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.”
“Good,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “Because you’re going to have one. I’ve made you a son to rule New Cairo.”
“What?”
Her eyes were playful. “You heard me,” she said. “You shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve been trying hard enough.”
He hugged her, flooded with a feeling of bittersweet euphoria. “That’s wonderful. When?”
“June,” she said. “Next June.”
“You know it’s a boy? You’ve tested?”
“I don’t have to test,” she said. “I have made a male for Islam. We are very strong-willed in my family.”
“Talib!” Ishmael shouted. “Turn on your damned aural!”
Abu kissed Khadijah, his stomach fluttery, and padded on the V fiber.
“Khadijah is pregnant!” he announced to anyone on the fiber.
A cheer went up from the assembled.
“We pray for a manchild,” Ishmael said. “Now will you please look at the screen?”
Talib looked and wasn’t surprised. On one side of the screen was a shot outside the walls of the War Zone in LA. Zoners, adults and children, stood in a large group, each holding a candle. They were singing. On the other side were the running tallies of the vote. NOI was losing.
“We are losing and my brother has our people singing negro spirituals!” Ishmael said, raising his arms to heaven. “A minstrel show!”
“Remember,” Talib said. “We knew there would be setbacks and regions we’d lose.”
“We’re down one percentage point in Seattle,” interrupted one of the poll watchers. “Down two points in Phoenix.”
“We’re losing our lead in New York!”
“That’s it,” Ishmael said low.
Talib looked at the overview board. The votes were swinging against the cause.
“Who’s running the Detroit screen?” Ishmael called into the confusion.
“I am, sir!” answered a man standing near Talib, who was on his feet now, Khadijah rising, too.
“No!” Aziz said, grabbing Ishmael’s arm. “You cannot do this.”
Ishmael jerked his arm away and spat on the floor. “This is the result of my listening to you,” he said. Then he asked the poll watcher, “Is Brother Elijah running the action in Detroit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him to turn on the heat, Brother.”
“Yes, sir.”
Aziz had already moved the Detroit War Zone to the big screen, Talib watching as Ishmael’s order reached the crowd. They broke from their singing immediately, throwing their candles at the FPF guard lined up fifty yards distant.
They charged the edge of the Zone screaming, “God is great!” They threw rocks, but when the nausea gas hit the blacktop, the real artillery came out.
“Guns!” Aziz yelled. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done all along!” Ishmael returned. “At this point, this is the only way. Perhaps we can draw enough viewers to keep them away from their voting buttons. Maybe we can hold our lead. Get Miami on the horn!”
“The bottom’s dropping out of Detroit!” the poll watcher called. “We’re down five percent now.”
“Tell them to hold,” Ishmael said, pacing furiously. He pointed to a man working a small monitor. “What’s the screen comparison breakdown?”
“We’re still winning in cities where we have no presence,” the man returned over the aural.
“Brother,” Aziz said, intruding softly in the aural. “About Detroit…”
“Abort Detroit immediately,” Ishmael said. Frowning deeply, he strode into the midst of the action. People were furiously working their screens and downloading stats. “Cease all operations!” Ishmael commanded. The room suddenly quieted, all eyes on him.
The word went out quickly, the Zones breaking their candlelight vigils, the Detroit rioters already escaping back behind their walls.
“Now what?” Aziz said.
“You have the nerve to ask me that?” Ishmael put a finger right in his brother’s face. “We are going to lose, and I blame you.” He then pointed to Talib. “And I blame you.”
“Violence is not the answer. I’m begging you to keep peace,” Aziz said.
“No!” Ishmael shouted. He whirled away from his brother and shoved through the crowd, exiting through the side door without a backward glance.