The Hundred Gram Mission

by Navin Weeraratne

  Anjana smiled weakly.

  "I am not leaving the High Commission for Refugees. And the UN is not leaving Sudan. You have to understand, what just happened was not an outlier. Aid workers are attacked all the time. There is nothing safe about caring for refugees in Sudan. But also, we’re not safe talking about it, here in Chennai. Religious extremists can and will strike anywhere."

  She cleared her throat and motioned to a pitcher. Camera flashes punctuated Rao holding a glass to the girl’s lips.

  "Africa’s population has exploded," she continued. "Climate change has turned many croplands into deserts. Water wars will increase. Education, healthcare, clean government, these have become pipe dreams for many. The violent extremism I am a victim of, has been increasing in Africa and the Middle East, for fifty years. It will continue for another fifty.

  "But we’re in this for the long haul. China has troops and America has drones, all over the world. Over a hundred nations are involved in peace keeping, nation building, and counter-terrorism. The world is in the greatest struggle it has ever known.

  "Space is where we will win. Every community resettled to an orbital habitat, is prospering. The more habitats we build, the more people we can lift – literally – out of poverty and hunger. That’s why I am not leaving. I have too much work to do."

  She carefully turned to Rao, and the two hugged for the watching world.

  "How did I do?" she whispered into Rao’s ear.

  "Perfect," she whispered back, cameras flashing all around them. "Just perfect."

  "Roshmita, how much longer are you going to sulk?"

  The cozy kitchen smelled of fresh made, paneer rice. Above the counter a colonial-era cuckoo clock ticked, tocked. A staring Shih Tzu sat beside the table, ignoring its own bowl in the corner. The young girl eating opposite Rao, gave her a dirty look.

  "Roshmita," Rao’s tone changed, "are you enjoying acting like a child? Are you trying to punish me? Cause it’s not working."

  Roshmita looked down at her plate, but added a scowl to the experience.

  "Darling, come on," Rao’s tone softened. "Please don’t do this. I love you very much, I did not try to or want to hurt you."

  "I told you not to go," the teenager said at last.

  "No one could have known that would happen."

  "I knew it would happen!" she looked up, a glaring lion. "Isn’t your team worth anything? Aren’t they supposed to be smart? They didn’t see something like this coming? There’s a video out now of some imams putting a fatwa on you."

  "I know about it, just ignore it. I’m a public figure; every public figure gets death threats."

  "What is wrong with you?" the dog shrank back, startled. "You think what happened was random? People tried to kill you, and when they failed, a holy call goes up on social media for some other asshole to ante up and try? Someone is trying to kill you."

  The cuckoo clock filled their ears. The Shih Tzu made an exploratory whine.

  "I’m not going to go back there, Roshmita. Nothing like this will ever happen again. New York won’t allow it, even if I wanted to go to another warzone. We have bodyguards now, and the army has put up checkpoints on the street and near the office. No one is going to hurt me, darling. You have to believe this."

  "What does it matter, helping refugees?"

  "What?"

  "What does it matter? For every person you send up, ten more hate you for being left behind. They blame you for their problems. Not themselves. Not a bunch of rich, dead, men from a century ago. You want that? Ama, just leave it. To hell with it."

  "Roshmita, we can’t run from the world’s problems when they’re our problems, too. This city is half underwater. People in this country are hungry. If I just thought of myself – of ourselves – what kind of world would I be leaving to you? I’d be no better than my parent’s generation. I have a duty of care to you. I can’t just stop because it’s hard."

  "You don’t think staying alive is part of that duty?"

  "What happened in Sudan was a fluke. Even if someone is actually trying to kill me, they will never have an opportunity like that again. And we had the Chinese with us. They protected us. They gave their lives to save us."

  "And how does that make you feel?"

  Rao stopped and said nothing.

  "What about your aide, Anjana Shetty?"

  "Poor girl, she won’t be able to walk again without a cane. She needs stem cell injections, it will take months before the nerves all grow back. Then the doctors say she’ll have a chance to walk normally again."

  Roshmita shook her head. "I can’t believe you. You think that’s what I wanted to know?"

  "Well, what then?"

  "Let’s put aside that your choices put her in danger. What was all that shit with you holding hands with her in the hospital? All that noble cock about ‘I will never stop, this is the long haul’?"

  "Don’t you use language like that around me, young lady."

  Her eyes slitted. "I’d rather swear at my mother, than use someone’s injuries to play politics. You pitched her as a martyr, another Malala Yousefzai. You have men all over the planet jumping up and down. The brave, beautiful, girl with the big eyes that terrorists tried to murder! And what does she talk about from her hospital bed? Orbital habitats! Our last great hope! Have you no shame Ama? Have you any fucking shame?"

  "Roshmita! I won’t warn you again!"

  "Or what?" Roshmita got up.

  "Sit down!"

  "Or what? You’ll get someone else crippled to save the loving Human Race?"

  "You horrible, horrible child. All you can think of is yourself."

  Roshmita’s eyes filled. She stormed out of the kitchen, then Rao heard the front door slamming.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  The Shih Tzu whined again, and put its paws up on her knee.

  Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, II

  Zinjibar, Abyan Governorate, Yemen

  "I don’t understand. Hisham failed. Why are you rewarding him?"

  In the courtyard, an elderly man was feeding some goats. Children screeched and giggled, and ran across the grass and were gone. A large portrait of the Ka’aba hung over an archway.

  "Wahlid, Sudan landed in our laps," replied Kareem. "An opportunity that was not of our making. It was high risk, but I decided it was worth it. Hisham did what he could. The failure is mine to bear. I made the decision to chance it."

  "That’s it?" his son threw up his hands.

  "Yes, that’s it. Now this Indian group we found is much better placed. They’re all nationals so they can move around freely. Parts of India are very chaotic – they can operate from a slum a few streets from her, and no one will ever know."

  Wahlid shook his head. "The Eritreans have been at war for three years –and they were incompetent. Hisham even got them a modernized tank, and they still failed. How is an untested Indian group we’ve not heard of, going to do better?"

  "Do you feel you have a better idea?"

  "Yes! Send me!"

  "You?" he suppressed the smile, but not the frown.

  "Yes, Father. Me. I’ve been to Pakistan, to Kashmir. I know the culture, I can even speak some Hindi. It’s just like Urdu. Give me four men and I’ll kill everyone in her office."

  Kareem said nothing. He turned his back and poured himself some red tea. Cardamoms and fennel floated to the top, cluttering his reflection.

  "So, what do you think?" asked the boy.

  Kareem sipped his tea. "The language they speak in Chennai isn’t Hindi, it’s Tamil. Chennai is in India’s southernmost state. Kashmir is its northernmost state. How can you say you know the culture? You don’t even know the map."

  Wahlid scowled.

  "This is why I want to work with the Indians. They have local knowledge and assets. We can give them equipment, resources, training. In partnership we can do far more than we could on our own, Wahlid."

  "Partnership? Like our partnership with Sukarno? Outsiders only help u
s as far as it advances them to do so. Once they have all they need, they abandon us, or worse. We should have learned that lesson. Why do you rushing to repeat it?"

  "Sukarno had his own vision, that’s true. In the short run, working with him was an expensive and bitter failure. In the long run though, it was helpful. We need to worry about the long run, Wahlid. The 21st century is the great fast. Its hardships are awakening our fellow Moslems. With that in mind, consider our legacy in South East Asia."

  "We have a legacy?"

  "Of course we do. A muddled but dangerous group, determined to expel the Chinese. They will train others, who in turn will train still more. There are three hundred million Moslems in Indonesia. How can a Chinese space elevator ever be safe?"

  He poured his son some tea. "A united army with one leader is very effective. That is why our enemies fight that way. But a single, large, group is vulnerable to decapitation strikes. The US in particular is good at doing this to us. That’s partly why we need partners rather than being able to do everything. We can’t do our work if we’re dead. And if we do die, others will carry on our teachings."

  Wahlid frowned.

  "You don’t seem convinced."

  "Father, what is the point? You said it yourself. An organized and united army can fight effectively and achieve victory. What you’re saying instead, is that chaotic violence is better. That’s ridiculous. I think you’re just trying to dress a failure, as a success. No one else will call you out for that, but I will."

  Father and son locked eyes.

  "The Taleban and ISIS each fought as unified armies for a time. They took whole countries. And then they were smashed. Meanwhile, even as the Americans celebrated killing Bin Laden, Al-Qaeda’s children expanded his struggle, ten-fold. You don’t have to accept this, Wahlid. A drone doesn’t care what you think. It will swat you, like a fly. But swatting flies becomes pointless if the whole meal starts rotting."

  "A ‘rotting meal,’" Wahlid folded his arms and shook his head. "That ‘meal’ you’re talking about is the Moslem World. Our entire mission is to resist technologies that reduce their suffering. Don’t you think we have a duty then, to make sure that suffering is as short as possible?"

  Kareem’s fingers whitened around his cup. "Again, this argument from you."

  "We are in private. I can and will say what I like."

  "People are pathetic creatures. They will sell out their freedom and futures to anyone who can bribe or bully them. Moslems are no different from anyone else. The ecological travails of this century, correlate directly with its passion for Jihad. The only arguments that compel are hunger and thirst. Think about that! This century is the first real chance since the Khans, for an Islamic state. A true, great, pan-Islamic state, free from the pressure of Western power. This chance is entirely fuelled by human misery."

  "I think about that every day."

  "You have taken up the cause, Wahlid. You contribute to that misery."

  "I think about that too."

  "All that suffering is for nothing if we do not win. Of those before us, under European colonials. Those who died against the Americans, when this war started. New technologies will take root, the masses will be bribed, and this chance may never come again. We are committed now Wahlid, we must see this through to the end."

  "And we are the ones who decide this?"

  "Yes. People like you and me. We have decided it, and it’s done."

  Wahlid threw up his hands. "Let’s get back to talking about Hisham."

  Kareem sighed. "I had hoped you were paying attention. Forget Hisham. Stop thinking short term. Trying to achieve A, B, and C in a given time is how our enemies think."

  "Can we just get back to Hisham?"

  "Just listen to yourself. Aren’t you impatient and upset over Sudan?"

  "Yes!"

  "Exactly. It is the same for our enemies. They set themselves schedules, budgets, time tables. These are all limits on what they’re willing to expend. When things go wrong, they become impatient, they feel they have failed. They become discouraged, their publics want their troops to come home from the war they ‘cannot win.’

  "We don’t set limits. That’s how you win against a superpower, you keep fighting till it’s done. Do you follow? Please tell me you follow. You are my son, how can I lead when people can see my own son disagrees with me?"

  "If you want me to agree, you can start by explaining to me why Hisham is being rewarded."

  "He is not being rewarded. Making contacts with groups is what he does, boy. Sri Lanka is a perfect meeting place. It is next to India. It’s tourist-focused and welcomes visitors, especially from the Middle East. The Sri Lankan police are underpaid and undertrained. He will assess the Indians. If he feels they are worthy, he will discuss targets."

  "Targets? You mean Lakshmi Rao?"

  "Not just her. Her wounded assistant is doing talk shows now. They are using this to make a case for more orbitals and resources. Sympathetic policy makers are also coming forward and making statements. Many are Indian."

  "You want to kill everyone who wants to send refugees to space?"

  "Not everyone. Just enough to make it look like we want to. Remember, the whole point of this exercise is to throw off the AI now studying us. To throw them off the trail of Black Fire."

  "Can I go too?"

  "What?"

  "Can – can I go too?"

  "Wahlid! This is not a holiday!"

  "You want me to think long term? Then there is no point my training with Faisal and the others. I can shoot, I can clear rooms, I can make bombs. But I don’t know how to find and cut deals with allies. If that’s how things should be done, then I want to learn. Send me with Hisham."

  "I’m sorry, everything is already prepared. Hisham will be going alone – you can go next time."

  "Are you sure? I’m happy to do all the extra prep work myself."

  "I’m sure, Wahlid. I want you here, working with Faisal. I want you liaising with the cell on the E2 Orbital."

  "I can contact them from anywhere in the world. I can do it from India."

  "And I would rather you focus on bigger, more important things. Remember, our real work is Black Fire. Work you have a part in."

  "They are just Internet wankers."

  "I know it is not very exciting work, but it is what you should be doing, all the same."

  "Faisal made contact with them, shouldn't he be managing them?"

  "Faisal is too old, he needs your help with them. You connect well with other young people. Now, how is it coming along with the Internet wankers?"

  "They want to declare a Caliphate, in space."

  Kareem frowned. "Are they serious?"

  "Somewhat."

  "Steer them away from this."

  "It's just nonsense."

  "No actually, it isn't.[xxxviii] Black Fire doesn't need that kind of distraction. Have you got them to the point that they would accept something from you? Something you post them?"

  "Yes. But I think we should send it through one of their family members on Earth. A parcel will stand out though. I doubt mail to space will be cheap."

  "Our Chechen friend Zakayev has perfected a dust-like delivery mechanism."

  "Dust?"

  "Just send them a card. We can dust it. Nothing will show up on an X-ray."

  "How will they activate Black Fire without special equipment?"

  "Zakayev is working on it. In any case, I need to be able to trigger activation, from here on Earth. "

  "I thought you wanted the cell members to activate it."

  "Yes, they will of course have that control."

  "Shouldn't it be under their control, entirely? Us having control from down here, puts them at risk. How could we ever know when it would be safe to activate? It makes no sense, Father."

  "I will do nothing that endangers them."

  Wahlid frowned.

  "Wahlid, I will not allow them to come to harm. You have my word."

 
; Evan Stockwell, Suyin Lee, II

  Indonesia, Central Kalimantan

  "So Stockwell, do you get the feeling that they don't really want us around?"

  Evan Stockwell looked up from his steaming bowl of noodles. It was Ramen Night in the PLA cafeteria. Every night was Ramen Night. At nearby tables officers laughed and talked loudly in Mandarin. The civilian engineers were more discrete, all wearing their ID badges. Stockwell and Pirello sat alone. They wore visitor badges that read Tianguo De Jieti, "Heaven’s Ladder."

  "I’ve felt that way since we stepped off the plane," he replied. "I really couldn’t care less, I just wish they’d let us do our jobs. Or at least let me do my job."

  Pirello sipped her canned soybean drink. "You’d think they’d at least quid pro quo after we IDed the dead Arab."

  "We haven’t given them anything actionable. Al-Rawi kept a low profile and shows up in just a few airport photos. His travel history is too thin – he probably changed his identity, at least once. He’s just a grunt: from village, to training camp, to warzone."

  "Yeah but we gave them something."

  "Hey," he held up a pork ball with his chopsticks, "they give us free food."

  "Are you done?"

  "I’ve been done. This is just stress eating."

  "Come on. Let’s get back to work. Maybe you can dig out something new for the evidence wall."

  "Actually, I want to make a little detour today."

  "What’s that?"

  "Let’s go look at their evidence wall."

  "You know they won’t let us."

  "Yes. But let’s see if they can stop us."

  She frowned. "I don’t think Likavec will care for that. I know that Lee bitch will kick your ass. You’ll get put on a plane, maybe me too. Most likely you’ll just get into an argument and the door, and then leave in a huff. It won’t help matters, Evan. They have to come to us, when they’re ready."

  "I say nuts to that. Come on, Pirello. A great, big, supercomputer thought it would be nice for us to come by. Maybe share a century’s worth of knowledge and experience fighting terrorists. That computer isn’t here right now, and we’re being sidelined. If they’re just wasting our time, put me on a plane right now. I have work to do. And I hate this food. This, this is supposed to be Chinese food? Where’s the Crab Rangoon?"