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…

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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 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 nests 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 turned 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 blurred. 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.

General Satang 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 covert 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.”



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Should A Muslim Perspective Matter In Science Fiction?

Article originally published by

Storytelling has always been an integral part of human traditions. Every story serves as a medium to convey ideas, pass on values and norms, or invite audiences to ponder and reflect. Some of the greatest stories ever told were intended to be a reflection on the world we live in. Both Huxley’s Brave New World, and Hugo’s Les Miserables—although belonging to wildly different genres—are perfect examples of stories examining the human condition with perspicacity and creativity. Science Fiction particularly has produced over the decades stories that allow an incredible level of range and variety, while taking place in an ever shifting and evolving context. This fluidity in storytelling is what makes this genre an interesting vehicle for tackling complex and challenging ideas.

While Muslims are often consumers of science fiction, their impact as producers of new sci-fi material is unfortunately negligible. However, one could easily argue that many of the contemporary anxieties experienced by Muslims fit perfectly into the themes that have always been staples of the genre. Politics, class, warfare, marginalization, and surveillance are topics that could be revisited and reimagined through a uniquely Muslim perspective. The personalization of stories to reflect the lived experience of Muslims could broaden the realm of science fiction regarded too long as a mostly Western phenomenon.

George Orwell wrote 1984 to depict the dangers of a totalitarian government. Horrified by the exactions of totalitarianism in Spain and Russia, he used storytelling to address the control such a government would exert on its citizenry in order to maintain and increase its power. In his novel, propaganda and surveillance are two pervasive themes. Both are used by Orwell to construct a claustrophobic setting in which every action, every thought is carefully controlled and managed. His depiction of a dystopian authoritarian society was such, that elements of his story bled into our own vocabulary. Doublethink, Big Brother, and Newspeak are constantly used today in reference to overt government propaganda and surveillance.

For many Muslims in the West, anti-Muslim rhetoric and intrusive government surveillance are very much at the forefront of their anxieties. Much like Orwell used science fiction to voice his trepidations about communism, Muslims could also use it to bring their own experiences to a wider audience in order to dispel misconceptions, and question the vehement discourse of Islamophobia. As a community often subjected to a narrative that demonizes them and depicts them as the ultimate “other” this type of storytelling could help bridge the gap separating them from mainstream society. When a reader delves deeper into the world created by a writer similarities become evident between their two worlds, and understanding starts to emerge. As a genre that often confronts preconceived ideas by proposing alternatives to the established narrative, science fiction is perfectly positioned to challenge the discourse of alienation, and marginalization levelled against scores of Muslims daily.

Military science fiction, as a sub-genre of sci-fi interested in the future of warfare, often discusses the moral philosophy that justifies war as a necessity. It also examines the evolution of weapons, and the usage of technology for military purposes. Vonnegut, Heinlein, Haldeman, and Scott-Card, have all tackled in their stories the logistical complications and emotional effects of warfare. While in Starship Troopers, Heinlein approaches the topic as an almost philosophical thesis on the virtue of military service and absolute allegiance to the state, Vonnegut and Haldeman use storytelling as a way of coming to terms with their own experience as soldiers.

In Slaughterhouse-Five, Vonnegut examines the impact of war on the lives of soldiers. Beyond the senseless loss of life, he explores the guilt experienced by those who survive it. Unable to deal with reality, his main character Billy Pilgrim, conjures up a whole new world far removed from reality. Vonnegut exposes with tact the burden carried by so many soldiers long after the war ended. They often continue to be plagued by sorrow and guilt throughout their lives. By humanizing soldiers, he creates a story questioning the very narrative that presents war as a necessary evil. In The Forever War, Joe Haldeman discusses, through the journey of his reluctant hero William Mandella, the futility of war. He skillfully depicts a conflict sparked by economic need and maintained for centuries through sheer stubbornness. While the soldiers no longer remember the real purpose of the war, they continue fighting and dying for the supposed safety of their world. War becomes the status quo to be maintained at all cost.

Much has been said and written in recent years about the changing nature of “warfare” as it pertains to the war on terror. From the very moment it began, the established moral and legal traditions meant to legislate armed conflicts were relentlessly challenged. The war against terrorism was said to be a “fundamentally different kind of war from more traditional armed conflict.”[1] The primary argument presented to justify this shift in the fundamental moral principles of warfare, claimed that this conflict differed from all other. Hence, new rules and legal considerations must be applied.

“The contemporary advent of terrorism, however, compromises all of these features (Shanahan 2005). Wars are not fought on conventional battlefields, but rather in urban centers. The combatant/non-combatant distinction has become blurred, at least insofar as combatants are no longer readily identified; certainly, they commonly lack military uniforms. But the distinction has been blurred further insofar as civilians often provide material support for combatants through positioning, sustenance, communication, and so on. Are such civilians combatants? Can they be justly targeted? Not only do civilians, whether willing or unwilling, become complicit in some of these cases, but civilians on the other side become targets. In fact, this is one of the hallmarks of terrorism: the targeting of civilians.”[2]

Storytelling offers an opportunity to explore this changing nature of warfare as it pertains not only to the war on terror, but war in general. With advances in technology, traditional warfare takes on another flavor. While ground offensives and airstrikes are still widely used, “clean wars” via drone attacks are rapidly becoming the preferred method of killing. In the past six years, more than two thousand people have been killed by US drone strikes.[3] The reasoning used to justify the increase in these types of attacks is that drones are precise, effective weapons capable of reducing inadvertent casualties. It allows nations to embark on what is for all intents and purposes a war, without ever having to contend with public displeasure triggered by the death of soldiers.

The prevailing ethos in warfare these days seems to be one that rests on the idea of spatial and group-based exceptionalism. In other words, certain territories and groups are said to exist beyond the confines of normal moral and philosophical concerns. Preemptive wars, torture, and assassinations without due process, become legal in this new framework. Questioning this idea of a new, cold, and detached warfare, provides writers with an opportunity to create bold, imaginative, and insightful stories. Vonnegut and Haldeman presented through their novels a passionate plea against war. Muslim writers could, through their own stories, invite people to ponder on the implication of killing machines that can be operated from thousands of miles with terrifying efficiency. They could question the very morality of the concept of “clean wars”, and illustrate why having soldiers calmly and dispassionately hit their targets from a safe distance, without ever having to preoccupy themselves with conventions, or rules of engagement, is a moral predicament that urgently requires an answer.

[1]Allhoff, Fritz. (2009), The War on Terror and the Ethics of Exceptionalism, Journal of Military Ethics, Vol. 8, No. 4, 265-288

[2] Ibid, p.266




The Passenger: Part 4

So many years had gone by and yet the longing remained the same. Going home would entail facing the consequences of her decisions. Abandoning everything expected of her to embrace a life full of uncertainty, danger and precarity was a decision her family, and especially her mother, was not likely to forgive. The distance and the years, she feared, might have done nothing to dull the betrayal they felt. In Ennedian society, nothing was more important than striving toward a higher social standing. This was a never-ending endeavour passed on like a baton through the generations, in the hopes of one day attaining the coveted title of Prime and becoming a resident of sector I: a citizen with inalienable rights.

The Ennedi system was the birthplace of the oligarchy. This was where the first families amassed incomparable wealth and soon formed a powerful oligarchy rivaling the Ruling Assembly in power and influence. The most powerful families even possessed their own militias often tasked with ensuring the rule of law in the remote holdings of their employers, where the authority of the Ruling Assembly was symbolic at best. While most of the oligarchs had long abandoned the far-flung cradle of their ancestors to relocate instead in more prestigious systems, the entire Ennedian culture remained beholden to their elitism and continued to serve their interests. In the four planets that made up the system, one’s personhood was the direct by-product of their residency. While members of the oligarchy lived in their lavish fiefdoms sprawled across the system, the rest of the population was divided into two groups: The Vassals and the Derelicts.

The Vassals formed the bulk of the Oligarchy’s cadre and lived in special sectors built to accommodate the various professional groups. Vassals ran the system with a dedication and efficiency bordering on religious devotion. They served primarily as bureaucrats, technicians, maintenance workers, and intelligence experts. While the bureaucrats and the intelligence personnel lived in what was known as the core, the technicians and maintenance workers lived in the periphery; a group of sectors enwreathing the neighbourhoods of the core. Residents of these areas enjoyed different statuses granting them certain rights and protections. The most powerful Vassals, known as primes, lived in Sector I and where the only ones in Ennedian society, outside of the Oligarchs, to enjoy a full citizenship with inalienable rights. Thus, the true endeavour of any child born to the lower echelons of the Vassal class was to strive toward a higher sector of residency by improving their professional status, and hopefully one day becoming a Prime.

The Derelicts on the other hand lived in overcrowded shanty towns and where considered non-citizens devoid of rights. Unlike the Vassals, they lived in great precarity with very little options available to them for labour. The luckier ones often found work as grunt soldiers for the militias of the Oligarchy, while the rest toiled in the mines and the main ore processing centers of the system. Their lives where ruled by scarcity and misery, and five bloody uprisings violently suppressed taught them to begrudgingly accept their condition. Any attempts at unionizing or advocating for a change in the citizenship scheme of Ennedian society were met with fierce brutality.

Yet, Leila Diallo abandoned what should be sacrosanct to her as a native of the Core and chose instead to live the only kind of life available to the poor masses bereft of rights and status. She came from a long line of bureaucrats who took pride in their work and was expected to pursue the family tradition. Instead, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday she walked into one of the many recruiting centers found in Abiya City and signed up to join the army. It has been ten years since her family saw her last. Her messages had remained unanswered and her pleas for forgiveness most likely unheard. She stood silently at the console contemplating how many jumps it would take from her current location to reach her home system. But the course already plotted by Kal, blinking silently while awaiting her approval, brought her back to reality.

“Kal, take us to Tuva,” she said before seating down and staring into the black.

“Understood Captain,” replied Kal, initiating immediately the first jump.

She could feel Commander Rafiq’s eyes on her. He stood silently a few steps behind her seat, waiting for her to decide between family and duty. Whatever choice she made, she knew he would respect it. She was yearning for home and reconciliation, but much like Rafiq she was honour bound to do her duty. She could never forget Oponea, especially now that she knew Jalil the Butcher was still alive. She could still remember his eyes staring back at her from a child’s face. Leila could still fell the hatred that radiate from them as he plunged that dagger into her gut. She closed her eyes desperately trying to keep under control the bile threatening to assail her.

“We won’t be the only one’s looking for him. But we need to catch him first, captain. No matter what it takes,” said Commander Rafiq before taking a seat near Leila.

“I know Commander,” she answered, her voiced filled with sadness.


From the main viewport of his ship’s bridge, Mahdi looked at the scorched and barren land stretching for miles all around him. Carcasses of disabled ground pounders, wrecked armored vehicles, and rusted rocket launchers stood there as a solemn reminder of the rampage that ushered in a new world born in the fires of war. Wearing his usual black turban, he contemplated with disdain what became of the future once awaited by all. This lingering sorrow invading his thoughts took him back to those nights spent in the refugee camps of Naeva, listening to the songs of the few remaining Durodani elders. They were like so many other things a remnant of the past; the guardians of traditions, myths, and stories that have lost all meaning in a world now bereft of sense. Oponea was the sacrificial lamb that brought sanity back to the galaxy. An entire world burned beyond recognition and where the viciousness of war crystallized into a moment of pure insanity; a juncture where all transgressions and savageries became permissible.

He was one of the very few who survived the siege; a child of Oponea the martyr. The man he once was perished as he helplessly watched a deluge of high-energy blast bombs set ablaze everything and everyone he held dear. Mahdi had died there, his entire being consumed by the same inferno that ravaged his world; leaving behind a mere husk clinging to life out of spite and hatred. His eyes filled with unshed tears as he remembered the faces of all those he lost. For too long despair, anger, and guilt had taken his heart hostage; becoming the prisoner of a past that refused to be forgotten. He now existed for the sole purpose of being a living memory of what so many were eager to erase. “Let us not dwell in the unpleasantries of that awful war. It is time for us all to move forward,” had once said an oligarch when questioned on his involvement in the conflict. Unpleasantries, that is how he referred to what took place in Oponea. Much like they did with the destruction of their deadly armadas that terrorized the galaxy and brought death and sorrow to almost every world, the oligarchs were determined to purge from memory all the painful reminders of the conflict that stemmed from their arrogance and greed. The war might be over for them, but not for Mahdi. An unexpected message rekindled the flames of vengeance. He entered the coordinates in his ship’s computer and waited for the AI to plan the course to his destination.

“Course to Tuva plotted,” announced the AI.

Five jumps were all that separated him from finally cleansing himself in the fires of retribution and putting an end to his everlasting torment. This is what he survived for: revenge at long last.


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Signs And Portents: Part One

Life can be so fleeting. One moment you are fighting to survive, desperately holding on to the tiny dying embers of your soul, and the next you are floating in an ever-thickening mist. Exactly at what moment does one die? When does the very essence of your soul escape your reach forever? Is this what it is like to taste the bitterness of death?

Where am I? What is happening?

His mind was still reeling from the shock of suddenly regaining consciousness and finding himself submerged in the freezing waters of a subterranean ocean. The remote-control unit of his pressurized suit clearly indicated the direness of his current situation. He couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t help but sense the disconnect from his own body. He was nothing more than a broken, injured corpse, sinking helplessly into a deep and dark alien ocean, while being kept alive by his suit to experience the full horror of his ordeal. As his fear and confusion spiked, he started desperately struggling against the powerful tides taking him deeper into the darkness.

No please, not this! I need to get out.

A faint light shining from above caught his eye, and hope blossomed in his heart. Getting out from this place was the only thing he could think about. Somewhere in the midst of his muddled thoughts, he could hear a little voice telling him to calm down and remember his training. But a sheer feeling of terror overrode all rational thoughts when the faint light disappeared just as mysteriously as it materialized. Amidst his wild thrashing, the presence of the figure observing him from the mouth of the crater overlooking the ocean went unnoticed. Eyes wild with terror, he looked again at the panel indicating the rapid depletion of his oxygen supply. The cold was starting to seep through his suit, brought on by the failure of its environmental system. Soon he will either freeze to death or suffocate. Hope was fleeting again, quickly replaced by a deep sense of despair. He was now crying in earnest. “Ya Rabb, please help me!” he cried out. But death would have its due. He was being dragged into a world of stillness and obscurity foreign to all human life. As he sank further into his icy tomb, his cries gave way to a quiet resignation. Taking a deep, shaky breath he started reciting verses of the Quran asking for mercy and guidance.

“There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger,” he said, quietly reiterating his faith in God for the last time.


Date: 2115

Location: Bayt al-hikmah (space station in low Earth orbit)

“Students, students please take your seats. This is no time to socialize and chatter about your ill-spent vacations.  Need I remind you that you are all expected to be on your best behavior on this momentous occasion? You are about to embark on your apprenticeship and become seekers of knowledge. I will not allow you to shame our illustrious institution with your usual antics, especially you Rashid. Now, take your seats at once and quiet down.”

As a flurry of young men and women quickly moved toward their designated chairs, Ayman Yassin adorned with his official vestment as head master kept a watchful eye. He had spent the last five years teaching these young people, guiding them and preparing them for the most important journey of their young lives. He thought of them as his children and couldn’t help but be as nervous and anxious as they were. The path to knowledge is difficult and trying little ones. May your journey be a blessed one, he thought.  The increasing chatter in the room roused him from his reverie and he moved promptly to the front of the hall. The ceremony was about to begin.

“Silence,”  reiterated Ayman.

As his voice resonated throughout the hall the voices fell silent. Smiling to himself he felt extremely proud of what he and his fellow mu’allimun had achieved. Five years ago, when they first came to them, these children were barely ten years old. They were filled with the innocence of childhood, undisciplined, and unfocussed. Yet here they were now wise beyond their years, attuned to every command, and moving as a single body. They are no longer children, he couldn’t help the lingering sadness he felt.

“In a few minutes, you will find yourselves in the presence of some of the greatest minds of our Ummah. You will have the honour of joining as novices an order dedicated to the search for knowledge; an order that seeks to enlighten mankind and improve the human condition. As your teachers, we have done our best to prepare you for this journey. We have taught you the discipline, the focus, and the humility required of a talib. Each one of you will become the protégée of an ‘alim under whose tutelage you will become scholars in your own right. Make us proud,” said Ayman with great emotion in his voice.

On these young faces looking back at him, Ayman could read an array of emotions: sadness, joy, fear, doubt, excitement. This is something he knew all too well, and understood just as much. Once upon a time, he sat there looking at his own teachers delivering a similar speech. He remembered how an overwhelming sense of excitement and paralyzing fear gripped him all at once. This is what being a talib meant, constantly teetering on the edge between bliss and utter dread. The imposing wooden doors at the back of the hall opened, and a procession of teachers and scholars entered each wearing their robes of honor indicating their status and their ranks. Much like Ayman, the teachers of the institute wore cloaks trimmed with green threads at the front, while the scholars’ robes of honour were embroidered in golden fabric. The atmosphere was crackling with a nervous energy, and Ayman could sense the anxiety emanating from his pupils. One by one, the cortege greeted him and moved toward the stage to take their seats.

Mu’allimun, ‘ulema, members of the majlis, we welcome you. We are honored by your presence,” said Ayman.

“It is we who are honored to be your guests brother Ayman. Are your pupils ready to begin their apprenticeship?” asked one of the scholars.

“Yes, they are respected ‘alim,” answered Ayman.

“Let us begin then. Salamu Aleikum. My name is Abdul Ghani Hassan, I am an ‘alim in the science of usul al-fiqh. I stand before you today as a representative of the assembly of scholars, the majlis ul ‘ulama. For the past five years your teachers have endeavored to prepare you to take your place in our midst. They have taught you the four most important qualities a young novice must possess. What are they?”

“Discipline, focus, piety, and humility,” the students answered in unison.

“Indeed. You were recruited at the tender age of ten by the institute because each and every one of you had displayed extraordinary abilities. Becoming an ‘alim however requires not only intelligence but also commitment. Our work is at all times guided by the ethics, the rules, and legislations set by the majlis ul ‘ulama in accordance with the Qur’an and the Sunnah of our beloved Prophet, the peace and blessings of Allah be upon him. Once fully trained it is within a scholar’s power to improve the human condition through his or her work; thus, becoming a force for good. Or one could choose to exploit the knowledge acquired to his or her own advantage, and in the process lay waste to many lives. Thus, becoming a scourge upon the world. This is why it is vital that we instill in you the values in which your work must always be rooted. It is our responsibility to help you avoid the pitfalls of arrogance that could lead to your ruination. Each one of you will become the protégée of an ‘alim for the next six years. They will be your greatest teachers and harshest critics. They will push you to your limits and will expect nothing but perfection in return. Your journey as seekers of knowledge has just begun, and it will only end the day you take your last breath. Use your apprenticeship wisely, and may your path to knowledge be a blessed one. We ask Allah to preserve us from our arrogance and ignorance.”

“Ameen” reverberated throughout the hall.

“Brother Ayman, as the head master of this institute will you do us the honor of calling forth your pupils so they may receive their robes of apprenticeship?” asked Abdul Ghani.

“It will be my pleasure,” answered Ayman. He stood in front of his students and began the final stage of the ceremony.

“Once your name is called, you will come forth and receive your robe from your designated ‘alim,” he said before calling the names of his beloved pupils one last time.

“Anas Marwan”

A young man seated in the last row stood up and moved toward the stage with confidence. Despite gaining somewhat of a reputation as a loner over the years, and often displaying a disconcerting amount of disinterest in his education, Ayman knew that underneath all that bravado laid a rare genius. He had seen Anas surpass all expectations when he bothered to put some effort into his work. In fact, he was convinced that the problem with young Anas was due to one simple truth; he had outgrown the institute a long time ago.

“Anas, may I present to you one of our most respected scholars, sister Safia Mahmoud,” said a smiling Ayman.

The whole room erupted in loud gasps and murmurs. Safia Mahmoud was not only a scientist of great repute, she was also an alumna of the institute. Over the years, she rose to fame as a pioneering figure of the deep space exploration program. Never before had she expressed the desire to take a young novice under her wing. Her work was deemed too important to be entrusted with those still undergoing their noviciate.

“Salamu Aleikum Anas. I’ll have the privilege of tutoring you through your noviciate. You are to become from this moment on a novice in the field of Molecular Biology,” she stated.

Anas was taken aback by her statement, and gave Ayman a puzzled look.

“I’m sorry ‘alima, there must be some mistake. I wish to specialize in the field of Cybernetics and not Molecular Biology,” said Anas.

“I am aware of your interest young man. I assure you, your talents in cybernetics will not go to waste,” she said coldly.

Before Anas could reply, his old head master intervened.

“Anas, one of the key elements of your noviciate is to trust your designated scholar’s judgement. There is more than one path that leads to knowledge,” he said before giving his pupil a long look discouraging him from further argumentation.

“Yes, of course. My apologies ‘alima,” said a confused Anas.

Once all the students received their robes of apprenticeship, Abdul Ghani Hassan stood again to address the crowd.

“As a representative of the majlis ul ‘ulama, it is with great pleasure that I announce the official start of your noviciate as future scholars. May Allah guide you in your  future endeavours.”


Date: 2130

Location: Tekrour City

Tekrour City was the very first human settlement established on the Galilean satellites of Jupiter. The surface of this Jovian moon was marked by vast lava plains formed billions of years ago when Ganymede was still geologically active. Molten Rock flowed beneath its surface and formed lava tubes where it left colossal hollow chambers as it receded. These caverns chiselled into the bedrock offered the necessary protection against harmful radiation, while also serving as a natural insulator. The largest of these caverns was terraformed to house a settlement inhabited at first by the scientists and other support staff of the space exploration program. When the expansion of human presence throughout the galaxy was finally sanctioned by the authorities, Ganymede attracted its fair share of colonists eager to start a new life among the stars. What was initially a mere settlement grew within the span of a few decades into a bustling city.

Aslan Sadulayev, on his way back from a brief vacation on Earth, was just about to clear the customs area of Tekrour city’s spaceport when a young port agent approached him.

“Salamu aleikum Efendi. Are you assistant chief medical examiner Aslan Sadulayev?” asked the agent.

“Wa aleikum Salam. Yes, that’s me” he answered perplexed.

“May I see your credentials?” said the officer.

“Of course,” Aslan responded before retrieving his Ident-Card from one of his jacket’s many pockets. “What is this all about?” he asked anew. He was starting to feel somewhat uneasy.

“Please come with me,” said the officer.

“I don’t understand what is going on here. I’m just coming back from Earth,” said an obviously annoyed Aslan.

“Sir, I’m just following my orders. I’ve been asked to escort you, so please follow me,” reiterated the officer haughtily; walking away before Aslan could protest any further. Jerk, Aslan thought irritated by the man’s sternness but deciding nonetheless to follow him as instructed. Their stroll through the port took them to the very edge of a boarding bridge still connected to a transport ship. The officer gave a nod to two security personnel guarding the entrance to the ship who immediately stepped aside. The interior of the ship was that of a standard transport freighter: cramped and a little worn out. Aslan followed the officer to the main cargo hold. While the ship’s passenger compartiments were empty, it’s hold was crawling with security personnel. He immediately recognized Tekrour City Law Enforcement personnel by their distinctive uniforms. They were in the process of cordoning off a section of the hold with bright red biohazard tapes. Two law enforcement bots were hovering over the area recording every single detail, while a third was keeping a quarantine field in place. This is a crime scene, Aslan thought to himself. The customs officer walked in the direction of a woman standing near the crime scene perimeter, giving orders on her handheld communicator.

“Harbourmaster, this is Dr. Aslan Sadulayev from the office of the Chief Medical Examiner,” said the officer.

“Shukran Ali, you may return to your post. Salamu Aleikum Doctor. I am Maryam Abdallah, harbourmaster of Tekrour City Spaceport. This ship is the Matahari Terbit bound for Earth. It left Rijl al-Qanṭūris six months ago with a full load of passengers and cargo. Ganymede was the last port of call on their schedule before their final destination. It was supposed to stay here only for an hour, the time to unload some passengers and cargo, before resuming its voyage. However, our port personnel found a body during their inspection. Of course, we immediately initiated the emergency protocol and contacted law enforcement,” the harbourmaster explained.

“I’m sure the Chief Medical Examiner’s office will send someone to examine the body. I can’t just step in and…”

“We were told by your office that an assistant chief medical examiner was already in our premises. They expect you to take charge of this case,” she said before he could finish his sentence. 

“That is not how it works harbourmaster. I must be given clear instructions by my office on this matter.”

“Feel free to contact them,” she said calmly.

Aslan moved away from the crime scene and retrieved his communicator from his jacket. “Dial office,” he instructed.

“Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, how may I direct your call?” said a female voice a few seconds later.

“Morgue,” said Aslan. My vacation is not over yet, no way I’m getting saddled with this, he thought angrily.

“Morgue here”

“Kawthar, this is Aslan. Is there a reason I am being asked to process a crime scene while still on my vacation?” he asked hotly.

“No need to rip my head off, I was more then willing to go there and do it myself. But, the chief is the one who decided otherwise. Something about you being already on the premises,” Kawthar answered, clearly annoyed by Aslan’s hostile tone.

“Fine, just transfer me to his office,” said an exasperated Aslan.

“Patching you through. Good luck.”

“Dr. Abdourahman here,” said a booming voice.

Aslan took a deep breath to get a hold of his emotions before addressing his superior.

“Salamu Aleikum Dr. Abdourahman, this is Dr. Aslan Sadulayev. It seems that a body showed up in one of the ships at the spaceport. Apparently the harbourmaster is under the impression that I’m to process the body, but as you know I’m still on my vacation, Sir. May I ask who has been assigned to the case, so I can reassure the harbourmaster someone is indeed on the way?”

“Wa aleikum salam. Yes, I am aware of that Aslan. But Kawthar isn’t nearly as experienced as you, and according to the harbourmaster the body seems to be displaying some unusual and worrisome characteristics, hence the quarantine protocol. I need someone with experience on this one, and since you were already there coming back from Earth…”

“Sir, with all due respect, the harbourmaster has probably never seen a dead body before. She’s most likely referring to the effects of rigour mortis and… “

“Let me stop you there Sadulayev. Maryam Abdallah was deployed on Mars during the Hima virus outbreak. That woman has seen more dead bodies then you and I combined. She is not some hysteric, this is someone whose judgement and wisdom I trust and respect. You will do well to show her the deference she is due. Am I making myself clear?” asked the chief medical officer in a taut, controlled voice.

“Yes, of course,” replied a defeated Aslan.

“Good. We’ve already dispatched a forensics unit, they should be there by now. I expect a detailed report of this case first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Understood, Sir.”

Aslan walked back to the crime scene and joined the harbourmaster supervising the ongoing work. She was discussing with an inspector of Tekrour Law Enforcement, no doubt charged with investigating the suspicious death. “It seems you were right harbourmaster. I am indeed assigned to this case. I’m going to take a look at the body now with your permission,” he said. Both the harbourmaster and the inspector nodded their heads in acquiescence. Just then Aslan saw the forensics unit entering the cargo hold with their specialized bots in tow.

“Right here guys,” he said waving to his colleagues.

“Salamu aleikum Aslan. I thought you were still on your vacation,” remarked a young man with a mischievous grin.

“Very funny Daoud. Let’s get to work,” replied a less than amused Aslan. “First things first, lets’ put one of our bots on quarantine duty, and expand the field to encompass that entire section of the hold. A level 2 quarantine should suffice for now. Set up a decontamination station as well just in case we need one,” instructed Aslan.

“What are we dealing with here?” asked Daoud.

“No idea. The harbourmaster believes that the corpse is displaying some unusual and worrisome characteristics,” he replied mimicking the chief’s voice as he repeated his words. “Let’s just get it over with, alright?”

Sensing Aslan’s frustration, Daoud tried sounding conciliatory.

“Ok. No worries, I’m on it.”

Now wearing a biohazard suit, Aslan entered the quarantine field and moved closer to the stacks of crates hiding the body from view. He walked behind them and approached the cadaver now in his direct line of sight, before quickly coming to a complete halt.

“My God….what is this?”



Mu’allimun: Teachers

‘Alim/’alima/ulama: Scholar (masculine)/(feminine)/(plural)

Talib: Student

Majlis: Council

Majlis ul ‘ulama: Council of scholars

Usul al-fiqh: Branch of Islamic knowledge pertaining to Islamic jurisprudence

Ameen: Amen


Featured image from:


Copyright © Hijabi Mentat

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

Sunshine Blogger Award

First, a big thanks to Many things bookish for nominating me for this award. If you haven’t already, check out her amazing blog full of great book reviews.

Have you read any outstanding books this year and if yes, which ones?

  1. An artist of the floating world
  2. Consider Phlebas

Which upcoming releases are you most excited for and why?

I am really looking forward to Convenience Store Woman, the English translation of Sayaka Murata’s latest novel. I absolutely can relate to this story which is centred around a woman at a crossroads in her life, dealing with the constant pressure of finding a husband and establishing a good career for oneself.

What’s your favourite genre and why?

I read pretty much everything except Romance. My favourite genre is by far Science Fiction. I enjoy the creativity involved in this type of storytelling.

If you could read only one trope, which would it be?

I would get bored very quickly if I was confined to reading a single trope over and over again.

In a great fantasy, which do you value more: atmosphere or magic system?

I don’t read a lot of Fantasy, but in science fiction I value atmosphere. It tends to set the tone for the entire story.

Are there any characters you can relate to personally?

There are many characters that I find interesting, but I can’t really think of one character in particular I tend to relate to.

What annoys you most about books?

The repetition of certain popular tropes.

Is there anything (even if it’s just a small detail) you would like to change about your favorite book?

I wish Dune was a standalone novel instead of the first book of a series.

On what basis do you choose what book you’ll read next?

Genre and the overall themes of the story.

What’s your go-to comfort reread? 

I don’t like to reread books. I prefer reading new ones.

Do you think you’ll be still reading the same genre/books/tropes/authors ten years from now?

For the most part, I think my taste in books is rather well established. I might however have phases where I read a certain genre more than others.


Star Crossed: Part Four

The Master of the Xinfiniin accompanied by the host, the overseer, and his conscripts approached the rendezvous point. He was increasingly uneasy about this meeting but dared not share his trepidations with anyone. He kept his face as impassive as possible and used his biofeedback abilities to regulate his vital signs and skin temperature in order to project an air of calm. His confident walk betrayed nothing of his desire to launch into a full sprint in the opposite direction, and put as much distance as possible between his ship and this place. The ten conscripts chosen by the overseer to ensure their safety kept a watchful eye as they marched in a tight triangle formation, surrounding the Master and the host, confining them both to the centre. These men’s lives were declared forfeit the moment they enlisted as conscripts to purge their sentences. In the Xininit consortium, serving as cannon fodder for perilous missions was always preferable to becoming a property of the Research Ministry. The cortege was soon greeted by three individuals as they entered inside what used to be one of Quailth’s architectural marvels.

“Welcome gentlemen, we’ve been waiting for you,” said one of the trio as he approached them.

“Our apologies, the weather was rougher than anticipated,” responded the Master. “At ease conscripts,” he added as the man, now holding his hands up, continued to walk toward them. The conscripts broke their formation to allow the Master to exit the secured perimeter and meet the man halfway. If this individual represented any real threat to his person the Amenkyst would have alerted him. They both came to a halt half way from their respective escorts

“No worries. The important thing is that you’ve made it,” replied the man with a smile plastered on his face.

The Master noticed almost immediately that his interlocutor was a Terran. While he came across Alduvians, Valdevians, Nadji, and even Bruynens carrying ancient Terran DNA, this was a first for him. The original inhabitants of Terra—colloquially called Earth by its inhabitants—remained a rarity in these parts. He approached the man all the while taking in the subtle details of his face. He knew his smile held very little sincerity, but nonetheless admired the man’s ability to fake warmth and affection so well when he  felt neither.

“Allow me to present to you the rest of our little party. This is Tuat and Abilay,” he said.

The Master greeted them with a light bow of the head prompting them to respond in kind. Tuat was a male Bruynen dressed in all black and displaying an impressive physic. He kept his distance but the master could feel the vigilance and febrile energy oozing from him. His enhanced vision detected the minuscule ripples traveling through the muscles of the  Bruynen’s deceivingly relaxed hand laying close to his leg holster. Abilay was a young Valdevian female wearing a long dark coat. She hovered a few steps behind the Bruynen, almost hiding behind his massive frame. Despite his first-rate eyesight, the Master really couldn’t see much of the young woman.

The Amenkyst hissed softly in frustration. While it could discreetly touch the minds of both the Master’s interlocutor and his Bruynen bodyguard, the Valdevian female remained out of its reach. It was as if she intentionally kept her distance to thwart the Amenkyst’s attempts to sense her intentions. But that was of course impossible. She would have to be aware of the symbiot’s limited telepathic range in the first place, and no one outside of a few elite units of the Consortium’s special missions department even knew of its kind’s existence.


It had been weeks since the Tulsian gratitude festival ended and yet the dream weavers’ canvas continued to attract visitors to the esplanade. It’s vibrant colours still held the same allure that brought so many admirers to it. While the Samzara player had long since left the station, the drawing continued to pulsate gently as if echoes of the flute’s melodies remained etched in the very essence of the canvas. Tulsian decorations still adorned much of the promenade giving it a much more festive look than usual. While most of the shops were a fixture on the station, kiosks were another matter. Anyone with a valid merchant’s permit could rent a kiosk on Kilwa. Anissa came out of the masjid and walked toward the Valdevian eatery where she met Jorran everyday for lunch. Since the gratitude festival, this little ritual had become a way of getting to know one another again. While this world still felt very strange to Anissa, she was doing her best to understand her new reality. As she passed near a little kiosk a voice called out to her.

“Excuse me young lady, could I interest you in some of my exquisite perfumes?” said a merchant standing in front of a table displaying a variety of bottles and flasks filled with colourful liquids. The merchant belonged to a species she had never seen before. His Toad-like face was covered with leathery brown skin. Hints of blue and purple peppered the ridges of his eye sockets and the base of his nostrils. His forehead and chin were covered with rows of fine tendrils that quivered ever so often, while blue and brown nodules adorned his curly black hair. She politely declined his offer and was preparing to walk away when a sudden sense of dread and eminent danger invaded her mind. The merchant was holding a small flask he insisted contained one of his best perfumes, and was urging her to sample it before saying no. He was bringing the flask to her nose when her mind went blank and instinct took over.

She grabbed his extended hand and with expert precision twisted his wrist. The merchant cried out in pain and surprise losing his grip on the little flask. She caught it before it could hit the floor and swiftly kicked the merchant in the gut before he could react. He fell back on his kiosk sending his display counter flying through the air. Holding his sprained wrist close to his body, he quickly scrambled back to his feet. The word pain suddenly resonated in Anissa’s mind putting an end to her assault. Blinded by the ferocity of this sudden agony she doubled over in pain, holding her head. The intense throbbing was debilitating but it ceased as quickly as it started. Her ears were now ringing and she felt caught in a fog like state; everything seemed to be moving slowly.

Jorran was suddenly standing between her and the merchant with his weapon drawn. When did he got here? she thought. She watched the man grab a small flask from under his tunic and swallow its content in one shot falling immediately to the ground writhing in pain. Jorran crouched beside the convulsing man and yelled for medical assistance on his comms. The merchant’s entire body became taut as he led out a blood curdling scream that resonated throughout the esplanade.

The medical staff arrived just in time to witness the man’s last moments. He now laid motionless amongst his broken perfume bottles. Jorran ordered his staff to take the body to the infirmary for an autopsy, before joining Anissa now seating on the floor and cradling her head. Over the past few weeks, they had started opening their minds to each other again. She had even tentatively sent a few thoughts his way to practice her telepathy. His mind didn’t feel foreign anymore, she no longer recoiled from him. He crouched in front of her and started sending gentle and soothing thoughts to calm her down. She was slowly coming out of the fog and his thoughts were a lifeline to hold on to.

“Zaya, you are safe. I’m here now. It is all over,” he said.

A crowd started gathering around the merchant’s kiosk as news of the incident travelled through the station. Kilwa was not the kind of place where such things were the norm. On the contrary, it always ranked quite high in terms of safety and service. The station’s security staff were struggling to keep onlookers at bay as they tried to cordon off the scene. Lieutenant Commander Morkha, Jorran’s second in command, stepped in as his friend and commanding officer tended to his wife.

“Keep it moving people. This is a crime scene and you are interfering with an ongoing investigation. I suggest you get back to your own affairs. Keep it moving folks,” he said as reluctant onlookers were herded away by his staff.


“You see those nodules on his head? Well these are in fact extensions of his nervous system. They give Leathians the ability to illicit short term mental and emotional disturbances in others,” said Dr. Tolmen as he stood over the body of the deceased merchant.

“At least enough to give them the upper hand in a fight. Leathians have a proclivity for assassinations. They usually use highly toxic chemical components to cause swift and undetectable deaths. They generally prefer to avoid physical confrontation and go to great lengths to be as inconspicuous as possible,” added Jorran.

“The perfume he wanted me to smell, it was poison wasn’t it?” asked Anissa.

“Most likely. I’m still waiting on the forensics report, but I’m certain the perfume in the flask you took from him was meant to kill. Leathians are very thorough about their work, they are not known to make mistakes. So you were clearly his target. They are also not known to prefer suicide to prison….usually at least. How did you know it was poison?” asked an intrigued Jorran.

“I just did. I suddenly knew I was in danger,” she replied her eyes still fixed on the dead man’s contorted face.  “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“I felt your distress. When I stepped outside of the eatery to find you, I saw you fighting with the Leathian.”

“And apparently doing rather well at it, until his little empath sneak attack,” added a smiling Dr. Tolmen.

“Commander Tallinn, please respond.” The voice of an obviously agitated Lieutenant Commander Morkha abruptly came through Jorran’s personal comms.

“Tallinn here.”

“Commander, you are needed at ops. A ship is due to emerge from hyperspace very soon, we just received a level 1 Omega message from them.”

“On my way,” replied Jorran.

“What is Army Intelligence doing here?” asked Dr.Tolmen, his voice laced with apprehension.


Star Crossed Part Five


Featured image: Space Wallpapers 

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