John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Here and there the austere cityspace was picked out with palms and other greenery in small parks. Broad panels in the ceilings glowed, reflecting sunlight from a baffle of shafts.

Craning his neck just a little to look down, Steinfeld could see people—in traditional Bedouin garb, up-to-date printout suits, or gowns and veils—milling past the view windows of a mall.

The place had captured the imagination of the Arabic world. As a city, it was called simply “Badoit.” And Badoit, the underground city, was a second Mecca. Oil-rich Muslims from all over the Middle East had lined up to donate millions on millions to its construction, adding their largesse to grants from the governments of Egypt, Tunisia, Syria, Iran, the Republic of Palestine, and Saudi Arabia. In exchange, they received a place in Badoit, permanent or simply in case of emergency. A nuclear war had seemed close—this would be the only refuge.

It was a magnificent conception, Steinfeld thought. And he was a little shaken to be sitting beside the man—indeed, to be soliciting help from the man—who had built it all. This vista had begun as an idea and a commitment in this man’s head; a vision had somehow superimposed itself over a hundred seventy-five square miles of Earth, had crystallized the local world into conformity with itself. There was no squalor here; no extreme poverty. There was no pollution—that would have been lethal—and there were up-to-date hospitals and vaccination programs.

But the Complex had its problems: the power drain from the constant necessity of recirculating air was enormous. The Arcology was growing faster than its housing, and was becoming crowded, in some sectors, so constant expansion was necessary—and expansion was costly. Immigration restrictions had become fanatically stern, for anyone not bloated with money. Despite its success at exporting pesticide-free produce, water, and highly refined metals, and despite Badoit’s oil-founded personal fortune, the Badoit Complex wavered back and forth between solvency and insolvency. And perhaps the arcology’s relative cultural insularity—its limits of freedom of expression, its absence of freedom of religion—were regrettable.

But still, Steinfeld reflected, in its realization of artifice and organization, of order from chaos, its economic fairness at all levels—this place was civilization distilled.

“That will do,” Badoit said suddenly.

Steinfeld came to himself with a start, and hit the stop button on the digi-viddy. He looked at Badoit, who seemed thoughtful but wholly unsurprised. “If you have any doubts about the authenticity of this video,” Steinfeld said, “you can run a check for computer animation. I can assure you that this information is accurate. If you wish to send some of your people back to look over the situation personally, I will be glad to provide them the coordinates—they will see that it’s all quite true: Muslims are being persecuted systematically throughout France, Italy, Germany—”

“No, no,” Badoit said, waving a hand impatiently. “I’m quite sure it is authentic. Don’t you suppose my people have ‘looked over the situation personally’? Naturally. We have wide-ranging intelligence sources. We have become aware that these Second Alliance devils are persecuting the European Islamic community—”

“Persecuting is too weak a word.”

“Quite. We were not aware that it had gone this far—your material brings a certain immediacy to the issue. The problem is not that something needs to be done—it is to determine, precisely, what should be done.” He paused and smiled distantly. “You do not care for tea, I notice. Will you take some coffee? It is always ready.”

“Yes, thanks. Coffee.”

“Splendid. Sixteen years in England; I picked up the habit of tea in the afternoon. But if tea is my habit, coffee is my vice.” Badoit turned to an intercom, spoke a short sentence in Arabic.

Steinfeld wondered what was going on in Badoit’s head. There was no hint in the man’s neutral expression. Perhaps he would be dangerous to deal with. Could such a man ever be knowable, even to his intimates? He was a nation builder, a city builder, the president of a microcosmic nation he had created himself: a man who never questioned his course once he set it. A visionary, but a ruthless one. He would take an alliance very, very seriously.

Steinfeld was lucky to have got into this office at all. Steinfeld was a Jew—there had been relative peace between Jews and Muslims, since the Israelis had—at long last—accepted a Palestinian state. Badoit was relatively moderate, an advocate of rapprochement, even alliance with the Jews. Still it was difficult for a non-Muslim who was not a head of state to meet with Badoit in person. Badoit maintained contacts with the Israeli Mossad, as there were some Islamic extremist factions who opposed him. Those strict-Fundamentalist factions were security threats to Badoit, Badoit the city and Badoit the man, and the Mossad—the Israeli intelligence service—helped him keep tabs on them. In exchange, he had agreed to see Steinfeld, who was something of a Mossad ward, if not truly an agent.

“You come here asking me for military aid, for weapons and soldiers. It seems to me that you have undervalued and underused the political channels,” Badoit said. “You have jumped the gun, quite literally, and gone right to a military solution.”

“Most political channels are closed to us,” Steinfeld said. “The UN will not hear us. We’ve tried. The media is restricted in Europe. Most American media regards us as cranks. Armed resistance, so far as I can see, is the only practical course. Naturally, we’re trying to alert people politically, to raise consciousness, as they say, in America. To use political channels. To interest the media—with only indifferent success. In the meantime, the murder goes on.”

“You are working on many levels,” Badoit said, “but your efforts on some of those levels are rather trivial.” There was a touch of smugness in his tone as he revealed the extent of his knowledge of New Resistance activities. “You promote notions of divisiveness in the ‘Self-Policing Organization of European States.’” Saying the catch-all name of the new Fascist state with heavy irony. “You spread discontent with stories that the umbrella organization is bleeding the member nations for cash and resources. You promote the idea in France that the German leaders of the Second Alliance corporation are more influential than the French in SPOES, and so will reroute resources to the German advantage. You use television graffiti, Internet, pirate radio, leafleting, postering—you even spread seditious jokes. ‘How many Frenchmen does it take to make up the French government? A thousand Frenchmen: five Frenchmen with French accents and nine hundred and ninety-five Frenchmen with American and German accents… ’” He smiled, though clearly not amused. “You have contacted the American media and international Grid sources, including young Norman Hand.” He shrugged disdainfully. “You have done nothing politically. These efforts are… minuscule.”

Steinfeld nodded. “We only do what we can. I’m in favor of political effort wherever possible. But there simply is not time to wait for political action on a larger scale—the oppressed are being killed, even as we speak. Your people and mine.”

The doors swung open and a coffee cart hummed into the room on its own, a steward walking behind it. The cart paused by the conference table and the steward poured thick, sweet coffee for them into small china cups. There was also a silver tray of sweetmeats.

The steward discreetly withdrew as they sipped their coffee in silence. The stuff made Steinfeld’s cheeks flush and his head hum.