New Cairo was feeling the burn, too. Its relationship with the rest of America had soured as soon as America was able to forge non-Islamic alliances, and they’d had the expense of two costly wars with Central American Islamic States over trade issues.
Abu Talib had taken religious and political control over New Cairo within a year of his release, following the assassination of Martin Aziz. As in the case of Ishmael Mohammed, Aziz’s murderer was never found. Talib’s path hadn’t crossed Crane’s since the hearing in which he’d been freed. The times Crane had seen the man on the teev, Talib had been quiet and soft-spoken, talking of unity and brotherhood. His wife seemed to do the lion’s share of the political work, Talib content to stay in the background. Crane thought about Newcombe—not Talib—a lot these days. And he regretted that he hadn’t contacted the man and made peace with him. His next project was one that would probably appeal a great deal to Dan.
The helo passed above the old War Zone, a regular part of the city again, and moved toward Sunset Boulevard and the KABC studios where he was supposed to give his interview, direct from the heart of the conflagration. Cars and helium floaters clogged the roadways both in and out of town, Crane wondering if those escaping had enough time at this point, for even as the helo set down in the parking lot, he knew the compression on the fault near Mt. Pinos was straining on the edge of rupture, the Imperial Fault also rupturing, beginning the process of rending California in twain from the Gulf of California through the Salton Sea and the San Jacinto Fault all the way to San Francisco. Meanwhile, the Emerson Fault near Landers would tear under the Salton Sea and begin a rupturing process that would stretch six hundred miles to Mt. Shasta, beginning the clockworks that would put Nevada and Arizona on the shores of the Pacific in the next few years. He wouldn’t be around for those. He’d had his shot and was more than ready to leave the world to—what had been Tennery’s word?
—maniacs. He liked that. The maniacs.
They stepped out of the helo and into the madness of an open city. All around them, looters smashed store windows. Those too poor or stupid to get out were having a party to celebrate their inheritance of the city. Sirens were sounding, but no authority figures could be seen. The city was sitting on the cusp of its own eternity.
“You really wanted to come here,” Hill said, “to see this?”
“I want to wallow in it,” Crane said, walking toward the building. A car out of control careened past them to smash against a brick wall, throwing the driver into the windshield. “My whole life has been tied to this day.”
“You don’t have nothin’ nuts in mind, do you?” Hill asked as Crane moved through the doors.
“Depends on your definition of nuts.”
They entered into the cool darkness of the small, one-story building. Crane was pumped up, excited. Ever since the day Sumi had died, he’d been counting down until today. She’d have been proud of him.
A man with a cam-eye where a real one should have been hurried up to them in the empty lobby. He wore a shiny, lime-green plastic suit with ruffled shirt and gold ascot.
“You’re Crane, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“My name’s Abidan. Quite a show you’ve cooked up here.” He was sweating and seemed nervous, shaky.
“I don’t make them,” Crane said, “Are you staying behind?”
“That’s what journalists do, sir. They stay behind.”
“That’s what geologists do, too, son. Let’s get on with it.”
“We’re going to broadcast from back here,” Abidan said, leading them through a ghost studio, devoid of people, full of bleeping equipment. “This is a main news webset. We have uplink capabilities here to forty-seven hundred news distribution points worldwide and I’m going to be juicing to all of them.”
He opened the door for them into a small studio, a living room setup surrounded by black curtains. The lighting was somber.
Hill gasped when they walked into the room. “Son of a bitch,” he said. Seated at one of the chairs in the livingroom set was an ancient-looking Abu Talib, dressed in his usual black suit, minus the fez. Talib stood up.
“Just because we’re old, boy, don’t mean we can’t whip you,” Hill said, Crane putting out a hand to silence him.
“It’s all right, Burt. In fact, it’s perfect. Like old times.” His excitement grew. It was coming together—and without him even having to work at it. Dreams really did come true.
He moved across the empty floor to the set. Hand extended, Abu Talib, seeming hundreds of years old, stood and smiled warmly. “It is good to see you, old friend,” he said, shaking Crane’s hand.
“It’s good to see you, too… What do I call you? Your Eminence or Mr. Talib or—”
“Call me Dan.” He smiled. “I think it’s the most comfortable thing for both of us.”
“Here it is, ladies and gentlemen,” Abidan said, his cam-eye glaring at them, “the meeting between two great enemies. One man who wanted to save California. One who was willing to kill to stop him.”
“Not very cordial,” Talib said, shaking his head at Abidan as if he were a naughty child. “We’ve been had, Crane.” He nodded in acknowledgment at the figure several feet away. “Burt.”
“Dr. Crane,” Abidan said, goading, “how does it feel to be standing here on the eve of the cataclysm with the man who destroyed your life?”
“If Mr. Abidan wants a fight, I think he’s going to be very disappointed.” Crane laughed; smiling, Hill applauded softly.
Newcombe’s brows knit deeply. “Mr. Abidan has already been less than gracious,” he said quietly. “I would think that if he wanted any kind of interview at all, he’d shut up and let us talk. Don’t worry.” He grinned at Abidan, the wrinkles in his weathered face folding upon one another like accordion pleats. “We’ll be through soon enough.”
“Why did you come here?” Crane asked Talib. “You have a country to run.”
“That we’ll talk about after the camera’s off. May we sit, please?” he asked, motioning to a chair on the set. “My back’s not what it used to be.”
“My everything’s not what it used to be,” Crane said, sitting down. “And I’m dying to talk to you. I have a proposition for you.”
Newcombe sat back, his deep, sunken eyes lighting up. “A proposition,” he said. “I’m intrigued.”
Abidan started for the third seat, Newcombe waving him off. “Burt, come up here and sit with us. Let that young man stand … though I bet he won’t be standing when the EQ hits.”
The three of them laughed. Crane pointed at Abidan. “Know how to save yourself, boy?” he asked, then glanced at Burt and Dan. “Look at him, he’s already sweating. He’s shaking so much, the picture’s probably wobbly. I can already hear it, down in the Imperial Valley, the fault howling like a wounded animal as it rips apart, pushing farther west, yanking that kink right out of Mount Pinos. Do you understand the immensity of what you have so blithely undertaken, young man? Those people on the streets … they’re ignorant, or out of control, or crazy, or ready to die. The men who sit before you have no fear of death. Do you?”
Mute, Abidan shook his head.
“You’re going to get to witness first hand,” Crane continued, “a monster tsunami east of LA as the Pacific rushes in to fill the mammoth tearing gouge in the body of the Earth. Do you know you’ll see your streets explode before your eyes? Afterward, when the quake is over, you have to live with the consequences. Fresh water runs out first. Then, as you return to a prehistoric environment, diseases are rampant. Are you prepared to bury a couple million bodies? That’s what you’ll have to do to keep the diseases and the smell away as your own sweat makes you smell like death, and your house and your friends and everything else are gone.”