Drakafic: Araby
Posted: 2004-08-13 01:54am
Caesara Palestina Province
Domination of Draka
Fall, 1936
The seaside resorts at Caesarea Palaestina were one of the more favoured vacation spots of the Domination of Drakia (Draka in the short form). The Levantine coast had been in the possession of the Domination for a long time, unlike the more recently conquered territories of the rest of the Fertile Crescent. It was calm, peaceful, and sunny, pleasant, and dry in the summer. The serfs there were pampered luxury toys who served every whim of the Drakan visitors, without complain. The nightlife was excellent; wine flowed and music played, even, scandalously, American jazz.
The Megalos was one of the most popular seaside dance halls, built on one of the long piers stretching out into the old harbour. A swing band was playing, doing a good job of imitating the real thing. The clientele were mostly those bored with the normal delights of a vacation. The Megalos had everything one could want in a big american dance hall--and it also had personal service from its staff of serfs in every aspect, and some.. Back rooms. Music was piped through the whole building and the clientele enjoyed the usual debauchery, just with a slightly different face.
Nobody would have noticed the two serfs as anything different from the normal inhabitants of the club; they were the ubiqtuitous and unnoticed servants, whom Citizens only paid attention to that they might issue orders or receive pleasure. One of them appeared to be a pregnant woman, not far enough along yet to be granted leave from her simple duties of pouring and serving. The other was a muscular looking handsome young man who might be the preference of a few Citizens for a night that held a chance of the play of resistance, rather than abject terror on the part of their victim.
The man was carrying a massive keg of whiskey on his back, the Islamic prohibitions about liquor surely long ago beaten out of him. He settled it down on a table full of revellers--a great round table that seated sixteen and was quite full with Citizens making merriment--and tapped the keg for them as he should. They paid him little attention, as they watched dancers on the floor just beyond sway and gyrate and the band play on. Perhaps he was lazy, or perhaps he was foolish, but the liquor spilled forth onto the table.
"Demmit, yah!" One of the Citizen men shouted, leaping up to beat the servant who seemed lackaidasical in stopping the flow. The overpowering smell of alcohol rushed out; but nobody beyond the table really noticed. The girl who had just served a dish at the other table turned around, her hands clasped at her waist. Nobody noticed her until she shouted. "ALLAHAKBAR!!"God is most Great. The match she had placed to the soft fabric covering her stomach flared as the fabric caught, and the fire spread up her body, on clothes soaked in alcohol and then allowed to dry, the smell covered in perfumes that the serving girls were expected to wear.
In the few moments they had left, the nearest citizens could not be blamed for thinking they were witnessing the self-immolation of a single unhappy slave. But then the black powder that had been placed in the pouch on the stomach of Fatimah bint Talal al-Burqawt caught. It was a few pounds of the simplest powder, not even corned, but it was more than sufficient. It blew her apart instantly, and it did more. She had hoped to martyr herself next to one of the kegs; the Shaykh had told her that Shaitan's Water burned furiously. The clumsy mistake of the other slave--close enough to be martyred by the blast rather than what followed--guaranteed her success. The explosion ignited the keg and a fireball erupted in the middle of the wooden structure.
Twenty Citizens were dead in a heartbeat, and six more mortally wounded; they died instants later in fire. All these casualties had been caused either by the blast or by the first initial spark of the fire. One even died as a piece of a bone of Fatimah's was driven into her skull by the force of the blast--she might be considered lucky. People fled the packed and burning dance hall as the fire, spread by the alcohol, raced up into the roof, and those to slow to escape in the packed mass were burned by the hot fires racing up behind them. Flesh was seared off bone by the heat and arms melted into fabric and the skin of one's face as hands were brought up instinctively to protect the eyes in futility. Such horrific damage could be survived but those who received it were to far back to escape; the fire consumed them totally in minutes.
The legendary Drakian discipline against pain since birth broke down into a morass of screams of pain. The heads of women burst into flames as their long hair caught and they tried to rush forward; men could hear their testicles cracking away in a flash of heat moments before they died of the power of the fire. Secondary explosions from other kegs sympathetic bursting in a rush of flame from the fire's heat against their wood spread the fire but further. It rushed rapidly through the building and did not allow enough time for escape. As smoke billowed forth others were overwhelmed by the toxic gases and asphyxiating lack of oxygen. Others were crushed to death in the mob that fought its way with ironic Drakan brutality towards the exits.
Two hundred and three Citizens perished either from the explosion and firestorm in the Megalos or from their wounds after they escaped, beating their way through to the inadequet exits and racing the fire on a wooden pier. Countless others were maimed in horrific ways. The scene left the resort town locked down as the security detachments went to work investigating the detonation. The reprisals would begin when the report had been completed. For the moment, impaling all the serfs who escaped the Megalos was deemed sufficient after they had been vigorously interrogated.
Pieter Tras sighed in disgust. His best troubleshooter in Islamic problems hadn't arrived yet and everyone at high command was screaming for the Security Directorate to do something. Well, they'd just have to fucking wait for Beth to show up. And he would to, no matter that he was the overall director for Palestina. Elizabeth Rikkesgarde was a law unto her own, and she was for a reason at that: They needed crazies like her to fight the crazies who boiled out of the desert to die.
Now they boiled out of the cities to, and didn't just charge guns on their fine Arabians; now it was clear that long-bred servants were quite prepared to do the same, and in a more dramatic fashion. Everyone in the Security Directorate knew what the problem was--it was just that what caused it, what had accelerated it to this--suicide bombing?--was not clearly understood by anyone, except a few who had spent years on the desert in the bloody partisan war still being waged in an-Nafud.
Pieter stiffened a bit as he heard the sentries call out a challenge, but they were bellowed down a contralto that somehow could bother even Citizens with its imperious elegance: It certainly cowed the serf guards. And then She strode in, the Desert Queen. Elizabeth Rikkesgarde's pale Iceland skin had long been burned a deep reddened tan by the sun, and in the weary wrinkles and creases of her worn face, she looked fourty-five, not thirty-five--though perhaps, Pieter granted, that was unkind to her. Somewhat.
The gray-green eyes set in that aristocratic face gave her the countenance of a hawk. Under her flesh there were clearly wiry muscles of intense strength by the standards of any woman, and she was bow-legged from countless days in the saddle. She wore a long flowing bedouin robe, white fabric left dusty and uncleaned; under it, simple heavy trousers and a long tunic, both undyed, and heavy Parthian boots. On her head was a battered Austrian kappe with a neck flap, souvenir of the Great War. The sword strapped to her belt, it was rumored, she had taken off the body of a Hashemite prince and was a thousand years old.
Sometimes the legends in intelligence services held a shade of the truth, and it was true here. She took off the Kappe, holding the battered object tenderly as she ran a hand against the short hair on the back of her head--it was, however, rather long towards the top, and generally carelessly cut. Altogether Beth had to be the most shamelessly fashionless Citizen in the whole Domination. But Pieter waited for her to start talking; it was a sign of respect for one of the operators who roamed the Arabian deserts, weeding down the bushmen to safe levels (for they hadn't been for a long time, but rather real raiding armies), searching out signs of British perfidy, and escorting survey parties.
"Pieter, y'pulled mai Druze away from ah foray that coulda run verrah well," she said flatly at last, with no recognition of his superiour rank or anything else for that matter, as she replaced the battered kappe, almost uncomfortable that she briefly did not have it on her head. The accent was thick on her words, but they had a forced attempt at perfection of English dictation to overcome the accent that produced an effect perhaps like an Australian trying to fit in with high society in London.
"Couldn't yeh have assigned command ta' sumone alse?"
"No."
Pieter stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. Some of the things she said... "Beth, take ah seat, fer bliddy sure yu'll need aht when y'see this."
Rikkesgarde sat without a comment, and as she did was reaching into her belt. She had a scroll there, and threw it down on the table. "Ah alriddy know."
Pieter looked at it. It was in Arabic. He tried to suppress a groan and settled back in his chair. "I dunna have ah specialist ahround all bliddy day."
Elizabeth waited for him to say that, and then quite calmly pulled out the English translation she'd written and tossed it down on the table in front of Pieter. This was in English, and excellent King's English, too. Elizabeth had spent several years in the United Kingdom before the Great War when she was growing up, and though her accent was Drakian her writing was not. Pieter read through it slowly, deciphering the language:
"Welh, t'bliddy pock that," Pieter said as he finished. "At least weh know who t'pock did et."
"So weh can send ah hundred martyrs ta' paradise fer every citizen dead?"
"That's what weh do," Pieter shot back. "An' yah should remember et, Beth--desert's gettin' ta yer head."
"People sah that all t'bliddy time," she shot back, though still in a casual tone. "Don't change that I'm rought."
"Iffin they'd beh believin' et."
"Think dere's sum other reason we be fightin' Arabs from Morocco t'the Zagros?"
Pieter was silent after that, rather annoyed at Elizabeth on general principle. She was right, though, it hadn't simply be a desire for loot which had driven the Arabs to conquer the vast swathes of territory they now inhabited--and now caused trouble for the Domination in. Some areas were pacified, like Mesopotamia and Tunisia, the Nile valley, and so on. Most weren't. Bushmen weren't a problem, of course, but in many cases this went well beyond that: Hundreds of them could boil out of the desert for a raid on horseback from places no Citizen had ever gone, and even regular airship reconaissance didn't stop that problem.
Now they had just escalated things, and were clearly encouraging the whole of the Muslim serf populace on an immensely dangerous concept. Pieter understood it, intellectually, but he could not comprehend what would make inferior beings sacrifice their lives--often quite decent really--for the ethereal promise of religion. Elizabeth had figured out the answer to that question, he realized now, and that was probably why she was such an eccentric.
"They beh bliddy serious, Pieter," she spoke again after a few minutes of level silence. "Teh clerics, they beh ready ta see every muslim in t'Domination go ta 'paradise', iffin it comes to that. An' it will, too, if we don't act now."
"Ehn what do yah think weh should do?"
"Exterminate them as t'ere discovered, keep fightin' t'tribes, harsh reprisals 'gainst families an' clans. But all 'at 'ell just ease it--ta eliminate it, weh have tah exceed Genghis Khan. Iffin teh Mongols couldn't break up t'Islam, then we got t'be worse than t'Mongols." She laughed, there, and it wasn't pleasant--the sound and the look of someone observing society from the point of a spectator, observing with casual cynicism but not participating. "Weh is workin' on it, but weh still got a ways ta go."
"That observation'll be 'ike ta speed et up," Pieter countered as he jotted down a few notes, looking down as the page.
"Ah know," Elizabeth assigned with the sigh on her voice unheard by her command. She started to rise just then and as Pieter looked up she was nearly at the door.
"Beth! Demmit!"
She paused and looked back. "Pieter, y'want 'em stopped, I gotta job t'do."
"With everything y'know, how t'hell do yeh trust yer tame Druze, anyway?"
"Weh understand each other," Elizabeth answered, as if that made any sense.
"Take 'ah break from t'desert fer a few weeks, Beth. 'Tis an order. Let t'bliddy Druze camp in yer garden or whatever, but visit yer villa an' take a break--I need yah here, explaining all 'tis," a gesture to the papers she had left on his desk, "t'the idjits back in Archon who ain't ever seen ah Muslim, 'cept in parades."
Elizabeth sighed deeply then. People, these days and perhaps always, had just brought disgust to her. The desert was clarity, emptiness and heat and endless visages, inhabited by a people as simply clear in their nature and faith as the land in which they lived. Insane, of course, and all of them worthy for killing. But they were really easier to get along with than the gaudy fobs of her homeland, and as long as the right men ended up dead, nobody cared about the details of what went on in the deep desert.
"Ah right, iffin the Domination needs mae here, I'll be here. Fer a month, na longer. Ring ahead an' tell my Majorodomo--Puran--wha' all I need tae write. She'll be able ta remember it fer me." Elizabeth's personal slaves had a not unconsiderable amount of freedom--in the paradox of someone obsessed with the desert, despite her loathing for Islamic tenets she actually used them primarily in dealing with the slaves--and with her frequent and long absences they had to be capable of managing basic affairs without her.
"Done," Pieter replied, pleased to have delegated authority, and moreover, gotten one of his best operatives to actually take a break. He suspected that if he hadn't done so from time to time she would have been set to die at fourty from that insane life in the desert.
Elizabeth headed out, worrying. She had to find a way to sugar-coat the truth of the matter to Archona, which meant doing her duty and explaining just how serious the threat is without actually having to flat out say that, yes, multi-generational serfs were still capable of mass uprising for a reason least understood of all by the Domination. It was not going to be pretty, and in the meantime, the dying would surely continue.
Domination of Draka
Fall, 1936
The seaside resorts at Caesarea Palaestina were one of the more favoured vacation spots of the Domination of Drakia (Draka in the short form). The Levantine coast had been in the possession of the Domination for a long time, unlike the more recently conquered territories of the rest of the Fertile Crescent. It was calm, peaceful, and sunny, pleasant, and dry in the summer. The serfs there were pampered luxury toys who served every whim of the Drakan visitors, without complain. The nightlife was excellent; wine flowed and music played, even, scandalously, American jazz.
The Megalos was one of the most popular seaside dance halls, built on one of the long piers stretching out into the old harbour. A swing band was playing, doing a good job of imitating the real thing. The clientele were mostly those bored with the normal delights of a vacation. The Megalos had everything one could want in a big american dance hall--and it also had personal service from its staff of serfs in every aspect, and some.. Back rooms. Music was piped through the whole building and the clientele enjoyed the usual debauchery, just with a slightly different face.
Nobody would have noticed the two serfs as anything different from the normal inhabitants of the club; they were the ubiqtuitous and unnoticed servants, whom Citizens only paid attention to that they might issue orders or receive pleasure. One of them appeared to be a pregnant woman, not far enough along yet to be granted leave from her simple duties of pouring and serving. The other was a muscular looking handsome young man who might be the preference of a few Citizens for a night that held a chance of the play of resistance, rather than abject terror on the part of their victim.
The man was carrying a massive keg of whiskey on his back, the Islamic prohibitions about liquor surely long ago beaten out of him. He settled it down on a table full of revellers--a great round table that seated sixteen and was quite full with Citizens making merriment--and tapped the keg for them as he should. They paid him little attention, as they watched dancers on the floor just beyond sway and gyrate and the band play on. Perhaps he was lazy, or perhaps he was foolish, but the liquor spilled forth onto the table.
"Demmit, yah!" One of the Citizen men shouted, leaping up to beat the servant who seemed lackaidasical in stopping the flow. The overpowering smell of alcohol rushed out; but nobody beyond the table really noticed. The girl who had just served a dish at the other table turned around, her hands clasped at her waist. Nobody noticed her until she shouted. "ALLAHAKBAR!!"God is most Great. The match she had placed to the soft fabric covering her stomach flared as the fabric caught, and the fire spread up her body, on clothes soaked in alcohol and then allowed to dry, the smell covered in perfumes that the serving girls were expected to wear.
In the few moments they had left, the nearest citizens could not be blamed for thinking they were witnessing the self-immolation of a single unhappy slave. But then the black powder that had been placed in the pouch on the stomach of Fatimah bint Talal al-Burqawt caught. It was a few pounds of the simplest powder, not even corned, but it was more than sufficient. It blew her apart instantly, and it did more. She had hoped to martyr herself next to one of the kegs; the Shaykh had told her that Shaitan's Water burned furiously. The clumsy mistake of the other slave--close enough to be martyred by the blast rather than what followed--guaranteed her success. The explosion ignited the keg and a fireball erupted in the middle of the wooden structure.
Twenty Citizens were dead in a heartbeat, and six more mortally wounded; they died instants later in fire. All these casualties had been caused either by the blast or by the first initial spark of the fire. One even died as a piece of a bone of Fatimah's was driven into her skull by the force of the blast--she might be considered lucky. People fled the packed and burning dance hall as the fire, spread by the alcohol, raced up into the roof, and those to slow to escape in the packed mass were burned by the hot fires racing up behind them. Flesh was seared off bone by the heat and arms melted into fabric and the skin of one's face as hands were brought up instinctively to protect the eyes in futility. Such horrific damage could be survived but those who received it were to far back to escape; the fire consumed them totally in minutes.
The legendary Drakian discipline against pain since birth broke down into a morass of screams of pain. The heads of women burst into flames as their long hair caught and they tried to rush forward; men could hear their testicles cracking away in a flash of heat moments before they died of the power of the fire. Secondary explosions from other kegs sympathetic bursting in a rush of flame from the fire's heat against their wood spread the fire but further. It rushed rapidly through the building and did not allow enough time for escape. As smoke billowed forth others were overwhelmed by the toxic gases and asphyxiating lack of oxygen. Others were crushed to death in the mob that fought its way with ironic Drakan brutality towards the exits.
Two hundred and three Citizens perished either from the explosion and firestorm in the Megalos or from their wounds after they escaped, beating their way through to the inadequet exits and racing the fire on a wooden pier. Countless others were maimed in horrific ways. The scene left the resort town locked down as the security detachments went to work investigating the detonation. The reprisals would begin when the report had been completed. For the moment, impaling all the serfs who escaped the Megalos was deemed sufficient after they had been vigorously interrogated.
Pieter Tras sighed in disgust. His best troubleshooter in Islamic problems hadn't arrived yet and everyone at high command was screaming for the Security Directorate to do something. Well, they'd just have to fucking wait for Beth to show up. And he would to, no matter that he was the overall director for Palestina. Elizabeth Rikkesgarde was a law unto her own, and she was for a reason at that: They needed crazies like her to fight the crazies who boiled out of the desert to die.
Now they boiled out of the cities to, and didn't just charge guns on their fine Arabians; now it was clear that long-bred servants were quite prepared to do the same, and in a more dramatic fashion. Everyone in the Security Directorate knew what the problem was--it was just that what caused it, what had accelerated it to this--suicide bombing?--was not clearly understood by anyone, except a few who had spent years on the desert in the bloody partisan war still being waged in an-Nafud.
Pieter stiffened a bit as he heard the sentries call out a challenge, but they were bellowed down a contralto that somehow could bother even Citizens with its imperious elegance: It certainly cowed the serf guards. And then She strode in, the Desert Queen. Elizabeth Rikkesgarde's pale Iceland skin had long been burned a deep reddened tan by the sun, and in the weary wrinkles and creases of her worn face, she looked fourty-five, not thirty-five--though perhaps, Pieter granted, that was unkind to her. Somewhat.
The gray-green eyes set in that aristocratic face gave her the countenance of a hawk. Under her flesh there were clearly wiry muscles of intense strength by the standards of any woman, and she was bow-legged from countless days in the saddle. She wore a long flowing bedouin robe, white fabric left dusty and uncleaned; under it, simple heavy trousers and a long tunic, both undyed, and heavy Parthian boots. On her head was a battered Austrian kappe with a neck flap, souvenir of the Great War. The sword strapped to her belt, it was rumored, she had taken off the body of a Hashemite prince and was a thousand years old.
Sometimes the legends in intelligence services held a shade of the truth, and it was true here. She took off the Kappe, holding the battered object tenderly as she ran a hand against the short hair on the back of her head--it was, however, rather long towards the top, and generally carelessly cut. Altogether Beth had to be the most shamelessly fashionless Citizen in the whole Domination. But Pieter waited for her to start talking; it was a sign of respect for one of the operators who roamed the Arabian deserts, weeding down the bushmen to safe levels (for they hadn't been for a long time, but rather real raiding armies), searching out signs of British perfidy, and escorting survey parties.
"Pieter, y'pulled mai Druze away from ah foray that coulda run verrah well," she said flatly at last, with no recognition of his superiour rank or anything else for that matter, as she replaced the battered kappe, almost uncomfortable that she briefly did not have it on her head. The accent was thick on her words, but they had a forced attempt at perfection of English dictation to overcome the accent that produced an effect perhaps like an Australian trying to fit in with high society in London.
"Couldn't yeh have assigned command ta' sumone alse?"
"No."
Pieter stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. Some of the things she said... "Beth, take ah seat, fer bliddy sure yu'll need aht when y'see this."
Rikkesgarde sat without a comment, and as she did was reaching into her belt. She had a scroll there, and threw it down on the table. "Ah alriddy know."
Pieter looked at it. It was in Arabic. He tried to suppress a groan and settled back in his chair. "I dunna have ah specialist ahround all bliddy day."
Elizabeth waited for him to say that, and then quite calmly pulled out the English translation she'd written and tossed it down on the table in front of Pieter. This was in English, and excellent King's English, too. Elizabeth had spent several years in the United Kingdom before the Great War when she was growing up, and though her accent was Drakian her writing was not. Pieter read through it slowly, deciphering the language:
In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful,
by Haj Amin al-Husseini, Emir al-Shahada Saraya al-Jihadiyah al-Osmani Khalifa
(ed. -- 'Commander of the Martyrs' Brigades of the Jihad Army of the Ottoman Caliphate.')
The ideology of martyrdom is spreading now in our Islamic nation, praise be to God, Lord of the Universe; and it exposes the weakness of the pagans and of those apostates who make false claims about the Will of God and who claim that they are God's deputies on earth. These people, they are lying and serving Taghut (ed. -- forces of Satan), they shall go to Hell. Dar al-Islam (ed. -- House of Islam) has rejected the teachings of these false prophets and apostates. In the land of the farthest mosque (ed. -- Palestina) the believers have rejected the words of these false teachers and they again obey the Will of God.
God is the only Master of a Muslim, praise be to God. False masters bring down the wrath of God. It is because of this submission to false masters that the Two Cities were removed from the Earth by the power of God, denying the pagans the pleasure of entering them once again since Muslims no longer rose in their defence. That pagans profane the sacred places of God and Muslims become apostates shows that al-Mahdi's time is neigh, praise be to God. He shall defeat the pagans in Syria and true Muslims will follow him; they will not be defeated.
Keep in heart that Muhammad, Peace be upon Him, is the last Prophet of the Lord of the Universe. The revelation of God through Muhammad is the only true Qur'an (ed. -- Koran) and those who distort it will be sent straight down to Hell, praise be to God. We speak to true Muslims everywhere and tell them that their sacred duty is to send apostates down to Hell and uphold the true faith. By doing this the pagans shall be defeated and driven from the holy cities, and the Hajj (ed. -- pilgrimage) shall be restored to Muslims, God Willing.
This is again the age of al-jahilyya (ed. -- realm of pre-Islamic paganism), where all that God has forbidden is allowed, and all that God has allowed is forbidden. As it says in the Hadith of Sharh Fiqh Akbar, "he who does not recognize his Imam dies the death of jahilyya". This is a truth of Islam. Those who do not follow the Qur'an and the Sunnah are doomed to the Hell of the people of al-jahilyya. This must be as the relationship between an Imam (ed. -- used here as a general term meaning "teacher") and his student. This is the path to righteousness and paradise, the path that leads to standing before God and not Shaitan.
In these times the Will of the faithful is being tested. The true faithful will rise to this test put upon us by God. Those who do not are apostates and will be sent to Hell. We are locked in a mortal combat with the infidel; as they strive to overcome us and make us submit to the false teachings that go against Islam, so do we also strive to overcome them, aided only by the Dar al-Kitab (ed. -- People of the Book), and even they do not raise their hands directly against the foe. However, those who remain faithful to God, submit only to His Will, and ready themselves to die in His service, may be assured of victory.
Though they will not see it on the earth, God will grant the pleasures of victory to every Shahada (ed. -- martyr), and those pleasures which reside in paradise God has created to be a thousand times more wondrous than anything which may be imagined upon the earth. Because of this understanding that only through faithfulness to God can one reach paradise, many under the yoke of the infidel have turned away from the love of mortal life and embraced death lovingly in knowledge that God favours Shahada above all other believers. This has created a core of Shahada brigades ready to carry out jihad on the command of God against the infidel in every place, but especially so that the Holy Cities might be liberated.
Thus we bring you good tidings from the land of the farthest mosque. God has filled the hearts of the pagans there with fear. God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, has given us the power to rid Dar al-Islam of the pagans. He caused the girl Fatimah bint Talal al-Barqawt to become Shahida in His service. The hands of lust and apostasy no long reach for her, but instead she rests in virtue in Paradise forever, praise be to God. He caused the man Abdullah bin Tewfik to become Shahid in His Service. No longer do the sodomites reach their Hell-stricken hands for him; he has avenged himself in a sea of their blood and, praise be to God, resides now with 72 houris (ed. -- dark-eyed virgins) astride the fountains of paradise.
God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, has sent hundreds of pagans into the fires stoked by Shaitan; he has done this through the hands of the faithful. Truly God is the Lord of all Man, praise be to God. Now, let the truth be said, that a just individual ready to sacrifice himself for God is equal to a whole army, and that God rewards the shahid with the greatest pleasures of paradise. This is why Muslims love the thought of death but pagans cower in fear before our shahada, knowing that if they die by the hand of a shahada that God will send them to Hell.
The pagans hate the faithful of God. When a glorious shahada strikes, they shall send thousands of apostates and faithful alike to their deaths. Apostates will go straight to Hell. But those who hold true to the revelation of the Qur'an will be taken up to paradise by God and will rest in the gardens of paradise forever, revered even by the other faithful in paradise as the shahada of God. Every thousand that the pagans kill simply sends another thousand shahada to the pleasures of paradise. Because of this all Muslims desire to die in the service of God, and all Muslims hope to be made shahada by the wrath of the pagans so that they might enjoy paradise.
Our weapon in our battle against the pagans is the shahid. Fearing only God and loving death, our shahada will slay the pagans everywhere. All pagans shall tremble before the faithful. The strength of a few of the faithful desiring paradise will destroy them all and their hearts shall be eaten by djinni (ed. -- demons approx) in the pits of Hell. They shall make a thousand sighs in their pain, but receive no succor. They shall make a thousand sighs in their thirst, but receive no water. Each day their bodies will be burned and restored so that the punishments of Hell may begin anew. The apostates will also burn with them, and will also have their tongues gouged out continuously by djinni for speaking falsehood.
But the faithful, on the other hand, shall dwell in the gardens of paradise and each shall have seven hundred fountains and endless trees with every variety of fruit. Each shall enjoy seventy-two houris and they shall be so that pleasure is always their's (ed. -- erection on demand without exhaustion) and the moment of pleasure (ed. -- orgasm) will last for a thousand years. They shall pluck precious jewels off trees and bathe in milk; God will grant the shahada everything and they will lack nothing. This is the reward of God, the Compassion, the Merciful, to those who die in jihad against Dar al-Hab (ed. -- House of War).
God is Most Great, God is Most Great, Praise be to God, Praise be to God, the liberation of the Holy Cities is coming soon, the liberation of the Holy Cities is coming soon, God is Most Great, God is Most Great, Praise be to God, Praise be to God, God is Most Great, God is Most Great.
"Welh, t'bliddy pock that," Pieter said as he finished. "At least weh know who t'pock did et."
"So weh can send ah hundred martyrs ta' paradise fer every citizen dead?"
"That's what weh do," Pieter shot back. "An' yah should remember et, Beth--desert's gettin' ta yer head."
"People sah that all t'bliddy time," she shot back, though still in a casual tone. "Don't change that I'm rought."
"Iffin they'd beh believin' et."
"Think dere's sum other reason we be fightin' Arabs from Morocco t'the Zagros?"
Pieter was silent after that, rather annoyed at Elizabeth on general principle. She was right, though, it hadn't simply be a desire for loot which had driven the Arabs to conquer the vast swathes of territory they now inhabited--and now caused trouble for the Domination in. Some areas were pacified, like Mesopotamia and Tunisia, the Nile valley, and so on. Most weren't. Bushmen weren't a problem, of course, but in many cases this went well beyond that: Hundreds of them could boil out of the desert for a raid on horseback from places no Citizen had ever gone, and even regular airship reconaissance didn't stop that problem.
Now they had just escalated things, and were clearly encouraging the whole of the Muslim serf populace on an immensely dangerous concept. Pieter understood it, intellectually, but he could not comprehend what would make inferior beings sacrifice their lives--often quite decent really--for the ethereal promise of religion. Elizabeth had figured out the answer to that question, he realized now, and that was probably why she was such an eccentric.
"They beh bliddy serious, Pieter," she spoke again after a few minutes of level silence. "Teh clerics, they beh ready ta see every muslim in t'Domination go ta 'paradise', iffin it comes to that. An' it will, too, if we don't act now."
"Ehn what do yah think weh should do?"
"Exterminate them as t'ere discovered, keep fightin' t'tribes, harsh reprisals 'gainst families an' clans. But all 'at 'ell just ease it--ta eliminate it, weh have tah exceed Genghis Khan. Iffin teh Mongols couldn't break up t'Islam, then we got t'be worse than t'Mongols." She laughed, there, and it wasn't pleasant--the sound and the look of someone observing society from the point of a spectator, observing with casual cynicism but not participating. "Weh is workin' on it, but weh still got a ways ta go."
"That observation'll be 'ike ta speed et up," Pieter countered as he jotted down a few notes, looking down as the page.
"Ah know," Elizabeth assigned with the sigh on her voice unheard by her command. She started to rise just then and as Pieter looked up she was nearly at the door.
"Beth! Demmit!"
She paused and looked back. "Pieter, y'want 'em stopped, I gotta job t'do."
"With everything y'know, how t'hell do yeh trust yer tame Druze, anyway?"
"Weh understand each other," Elizabeth answered, as if that made any sense.
"Take 'ah break from t'desert fer a few weeks, Beth. 'Tis an order. Let t'bliddy Druze camp in yer garden or whatever, but visit yer villa an' take a break--I need yah here, explaining all 'tis," a gesture to the papers she had left on his desk, "t'the idjits back in Archon who ain't ever seen ah Muslim, 'cept in parades."
Elizabeth sighed deeply then. People, these days and perhaps always, had just brought disgust to her. The desert was clarity, emptiness and heat and endless visages, inhabited by a people as simply clear in their nature and faith as the land in which they lived. Insane, of course, and all of them worthy for killing. But they were really easier to get along with than the gaudy fobs of her homeland, and as long as the right men ended up dead, nobody cared about the details of what went on in the deep desert.
"Ah right, iffin the Domination needs mae here, I'll be here. Fer a month, na longer. Ring ahead an' tell my Majorodomo--Puran--wha' all I need tae write. She'll be able ta remember it fer me." Elizabeth's personal slaves had a not unconsiderable amount of freedom--in the paradox of someone obsessed with the desert, despite her loathing for Islamic tenets she actually used them primarily in dealing with the slaves--and with her frequent and long absences they had to be capable of managing basic affairs without her.
"Done," Pieter replied, pleased to have delegated authority, and moreover, gotten one of his best operatives to actually take a break. He suspected that if he hadn't done so from time to time she would have been set to die at fourty from that insane life in the desert.
Elizabeth headed out, worrying. She had to find a way to sugar-coat the truth of the matter to Archona, which meant doing her duty and explaining just how serious the threat is without actually having to flat out say that, yes, multi-generational serfs were still capable of mass uprising for a reason least understood of all by the Domination. It was not going to be pretty, and in the meantime, the dying would surely continue.
