The Brightest Fell

By Nupur Chowdhury

When nations are on the brink of war, to be innocent is not enough...

Fifteen years ago, Jehan Fasih designed a drug that could curb the instinct for violence (and rob the taker of their free will). Fifteen minutes ago, someone blew up the metro station to get their hands on his brainchild.

Jehan must make a decision, and time is running out.

Abhijat Shian and his sister, Rito, lost their jobs, and their family's reputation, over the course of a single week.

The reason? Their father's trusted protégé, Jehan Fasih, betrayed him and embroiled their family in one of the biggest corruption scandals the country has ever known.

The Shian siblings' quest for revenge soon turns into a murky web of confusing motives and divided loyalties.

Is Fasih a genius or a madman? Is their father truly innocent or is there a trail of deceit and betrayal within the hallways of their childhood home?

Set in the fictional country of Naijan, The Brightest Fell is a gripping tale of loyalty, treason, corruption, patriotism, and political intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nupur Chowdhury
• Release date: Dec 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215692011

Book preview

Chapter 1

Paperwork was not his forte.

Which, perhaps, was why he always found himself buried in it.

There were actual piles of real, honest-to-God, A4 sized sheets of paper on his desk. Piles upon piles of them rising high enough that he couldn’t see the walls of his office.

You’d think that one of the most renowned research institutes in the country – hell, maybe even the world – would have digitized this entire sordid process by now.

But nope. No such luck.

Or maybe they had, and this was just a punishment the powers-that-be had devised specifically for Jehan, to try and bore him into being less fickle and tardy with paperwork.

If they’d asked him – which they should have, seeing as he was the world’s leading expert on himself – Jehan would have told them that this was a terrible idea. The piles of paper teetering on his desk didn’t make him want to work. They just made him want to commit arson.

Which, of course, was a clear indication of the fact that he needed more coffee. Jehan glanced down at the numerous circular stains on his desk, left behind by coffee cups gone by.

How many cups had he had? How long had he been sitting here? At this point, Jehan wouldn’t be surprised if he walked out the door to find that eons had passed by. Certainly felt that way in here.

He staggered to the coffee machine and poked morosely at the button that said tea, because that was the one that poured coffee, if any coffee remained to be poured. The machine whirred, and beeped, and purred, before finally spitting out a cup full of liquid darkness that smelled like heaven distilled.

Jehan reached for the cup, and almost crashed face-first into the still-groaning machine. The coffee splashed out of the cup, staining the counter and trickling over the edges, onto the floor.

And then came the deafening noise, a sound like a million thunderclaps going off at once.

Jehan whirled, his mind blank, one hand gripping the counter. Through the window across the room, he could see smoke rising into the evening air, curling into patterns before dissipating against the semi-darkness of the sky. The sound of sirens filled the silence of the evening, piercing Jehan’s ears like an army of needles attacking his brain.

The door opposite his desk burst open, revealing the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man with an angular face and powerful limbs.

God, Jehan, Dileep exclaimed as he strode into the office, his voice tight and expression grim. There’s been another one. It’s the metro this time. 

***

The fluorescent glare of the wall-mounted television danced across the faces of the gathered scientists, students, and sundry staff members. The journalist was babbling excitedly into a microphone that Jehan thought was too big for her.

Behind her, you could see pieces of shattered walls, jagged fragments of glass mixing with concrete, and metallic shards rising from the debris like tiny blades dotting the landscape. Parked firetrucks could be spied on the peripheries of the screen. Policemen, firemen, and volunteers ran around – sliding in and out of the frame – their expressions ranging from horror to exasperation.

I’ll bet it’s the Zanyars again, someone said from deeper inside the room. Jehan didn’t immediately recognize the voice, so it probably wasn’t anyone on his team. Not that it would have surprised him if it was. He had stepped on his fair share of toes during his time at the institute, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this was one of the tiny, petty ways someone decided to get a bit of revenge.

Oh please, scoffed another voice that sounded suspiciously like Mehr, Jehan’s secretary. He looked around, trying to locate her; but the room was packed and Mehr was too tiny to be visible amidst the crowd. This has Birhani tactics stamped all over it. Birhani guerrillas were the ones who first targeted the railways during the war. They have a history of attacking public transport hubs to disrupt communications and steal cargo. I see no reason why these vile terrorists shouldn’t be taking a page from the book of their predecessors.

The air crackled with tension, as it always did during such discussions. The civil war might have ended decades ago, but some of the scars it had left were still oozing blood.

A fight was about to break out, Jehan could feel it in his bones. He braced himself. Violence, even the possibility of it, still made him dizzy, nauseous. But he could handle it better now than he had during those first few grueling years at the institute.

Zip it! And give me a report of all the volunteers we’ve sent out so far, and the ones we’ll be sending later. And keep an eye out for reports of any new attacks. Dileep’s voice rang out, powerful and assertive, cutting the chatter and speculation short. A few of the younger interns ran out to carry out his orders.

Jehan sighed with quiet gratitude, the tips of his fingers tingling with receding adrenaline. He was reasonably sure he could handle a little scuffle in the office without losing his composure, but he would rather not put his resilience to the test. Not like this, anyway, and definitely not now.

You alright? Dileep asked, pushing through the crowd to come stand by his side.

Jehan nodded, torn between gratitude and exasperation at his friend’s persistent protectiveness. He had been a teenager when he first met Dileep. And for some reason, Dileep could never seem to see him as a full-grown adult.

How many? Jehan swallowed, forcing his voice to remain steady.

Thirty and counting. You know what this means, don’t you? They’ll want to start running controlled trials. Get the first batch ready as soon as possible. We’re not ready, Jehan. Amven isn’t ready yet.

Jehan closed his eyes and breathed, sucking in the musty air of the overcrowded room. Was that a hint of panic he detected in Dileep’s gruff voice? Well, if there was ever a time when panic was warranted, this was probably it.

The double doors leading into the TV room swung open, the wood panels hitting the walls on each side with a resounding thunk.

The floor receptionist stumbled panting into the room, panic and excitement fighting for dominance on his pudgy face. His eyes swept wildly over the room, before landing on Jehan like a falcon homing in on its prey.

Jehan lifted a brow, waiting for the man to speak. This was it. The moment of reckoning had arrived at last. Yes?

The Prime Minister’s Office called. Dr. Jehan Fasih is to report to the Parliament House as soon as possible. An emergency meeting has been called, in light of...recent events. Dr. Fasih’s presence has been requested personally by the Prime Minister.

As the young man left, the murmurs and speculation that had subsided after Dileep’s intervention rose again like a tide around the room, threatening to drown him.

Expressing succinctly Jehan’s feelings on the matter as well as his own, Dileep muttered, Well. Fuck.

***

The huge wooden desk was glossy enough to see your reflection on.

So that’s exactly what Jehan did. He used it to straighten his scarf and push back his hair to some semblance of respectability before Rajat arrived. Not that there was much he could do about the hair. No amount of hair gel had ever kept it from falling into his eyes. And Jehan hated the smell of hair gel anyway.

It wasn’t as if Rajat could expect him to make himself presentable at such short notice. Jehan was never presentable. At this point, ‘disgraceful mess’ had almost become his signature style. The press certainly seemed to think so, if the numerous magazine covers featuring him looking high as a kite were anything to go by.

His face was pale and blotchy, making him look even more sickly than usual. Running up the four flights of stairs on his way to Rajat’s office probably hadn’t helped, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand around waiting for the ping of the elevator. It had taken all his willpower just to keep himself from dashing out of the car and making the journey on foot.

But he didn’t have the time for that. None of them did, if the way Rajat marched into the office, slamming the door behind him, was any indication.

Jehan bit his lip to keep himself from jumping. Normally, Rajat would be more considerate, taking care not to make sudden noises around Jehan. The Prime Minister was nothing if not kind. That he hadn’t bothered today – or perhaps hadn’t remembered – told Jehan all he needed to know about the state of Rajat’s mind, and the gravity of the situation they were in.

Seconds passed without either of them saying anything. Rajat walked up to the large eastern windows, gazing out over the beautiful landscape through the bullet-proof glass. Normally, he would have invited Jehan out to the balcony, sent for tea (and cookies for Jehan). Rajat had always loved the balcony of his office.

Jehan stole a glance in that direction. The door was locked and bolted.

When he finally spoke, Rajat’s voice was rough, jagged. If Jehan hadn’t known him better, he would have thought the Prime Minister had been screaming.

In the decade since Jehan had first met him, he had never known Rajat to raise his voice.

Three metro stations. Almost forty dead. Over a hundred injured. Rajat’s voice cracked. This is worse than our worst nightmares.

Has anyone claimed responsibility yet?

No. But there’s still time. The night isn’t over yet. Some sick bastard might yet upload a video gloating over the success of their ‘holy mission’. Can’t please God without committing mass murder nowadays, can we? 

A philosophical debate with Rajat was the last thing he needed right now. All bombs? No shooters this time? We could analyze the debris for you, check for chemicals, ingredients. Maybe we can help track down where they sourced the raw materials from.

If I needed a forensic analyst, I would have asked for a forensic analyst. I did not request a meeting with the principal scientist leading one of the highest priority projects ever undertaken at the Institute...to track down the origins of a couple of homemade explosives.

Somewhere amidst that impassioned monologue, Rajat had turned around, and was now gazing down at Jehan with bloodshot eyes half-obscured by his bushy eyebrows.

Jehan held out his hands, fingers splayed in surrender, half in jest and half out of a genuine concern for his own safety. Rajat was no less than thirty years older than him, but Jehan harbored no delusions about the fact that the man could wipe the floor with him with one hand tied behind his back, if he was so inclined.

How’s your leg? Jehan asked at last, glancing down at the limb in question. Rajat hid it well, but he knew the sprain couldn’t have healed completely in the couple of weeks since he had last seen the Prime Minister. It had been a dangerous fall. It was a miracle he hadn’t broken anything.

Rajat’s eyes narrowed into slits. Nice try. I’ll need Amven ready for clinical trial by the end of the week.

Impossible.

"Then make it possible. I’ve bought you enough time, Jehan. More time than I should have. Perhaps if we’d done this sooner, if we’d put our foot down and made a statement, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this..."

Jehan pressed his lips together, looked away. You know that’s not true. They’re waiting for an excuse. Using Amven will just make it worse, make their actions seem justified –

Or maybe it’ll scare them away, make them stop, back off and regroup. Long enough for us to make a move. Find their bases, blow them up, end this once and for all.

You think a stupid drug will achieve what years of military campaigns couldn’t? You mustn’t think much of your troops then, sir.

Jehan bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to sound disrespectful, disparaging. Rajat certainly didn’t deserve it. But he couldn’t help himself. He felt cornered, and as Sinya liked to say, his claws were coming out. It was almost instinctive. His words were the only weapons Jehan had ever had, and sometimes they cut even when he didn’t mean for them to.

"My troops can’t turn a man’s own mind into his worst enemy. That’s your specialty, isn’t it, doctor?"

Rajat always gave as good as he got. It was one of the things Jehan had always liked about him.

The fact that he had deserved it didn’t make the barb sting any less, however. He forced himself not to flinch back from the words. They were the truth, after all. A truth of his own making.

Rajat turned away, sighed. It was almost like watching a balloon deflate; a very tall and broad-shouldered balloon. Jehan shook his head. He really needed to work on his metaphors.

"Whoever was behind this, they will be apprehended before the month is over. If I have to use every resource at my disposal, if I have to declare a state of emergency, so help me God, I will do it!

And once we have them in custody, we can interrogate them. Rajat turned around, took a step towards Jehan, then another. Find out who’s been funding them. Find out if there’re any other attacks planned that we should know about. For all we know, they’re planning to bomb the bloody Parliament House as we speak!

Goddamnit Rajat, you can’t interrogate them with Amven! Jehan snapped, his own frustration bubbling to the surface. "It isn’t ready yet. It’ll just make them docile, obedient. They’ll say whatever the hell you want them to say. Or at least what they think you want them to say. You won’t get the truth out of them, just a bunch of feel-good gibberish."

But we won’t know that for sure until we try it, will we? There hasn’t been a single human trial yet–

That’s because the drug isn’t ready for one.

"They’re criminals, damn it! Terrorists and murderers! What’s the worst that could happen? A bunch of killers will end up dead. Well, so far so good."

"And their cause, their martyrdom, will be justified and legitimized once and for all."

Rajat walked behind his desk and slumped into the chair. He gestured with a hand, asking Jehan wordlessly to take a seat. Jehan complied. It was the one concession he could afford to make.

I have no choice, Jehan. The words were strained, like someone had torn them from Rajat’s throat with a pair of tweezers. "Badal and the others have been trying to get me to use the drug for months now. At one point, Badal even wanted to put it to the vote. And we both know how that would have ended.

"I’ve managed to hold them off until now. Because you told me to. Because you said you weren’t ready. Because I trust you. Rajat paused, letting that sink in, the politician in him floating to the surface. But that was then, and this is now. The city is full of corpses that haven’t gone cold yet. The public is baying for blood. The media is growing more bloodthirsty by the minute.

"If we don’t act now, we’ll look weak. I’ll look weak. The Opposition is already saying I haven’t done enough to protect this country. That I haven’t posed enough of a deterrent."

"For God’s sake, Rajat, that’s not true–"

Rajat held up a hand. "I know it’s not true. And you know it’s not true. And half the people who’re saying it know it’s not true. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Forty people are dead, a hundred are injured. God only knows how many are missing; how many more will turn up dead come tomorrow morning.

"Someone needs to pay. And if it won’t be the terrorists who did it, it’ll be me. They’ll try to push through another no-confidence motion in the House. And this time, they might even succeed."

Rajat tipped his head back. Laughed. "And what d’you think will happen then, Jehan? You think the puppet they put in my place will give a flying fuck about your ‘ethical reservations’ against using the Amven drug? You think they’ll give you a choice?

"No. They will do exactly what you don’t want me to do – use Amven to interrogate the terrorists as soon as they’re apprehended.

"Only, they’ll do much worse and go much further than I ever would have. They’ll use it on the prisoners, and maybe even on their families and friends. For the nation, right? The needs of the many and all that.

"How many people do you think will go out of their way to fight for the relatives of the psychopaths who killed forty innocents? Forty and counting, need I remind you?

A few demonstrations in university campuses. A candlelight march here, a rally there. It’s going to peter out before it’s even started, the bloody news channels will see to that. No politician will have to so much as raise a finger.

Rajat exhaled and put his head in his hands. "I don’t like it any more than you do, Jehan. But this is the best of a plethora of bad options. I’ll use the drug on a few of the prisoners, make a big show of it. Satisfy the reporters and the rabble-rousers. Let things calm down a little and then proceed from there. The suspects will receive a fair trial after the effects of the drug have worn off and no innocents will be harmed.

"You can’t win every time, my boy. Even your luck must run out at some point. And it looks like it has now, doesn’t it? He smiled sardonically, shaking his head. Lose the battle to win the war, Jehan. Live to fight another day."

Jehan released a breath and pressed a hand to his stinging eyes. And what if there’s nothing left to fight for, sir?

***

He isn’t wrong, you know, Dileep said, felling one of Jehan’s knights with his pawn. "At this point, not using Amven on some of those sons of bitches would be worse for his regime than using it."

Jehan took the pawn with his bishop. It was petty, and kind of pointless from a big picture perspective. But Jehan wasn’t in a big picture kind of mood today, so it was okay. I don’t disagree with you.

And yet.

And yet, I can’t let him do it. I can’t let him use Amven, and you know that as well as I do.

Dileep took a sip of his beer. You say that as if you have a choice.

Jehan sipped his tea. As he had suspected, it had gone cold. Did you ever doubt that?

Dileep laughed, then set the can down and leaned forward, frowning at the chessboard. You’re planning something I’m not going to like, aren’t you?

It was almost dinnertime, and Jehan felt bad about keeping Dileep away from his home and wife. Well, kind of bad, anyway. He was sad and conflicted, after all, and it was Dileep’s best-friendly duty to keep him company and provide moral support.

Jehan was sure that’s how it worked. He’d read it somewhere recently enough.

Where’s Sinya, anyway?

Grading papers and bemoaning the lack of a competent TA as usual, I’m sure, Dileep shook his head. She’s been inconsolable since Jhilik got married.

Who’s Jhilik?

Her last TA? You know, the one with all the band tattoos.

Oh, Jehan said, fuzzy images of a perky brunette with pink highlights and...yes, arms covered in tattoos, flashing before his eyes. She got married? Why?

Dileep shrugged. Beats me. Seemed like she had a good thing going with my wife, too.

Jehan nodded, sympathetic. So Sinya got dumped for a husband, huh? That’s gotta sting.

Dileep picked up his rook and knocked Jehan’s king off the board. "And sting it does. Almost as bad as it will when Rajat gets us both fired and exiled from the city for acting against national interests and obstructing the course of justice. You’re out of your element tonight."

Or maybe I was just taking pity on you, Jehan smirked, hooking a finger between his throat and his scarf and pulling it loose. And maybe we can get Rajat fired, instead.

Dileep stilled, his eyes snapping up to look at Jehan’s face, perhaps to determine whether or not he was joking. What?

Jehan shrugged. You said it yourself. Not using Amven on the captured terrorists will be bad for his regime. So Rajat will do everything in his power to get us to relent on the Amven issue. Or at least he’ll do everything in his power as long as he’s Prime Minister. But what if he’s not? If he’s no longer in power, what can he do? He can’t force our hand if he isn’t the Prime Minister anymore. And why would he even want to?

If I didn’t know you better, Jehan, Dileep began, his voice grim. I’d think you were planning to betray Rajat Shian. Betray the man who’s made you everything you are today. The man who’s the reason you’re even still alive.

Jehan frowned. It was getting too dark in the rec room, the tapestries looking dull and worn in the half-light of the flickering old bulbs. He’d need to get someone to talk to the electrician one of these days. Well, do you have a better idea? If you do, I’m all ears. ‘Cause from where I’m standing, Rajat can’t afford to not use the Amven drug. We can’t afford to use it. And Maganti isn’t going to stop with these attacks until he has what he wants.

You think Maganti is behind this? The metro attack?

"Either him or the devil. And I’m putting my money on him for now. Homemade bombs don’t have the kind of power, nor wreak the kind of damage that these did. Those weapons were professionally made. And not cheap either. And somehow, they escaped detection at not one, but three metro stations? Either they’re using extremely sophisticated technology or some people were very heavily bribed.

Either way, this operation was not financed by some disillusioned college students hankering for the glory days of the civil war. It had real money behind it, and lots of it at that. So unless one of our friendly neighborhood separatists has won a lottery recently, I think it’s safe to say there was foreign funding involved.

Dileep tilted his head back and drained the last remaining drops of beer from his can. Jehan could almost see his mind racing, accelerating to keep up with Jehan’s reasoning. So...what’re you saying? The president of Maralana is funding domestic terrorists in Naijan because he thinks it’ll make us more...amenable to using the Amven drug on our own citizens? Those are some pretty dangerous claims you’re making, Jehan.

"Dangerous, yes. And baseless to boot. I have no way to prove it, even to myself, never mind Rajat or anyone else in the government. But it all adds up, perfect as a jigsaw puzzle.

Using Amven on captured rebels is hardly a new idea. It’s been around for as long as the idea for the drug itself. In fact, that’s the reason we initially got any funding for this project at all. And Maganti sure was interested from the very start. All of these science conferences, joint research initiatives, knowledge transfer programs with Maralana...it all began after the Amven project started gaining traction.

"Hmm, I’d always suspected something was going on with all those creepy dinner invitations he keeps sending you every time you two are in the same city. The man can’t seem to digest his dessert without complimenting your ‘genius’ and asking you to come work for him. He’s either in love with you or he really likes the idea of turning all his enemies into docile yes-men."

Jehan sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. Irresistible as I am, I’m putting my money on the latter. Ivanovna was a hair’s breadth from beating him last election.

Many people think she actually did beat him. That he only won because of vote rigging, and some last-minute booth capturing in the villages.

There you have it. His dictatorial ambitions aren’t going to be realized as long as Ivanovna’s in the picture. And he can’t get rid of her without garnering some international attention. And not the good kind. Ivanovna knows how to make friends in high places.

You think they’d go to war for her? Dileep asked, skeptical.

They wouldn’t need to. Maganti’s buried himself in debt in the years he’s been president. A few well-placed sanctions would collapse his government’s finances. And Ivanovna knows this too, which is why she’s pushing harder than ever, campaigning like a madwoman in the run-up to the next elections.

And this is making Maganti all the more desperate.

Jehan nodded. "Exactly. Now if only he could get Rajat to sanction the use of Amven on the terrorists. Maralana would help Naijan locate the perpetrators and bring them to justice. The Amven experiment will be declared a success.

"And then Maganti can have all his opponents rounded up on trumped up charges and treated to a dose of the Amven drug.

Just to maintain the peace, of course. Nothing drastic. No blood on his hands. Just a very harmonious polity and an oddly compliant Opposition. But who can find fault with peace? No harm no foul.

I see. And you think this problem is going to be solved by removing Rajat from the picture? By getting rid of the one man who stands between Maganti and his drug-fueled dystopia? Dileep didn’t roll his eyes, but the tone of his voice suggested that he really wanted to.

Jehan glared at his friend, then sighed, pressing two fingers to his temple. He was too sleep-deprived for this conversation. He needed caffeine. And aspirin. He also needed sleep, but what was new about that? This is a man who has already killed more than forty people in a single day. His total body count is probably far higher, because I don’t believe for a second that this is the first incident of this nature that Maganti’s funded. Rajat said Badal has been pressuring him to use Amven on the terrorists–

Wait, let me get this straight. Dileep held out a hand. You’re saying Maganti has the Deputy Prime Minister in his pocket?

"Either that, or Badal is even stupider than he looks. I don’t think that’s possible, so I’ll go with the first theory. The point is, you’re right. Rajat really is the only man standing between Maganti and his dictatorial ambitions, wittingly or otherwise.

"So what do you think is stopping Maganti from staging a ‘tragic accident’ that’ll take Rajat neatly out of the picture and place Badal on the Prime Minister’s chair? Rajat was right about one thing. Whoever comes after him won’t give a flying fuck about our objections or reservations.

Badal will go all out; he won’t pull any punches. And who knows, he might even delude himself into thinking he’s doing it out of patriotism.  The road to hell is paved with the good intentions of idiots.

So that accident last month, when Rajat sprained his ankle... Dileep trailed off, a horrified comprehension dawning on his face.

Yes, Jehan said simply. Clever, wasn’t it? Almost elegant. A walking stick breaks unexpectedly. The Prime Minister trips and falls down a flight of stairs. Either dies on the spot, or a few days later in the hospital, minutes after a visit from one of his ‘trusted ministers’. A grand funeral, followed by the ascension of a reluctant yet dutiful Badal to the premiership. Who’d have suspected a thing?

Damn, said Dileep. And I’m assuming Rajat himself is still in the dark about all of this?

Leaning forward, Jehan spread his hands out before him, long fingers pale against the dark coffee table. "I have no proof. But even if I did; even if I somehow managed to make him believe me...

Well, it’s Rajat. You can never be really sure what he’ll do, can you? He has done...unpredictable things before. Part of what makes him such a good politician, I guess. Still, this situation can’t handle any more volatility than it’s already got.

Volatile and unpredictable? Hmm. Wonder why those two adjectives sound so familiar.

Jehan rolled his eyes. What are you? Twelve? Focus on the issue at hand. How do we get Rajat to resign in the middle of his term without, you know...

Destroying his life’s work and ruining his reputation?

Yes, that.

Dileep groaned. So you’re really doing this.

"I’m tired of using Rajat as a shield to hide behind and protect myself from the consequences of my own actions, Dileep. I created the Amven drug. It’s my fucking responsibility. There’s no reason why Rajat – or anybody else – should die because of my stupid teenage angst.

"’Cause when we get right down to it, that’s all Amven really is, isn’t it? The product of my goddamn teen angst. And I’ve been using Rajat as a shield to escape the consequences of my actions ever since I was fifteen