Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

“Why don’t you bring them back in?” Newcombe said, “before they’re taken away … or worse. They’re just kids.”

“They’re martyrs to Islam,” Ishmael said quietly. “Their suffering will open the hearts of the people to our cause. They are the first wave of our Jihad.”

“What’s the second wave?”

“My brother is talking about bombs, about terrorism, about killing,” Martin Aziz said.

“My brother does not have the heart for revolution,” Ishmael said.

“You’re wrong,” Aziz said. “It’s the stomach I lack. I believe that cycles of killing and revenge and more killing will add years to our struggle.”

“And what has inactivity brought us?” Khadijah asked.

“I’m not speaking of inactivity,” Aziz said, Newcombe listening to a sibling patter that was as natural to this family as breathing. “Brother Daniel’s more considered approach through the media has already brought us endorsements from prominent citizens.”

“Endorsement.” Ishmael snorted, standing to look down over the rail to the streets below. The demonstrators, seeing their spiritual and political leader, broke out in a thunderous cheer, thousands of voices calling his name.

Smiling, Ishmael turned back to Aziz. “And what has my approach brought?” he asked. “In the last month our spiritual brothers all over the world have risen up and demonstrated against Liang Int, boycotts are in progress in thirty countries, and the lands living under Islamic Law already have refused to do business with Liang until we are given a homeland. Our visibility and the suffering of our children have touched billions of hearts, and, more importantly, we are hitting Liang in the pocketbook, the only place they feel pain.”

Aziz simply shook his head and stared at the teev. “Behold the fruit of Islam,” he said sadly.

A large FPF force had broken from behind their barricades and were wading with electric prods into the sea of vomiting children, indiscriminately swinging fifty thousand volts at anyone not quick enough to crawl out of the way.

Grimacing, Ishmael turned from the teev. “That’s enough,” he said. “Call them back.”

Aziz hit the pad. “Open the gates,” he said. “Now!”

On the screen, Newcombe could see the two large gates to the secret city swinging open, the children retreating, screaming and crying, back into the Zone, FPF chasing them, swinging their clubs, stopping thirty feet short of the gates themselves. No one had ever tried to breech the Zone.

The G retook their positions behind a six-foot wall a hundred yards away from the Zone. As they went, they dragged the bodies of dead or unconscious children with them.

“Turn it off,” Ishmael said.

“This is horrifying,” Newcombe said, his stomach in knots. “This can’t be allowed to go on.”

“You’re right,” Ishmael said, patting him on the shoulder, “but all wars have casualties.

Understand that. We may bicker among ourselves, but we must be willing to pay the price in blood to have our freedom.”

There was nothing Newcombe felt he could say. He looked up at the crackling blue fires, and realized the sky always looked the same here.

“How do you power all this?” he asked as Brother Ishmael’s wife, Reena, served cardamom coffee and cookies. “It would take a focus the size of a small building to generate a web this big.”

“You know the Pan Arab Friendship League building downtown?” Ishmael asked.

“Of course, I do,” Newcombe said. “It’s shaped and faceted like a jewel. People come—”

“The whole building is a giant focus,” Khadijah said. “We’ve barely tapped its power.”

“No one has ever suspected,” Ishmael said. “The cables that connect us are in the sewers. You will find something similar in every city that has a War Zone.”

The cheering grew louder, and they all stood to watch. Leaning over the rail, Newcombe saw children as young as six, bloody and battered, some being carried on stretchers, returning home from battle. The procession stopped beneath them. The crowd roared now. Ishmael picked up a bullhorn to address them. Newcombe was startled to realize that most of these people probably didn’t have aurals. It was exciting in its very primitiveness.

“Heroes of the Revolution,” Ishmael said, “we salute you! You are the future! You will live to raise your own children on your own land, with Allah as your guide! Go now … home to your parents who love you!”

To thunderous applause Ishmael returned to his seat, delicately picked up his demitasse cup, and sipped. He sat back and said, “Soon, other cities, other War Zones will join the children’s revolution. We’ll schedule the riots in shifts so that there’s always one going on someplace.” He looked over at Newcombe. “Do you go with the others from the Foundation to Memphis?”

“I leave tomorrow.”

“There’s a small War Zone there,” Aziz said.

“Yes, I know,” Newcombe said. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.” He pulled out the EQ-eco he’d drawn up for the city of Memphis. The War Zone there was circled in black. “Do you see this area? It’s downtown Memphis.”

Khadijah and Martin walked over and joined Ishmael in peering at the paper Newcombe held.

“This jagged line shows an area where the earth will sink by as much as fifteen feet. Here, on the other side of the jagged line is an area of uplift that will tear the city in two.”

“It goes right through the War Zone,” Khadijah said.

Newcombe looked at her, their gazes holding. “Yes,” he said, then turned his head to Ishmael. “Do they have a way out of there?”

“Underground … like we have here.”

“Will they listen to me if I warn them?”

“If I tell them to.”

“Tell them.”

“Where would they go?” Martin Aziz asked.

They all stared at one another, Ishmael’s face slowly cracking into a wide smile.

“They’ll go south,” Ishmael said. “Into Mississippi.”

“The promised land,” Khadijah whispered, eyes alight. She clapped her hands.

“They will be the first to make the pilgrimage to our new homeland,” Ishmael continued. “There are hundreds of traditional Africk townships in Mississippi. Our people will locate in one of them and take it over. It will be our beachhead.”

“Perfect.” Newcombe smiled, and Crane’s words from Sado fell out of his mouth unbidden. “What drama!”

“As long as the government of Mississippi doesn’t object,” Aziz said.

Khadijah laughed. “It certainly presents an interesting problem for Mr. Li,” she said.

“If he should allow us to settle,” Ishmael said, on his feet now and starting to pace, “our people will immediately demand separatist status.”

“And if he decides to stop the pilgrimage?” Aziz asked.

Ishmael shook his head. “More martyrs. But I’ve noticed something about businessmen. They dislike killing consumers.”

Aziz nodded, smiling slightly. “Brother Daniel has provided us the impetus to make our revolution active. I approve.”

“Excellent!” Ishmael said, hugging everyone in turn. He laughed after kissing Newcombe on each cheek.

“What is your boss going to think about all this?” he asked.

“He’s too busy trying to blow up the world to notice,” Newcombe replied, surprised at how much anger came out in his voice.

“What?” Ishmael asked.

“You remember you told me the first time we met that Crane had a secret agenda?” Ishmael nodded. “Well, he does. He wants to fuse the continental plates by exploding fifty-three gigaton bombs at key points where the plates intersect. He wants to stop earthquakes completely.”