The Final Correction Read online

  Mo put his mouth to Faruk’s ear. ‘God at his most merciful. Praise be to him!’

  Faruk had always thought Mo’s take on faith had been nonsense. He never realised how much. ‘I’m not a medic, but these people look as if they just need to take the red pill. The words Mountain and Mohammed come to mind.’

  ‘They’re going to need more than the red pill if they’re to visit Barzakh – they each need a computer too, and there aren’t many of those in the desert.’

  Faruk didn’t want to shout the question but had no alternative. ‘You mean they’re going to end up like the others? They’re being taken to their deaths?’

  ‘No – one can return from Barzakh if one chooses to.’

  There it was again – that strange way of speaking that Faruk had assumed was just him getting used to Mo’s accent. It was as if he had or was becoming someone else. ‘But everyone in that village was dead!’

  ‘That was their choice.’ Mo looked at the poor, weak and infirm in front of him. ‘Although one can see how the decision would be easy for some.’

  Faruk was sitting next to a window and, if he craned his neck, could see the desert flashing by outside. Before long, a cloud of recirculating dust and sand had obscured the view, so Faruk prepared to disembark. The Acrewman made him stay put. The ramp lowered, and a family of nomads boarded before the helicopter took off again.

  The same happened a short while later, and soon all the seated passengers were forced to accept the parking of belongings, equipment and even children on their laps. A toddler was placed on Faruk’s knee while his mother tended to a sick relative stretchered onto the only floor space available.

  Faruk cringed at his charge. Isra offered to exchange him for a sack of lentils and Faruk was about to, but then changed his mind. He grinned at the child who promptly burst into tears.

  The sight of another mini sandstorm outside heralded another stop, and Faruk looked to see if he could recognise where it was. Shipping containers surrounded by blast-proof walls and razor wire meant a military installation of some kind. The Chinook touched down and taxied the rest of its journey.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Mo peered at the temporary nature of the buildings passing by before answering Faruk. ‘A field hospital, I presume.’

  They came to a stop, and the ramp lowered. The less infirm were joined by a ground team of soldiers and porters who took away those unable to disembark themselves. Much like the location of the prince’s tent in the desert, the mix of military uniforms, civilian dress and skin tones made the sight strange to Faruk, and he couldn’t help but wonder what hypocrisy lay behind it all – under most circumstances, they would be at each other’s throats.

  The Chinook’s engines continued to scream as Faruk, Isra, Mo and Ula were encouraged to descend the ramp too. Once all the passengers were far enough away, the helicopter turned and trundled back to the runway. Faruk watched it, but sun glinting off the cockpit’s canopy denied him the chance he was hoping for – ridiculing Mo’s beliefs.

  What Faruk assumed to be the field hospital’s A&E department was busy with casualties from a previous flight, so they were forced to join a queue. Medical staff made their way along it, extracting those in need of more immediate attention. Amedics mingled with their human counterparts.

  Faruk was wondering what form of transport “God” had organised for them next when what was being done at the front of the line caught his attention. His initial thought was patient registration, but there were no computer terminals or even something as simple as pen and paper. The queue moved swiftly, but any sense of relief that brought ended when Faruk saw the reason why – each person was being given a red pill and a beaker of water. Once the Astaff was satisfied the tablet had been swallowed, it handed over a handheld electronic device.

  Faruk took his daughter’s arm and stepped out of the line. He found himself facing a door with stretcher cases outside. The door opened, and his eyes landed on a body being wrapped in a shroud. It was holding a tablet computer.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘This way, my brother.’

  Faruk and Isra followed Mo and Ula – back to the helipad.

  ‘Another helicopter?’ said Faruk.

  Mo’s annoying grin reappeared. ‘You’ll see!’

  The sun was now well above the horizon, and Faruk raised a hand against it as he stepped outside. The base was alive with rotary craft taxiing, landing or taking off. There were so many, the machines had to wait in line for the helipad. The three helicopters occupying the dispersal disgorged their contents – more poor and sick civilians.

  Faruk shouted, ‘What’s going on? Has Armageddon started?’

  Mo looked at Ula before responding. ‘No – these are the preparations. The protection of the innocent.’ He nodded towards construction work taking place on the far side of the base. Giant cement mixers lined up behind other vehicles conducting a similar task to the Chinooks – disgorging their contents. Further away, more vehicles queued where work appeared to have been completed – ambulances and buses wound their way into a tunnel.

  Ula led the group away from the noise – to the runway. The last of the taxiing Chinooks was vacating it when they got there.

  Faruk gazed up and down the empty strip. ‘What now?’

  Mo didn’t answer. Along with Isra and the robot, he had turned his head to what Faruk guessed they could all see, but he had yet to – whatever was coming in to land.

  The black dot that appeared above the horizon soon became the sight and sound of something Faruk guessed could take them all the way to their destination if it had to – an airliner. One of the new super-jumbos too. The huge aircraft doubled-back after landing and drew up alongside the travellers a few minutes later.

  A nudge to Faruk’s ribs made him look at Mo. ‘What was that you said about the mountain coming to Mohammed?!’

  Faruk was wondering how they were expected to board the plane, when an elevator descended from the belly of the fuselage, answering the question. He grimaced as Mo called out, ‘Allahu Akbar!’ for the umpteenth time.

  The giant machine was no ordinary airliner. It was a private jet and if Faruk thought the Bedouin tent in the desert was opulent, he was about to redefine the definition. The elevator took them up into a grand entrance hall. A marble staircase spiralled up at least another three levels, and if Ula, Isra, Mo and Faruk were wondering what else the flying palace contained, all they need do was read the signposts – the aircraft’s interior was so vast it needed them. Words like “Concert Hall”, “Mall” and “Turkish Baths” made it clear they were boarding something the size of a small town and where no luxury had been spared. It even had an onboard mosque.

  ‘Welcome, my friends!’ The prince grinned at them. ‘And my sincere apologies – I understand your journey thus far has not been a pleasant one.’ He spread his arms. ‘I hope this modest gesture will help compensate in some small way.’

  Twelve hours ago, Faruk would have fallen to his knees. Not anymore.

  The signpost for the mall had a glass case next to it containing an Amodel. Hassan must have spotted Isra admiring what the robot was wearing. ‘Would you care to see what else the mall has to offer?’

  Isra looked at her father. He nodded. She and Ula were all smiles as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘This way please, gentlemen.’ An Aservant took Faruk’s bag along with Mo’s backpack, and both men followed Hassan. They passed a window on the way – the airliner had become airborne without them even noticing. Quite the contrast to the uncomfortable theatrics of a military helicopter.

  Faruk put his nose to the glass. Although the base was being left behind, the extent of it could still be seen and that included the lines of both construction and passenger vehicles. They stretched to and from a range of mountains in the distance.

 
‘Two million once it’s finished,’ said the prince.

  ‘Is that all? I would have thought a project like that would have cost billions rather than millions of dollars.’

  Hassan corrected Faruk’s misunderstanding. ‘I’m referring to the capacity – two million of our people.’

  Faruk’s jaw dropped. ‘Two million people are being taken underground? For what?’

  Hassan didn’t reply and encouraged his guests to enter another elevator. Before long, they had reached a room marked “Conference One”. Its walls and ceiling consisted of an IMAX-like video screen displaying what Faruk and Mo had seen from the window. It made the aircraft around them appear invisible.

  ‘Other bunkers are at a similar stage of completion,’ said the prince.

  The screen switched to a display detailing the locations of each.

  ‘How many are there?’ Faruk didn’t bother with any deference, and if the prince took offence, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Well, I can’t vouch for the rest of the world, but the Middle East has a population of five-hundred million so, two-hundred-and-fifty in total.’

  ‘Half a billion people? Everyone is going to be underground on judgement day? Who’s going to fight the Americans?’

  ‘No one. Well, apart from the few who believe Yawn ad-Din is no different to any other jihad, and they’ll be in Barzakh before they know it.’

  Faruk moved closer to the prince. An Aservant stood between the two men. ‘You mean to tell me we’re going to give in without a fight?’

  Hassan looked at the Aservant, and it moved to one side. ‘The Prophet – peace be upon him – will protect us from our enemies, my friend. You’ve already witnessed what happens when infidels dare to interfere with Allah’s will.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’ve been in enough battles to recognise the effects of cannon fire when I see it. Those soldiers were killed by a drone or a helicopter.’

  ‘Thirty-millimetre high-explosive dual-purpose, apparently.’ Hassan read from a description of the gunship’s weapon system, an image of which now filled the walls. ‘Effective at up to four metres from impact.’ He turned back to Faruk. ‘A pity your vehicle’s tyres were only three metres away.’

  ‘Why would the Americans target their own troops to protect us?’

  ‘They didn’t – God was flying the machine.’

  ‘Praise be to him!’

  Faruk glared at Mo and then back at Hassan. ‘I have news for you two. God is not capable of flying anything. And do you want to know why?’ The two men stared back in silence. ‘Because God doesn’t exist!’

  Faruk couldn’t help but smile at the relief that brought him. A devout Sunni Muslim admitting to becoming a non-believer – an infidel – quite literally overnight would be just about the most reckless thing a man could do in an Islamic country and especially in front of a powerful Saudi prince. But much like stepping off the bridge in his dream, Faruk no longer cared.

  Hassan and Mo looked at each other and then at the Aservant. Faruk wasn’t made party to whatever was being communicated. All three then smiled at him.

  The conference room had a second door located towards the front of the airliner and Hassan strode over to it. ‘Then how do you explain this, my brother?’

  The door opened and Faruk squinted. He raised a hand to the sun and walked over. It was the aircraft’s flight deck – empty. Unlike the Chinook, there were no manual controls to observe moving as if guided by some unseen hand.

  Faruk still wasn’t impressed. ‘Artificial intelligence, of course. Most airliners fly without a crew these days. No different to self-driving trucks and cars.’

  ‘Artificial intelligence?’ The prince closed the door again. ‘Just who do you think God is, Faruk?’

  Chapter Eight

  Faruk didn’t intend cutting off his beard. It just happened. One minute he was thinking of a trim, and then, before he knew it, the clippers had done enough for a razor to finish the job.

  Faruk had never shaved in his life. He picked up a can of foam, read the instructions and lathered his chin. The cut-throat nicked his neck.

  ‘Damn!’

  Avoiding the speck of red, Faruk tried again. Another cut. Blood dripped onto the carpet this time.

  ‘Damn this to Hell!’

  Faruk leaned over the sink before making a third attempt. Blood didn’t just flow this time – it spurted.

  The secret to decapitation is speed and access. Pulling his head back with one hand, Faruk hacked at the widening wound with the other. His eyes were forced to look up at the ceiling, but it wasn’t necessary to see – years of dispensing the judgement on other non-believers meant he could do it blindfold if necessary. Faruk usually had his eyes closed, anyway. Especially when it came to asking God to forgive the sins of children.

  Before long, Faruk came up against the familiar resistance of the spine, so pulled his chin up against the weight of his body, allowing the blade to slip between the vertebrae. The head came away, and Faruk tossed it in with his other victims. They opened their eyes.

  ‘NO!’

  Faruk awoke. He put a hand to his neck. It was wet – with sweat. He got off the bed, ran to the basin and vomited. The untouched cut-throat razor sitting on the side appeared to mock.

  A splash of cold water confirmed the nightmare was over and Faruk turned to the clothes left out for him. He’d worn a thawb before but nothing like this. Still shaking, he dried his face and dressed.

  Mo left his cabin at the same time. He frowned.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ said Faruk.

  ‘Nothing, brother. It’s just strange to see you in something different.’ Mo put a hand to his chin. ‘What’s happened to your beard?’

  ‘It’s still longer than yours.’

  They made their way as instructed – following the signposts marked “Banqueting Hall”. The prince was waiting outside when they got there, and he was about to greet the two men when Isra and Ula’s arrival made him say something else.

  ‘What a picture! Ladies, I don’t recall having seen such beauty since I finally managed to gather all my wives together in one room. If they were here now, they would be very jealous!’

  Isra and Ula grinned under their veils, but only Isra blushed. Faruk got the impression the robot would have done the same had it been capable. He grimaced at what his daughter was wearing. Like his thawb, the designer dress was made of silk and indeed, beautiful, but there was too much jewellery and she was plastered in make-up. Both made the teenager appear much older, and a gossamer-like veil plainly wasn’t designed to hide it. Unacceptable in male company and especially with the likes of Mo around. Faruk growled at the way the young man was gawping at Isra; just as well Faruk was now a non-believer – a few hours ago, he would have made his anger plain, regardless of any embarrassment to Isra or their host.

  More guests arrived. Faruk recognised the Imams, Clerics and other privileged individuals from the Bedouin tent in the desert and, despite everyone present being dressed in equal splendour, his sense of inadequacy returned – an ending of belief didn’t appear to include Faruk’s inferiority complex. It hadn’t curtailed a sense of injustice either – heavy gold watches and yet more diamonds made for a stark contrast between these passengers and the much needier occupants of the helicopter.

  An Aservant approached the prince, who responded by inviting the ladies to enter the banqueting hall first. Isra and Ula linked arms and did so. Their spontaneous laughter bothered Faruk as much as what they were wearing. Mo grinned, and put his own arm out. Faruk ignored the attempt at humour and followed the rest of the men into dinner.

  The table was large enough for the women to gather at one end, but some had chosen not to. It meant the sexes would be mixing, but that didn’t seem to matter. What did matter was seeing Mo take a place next to Isra,
and Faruk was about to try and squeeze between the two, when the only space available to him became plain. Faruk responded in kind to the strangers’ pleasantries and stood between them instead. Hassan then thanked Allah for what lay before them, and everyone seated themselves on the cushions surrounding it. Small talk began.

  ‘Why do you think God did it?’

  Faruk still had his eyes on Mo so only half-heard the lady’s question. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Prophet – peace be upon him – why do you think Allah returned him as a white man?’

  ‘Leave the poor man alone, Zara.’

  ‘It’s a simple question. I’m not asking Faruk how he plans to carry out The Prophet’s wishes.’

  Faruk leaned forward to allow Zara, and the person he assumed to be her husband, a chance to continue their disagreement – anything to avoid distraction. Isra appeared deep in conversation with Ula, while Mo had become occupied with his other neighbour. Good.

  ‘Mind you, no one expected God to use the internet, so I suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised.’

  Faruk decided to give Zara his attention after all – in the form of a curt repost to the nonsense she was talking. ‘Some would consider the very idea ridiculous while others, blasphemous.’

  ‘Only because they have yet to take the red pill.’ Zara placed a hand on Faruk’s forearm. ‘It’s the only way to open one’s eyes to the truth.’

  Numerous gold bracelets extended halfway up Zara’s arm and Faruk couldn’t help but wonder how many mouths could be fed by the sale of them and for how long. The metal obscured most of her fingers too – even her long and immaculate nails had been decorated in what Faruk assumed to be gold leaf. What little could be seen of the flesh between was equally perfect. Too perfect. Faruk turned to her husband. Robots only ate food to be polite and the way this fat pig was cramming his mouth made his natural origins obvious. A smile of brown teeth confirmed it.