Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

“Maybe two years. Gets a little worse each day.”

Other people were walking toward them along the hall. “This isn’t going to stop,” Newcombe said. “It will eventually destroy this whole section of tunnels.”

“Allah protects,” Ishmael said easily. A crowd of about twenty people, mostly men, surrounded them. Some of them were teenagers. And all of them were armed. “We’ve lost other tunnels.”

A young woman in a black jumpsuit was at his elbow, her face inquisitive, her eyes were Ishmael’s eyes. “You must be Khadijah,” Newcombe said.

“Well, you’ve brought us a mind reader, my brother,” she said, the group laughing.

“This is Daniel Newcombe, the man I’ve told you about.”

“Oh?” Khadijah said. “The man who doesn’t have the courage to join with our Jihad?”

“Yeah,” Newcombe said, staring her down. “That’s me.” He turned to Ishmael. “Have you ever checked the radon levels down here?”

“No.”

“I’ll send you some equipment. Radon can be deadly. Best to know what we’re deal—”

“I trust there are no Elysian Faults and radon emissions in North Carolina,” Ishmael said.

Newcombe stared at him, the true zealot at home with his inventions. Or a visionary. Like Crane. “You want me to butt out … I’ll butt out.”

“I want you to butt in,” Ishmael said, smiling widely and slapping him on the back. He pointed toward the ceiling. “But up there, Brother, not down here. Up there. Come on.”

They went to a pale green door with a crescent moon and single star of Islam painted on it. Ishmael ushered Newcombe inside what looked like a large briefing room with chairs, a stage, small kitchen and break area.

“We’ll meet my brother Martin,” Ishmael said, leading him toward a far door. Khadijah walked with them, a frown on her face, as she sized up Newcombe.

Newcombe saw guns. And ammunition. Everywhere. Boxes of ammunition stacked high against the walls.

He hadn’t seen a gun in fifteen years, ever since personal security had become the national priority. Everyone who could afford bodyguards and security systems had them. Offensive weapons had become easily detectable by X-ray-dar, automatically marking anyone carrying them as a criminal and, consequently, fair game for legal defensive retaliatory response. Offensive weapons, not surprisingly, had fallen into disuse.

Ishmael took him into an office where a middle-aged man dressed in a white robe and small white fez smiled through his salt-and-pepper beard. He was lean, coiled like a snake.

“I have just heard the reports,” he said. “Allah, in his infinite wisdom, has declined to let it rain on the War Zone tonight.”

“Good news,” Ishmael said. “Brother Daniel, this is my brother, Martin Aziz. It was Martin’s idea to approach you.”

“Asalaamu aleycum,” Aziz said, leaning over a desk that separated them to hug Newcombe fiercely, then kiss him on both cheeks. He pointed to miniature security teevs covering the far wall. “I noticed you had some trouble tonight.”

“My doing, I’m afraid,” Newcombe said, stealing a glance at Khadijah, who was rolling her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Aziz said. “They never got past the phony sewer system. They found another manhole and climbed back out, chasing several projections we planted for them. Sit down, Brother Newcombe. It’s you we must worry about now, since the FPF knows you are with us.”

“What will they do to me?” Newcombe asked, taking a hard backed chair near the desk, Ishmael and his sister sitting on a couch across from him.

“Impossible to say.” Ishmael shrugged. “They do what they want. Make up the rules as they go. Have you ever known anyone to come out of an FPF jail?”

“No,” Newcombe said, “but I’ve never known any criminals … I mean, not until now.”

Everyone laughed, even Khadijah.

“I think you’re safe,” Aziz said, “as long as you’re associated with Liang. Away from their protection, who knows?”

“Could Crane have planted your bug?” Ishmael asked, “to keep you under control?”

“That’s very unlikely. Brother Ishmael, he and I are scientists. All we’re trying to do is make life a little better on this planet. Is that so difficult to—”

“That’s all you want,” Khadijah said. “From what I’ve heard, Crane is a complex and devious man.”

“He’s a driven man.”

“But driven to what?” Ishmael asked, getting off the sofa and walking over to Newcombe. “Don’t answer. Just think about it.”

“If your association with us becomes public knowledge,” Aziz asked, “what will happen to you and the Crane Foundation?”

“I have no idea… You asked Brother Ishmael to approach me?”

“Correct,” Aziz replied. “You see, my brother and I have a very different way of looking at things. You may have noticed that I chose Martin, the name of nonviolence, when I rejected my slave name. I believe that the world is ready to hear our righteous demands. We simply need African and Hispanic men of stature in the white world to present them for us. Unfortunately, my brother is the only public symbol we have. People fear him. I want to show America a different side.”

“Whites never give up anything without a fight,” Ishmael said. “Even though outnumbered by other races, they still control the country through the Chinese overlords. The only thing they will listen to is Jihad. We make enough trouble and they will give us what we want to shut us up.”

“Can’t people just vote them out of office?” Newcombe asked. “The teev is right there. Its voting button—”

“Where have you been?” Khadijah asked. “The Chinese will only let whites run for office because they know that whites will maintain the financial status quo. They control the government with money, keeping the whites rich, everybody else beholden.”

“But why should the Chinese fear you?”

Ishmael laughed and returned to his seat.

“We are the next wave, Brother. They will have to make way for us. They should be frightened. They walled us up to end their ‘crime’ problem and still our numbers grow, our influence expands. We do not ingest their poisons. We are strong and incorrigible. The Koran is our guide. We are of the world. They are of history.”

“While Leonard rants,” Martin Aziz said, glancing with a slight smile at Ishmael, who was looking angry at the use of his slave name, “I’ve been thinking about your position. You know, Crane is keeping you down, second to him. I’ve learned about your EQ-eco system and wonder why you don’t use it to elevate yourself a bit. Celebrity makes it much easier to absorb controversy such as you find yourself in.”

“Crane doesn’t want to publish yet,” Newcombe said. “What can I do?”

“You’re a free man,” Ishmael said. “Do what you choose. You tell me this will help the world. So, help the world. Achieve your potential.”

“And become a better spokesman for you,” Newcombe replied. “It’s a moot point. I work for the Foundation, which owns intellectual property rights over anything I come up with. My hands are tied.”

Aziz reached out. “Here, Brother. Let me untie you. Your slavery is not becoming.”

“Go against Crane?” Newcombe said.

“Why not?” Aziz asked. “He’d go against you in a heartbeat.”

“He’s done a lot for me, I—”

“No!” Ishmael shouted, pointing a long finger. “You’ve done a lot for him. Don’t you see? What has Crane ever done but use you to make himself look good? Do you think it’s wrong for him to deny the world your discoveries?”

“Yes, it’s wrong,” Newcombe said. This was something he’d stewed about for weeks. “Of that I’m sure.”