“You’re as bad as he is,” Newcombe said. “Listen carefully to me: It’s the entire planet you’re putting at risk here. It’s unnatural, Crane. It’s wrong.”
“Strange words from a scientist,” Crane said. “Dams change the course of nature’s rivers. Medicines interfere with the natural process of sickness. Genetic manipulation changes everything from the food we eat to the children we bear, again, going against the nature of life. This is no different.”
Newcombe tapped his wrist pad for the time. “There’s science, Crane, then there’s egotistical arrogance. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I know who I am, doctor,” Crane said. “You should ask that question of yourself.”
“I have,” Newcombe said, “and here’s the answer: I’m the man who’s going to keep you from destroying the Earth.”
With that he turned and strode quickly out of the mosque.
Lanie moved to Crane, put a hand on his good arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have blurted out—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Crane said, watching Newcombe leave the building. “He would have found out soon enough anyway. I’ll be going public.”
He idly reached out and patted her hand. Lanie feared that this might be the last quiet moment of their lives.
Looking down on the Zone from the roof of the two-story warehouse Brother Ishmael had converted to his home, Newcombe felt as though he’d stepped into the past.
The inner city was clean, but crowded, people everywhere on the streets. There were no teevs on the buildings, no projected dinosaurs or camheads running around desperately looking for the visual that would change their lives.
Young children were parading the streets though, all carrying weapons as the onlookers cheered them on. Newcombe was uncomfortable with the weapons.
Above, blue lightning crackled across the black top of the Zone, a protective electronic jam for a city within a city. They existed inside an electric cocoon totally cut off from the white man’s world. Looking at the huge numbers of children and young adults, he concluded that over half the population of the War Zone had probably never even seen the outside world.
He sat with Ishmael, Khadijah, and Martin Aziz. They watched a small teev showing the scene just outside of the gates, in the cleared area that stood as a free fire zone. Several hundred Muslim children were out there charging the FPF positions, throwing rocks and chunks of concrete. The FPF responded with low-frequency infrasound, meant to disrupt the thinking processes, and with nausea gas. The children were going down, writhing and crying, a show for all the world to see.
“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.”