[The Fear Saga 01] - Fear the Sky (2014) (54 page)

“Strange?” prompted John.

“No, no, not strange. No. I just wondered, well, is it fun? You know, being able to do all the things you can do?”

John looked at the major for a moment, assessing the exhaustion of his human friend. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he answered, “There are times when, yes, it feels good. There are times when being able to run and jump and lift anything I see is … well, it’s enjoyable. We have this kind of technology back home, of course, but it’s illegal to use android bodies in public unless you are a member of the military, and even then usage is extremely restricted, for obvious reasons. The power it gives you is truly awesome.

“But … well … I guess I would compare it to being a king’s favorite general: I have huge amounts of power, I can go anywhere and do anything to anything, and it feels good. Only I am still subject to a higher power, and in this case that power is, frankly, a ruthless, soulless son of a bitch. So any time this body’s abilities seem enticing, I find myself reminded that this is a co-opted power, taken at a price I still have trouble wrapping my head around.”

Jack looked at the Agent, sobered suddenly by his words, and Agent John Hunt went on, “I am sure you feel in no small measure the weight of the secret you bear, and the danger you and everyone you know is in. And because I see that danger too, and I am not a monster, I am going to try and stop my world from doing this terrible thing. But think on this a moment, Jack. Think about what kind of selfish, power-hungry, almighty asshole would order the death of an entire race. Once you have that image in your mind, you will have some idea of the kind of people I am disobeying to help you. Imagine an alliance of Hitler, Khan, Mussolini, Yung Il, and bin Laden all united by one thing, they
all
want to kill every human alive. Well, something akin to that alliance commands the forces arrayed against you, Jack.

“So, I guess when you ask me whether I am having fun, I …” he laughed introspectively and shook his head a little, “well, I worry that you and the others really think of me as a disinterested outsider just trying to help out.” Jack went to shake his head and deny it, but the truth was that he did think of John like that. Like some kind of movie star going to Africa to help the poor, only to return on his private jet the next day to attend an award ceremony. But John’s expression was stern and Jack waited for the Agent’s next comment. “Jack, have you ever wondered what that group of bloodthirsty motherfuckers that rule my world are going to do when they find out that I have betrayed them?”

Jack stared at him, stunned and mortified by the man’s words, but John wasn’t finished, “Jack, what do you think they are going to do to my family? To my three children. Those children are grown up by now, back on Mobilius. Maybe they have children of their own. Grandchildren of mine who I will never meet. Grandchildren of mine who, if my complicity is discovered, will pay a terrible price for the actions of a man they have never even known.”

Seeing the human’s discomfort at his words, John lifted his hands as if to downplay what he was saying and went on, “Jack, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to make you feel bad, goodness knows you are putting yourself on the line as well, but when you asked whether I am enjoying myself … I guess … well, I guess I just wanted to set the record straight.”

The two men looked at each other and Jack nodded. They were silent for a moment and then Jack took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, of course. I can’t speak for the others, but I guess I always felt a bit patronized by you and your … well, your charity. Maybe I even resented that we were so dependent on you.” They both smiled ruefully at each other and Jack finished, “For what it’s worth, though, thank you. For all of us, for my family and my friends, and for me: thank you for what you are doing.”

He held out his blistered hand and John’s synthetic hand met it in a firm grasp. One day, Jack hoped, he would get to shake the real hand of the person inside Agent John Hunt, whatever that creature actually looked like. Maybe if they survived the coming war it might happen. Who knows?

Till then, though, Jack vowed never to take this man’s sacrifice lightly again.

It had taken Shahim a long time to recover fully from the fight with John. But John Hunt had not been able to hang around and help the battered Agent repair. After a brief but brutally honest discussion of what they needed to accomplish, John had left, trusting his instincts about the lord of Hamprect and hoping he had not doomed them all.

At first Shahim had found the fact that he was now a traitor a difficult pill to swallow. But the river of doubt and remorse for what he had done in Pakistan ran deep within him, and once its banks were breached there was no way it would be contained again. He had known the Nomadi was right from the moment the Agent had started to berate him for his role in the whole enterprise.

Since that day Shahim had rediscovered a lost sense of pride and meaning as he began to pursue his new mission. Now, as he stood on the soils of Pakistan once more, he knew he was steering the right course. That fateful day in Washington DC was three months and seven thousand miles away now, and any semblance of doubt Shahim might have had in his decision was long since laid to rest.

Getting back to Pakistan had been a long and arduous task. It had started simply enough: an anonymous phone call from near his hideout in DC had brought the authorities with surprising efficiency. The FBI took the three men who had been sent to assist Shahim in an angry but one-sided struggle while Shahim himself slipped out a window into the night.

The AI had heard of the raid well in advance, even though it was unaware of the source of the FBI’s information. Shahim had pretended ignorance as the AI had informed him of the approach of the authorities and had stepped onto the fire escape as the bureau’s cars came down the street, leapt up on to the roof, and then from there he had jumped the thirty feet across the night to the top of the next building. For his own edification, he had waited there a moment and watched the men fight as they were apprehended. He had heard the struggle and watched the heat signatures of the men as they were wrestled to the ground and dragged away.

It had felt good. He had already helped humanity a little. Not enough to make up for what he had done that dreadful night in Islamabad, but it was a start, and soon he would have ample opportunity to atone for the rest of his sins.

While his Al Qaeda ‘brethren’ in the US and back in Pakistan assumed he had been captured with his cell, he had evaded the authorities and made his way slowly back to Pakistan. With no identification or money it was a long journey, even for a man of his talents. But after countless cargo ships, freight trains, and hitchhiked rides in the backs of trucks, the warrior had eventually made it back to his adopted home country. Predictably, his sudden reappearance in Peshawar three months after his assumed capture in America had brought immediate suspicion and accusation. How had he escaped? How had he evaded capture for so long? What had he told the infidels to buy his freedom?

Standing in the warehouse where he had been brought after he had approached one of his old contacts in the city, he sullenly but humbly answered their questions. But with his newfound purpose came a certain leeway he had not enjoyed before. The truth was that the Agent that called himself Shahim Al Khazar didn’t like these people. He did not agree with their cause or their methods, and while neither side in the global struggle the insurgents were involved in was above reproach, these so-called freedom fighters were, in Shahim’s opinion, a horde of hypocrites and tyrants. So when the impromptu tribunal that had been arranged to judge him began to criticize the integrity of the man that called himself Shahim Al Khazar, the Agent decided that it was the justification he needed to wreak some havoc upon the mockery of justice that stood before him.

“No one,” he said quietly, “no one should dare suggest I am not a faithful warrior. I have failed in my mission, and for that I am ashamed, but if anyone dares to say I am not still Allah’s faithful servant, I swear to his holy name that I will kill that man where he stands.” His eyes slowly swept the room, their fierce burn spitting dread at the gathering.

But there were those in the tribunal who saw this as a potential opportunity to establish their dominance over the formidable Shahim Al Khazar. Among them, two clerics considered speaking up and one of them finally drummed up the courage to confront the bound warrior. It was not that great an act of bravery given the circumstances, or so the cleric thought. Shahim stood in the center of the large concrete floor, bared to the chest, his face dirty, his arms tightly clasped behind his back by thick rope and the grip of two burly guards.

Cleric Bin Amar stepped up to the bound Shahim. It had been Cleric Amar’s brother that had ordered the attack on the prime minister’s complex all those months ago. Shahim’s unexpected success had brought the swift execution of the cleric who had ordered such a foolhardy attempt. For the brother of the man who had attempted the power-grab, Cleric Bin Amar, had also seen his political clout falter noticeably since the day Shahim had managed the impossible. This and the death of his brother had left him hungry for revenge, and this opportunity was simply too good to pass up.

“You say to me that anyone that accuses you of weakness will die where they stand.” said Cleric Bin Amar, posturing for the crowd, “Well I say to you that I do not fear death in God’s name. Unlike you I would not sell my faith to you or the Americans for my freedom.”

Shahim stared at the man and allowed fury to glow darkly on his strong features. As the room followed the cleric’s ‘brave’ speech, Shahim’s hands began to apply a discreet pressure to his bonds. As his powerful muscles started to apply their smooth, massive tension, Shahim felt the rope start to split, clearly unable to contain the machine might of the warrior. But the unwise cleric was not alone in his misguided showboating. Another ambitious sect leader, Barakahto Wa-Alahd, was not about to be upstaged. It had been he who had called this tribunal, and it would be he who garnered the fame for bringing down the notorious Butcher of Islamabad.

So Barakahto Wa-Alahd stepped forward and tried to claim his portion of the limelight, “Cleric Bin Amar, while no one doubts your faith, please remember that it was I who called this trial of the traitor Al Khazar.” Then, turning to the prisoner, he said, “Yes Shahim, hear me when I call you traitor. For you could not have escaped the Americans any more than you can escape the bonds that now hold you,” he paused for a meaningful look around the room and then finished his point, “without selling your loyalty in return for your freedom.”

Inside his head, Shahim smiled. Oh dear, my friend, be careful what you say, he thought, and he slowly and steadily pulled his arms apart, the taut ropes parting at his will like they were made of candy floss.

The two guards behind him suddenly realized that the movement of the famous warrior’s arms was not the pointless struggle of a bound man, but in fact the suddenly unimpeded movement of their prisoner’s arms. Their grip tightened on the man as Shahim stepped forward, but he barely even registered their efforts.

His first accuser, Cleric Bin Amar, had struck a brave pose facing away from Shahim, talking to the crowd. That left Barakahto Wa-Alahd to stare wide-eyed at Shahim as he stepped up behind Bin Amar and grabbed him by the back of his neck.

Frozen on the spot by the apparently unconfined prisoner’s sudden freedom, Wa-Alahd did not even have the presence of mind to turn and run as he watched the warrior’s left hand manhandle the other cleric, and in a moment it was too late to run anymore, as the prisoner’s other hand flew out at his own throat to seize him as well.

The two guards pulled and punched at the bared might of Shahim, trying to wrestle his arms back while the two pinned Clerics struggled vainly at the fingers ensnaring their necks. Eventually the guards gave up trying to grapple with the prisoner, his arms just did not give, and they both stepped back and pulled their rifles from their shoulders, pressing the butts of the guns into Shahim’s sides.

The room was alive with shouting and panic, but Shahim’s bass voice boomed out over the hubbub and silenced the crowd. With the two clerics’ necks clasped in each hand, he bellowed, “These men have said that I am a traitor, even though I warned them of the consequences of decrying my loyalty. They have said they do not fear death in God’s name. I tell you now that God has filled me with the strength to test that claim.”

The room was silent but for the shouts of the two struggling clerics. The two guards were transfixed by the sight of the two powerful leaders writhing in this man’s hands. Surely he would not kill the two men. That would be suicide … surely?

Cleric Bin Amar tried in vain to turn and see the man holding him, all the while screaming as he grappled futilely with the warrior’s vice-like grip. “Shoot him!” he wailed, “Shoot the prisoner! In Allah’s name, I order you to shoot him!”

The second accuser was facing Shahim, though, his neck grasped from the front, and he was silent. The grip around his neck was tight, his very breath barely wheezing through his constricted throat. Shahim planned to deal with them in the order they had accused him and he did not want Cleric Barakahto Wa-Alahd interrupting the first cleric’s brief trial.

Shahim’s voice boomed out once more from behind the first man’s head, “Cleric Bin Amar, you say that you would die for God, and you accuse me of being a traitor even though I told you I would kill you for doing so. Therefore I will grant your wish to meet our glorious maker. Allah, accept this man’s sacrifice to your cause, allow his faith to guide him to you.”

The cleric scrabbled frantically at the fingers of his captor, his eyes wide at Shahim’s words. Dear Allah, the bastard was going to kill him, but, no, wait, no, this cannot be! His fear was palpable and he screamed, “No! No! Stop him you fools! Stop h—”

With machine ease, Shahim snapped the cleric’s head to one side like a giant light switch, shutting the man’s life off instantly. Shahim liked the image. He had switched the evil man off, permanently. Shahim released the cleric’s now limp neck and the body slumped to the floor. Shahim allowed his raw pleasure at what he was doing to show on his face, and the other man imprisoned by his grasp began to weep at the site of the grin now etched into Shahim’s dark features. Why had he accused this beast so lackadaisically?