Muslim Science Fiction Saga

What does it mean to be human? That's a difficult question to answer nowadays, especially for someone like me. Now that the United States of America has finally decided to follow in its neighbor Canada's footsteps and grant human rights status to genetically engineered individuals, and not only abolished commercial civil engineering of humans at the same time but started pressuring Asia, South Africa and Europe to do the same, my kind are considered cool now.

All kinds of people in Hollywood and the worlds of professional sports, politics, adult entertainment, music and science are coming out and revealing that they're Gen-Tech people, and the general public is loving it. I haven't seen this much public hugging and crying since Saudi Arabia became the last country to legalize Gay Marriage in 2097, shortly after former Princess Afaf Al-Saud became the newly democratic country's first female President.

I'm from the old days, I guess that's why I'm still jaded. I was built in a lab by geeks working for Oshiro/Wendell Enterprises, the global conglomerate that rules much of the world. On February 5, 2077 A.D. I first saw the light of day through these inhuman eyes of mine. I possess both human and animal DNA, and thus I'm classified under meta-human instead of Homo Sapiens. I'm considered an aberration, the other, something that shouldn't exist.

How do I feel, now that I officially have human rights? I've studied much of human history and from what I gather, respecting the rights of those less powerful than them or outnumbered by them has never been the defining characteristic of any group of humans at any point in human history. Look at what Europeans did to Natives in the Americas during the colonial days. I have no desire to let that happen to my kind. It's a good thing I'm stronger than you people. The humans seem to be less prejudiced toward us now but I'm still cautious.

My name is Amaya Yamamoto-Mahdi and I'm a gal with a story to share with you. Anyone looking at me would see a perfect replica of a five-foot-ten, slim and fit yet curvaceous Asian woman with long black hair, light bronze skin and golden brown eyes. That's where the resemblance ends, because nothing else about me is normal. I only weigh sixty eight kilograms but I can lift seven point six times that. That means I can lift you clear above my head and toss you around like a beach ball.

These days, I'm a graduate student advisor at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, where I studied civil engineering ages ago. Devoted wife to Crown attorney and author Ibrahim Mahdi, and also the proud mother of a beautiful brown-skinned and emerald-eyed little angel, Aisha Yamamoto-Mahdi, that's me in a nutshell. Our daughter Aisha is the result of a most unique pairing, Somali-Canadian Muslim attorney and public intellectual and genetically enhanced Japanese Superwoman. Damn. She's really gonna be something, eh?

Why did I leave my native Japan for the Confederation of Canada? I came to Canada as a refugee, and became so much more. Today I'm a devout Muslim, a working professional, and a devoted wife and mother. I wouldn't have these things if I stayed in Japan. I'd probably be dead, after a lifetime as a sex slave, exotic entertainment provider or bodyguard for a rich bozo.

Japan is the only country that tried to wipe out its meta-humans rather than granting them human rights. It's a good thing I left Japan several decades before the Culling officially began. Luckily, thousands of Japanese meta-humans fled to North America. For our kind, it's long been the promised land.

Why is that? Well, Canada is the first country where meta-humans are considered people, and have been granted refugee status thanks to the U.N. and the dedication of Canadian human rights activists. Everywhere else on twenty-first century planet Earth, including almighty America? We're genetically engineered soldiers, sex toys, exotic servants and the like.

Basically, anyone with enough cash can order themselves a genetically engineered pet. Slavery was outlawed in the 1860s but those laws only applied to normal human beings. Before the Age of Reunification between Man and Superman, genetically engineered wonders like myself were seen as fair game by the unscrupulous out there. Due to the two percent animal content of our DNA, which grants us exceptionally athletic bodies and sharp senses, we were considered inhuman. We had no human rights.

When I came to Ontario, Canada, and left my old world behind, I swore to myself that I'd try to stay out of trouble. I put my early days in Japan behind me. In those trying days, the only person who knew my secret was Ibrahim Mahdi, this seemingly random guy who came to my aid when I got into a bar fight with some lowlifes in this bar in downtown Toronto. Turns out Fate had much in store for Ibrahim and I, but neither of us knew it at the time.

I walked into the Lotus Bar in Chinatown because, well, I was bored and thought I'd chill there for a bit. Toronto is a big place and can feel overwhelming at times. I gravitated toward a place where I thought others like me might congregate, even if the resemblance was only skin-deep. As soon as I walked in, three bozos gawked at me.

"Hello sweet thing," a tall, bald-headed white guy with tattoos said, looking me up and down. Now, any other woman would have known that dealing with strange men in a setting such as this gloomy bar in one of Toronto's rougher areas was a bad idea. I'm not the average woman, unfortunately.

"What's up dude?" I said, just to be polite, even though I probably should have just ignored him. Attractive young women who go to bars tend to get hit on by all kinds of guys. I would have known this if I'd been a normal woman. The thing is that when you're genetically engineered and put through the accelerated growth process because your Owner ordered himself or herself a super-soldier or bodyguard, you mature physically but mentally, well, you've got some catching up to do.

I'm no slouch in the brains department, not by a long shot. I have an IQ of 180. I can lift up to five hundred and seventeen kilograms in a dead lift. I can run at a top speed of 40 kilometers per hour. Intelligence is no substitute for common sense or experience, I'm afraid. Genetically speaking, I might be a superwoman but chronically I was only five years old, housed in the body of a 20-something Asian supermodel.

"Watch out for these guys honey," the bartender, a red-haired plump woman, said to me after I ordered the only drink I knew the name of, a Martini, shaken and not stirred. Vincent Tsukuda, one of my creators, had a fondness for old James Bond movies, I guess.

"Thank you ma'am," I said, looking at the bald-headed guy as he came toward me, flanked by his buddies, a young Filipino guy and a tall, skinny guy with purple hair and a diagonal scar on the left side of his face. They smelled wrong to me, and I instantly knew why. They were construction workers, constantly exposed to the semi-radioactive, poisonous smog that hung over much of North America in those days.

"Where you from sweet thing?" Baldy said, and I looked him in the eyes. I've grown fond of Canada since I moved here, and began living under this identity, but the question about my origins or ethnicity is something I've come to despise hearing from the locals. I stayed in the U.S. for a while, in Buffalo, New York, before crossing the border and nobody asked me where I come from. Canadians are something else in their own way, I guess.

"None of your business," I said, letting my annoyance show. My answer seemed to royally tick off Baldy and his friends, Shorty and Purple Hair, as I called them in my head. Suddenly thinking that coming to this bar was a bad idea, I told the bartender I had to bounce, and she nodded understandingly, before I gulped down my drink and beat a hasty exit.

Unfortunately, the three bozos followed me outside. "Your kind come here and think you own the place," Baldy said, spitting on the ground for emphasis, a gesture I found obscene and disgusting. Flanked by his buddies, who scowled at me, he took a menacing step toward me. I could have run, and none of these creeps could have caught up with me on his best day. Yet something he said kept me rooted where I stood.

"What do you mean by that?" I said, glaring at him. I had to find out what Baldy meant by 'your kind'. Did this fool somehow figure out that I was a genetically engineered individual? If so, I had to neutralize him, and I had to do it quickly.

Canada's Liberal government might have granted asylum to genetically engineered people, but the fact that we had to register with them and be monitored at all times through tracking devices implanted in us didn't make me feel comfortable. Why keep track of a select group of people unless you have nefarious intentions? According to my readings, it's what the Nazis did to Jewish citizens prior to the whole internment camp thing. Thanks but no thanks, Canada. Your government doesn't need to know my every move.

"Visible minorities like you come here and act like you own the damn place," Baldy says, grinning nastily. My predatory eyes take in everything about him. Baldy is six-foot-four and maybe three hundred pounds. Not a problem for someone like me. His blue eyes blaze with uncanny anger. "Canada is my land dammit."

Dude is an ordinary bigot, not a representative of the government sent to keep tabs on me, as I suspected. Phew. I smile in relief, then drop into a fighting stance. Baldy comes at me, underestimating me just like most of my mundane adversaries usually do. I'm a cute, exotic gal. I don't look like a threat to a big, strong man like him. Good.

"Come and get me," I say, smiling wickedly, and Baldly and his pals take the bait like I knew they would. Baldy comes straight at me, while Purple Hair and Shorty flank him. I leap high in the air, a full six feet, and spin, swiftly thrusting out my foot and kicking Baldly in the jaw and accidentally losing my shoe in the process. Before I land on the balls of my feet, he's down like a sack of potatoes. A look of surprise and dread creeps into the faces of Shorty and Purple Hair. Recognition dawns in their eyes.

"Freak," Shorty squeaks, and turns and runs. I am not surprised, for running is what most individuals do when hopelessly outmatched. Purple Hair does not run, and that would have worried me if I had more fighting experience. Typically, people don't fight fair, not if they can help it. Having realized that he's facing something far deadlier than a college coed, Purple Hair pulls out his pistol.

"You're going down bitch," Purple Hair says, smirking as he cocks his old-fashioned pistol and aims it at me. I do a quick mental calculation. Can I get to him before he fires that pistol? I'm strong and fast and quite resilient but not bullet-proof. Can I get to him? Only one way to find out. If I don't act now I'm a dead woman anyway. I get ready to spring at Purple Hair just as his slim finger begins squeezing that trigger.

As I rush my would-be prey, I'm well aware that in all likelihood, I'm just making theater. No way I'm faster than a speeding bullet. I rush at Purple Hair, but he's down by the time I get to him. Leaping out of the shadows, someone strikes him on the temple, and the gunman collapses. "You alright, little lady?" says a deep voice. I blink, for the voice belongs to a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a crimson shirt and blue jeans, wearing thick glasses and a broad grin.

"Um yeah," I say hesitantly, and look from the downed gunman to my unexpected rescuer. Grinning, the young man looks me up and down. I can see concern on his dark, handsome face. I am surprised by how quickly he took out Purple Hair. I pride myself on having the world's sharpest senses, but it seemed to me like this dude popped out of nowhere.

"I'm Ibrahim Mahdi," the young man says, holding out his hand for me to shake. I shake his hand, and I'm still staring at him without saying anything when he clears his throat. My interactions with humans have been limited at best, and sometimes, it shows at the worst possible moments. Clearly he's expecting something from me after coming to my aid and introducing himself.

"My name is Amaya and it's good to meet you Ibrahim," I say, as formally as I can, and this seems to please him. Ibrahim nods, and then mutters something about Toronto being a dangerous city for a gal like me. I nod and smile, and thank him for his help, then let him know that I must depart.

One thing has become obvious to me since I escaped from the Gen-Tech Lab at Oshiro/Wendell Enterprises. Humans, no matter how otherwise mundane, have an innate ability to spot when someone is somehow different from the norm. Even if they can't quite put their finger on the reason why someone is different, they know that person is not like them.

Come to think of it, it's the reason why gay youths get bullied in high school, and why nerds get picked on. There's a bit of xenophobia inside every human. It's a core part of the human species. A fear and distrust of those different from themselves. I've got to get away from Ibrahim here before that innate sense gets activated.

"Thanks for everything but I'm running late," I say, and immediately take off in a hurry. I can feel Ibrahim's eyes on me as I vanish into the night. I hate leaving like this, especially since this guy is one of a few humans who've ever been genuinely kind to me. Still, I am what I am and I do what I have to in order to survive. I play the cards I'm dealt, that's all. I live in a world where even the good guys can't be trusted...

I left Toronto that very same night, and moved to Ottawa. I figured that I'd have an easier time in a smaller city. I met a techie who helped me with crafting a brand new identity for myself. I left Japan and came to Canada as Jane Doe, after ditching the numeric identifier Subject 01170. I became Amaya Yamamoto, in part to honor my obvious Japanese heritage, and to blend into this society.

Quite a few people of Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese and Korean heritage make their home in Ontario, and Ottawa has a sizeable population of them. I ought to fit in there, I thought. I enrolled at Carleton University, in the civil engineering department. I'm good at mathematics and science, and building things, especially weapons, seems to come easily to me.

I took a few months to get my bearings in Ottawa, and settled into an apartment off-campus. I found the mid-sized city to my liking. It's diverse, and fun, and neither too large, like Toronto, nor too small, like Kingston. I took a full load of courses at Carleton and began working as a video surveillance expert for a security company downtown.

"You're a natural at this," my new boss, Stanley Kagame, told me after I cleared through the company's background checks, thanks to my flawless tech connection, and welcomed me aboard. I thanked him profusely, like the eager young professional I was supposed to be. How about that? Got myself a job, a new apartment and I'm in school. Not bad for a wee gal, eh?

On September 4, 2082, I officially began my civil engineering classes at Carleton University. On this huge campus, surrounded by young men and women of all hues, I was home at last. In this place full of young people trying to figure out their path, I was just one face in the crowd. It's considered okay for a young person to feel out of place and overwhelmed on campus, and that's why it's the perfect place for me.

Just as I started getting my bearings, guess who I ran into? "Small world," a loud, masculine voice said, startling the bejesus out of me as I sat at a computer terminal in the campus library. A tall, broad-shouldered young black man in a black sweatshirt and blue jeans plopped down on the chair next to mine. My eyes went wide when I saw who it was.

"Ibrahim Mahdi in the flesh and at your service Miss Amaya," he said jovially, taking the words right out of my mouth. I smiled at Ibrahim, genuinely surprised to see him at Carleton. When I queried him on the subject, Ibrahim shrugged casually and told me he was a student here. The world is small indeed, I thought, happily for a change.

"Good to see you too my friend," I said, and to my surprise, I actually meant what I said. Typically, I don't trust human beings because, to me, they're the tyrannical rulers of a world that fears and hates me and all others like me. Yet there was something different about Ibrahim. I can't explain it, I just know that something about him doesn't elicit fear in me, the way other humans do.

"I'm in the criminal justice program and I'm glad to run into you too Cinderella," Ibrahim said, and I stared at him blankly, not getting the Pop culture reference. I didn't have a childhood, I was built piece by piece and cell by cell in a lab by a bunch of geeks with unlimited money and technology at their disposal. To be a super-soldier or a sex toy, depending on what my future Owner would have wanted.

"I meant you forgot your shoe in the alley outside the bar that night," Ibrahim said, shaking his head and laughing. I continued to stare at him blankly. Of course, I knew about the shoe, I'd left it behind, but what was he talking about? My eyes widened in surprise when Ibrahim pulled something out of his backpack.

"My shoe," I said, breathlessly, completely and utterly speechless for a change. Slowly, tentatively I reached for the shoe, and Ibrahim handed it to me. I looked at it, turning it this way and that in my hand. Ibrahim looked at me, a look of understanding dawning on his face. Dread crept into my chest, and I felt like bolting but remained rooted to my seat. I'm done running, I thought grimly.

"You're one of them, aren't you?" Ibrahim said, his eyes suddenly filled with understanding. I looked at him, stunned by this realization. What should I do? I didn't want to run, not after going to all the trouble of making a life for myself here. Whatever happened, I'd deal with it. I'd gone too far to lose it all without a fight now...

"Yes I'm a Gen-Tech person," I said, looking Ibrahim in the eye, watching his face for the shift, as I called the telltale signs of deception, malice and menace in humans. Signs I've painstakingly learned to recognize, for as a non-human on a planet full of hostile humans, I had to be ready to fight or flee on a moment's notice.

Ibrahim smiled and gently laid his hand on my arm. Typically, I hate it when humans touch me. The first humans to touch me brought me absolutely nothing but pain. They abused me sexually before I even knew what sex was, and I used my strength against them to stop them before I escaped.

"I'm a Somali Muslim," Ibrahim said, smiling faintly while looking at me with something unexpected in his dark eyes. What humans call empathy. "My entire community is seen as potential terrorists and troublemakers, but I believe Allah made us all, including yourself, Miss Amaya."

"What's a Muslim?" I asked Ibrahim, who smiled and shook his head. For a moment he just looked at me and said nothing. Then he nodded gently, rising from his seat. I got up and for some reason, I followed him. We ended up leaving the library together. I didn't know it at the time, but this chance encounter was about to change my life.

A few minutes later, Ibrahim and I sat inside the food court, having a little tête-à-tête while enjoying some Shawarma sandwiches and Pepsis, his treat. The more I learned about him, the more intrigued I became. Ibrahim was smart and open-minded, so unlike the other humans I'd met so far. Of course, what did I know about people, or men, for that matter?

" I believe that the almighty God, whom my people call Allah, made your kind as well as mine, and you have a purpose just like we all do," Ibrahim said, gently sipping on his coke. As he spoke, I scanned him, force of habit which I couldn't help. My sharp hearing listened to his rhythmic, steady heartbeat and read his facial expressions.