives Are About Power, And They Matter.

Originally published in September 2016

Troublesome Thirties

In August, I had the pleasure of publishing an article in Islam and science fiction called Should a Muslim narrative matter in science fiction? The main idea behind this article was to discuss how, at its best, science fiction as a genre possesses an uncanny ability to offer insightful social commentaries. It presents itself as an interesting and creative outlet to tackle some of the most controversial social, political, and economic issues plaguing mankind. By often taking place in an ever shifting and evolving context far removed from our own reality, it allows people to take a step back, and in doing so disentangle themselves emotionally from the subject matter; thus offering individuals the necessary space to reconsider and revisit the topic from a different perspective.

Fast forward to a month later and parts of my article were quoted in an article published on IO9, a well-known hub for all…

View original post 1,443 more words

Star Crossed: Part Five

He ran endlessly through the pitch black jungle, leaping effortlessly over the massive detritus of mangled roots littering the forest floor. Using his bio-sonar to navigate in the dense wilderness surrounding the Cluster’s outpost, he could hear in the distance the terrifying sounds of the carnivorous creatures that infested the lowlands. Only a few more clicks separated him from his camouflaged jumper. Blowing his own cover to protect another agent was probably the most reckless thing he’s ever done. Running for his life while trying to avoid the Cluster’s acolytes and the ravenous local wildlife was certainly not how he originally planned on ending his mission, but strategy demanded this sacrifice of him.

The grove of old Socoma trees keeping out of sight the clearing where he hid his jumper finally came to view. These giant trees, resembling wooden towers sculpted from obsidian, often grew to unimaginable heights in close proximity. Linking their boughs to one another, they formed intricate domes of lush verdure serving as nests to swarms of colourful songbirds. As he ventured further into the grove, the enchanting melodies emanating from the canopy came to an abrupt end replaced instead by a suffocating silence. The birds watched him closely, monitoring his progression through their territory, remaining vigilant to a possible attack from this bipedal creature now so close to their breeding ground. Finally reaching the clearing, he hid momentarily behind the colossal root of an aging Socoma, waiting to see if his pursuers were still hot on his trail. Reassured that the acolytes had lost his trace along the way, he approached cautiously his camouflaged jumper and gave a verbal command to uncloak the small ship before  running toward it.

His race was soon cut short by a searing pain suddenly ripping through his right thigh. Aware that the acolytes found him again, he continued limping toward the jumper, desperate to avoid capture. Blood was now dripping the length of his leg leaving a long red trail behind him. Dragging his useless limb and clenching his teeth to keep from crying out in pain, he continued staggering toward his ship. He could sense movement all around him, the Cluster’s acolytes were in intercept mode which explained why he was still alive. He couldn’t allow himself to be captured; he had seen first hand how the Cluster deals with its enemies. Despite his years of training in counter-interrogation measures he already knew he would eventually break. Coming to grips with his increasingly dire situation, he decided to make one last stand. Retrieving a small weapon from his shoulder holster he turned around and shot two acolytes advancing on his position. As the two lifeless men fell to the ground he continued shooting, trying to take accurate shots and make the most of his limited ammo.

The remaining acolytes immediately retreated behind the tree line to take cover, waiting for their prey now pinned just a few steps away from his jumper to run out of ammunitions; time was after all on their side. Knowing that they would rather see him dead then to risk having him escape, he decided to force their hand and provoke them into an all out attack that would certainly result in his death. He continued hobbling toward his ship, getting dangerously close to it, almost reaching its port side. Just then a new pain far more intense than the previous one hit him right in his back. Crumbling immediately to the ground, he struggled to take painful breaths while slowly crawling toward his ship. A crimson stain soon bloomed on his shirt as blood seeped from the gaping whole in his sternum. His pursuers now stood all around him with their weapons drawn as if they still expected him to put up a fight. His breathing turning more ragged and finding himself unable to crawl any longer, he laid on his back painfully gasping for air.

An older acolyte, with a purity seal crudely cut into his forehead, crouched by his side trying to assess the severity of his injury. He could feel himself getting lighter as life ebbed from his body; he knew he would die soon and that thought filled him with a strange satisfaction. The world seemed to be tilting around him as the edges of his vision darkened. Amongst the many faces staring back at him, he recognized one whose eyes were filled with a sorrow she hid behind a well-practiced mask of indifference. She held a tracker pistol in her slightly trembling hand, no doubt the one she used to blow a whole in his chest. You did good kid, he thought smiling faintly at her before closing his eyes for the last time.

***

Jorran starred intently at Zaya, trying to detect any signs of distress on her face as she sat silently listening to General Satang. Since the arrival of the army intelligence ship on Kilwa, the entire staff was on edge. Their presence brought back painful memories of the war that left no one unscathed; a conflict that had almost ripped the very fabric of the alliance apart. The climate of fear and distrust that permeated life in those days still lingered under the semblance of normalcy of the postwar era; a buildup of resentment and frustrations waiting for an unfortunate spark to ignite it all. The last time he saw General Satang his life shattered into a million pieces and he became a wounded soul adrift in a world of sorrow. He could still remember the General’s empty words meant to convey sadness on behalf of the State and promises of continued support as he stood over a cryogenic tank containing Zaya’s badly injured body. That image still filled his heart with an incredible pain. Closing his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath to steady his mind, focusing once more on the General’s words.

“You can imagine how pleased we were to hear of your recovery, Lieutenant Briin. I must say however that Commander Tallinn’s decision to not immediately inform Army Intelligence of your sudden improvement is perplexing to say the least,” said the General.

The large vein pulsating in his neck betrayed the anger lacking from his deceitfully relaxed voice. Citing security concerns, Jorran asked both Dr. Tolmen and the psychogeneticist to refrain from sending to headquarters any reports pertaining to Zaya’s case. While he knew the Doctor honoured his request out of loyalty to his friend and commanding officer, the young psychogeneticist obviously didn’t have any such reservations. From the moment Zaya woke up, Jorran knew that her past would eventually catch up to her. He tried to delay the inevitable for as long as he could. The General was well within his right to launch an official complaint and report Jorran’s actions; some might even qualify his insubordination of dangerous and reckless. But, the latest attack on Zaya’s life rekindled his trepidations about her past relationship with the General. More than ever Jorran was convinced that he needed to remain vigilant.

“After reading your medical file, to which the good Doctor gave us access to with great reluctance, it seems you suffer from a rather serious case of memory loss,” said the General while glancing briefly at Jorran before returning his gaze to Zaya’s impassive face. “What exactly do you remember, if anything, of your life in the military Lieutenant Briin?” he asked.

“Nothing. I don’t even know who you are,” answered Zaya in a shaky voice betraying her mounting frustrations at being questioned about a past she could no longer recall.

“Not even a little? Maybe some names or faces from your previous missions?” he insisted.

“I can’t remember anything from my life, not even what I desperately want to recall.”

A gentle yet sorrowful feeling enveloped Jorran as she said this. Sometimes, words only got in the way, cumbersome and too clumsy to really express the depth and essence of one’s true feelings. This however was a purely Valdevian moment between the two of them; two bonded souls sharing a private instant to which the rest of the world was oblivious. This was her way of saying I’m sorry for not remembering you. 

“General, the Lieutenant hasn’t completely recovered yet. She is still struggling. As you already know, she’s been seeing the station’s psychogeneticist since she regained consciousness, and even the therapist doesn’t know how to reverse whatever damages Zaya’s brain sustained. We are taking it one day at a time and trying not to overwhelm the Lieutenant in the process,” interjected Jorran in an attempt to dissuade the General from persisting in his current line of questioning.

“I can appreciate your current predicament Commander. Lieutenant Briin is your wife after all and you wish to protect her. But in her present state, without any memory of her previous life, she is a liability we cannot afford.”

“What exactly are you saying General?” asked Jorran inching forward in his chair; his enlarged black pupils narrowing dangerously as fear and anger coursed through his body. This was a thinly veiled menace, he thought to himself.

“Do not forget yourself Commander. I suggest you take a deep breath before you do something stupid. I’m simply referring to the fact that while she might not recall her past, there are those who would still see her as a possible threat. After all, was she not just targeted by an assassin? Who is to say there are not more attempts in the works?” said the General in a taut voice.

“What did you get her involved in, Satang? You never told me exactly how she got injured or what was the nature of her mission. How can I protect her when I don’t know where the danger is coming from?” asked an agitated and angry Jorran.

“Information pertaining to Lieutenant Briin’s work with Army Intelligence is on a need to know basis, Commander. All you need to know for now is that Zaya was one of our greatest assets and her work was without parallel.”

“What kind of work was I involved in, General?” asked Zaya.

“I’m sorry Lieutenant, but in your present condition I cannot take the risk of discussing your previous work with you. I’m sorry, I know this not what you want to hear Lieutenant, but it is for the best.”

“Best for whom exactly? It is obvious that I was involved in something so secret that even Commander Tallinn couldn’t find any information on it. I don’t know how close we were, but I have a feeling I was working directly under you. If I was, as you claim, one of your greatest assets, then I’d like to think that I’ve gained at the very least some of your respect. I feel like a sitting duck General, I have no idea who I am or what I’ve done in the past. If I am in eminent danger, then keeping me in the dark as you are doing now makes me an easy target and a liability to anyone who is close to me,” she said glancing briefly at Jorran before returning her determined gaze to the General.

The general slumped in his chair, sighing deeply and shaking his head. Jorran could see the warring emotions dancing on Imahan Satang’s face. While his name never came up in the public commemorations dedicated to the heroes of the war: the men and women whose hard work, commitment, and sacrifice eventually tilted the balance of power in favour of the Intergalactic Alliance; those privy to classified information knew all too well that General Satang was the real architect of the Alliance’s final victory. Very little was actually known, outside of the official state narrative, as to what eventually led to the defeat of the Shadow Cluster. Despite the Alliance throwing all of its military might at this elusive enemy, its heresy spread across the Allied worlds like a virulent infection, turning a segment of the population into fanatical followers devoted to its victory over the Alliance.

At first, the cluster acted in great secrecy, proselytizing discreetly, cautious of attracting any unwanted attention. Its influence grew quietly, gaining followers in every world, every field, every strata of society, soon even reaching the highest echelons of power. By the time the danger posed by the Cluster’s growing power became all too apparent, it was poised for a complete take-over of the Intergalactic Alliance and the destruction of everything it stood for. The Cluster’s machinations threatened to rip the very fabric of the Alliance apart. The wave of violence it unleashed and the ease with which it seemed to find and strike at its fiercest detractors generated a mounting paranoia that culminated in a collective hysteria. In the end, war became inevitable when several worlds finally split from the Alliance and committed their resources to the Shadow Cluster’s cause.

“I assure you Lieutenant, you not only have my respect but also my deepest gratitude. You might not remember what you’ve done for the Alliance, but I do. Your sacrifice saved us all. Commander Jorran, while I cannot share with you the details pertaining to Zaya’s previous work with Army Intelligence, I have every intention of helping you in keeping her safe. I’ve taken the liberty of reassigning you temporarily to Valdeva Prime in….”

“What?” yelled a stunned Jorran interrupting the General mid sentence.

“I realize that you hold me responsible for Zaya’s terrible injury, and in a sense you might be right. You think that I do not care for her, that I simply wish to neutralize a possible liability. But, you’re wrong about that Commander. I came to admire Zaya’s dedication and devotion over time, she was an excellent agent and my protege. I can understand your obvious frustration at being kept in the dark and being reassigned without previous consultation on my part, but time is of the essence Commander. We have to get Zaya out of this station immediately before she is targeted again. The moment I became aware of her awakening, I feared for her life. That is why I’ve made some arrangements before coming here. You can resent me all you want Commander, but this is the only way Zaya’s safety can be ensured. Valdeva Prime has always been a stronghold of the Alliance, the cluster made very little inroads amongst your people. The Lieutenant will be safer there and I’ve already admitted her to the Dadali Medical Centre. She will be seen by some of the best Valdevian Doctors in the Alliance, and they’ll have the advantage of possessing an intimate knowledge of the Valdevian mind. I’ll assign a security detail to ensure Zaya’s safety at all time. It is imperative she regains her memory,” said the General, his voice laced with urgency.

“Why?” asked Zaya softly.

“Because the Shadow Cluster is far from defeated, Lieutenant. It will strike again and we need to be ready.”

Star Crossed Part Six

Featured image from: https://wallpapersafari.com/space-battle-wallpaper/

Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

Unauthorized use of this content is strictly prohibited without the permission of the author.