The Prophet's Ladder

by Jonathan Williams

  “Another veiled attempt at Pan-Arabism?” She frowned disparagingly.

  “No!” Nur was vehement. “No, not at all. The dustbin of Middle-Eastern history already contains seventy years’ worth of discarded despots and autocrats of that ilk. No. We are trying to remodel a culture, not replace a series of governments with another. We don’t care if the Arab world is united as one, only if its peoples are prosperous, educated, free to study and worship the Fashioner’s universe as they see fit.”

  “No dream of a caliphate then?”

  “None at all.”

  “Very well then.” Amina was resolved. “Who do I speak to about running for the Assembly?”

  Chapter 9

  Todd stood in the control room of the launch facility feeling rather apprehensive. The entirety of Al-Hatem Aerospace, practically every single employee, even those who were not scheduled to work that shift, was crammed into the building, as were many hundreds of television crews, news reporters, press agents, various media icons, embassy delegates, government officials, even the president, prime minister, and three of the seven constituent monarchs of the United Arab Emirates were with Sheikh Nur in the PR auditorium, which had been filled with dinner tables and wait staff in anticipation of the post launch gala.

  The heads of the various company departments paced or hovered alongside Todd as they watched the floor of the elevator launch platform from a second-story viewing window. It was four minutes to liftoff, and the buzz of technicians going over preflight checklists was incessant, a constant drone underlying every other conversation and sound in the room. As Todd checked his phone, not for the first time, to see if Anne had called or texted, inane thoughts popped into his head. Can they call it ‘preflight’? It isn’t really flying at all, is it? ‘Pre-launch’ then? ‘Pre-lift’? ‘Pre-climb’? Anne would be at her friend’s apartment, another professor from the university, watching the launch on television. Thousands of ‘elevator parties’, as they had come to be called, would be happening all over the world. Millions of people were glued to their smartphones, TVs, computers, radios, listening, watching. In his wayward homeland the American popular media and its attached megacorporations had turned the event into as big a deal as the Apollo 11 moon landing; there was already a children’s breakfast cereal and an action figure playset out on the market. There were gatherings in Times Square, the Champ de Mars, the Sydney Opera House, Red Square. All were watching, waiting. The elevator tether was completed: Todd’s team and their solifuge automatons had done their part, for now. It had taken two years and seven months to build, not counting the asteroid capture, more than twelve years to design. The first climb would begin at 2PM GST: Gulf Standard Time.

  Todd wondered what the reaction would be if the whole thing failed to work. They had run hundreds upon hundreds of simulations, literally millions of tests on each piece of machinery: the grips, climbers, emergency boosters, solar arrays, and communications equipment. Some of the most powerful supercomputers in the world had tested and predicted the outcomes of all possible scenarios: gusts of solar wind shaking and straining the cable, odd gravitational surges from the sun or moon, and so on. Every Al-Hatem Aerospace employee had drilled, himself included, for every contingency, even the (hopefully) unlikely event of a thermonuclear attack on the launch facility itself. Todd swallowed nervously; his dread of the tether being cut or destroyed had been the subject of many a restless night’s nightmare in the last few months. Theoretically, were the tether to break apart it would not cause much collateral damage as it collapsed; it wasn’t very big, after all, and much of it would burn up in the atmosphere or reach terminal velocity as it fell upon itself, coiling downwards like a snapped kite string. It was the elevator car itself that would cause the most destruction as it fell, but the lift contained breaks and parachutes in the event of an unplanned free-fall, and its component parts were capable of breaking apart into four equal segments to diminish any potential fallout. Todd knew that some of the engineers had even suggested that a self-destruct or remote destruct mechanism be installed, but Sheikh Nur had himself nixed that idea, thank goodness.

  One and a half minutes to launch, and the elevator car itself showed signs of life. Various components began moving, breaks testing themselves, gases escaping from various exterior thruster nacelles in controlled bursts; to Todd it was very much like a forest creature awakening from hibernation after a particularly long winter. The background chatter increased exponentially, reaching a fever pitch: Arabic and English commingling in scientific pidgin. Todd began to sweat. He knew the climb would not be as climactic or as awe inspiring as a chemical rocket launch, and he dreaded the reaction from the world press. Oh the memes they’d generate on the Internet, the cruel barbs that would be shared on social media, that vast echoing chamber, the derision! It would be brutal beyond a doubt.

  Thirty seconds. Servos on the elevator car began to activate, and there was a moderate whine as the engines reached optimal levels, idling. The batteries installed on the docked car had been charged to full until the transport’s solar cells could unfurl outside the facility, a rose in spring. Ten seconds, and the world held its breath. Todd shuddered as, at a deep, almost visceral level, time seemingly slowed down to a crawl. Launch.

  The car lurched upwards at an agonizingly slow pace. It seemed to barely move at first, but then, slowly picking up speed, it ascended into the tower atrium. Distantly, far removed from conscious awareness, Todd heard cheering; hundreds of people inside the facility watched as their life’s work, their singular passion for hundreds of exhausting days and sleepless nights, functioned as they’d intended. Some of his teammates, usually stoic, stolid scientists and programmers were laughing, hugging, and applauding like children on Christmas morning. Others punched the air, consciously willing the machine to ascend. Still others silently wept as their dream rose upwards, higher and higher. The car was moving at eight and a half kilometers per hour, slightly less than a human traveling at jogging speed. The car hovered above them and Todd was struck, only for a split second, by the strange, beatific vision of a deity or idol ascending into the empyrean.

  The apex of the tower complex consisted of a small hole through which the space elevator’s cable ran. It was in fact, an iris that swiveled open, enlarging its aperture in the manner of a camera lens, granting passage to the car, which climbed steadily. It had been suggested that there was no need for the iris at all, that the infrequent amount of rain (less than 120 mm a year) did not necessitate the covering, but one never knew. Once clear of the tower’s interior the elevator car began to pick up a slight amount of speed. Now rising at a steady eleven kilometers per hour, the petals of solar cells unfurled beautifully, forming a perfect symmetrical nimbus about the transport. The panels were the most advanced, efficient solar voltaic cells in the world, manufactured in Germany, with an energy conversion ratio of slightly more than forty-five percent. Even more amazingly, in the event of sustained bad weather or if the car’s solar panels were to fail catastrophically, energy could be beamed directly from the elevator’s earthside hub to the underside of the car via a powerful microwave laser array known as a ‘maser’. A form of wireless energy transmission, the energy would be absorbed via rectenna collectors, fully capable of powering the car’s ascent or descent.

  Todd watched from his terrestrial vantage as the car moved through the troposphere. Like most days, excepting the occasional sandstorm, the sky above the tower was a clear turquoise with not a wisp of cloud in sight. The elevator car would be visible to the naked eye for several more hours, and the company’s 70 meter long, high-altitude capable airship would ascend alongside the elevator cable, its position and cluster of high definition observation cameras and telescopes remotely operated from a mission control substation where yet another contingent of engineers would visually monitor the car for any possible discrepancy or malfunction.

  Back at the PR gala, dignitaries, royalty, and other VIPs looked on at images of the still function
ing, still climbing space elevator displayed on projector screens on all four walls. The party was already in full swing; those whose faith allowed them to drink did so, partaking of expensive bottles of champagne or wines with storied vintages. Sheikh Nur had quietly stepped out to watch his lifelong ambition launch from the tower platform floor. It was something he would not miss for any amount of kings’ favors or princes’ well wishes. He’d stood there, alone, watching the car climb upwards. No tears had been forthcoming, nor any great display of elation. Just an immeasurable wave of satisfaction when everything had worked as he knew it would. There had been no doubt, no hesitation, no nagging uncertainty, only the confidence of a man who had given his all to something. But now he stepped back into the room and was met with a wave of admirers and devotees. Even the American and Russian ambassadors offered their ‘sincere’ and ‘heartfelt’ congratulations, a calculated move to offset any potential ill will stemming from the cold war they’d initiated against his company. Nur knew they wouldn’t dare make a move against the elevator now, not with the whole world watching. Instead they’d race to develop their own, and would seek to curry favor with those who’d done it first. He smiled and accepted their felicitations warmly.

  ****

  In Tunis Amina stood on top of a makeshift podium in Mohammed Bouazizi Square. The day was temperate and lovely, a fine ocean breeze mitigating the heat of the afternoon sun. A crowd of onlookers waited expectantly to hear her first public campaign speech since she’d announced her candidacy for the Assembly seat. Looking out over the crowd of two hundred some people, she observed that many faces were both watching her and simultaneously glued to their phones as the first images and video of the elevator launch was broadcast around the world. Hesitantly, but with gathering confidence she approached the microphone.

  “Bismillah. My friends! My countrymen! My Fellow Tunisians!” Her amplified voice echoed across the crowd where so many had rallied for their rights years before. The square in which they stood had been renamed after the street vendor who’d died as a martyr: setting himself on fire, and in so doing instigating the Jasmine revolution. “I speak to you today at the advent of a new world. And there is no better time to speak, for as our brothers and sisters in the Emirates usher in a new space age, so we too in Tunisia must usher in a new age of governance.” The classical Arabic flowed forth now, her speech memorized and practiced in front of her bathroom mirror a hundred times previously. She had timed the rally to symbolically coincide with the launch, trusting in her sponsor the sheikh to ensure a success on his end of things.

  “Many of you have read the works of my beloved, now deceased. He knew that Tunisia must be rejuvenated, that it must not again be stymied down by factionalism or religiosity as it once was.”

  “I am here because I wish to see his dream come to light. I am here because I want to represent you in the Assembly of Representatives of the People.” A smattering of cheers and applause. She had their attention now. “And I am here to ask for your support. With your help we can get additional funding for our schools, so that our children are guaranteed a good education, and better job prospects. With your help we can get money to fill the potholes that riddle our neighborhood streets. With your help, God willing, we will even tackle income and property tax reform.” More applause. Who doesn’t want better roads? “This October I am asking for your vote. I marched with you when we kicked out Ben Ali. I marched with you on the streets when we won back our right to freedom of speech and fair, democratic elections. Let us exercise those rights, together.” Louder cheers now, she was winning the crowd. “Together we can accomplish anything!” Ad-libbing empty rhetoric, but it was effective. There were scores of faces smiling, row upon row of energetic, enthused Tunisians who she was certain would rally to her campaign. Raising one hand towards the crowd in the universal ‘V for victory’ gesture, Amina issued a final Alhamdulillah and confidently strode off the podium, the hand signal mirrored by many across the plaza. She knew from her work with her father, the endless board meetings, the late night phone calls, to always try and end on a high note, always keep it short, leave them wanting more. A young man replaced her onstage, a handsome, charismatic college student her campaign manager had hired to handle fundraising and public relations. He’d give the people her social media handles if they didn’t have them already, encourage campaign donations, and manage the less exciting, more mundane affairs of a political campaign. Someone handed her a cup of water, which she drank greedily, unaware that she’d been sweating despite the moderate weather.

  Her thoughts were of Ali suddenly: his face, his kind, unwavering voice, so assured, so often passionate, railing against the rotting innards of a corrupt society, though often from a place of deep love and veneration. Earlier that morning she’d vowed to never forget how he spoke; they said that was always the first aspect of a dead person to vanish from one’s memory: their voice, the cadence of words and sounds that defined an individual. It was what had drawn her to him initially at university, the manner of his speech soft and inviting, like a hot bath or warm, scented beeswax. Amina knew then that she could not stop missing him, would never stop pining for every facet of his being, each peculiar mannerism. That was what love was. For all of God’s kindness there was also pain in absence, or so she’d been led to understand.

  A deep breath, the weight of a heavy heart, and she moved forward, towards her waiting staffers hovering about her car.

  ****

  Fifty-two hours. That was how long the elevator had taken to reach the asteroid, its terminal destination in orbit. Not wishing to miss a single minute of their efforts come to fruition, fearful of some catastrophic, unforeseeable ‘black swan’ event, many of the engineers at Al-Hatem had refused to go home or rest despite their severe lack of sleep, intermittently dosing themselves with caffeine pills and coffee, or even prescription amphetamines. There had been Internet-led viewer marathons devoted to watching the climb in its entirety, whole websites filled with comments dissecting and discussing every kilometer of the streamed ascent. Late night talk show hosts in Europe, Asia, and the Americas bombarded the elevator climb and its keepers with sardonic jokes aplenty. A group of miniaturists in Vienna had even constructed a functional scale model of the tower and space elevator out of plastic toy bricks; it climbed the side of a twelve-story office building like an ornamented drainpipe.

  In other words, the whole thing was a success. Todd had finally gone home as the lift neared the depot in orbit, his workmates assuring him of their vigilance and the elevator’s nominal status. There, secure in his bedroom, he was greeted by his wife and dog, unmolested by the throng of tourists and technophiles who had converged on the company town by the thousands. He knew that this was just the beginning. The robots stationed at the asteroid terminus would unload the elevator’s cargo, give the car a thorough inspection and send it on its way back down the cable loaded with a few tons of unprocessed ore. The news coverage would die down, and life would go back to normal...at least, for the rest of the world. Once the collective eyes of society were withdrawn, focused on more mundane, trivial interests, the real work could begin.

  The climb would repeat itself, this time loaded with commercial equipment from a dozen companies and governments: satellites, interplanetary probes, space telescopes, and so on. With each successive climb the company’s assets in orbit would begin to grow; eventually human scientists and engineers would man the depot above. There was a ten-year plan. Todd had been privy to it, had seen the ambition of Sheikh Nur Al-Hatem laid out before him, a seer’s divination that defied imagination: Helium-3 mining and processing; Zero-g fuel refineries; Lagrange point colonization. The list of potential wonders went on and on: a futurist’s dream come true. And he was here, at the center of it all. Could he stay with Al-Hatem? Was he even safe if he left the company and returned to the U.S? Would he be blacklisted back in the states, or celebrated, possibly fought over by various tech firms? He had no idea. There had been an attem
pt on his life here, sure, but what was his life next to this work, the impossible things they’d accomplished? What was the life of his family? Todd didn’t know, and he poured himself a stiff drink to delay its consideration. His fatigued brain defaulted to its usual solution. I’ll sleep on it. Get a better perspective after I’m well rested. It was mental procrastination, but at this point he was too tired, too worn through to care. At least it’d worked. His muscles and his mind ached for rest, and eventually he gave in to his exhaustion, a spent man.

  Chapter 10

  Amina sat in her austere one room office located next to the Bab El Khadra, the ancient gate that led into the medina. The wall-mounted work phone rang continuously, and even though her secretary fielded phone calls nonstop, the number of people needing to speak with her about this or that important issue only seemed to increase by the hour. Even her cellphone, supposedly a private, unlisted number vibrated incessantly; she was forced to turn it off.

  Thankfully, people seemed to, for now, respect her office hours and no constituents were beating down her door with petitions, draft ordinances, and the like. Around ten o’clock she stepped outside for a reprieve, watching the people of Tunis pass through the looming gate as they had for generations. A wooden cart laden with fresh baked bread, the round loaves stacked in towering columns trundled by, the inviting smell of the baker’s wares wafting across the thoroughfare to her doorway. Beyond, through the gate, a trio of cats: two tabbies, one golden brown in color, sat patiently in front of a butcher shop’s open window, hoping beyond hope that a few morsels of meat would be dropped in their direction.