The Twenty-Nine

The Twenty-Nine

Sunlight filtered through the brush that screened the opening to Malik’s home. He slowly stretched, enjoying the moments before the day began. One with nature, one with the world – at least what’s left of it.

He quickly pushed the negative thought from his mind. He was a practicing “Twenty-niner,” known as Bishnois derived from bis (twenty) and nai (nine), which marked him as a follower of the 29 principles given by Guru Jambheshwar. It was not a religion, rather it was a branch of Hinduism. Not for the first time, he wondered what the long dead founder would think of the current incarnation of his beliefs. Well, he warned us over ten centuries ago, predicting that harming the environment meant harming ourselves.

Rising, Malik went through the cleansing rituals before praying for his own safety and for the downfall of the “Corps.” The irony of the name didn’t escape him. The face he saw in the small, clear pool showed his Indian heritage. Dark hair, dark eyes. He saw too the strength that was there. He smiled.

A small sound brought him to alert. Grabbing his knife, he crouched behind a small outcrop in the cave wall.

“Malik?” a whispered voice asked.

With a small sigh, he recognized Sharma’s voice. “Namaste,” he responded with the traditional greeting. “Enter.”

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully as she melted through the shrubbery, careful to not injure so much as a leaf. This was both one of the Bishnois principals and a survival skill. “I see you’re going traditional on me, again.” She pouted her lips but the underlying smile couldn’t be kept at bay.

“I find it helps to remind me why we’re here.”

“Well, just don’t go totally non-violent on me. I know our faith says to protect all living things but that doesn’t include Corps! The law may grant them rights as “people” but they are heartless and vile and not alive.”

After the food riots of 2014, large agri-corporations banded together and convinced governments that only they knew how to make the remaining arable lands productive enough to feed Earth’s burgeoning populations. The impact of climate change, first seen and largely ignored during the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries, had severely reduced our ability to grow food. Over the following decade, the “Corps,” as they had become known, went from saviors to dictators. Now, they had carte-blanche, taking land and disposing of people without need of government approval. Anyone opposing them were labeled terrorists and the Corps mercenaries hunted them down.

“So, what news do you bring?” Malik prodded, not wanting to continue the discussion.

“The Corps have been surveying the forest region north of here. There are rumors that they plan to clear-cut the area and turn it into farm land.”

“That’s ridiculous. The forest is mostly Loong trees which grow only where there is little water. If they clear that area, nothing will grow unless they’ve discovered the magic of making water where there is none.”

“If there are no people or livestock, there will be plenty of water,” she said quietly.

Malik let the words sink in. No people or livestock! “How can that be? Even the Corps can’t get away with that.”

“I’ve heard that they move everyone to relocation camps. They use them for cheap labor. Many die but the Corps don’t care. There are always plenty of replacements.”

“No!” The force of Malik’s answer startled even him. “We cannot let this happen.”

“There has been a call for an assembly this afternoon to confront the Corps …”

“and we will be there,” Malik finished.

The sun was just past prime when Malik and Sharma arrived. Finding the spot wasn’t difficult. A large cloud of dust hung in the air from the heavy equipment that had been positioned. A man wearing a bright yellow helmet was addressing the crowd.

“You are hereby ordered to leave this area. This land is now under the protection of the India Development Corporation.”

Malik pushed his way through the small crowd. “Protection? Protection from what? This land needs protection but only from you.”

The man continued, ignoring the outburst. “Anyone who tries to interfere will be arrested under the authority of the District government. You are advised that this area and its surroundings are now the property of the IDC. You should go to your homes and prepare to leave. A representative of the IDC will be in contact with you shortly.”

“Our families have been here for generations. How can you take what is ours?” a voice shouted from the crowd. Several answering shouts joined in the chorus of protest.

Malik acted instinctively. He approached the nearest tree and embraced it. “The Guru Ji said that no living tree should be harmed. I will protect this tree.”

Others joined him – men, women, children - each protecting a tree with their embrace.

“As you wish,” the man with the yellow helmet said. With those words, the flap on a truck was lifted and shots rang out amidst the screams of those wounded and watching. The crowd scattered, fleeing into the forest.

Sharma stood frozen, not believe what was happening. In a matter of moments, it was over. She ran to Malik who was slumped at the base of the tree. Blood oozed from his lips as he tried to speak but no words ever found their way to her ears.

Sobbing, Sharma stood. The sound of bullets being chambered sent her running into the woods. How she found her way to Malik’s crude home was a mystery. She entered and made her way to his pallet. Exhausted mentally and physically, she lay down. I wonder if he’s here, she thought distractedly as she breathed in his essence. At some point, her crying stopped and she fell into a fitful slumber.

“Sharma? Sharma, are you here?”

The voice made her bolt upright. “Who?” She felt disoriented and confused.

“Sharma. It’s Anjali. Are you alright?” The dark outline of a woman appeared in the opening.

“I’m,” she hesitated for a moment. “I’m uninjured but I’m not alright.” She felt hot tears burning her cheeks.

“Thank Vishnu. I was afraid that you might have been wounded. The massacre is all anyone is talking about. I heard you were there.”

“I was there. What’s being done?”

“Done? Nothing. The IDC says they were attacked and only defended themselves. The District has cleared them in all twenty-nine of the deaths.”

“For each principal, a sacrifice,” Sharma whispered.

“What?” asked Anjali.

“Nothing. I was just … “ Sharma didn’t know how to finish. “Thank you for checking on me. I’ll be fine. I need to collect a few of Malik’s things for his family. I just need some time alone to say good-bye.”

“I understand. I’ll let the others know.”

Alone, Sharma stripped to the waist and began the cleansing rituals. She could not, however, say the prayers. She began collecting the few possessions that Malik had. As she made the pallet up, she felt a hard bulge on the side. Pulling out the wrapped object, she discovered a rifle complete with scope. Malik, what is this? What were you thinking? She had heard that groups opposed to the Corps were forming and that they were planning a more “active” role in their protest. Could Malik had been thinking about such a path? She wondered how she could find out.

The earlier prayers she had avoided now came to her lips – not to Vishnu but to Shiva, the destroyer.

The sun was rising at her back as she watched the men and machines destroy the land. Looking through the scope, she saw the flash of a yellow helmet. Taking careful aim, she called upon Shiva and pulled the trigger. The helmet exploded.

As she walked back toward Malik’s, she smiled. She knew that she didn’t have to find the group that shared her new vision of protest. She had left them a calling card. They would find her, eventually.

Notes

An entry for "What if...? (Closed)" 
and, yes, the Bishnois are real . This story is based on a real event which occurred in 1730.

Requirements:
Prompt: Must feature the number 29.
Genre mix: Cyberpunk and action/adventure.

Word limit: Minimum 500 words but not over 3000
Word count: 1,330