Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

It had been painless.

Lightning flashed again, and Sumi turned to look at the chip box and the small tweezers attached to it on a chain. There was no reason for her not to use it right away, Kate had said.

She sat up, her silk pajamas slithering along the covers as she swung her feet to the floor and picked up the box. She opened it and tweezed out the chip. She felt for her new port with her little finger, then homed in with the chip. It slid effortlessly into the driver and engaged with a whirring sound only she could hear.

She waited for a moment, then looked around the room. Nothing was happening, no hallucinations, no bright colors, no altered states. She lay back down, disappointed, drew the covers over herself, and watched the shadows on the ceiling.

Then, a sound. Tapping. Someone was knocking lightly on her door. She pulled the covers up around her chin. “Who’s there?” she called.

The door opened, and a man walked in carrying a candle. “I brought some light,” he said in Chinese. “I thought the storm might frighten you.”

Her heart was pounding as he walked closer, her hand edging toward the security alarm, though it would be too late to save her. How had he gotten in?

“I’ve been here all the time,” he said in answer to her unasked question.

“Who are you?”

“Who or what?” He set the candle beside them on the nighttable, then sat beside her on the bed. She could feel their thighs touching as he stared innocently down at her. She reached out to the candle, could feel its heat.

“Start with who.”

“I don’t have a name. You name me.”

“What, then. What are you?”

“I am your ideal man, I guess,” he said. “I’ve been living in your brain ever since old Doc Ben put the driver in. It appears to me that I am a combination of Lewis Crane, your father, and a secondary school teacher you had a crush on named Mr. Weng.”

“Mr. Weng,” she said, burying her face in her hands, her face reddening in embarrassment. “I haven’t thought of him in—”

“You thought of him today, when Kate asked you about the kind of man you liked.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m here to be your lover, Sumi, if you want. Your friend if you don’t want a lover—though I must say, you’d be missing some incredible stimuli. This is a very good chip. I feel very much alive.”

“But you’re not … really here. I mean not physically.”

“Your brain thinks I am. That’s good enough for me.”

He put out a hand to lightly stroke her thigh. Her tension began to ease. Somehow, knowing she was creating her lover made it much easier. No fears. No need for fears.

“I’m going to call you Paul,” she said.

“Okay.” His hand moved up to her face, his touch setting off electric jolts all through her body. “But, why Paul?”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “Because I don’t know anyone named Paul,” she said. Both of them laughed.

His arms went around her and pulled her close. She could smell his aftershave, feel the coarse texture of his curly hair.

“I love you, Sumi,” he whispered into her ear.

“I know,” she replied, tears running down her cheeks. “I know.”

Abu Talib sat in the back of the large briefing room with Khadijah, his feet out in front of him, his head flung back. He was tired, bone weary. Five months ago he had completed negotiations with Tang for a deal that made him proud—and nervous as hell. In return for NOI’s agreement to cease violent protests, Liang Int had promised a national referendum on giving NOI a homeland. And tonight was the night, election night.

About thirty people filled the room, lining the walls, watching large teevs. They were monitoring the voting in cities that had War Zones. At the front of the room, the one Talib had been brought to his first night underground a million years ago, both Mohammed Ishmael and Martin Aziz stood, black robe and white robe, day and night, two men absolutely united in cause and diametrically opposed in method. They were looking at a huge screen that filled the front of the room. Khadijah sat with Talib, her head on his shoulder, cuddling tiredly. Talib kissed her forehead.

He wondered what Brother Ishmael was going to do if the vote didn’t go their way. For these last five months Martin Aziz had confronted Ishmael on a daily basis about the issue of violence in the occupied territories. For five months, day after weary day, his brother had convinced Ishmael anew not to restart the riots and content himself, instead, with the “public education” phase that Aziz masterminded and Talib led. Talib’s job consisted of making speeches and Net appearances on anybody’s show who’d ask him, selling the fact that Nation of Islam was a peaceful organization simply dedicated to the formation of an Islamic state and common brotherhood among all people.

He’d gone nonstop for the full five months, casting science aside completely, his dance card full. Even his diplomatic duties in New Cairo were getting too little attention. It had become disorienting, never knowing what city he was in, always saying the same things. It had worn him out completely, and was a damn poor way to start a marriage.

Aziz had concurrently begun peaceful demonstrations from the Zone, “informative riots” he’d called them. Aziz’s thinking throughout was that Ishmael had gotten everyone’s attention with the real riots, now it was time to get their sympathy and, hopefully, their vote on the homeland issue with education and PR.

“Why are you and my brother so worried?” Khadijah asked. “Aren’t we winning?”

“For the moment,” Talib said. “You’re not used to the voting process, but what happens is that very few people vote during the day of an election. Most everyone waits until they get home from work and get on the teev to see the pols’ last-minute speeches and promises. They look at voting as another entertainment medium.”

He felt rather than heard Khadijah take a shuddering breath. She pointed to a teev at the side of the room, and he turned to look. Crane and a hugely pregnant Lanie filled the screen, the bottom of which indicated audio on fiber M. He padded on and got the tail end of what Crane was saying.

“—and that is just one of the reasons why my wife and I support the cause of the Nation of Islam. We have voted for a homeland. We hope you will, too.”

Surprised almost to the point of shock, Talib sat rigid, then quickly padded off. Beyond e-mailing a thank you for the support to Lanie and Crane, how was he supposed to react? Crane was a triumphal hero these days, and his slightest move was on the teev. The wedding in the Himalayas had garnered hours of coverage. Beyond those gossipy sorts of features, though, there’d been little on Crane and Lanie—their work, their new projects. Even the scientific community had been fairly quiet, although Talib had heard there was something afoot, some new area Crane was developing, but he’d been too busy to follow up … not that he was worried. It couldn’t be the plate fusion scheme. Crane was rich enough since the wager to put such an effort together, but he’d never be able to get the approvals for digging that he’d need, much less the nuclear material. Still—

Khadijah was vigorously shaking his arm. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked sharply. “You’re upset. Does it bother you to see the white woman so large with Crane’s child?”

“No,” he lied. “That’s all in the past.”

“But you would like to have children … sons, right?”

He tilted her head from his shoulder and looked into her eyes. “Yes,” he answered, “very much so.”