Richter 10

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, then gently turned Sumi to face her.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Kate said and held up a small metal slot with double sets of three-inch-long sensors sticking out the end.

  “A chip port?”

  “My Dad can have one of these in your skull in five minutes. Trust me. It will help you with your sexual problems.”

  “Who said I had a problem?” Sumi asked sharply. “I’m not a chippie, Kate.”

  “Neither am I.” Kate flipped up her red hair directly above her left ear, revealing her own port. “I’m a simple gal. If it’s bad, I do it. If it’s fun, I do it. Usually they’re the same thing. Trust me, honey. I can fix you up so that you can lead a full sexual life without ever knowing a man. Five minutes of your time. Under the hair, where no one will see it unless you want them to.”

  Sumi Chan stared at her with wide eyes.

  The holorain fell hard on Henan through Sumi’s bedroom window, a cool, damp, fragrant breeze blowing in with it. Her lights were turned out. Occasional flashes of lightning brightened the room.

  A slight ache in her head reminded her of the chip sitting in its little case beside her on the night table. The checkup had gone well and the surgery had, indeed, taken only five minutes, most of that spent shaving the inch-long spot on her head where the port was to be buried. An anesthetic had been administered, then a small incision made, the sensors put right into the cut. The sensors were very sharp. Ben Masters used a small hammer to tap them through muscles and bone. Once he was through the skull, one shove jammed the sensors deeply into her brain.

  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.”

  LA WAR ZONE

  17 DECEMBER 2026, 7:03 P.M.

  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.”

  Surprise
d 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.

  Chapter 17: The Salton Trough

  IMPERIAL VALLEY PROJECT BOMBAY BEACH, CALIFORNIA

  15 JUNE 2028, 11:00 A.M.

  Lewis Crane took the eggbeater up into the puffy clouds, bright white against a hard blue sky, then dipped quickly down. Charlie, two days shy of eighteen months of age, clapped his hands and giggled. He was sitting on his mother’s lap, a huge, yellow plush elephant in his own little lap.

  “You know what clouds are, Charlie?” Crane asked as he banked south, headed for the Project. “They’re water.”

  Charlie made a gurgling noise. He seemed to adore his parents, and delighted them by listening intently to every word they spoke to him, responding often with a profound string of gibberish.

  “And how much does a cloud weigh?”

  The child’s eyes, hazel like his mother’s, opened wide. As if he could understand everything his father said, he looked out at the sky. He was just learning to speak. He pointed a pudgy finger and said, “Coud… coud.”

  “That’s right, pal. Cloud,” Crane said. “Bet you think those clouds don’t weigh a thing… like spiderwebs. But a really big cloud weighs a lot. Ten million pounds maybe. Big. Big, huh?”

  “Big,” Charlie repeated, opening his arms wide. He held up his stuffed animal. “Elly-pant.”

  “Yeah,” Crane said, excited. “Maybe two elephants.” Beaming, he looked over at Lanie. “Did you hear that? Two new words—cloud and elephant—and he got the point about size!”

  Lanie chuckled, smoothing Charlie’s hair while resisting the temptation to tease Crane. What the heck, though, Charlie was bright, probably not ready to make an acceptance speech in Stockholm, but Crane was justified in the pride he took in their son. How he loved Charlie. And what a terrific father he was. Most important of all, though, Lanie thought, was that Charlie was sweet-tempered, curious, and affectionate. Almost as if he could read her thoughts, Charlie twisted around and planted a wet kiss on her jaw. She was laughing as they spotted the Project hundreds of feet below.

  As usual, there were protesters around the outer gates of the Project compound. They’d been there since ground-breaking, which had occurred just a few days after Charlie’s birth. Mohammed Ishmael had enlarged the scope of NOI protests while escalating their violence. Their avowed purpose in picketing Northwest Gemstone was to stop Crane from pursuing what they called “his mad schemes to wreak nuclear havoc to stop earthquakes.” That, Lanie
and Crane knew, had come from only one source—Dan Newcombe. Well, Abu Talib, as he called himself now.

  They’d feared when Dan had resigned from the Foundation that he’d go public with what he knew about Crane’s dream; they were only surprised he’d waited so long… or that it had taken him such a time to learn about Northwest Gemstone and put two and two together. So far, they hadn’t lied to the public. In fact, they hadn’t made any public statements at all. But they didn’t have to lie, because the public was disinclined to believe NOI. After the loss of the referendum on an NOI homeland, Mohammed Ishmael had become much more prominent, often eclipsing Dan in the number and apparent importance of speeches, appearances on teev, and before their people. And it was no doubt that it was Mohammed Ishmael who had returned the NOI to a warlike regimen of terrorist attacks.

  The War Zones had rioted all at once, then moved farther out into the cities themselves—suicide bombers, cars full of gunmen shooting anyone unfortunate enough to be on the streets, full-scale urban warfare.

  And every time another shooting, another bombing occurred, Mohammed Ishmael immediately claimed credit and said that the terror would stop the moment that NOI got a homeland—and Crane was stopped.

  Liang Int continued to back the project, mainly because they couldn’t afford to lose face to Yo-Yu, whose new logo, the letters YOU done in blood red seemed to speak directly to the common man. Yo-Yu had been a phenomenon. Their chips had become remarkably sophisticated, able to create effects in which the brain couldn’t differentiate between reality and illusion. They’d gotten so good, in fact, that Mr. Tang’s attempts at competing with a similar product were failing miserably due to inferior quality. There was simply too large a technological gap, and Yo-Yu guarded its secrets very carefully.

  Then there was the Mississippi Valley. Yo-Yu, flush with chip capital, for chips were indeed superseding dorph in the marketplace, had made an offer for the entire area which Liang had accepted. It had made Mr. Mui happy, since it enabled Liang America to show a profit for calendar ’27. Yo-Yu then had pumped money into the entire midwest, which had energized the area. It had become a frontier boomtown, the disenfranchised moving in from all over, taking the places of those who’d left after the quake and its persistent aftershocks.