The Prophet's Ladder (11 page)

“Is this all an elaborate joke? I mean a space elevator? Really?” The crowd chuckled.

“No, I assure you it is not. Your fact checkers and science consultants will confirm what I’m saying, and the fact that the counterweight is in Earth orbit. As well, various intergovernmental aerospace defense entities such as NORAD were notified once the asteroid drew close to Earth.”

Another hand. “Sheikh Nur Al-Hatem, are you afraid of the political situation in the Middle East affecting this project’s long-term operational status and success?”

“Not at all. We at Al-Hatem aerospace are quite comfortable with the current political climate on the Arabian Peninsula, and with our partners in the UAE government and elsewhere. Point of fact, many of us with the company believe the success of this space elevator, or the Tower, as we have taken to calling it, to be instrumental to a true and lasting shift towards peace and economic stability in the region.”

“How have you managed to so vastly leapfrog your competitors, like Alcaeus Space Systems and other private and publically funded aerospace agencies, with this next generation tech?”

Nur looked offstage to a woman who was serving as a discrete backup interpreter. She spoke softly into a microphone, which transmitted a definition into his hidden earpiece. “I think I know what you mean by ‘leapfrog,’ sorry I haven’t heard that one. Well, we have some of the best and the brightest in the aerospace industry and related fields working for us. And honestly this technology was already there in disparate parts, we just brought it all together and provided the resources and initiative necessary to get it up and running.”

“Well, it isn’t up and running yet, is it? Nothing’s been accomplished yet, except your endangering other companies satellites and space-bound operations.”

“Again, I assure you, every step of this project has been taken with extreme caution and utmost care.”

It continued on like that, Sheikh Nur bantering back and forth with the reporters. Some questions were serious while some were not. Todd took it all in from the sidelines, amused, depressed, and excited at various stages. The asteroid, or the ‘potato,’ was real. The project was real. They’d been busier than ever over the last six months and things were going to get even more interesting with the world’s eye watching for any failure, any setback.

Bolivar was there too, and he motioned to Todd to the fire exit. They were scheduled to go hit some balls at the driving range that afternoon, a rare break from the usual engineering schematics and computer simulations. Fifteen minutes later they were at the range, each hoisting a bucket of golf balls and their club bags.

“So, what did you think of all that?” John picked up a driver and began stretching his shoulders, taking a few practice swings. “I think the sheikh really enjoys that kind of thing too much.”

Todd nodded and placed a ball on a white wooden tee. “Yeah, I think he really does.”

A solid whack and Bolivar’s first ball went flying. “There were more than a few American reporters there. How do you think they’ll take the news back home?”

“I suspect there’ll be an uproar for a couple of days. Congressmen will lay into NASA and never blame themselves for missing the boat, or for the lack of funding. It’ll be forgotten by the next news cycle.” His driver swung down and around, the ball arcing high into the sky before falling.
A little to the left.

“Do you think they’ll do some digging on us? We could be villainized for what we’re doing, you know. ‘Americans working for the enemy’ and all that.”
Whack.

“I suppose, but Al-Hatem is not America’s enemy. This isn’t the cold war.” Todd swung again.
Better.

“Still. Your typical American isn’t a fan of the Middle East, on average.”

“Yeah.”

Bolivar swung again, a graceful curve from his driver, the ball sailing clear across the sky.
He’s a better golfer than me,
Todd thought.

John stopped after his swing and looked up. “Sometimes I feel like I
am
betraying my country. You never get that feeling?”

“Well, I mean I gave America a lot, you know? I put in my time at NASA. And all it got me outside of the missions themselves was a disinterested public and some pay cuts.” He slowed his swing, settling his arms, took a sip from his water bottle. “And this is something more, I think; something beyond nationalism. Look at our project team. Look at Al-Hatem. You’ve got the whole of humanity working on this thing. This isn’t one country, or one team. This is something else.”

John looked back at his golf club, placed another ball on his tee. “You’re right, of course.” Another swing, another lovely hit. “I just don’t...I just don’t want to hurt anybody back home, in their wallets. Economically. You know.”

“Sure. Sure, I understand what you’re saying. I think the whole planet is in for a bumpy transition if we actually get this thing off the ground… which we will. What with this and climate change, etc., according to Anne.”

“How’s Anne doing? My wife still raves about her casserole...”
Todd interjected. “That was my casserole, thank you very much! Anne just took credit for it.”

“Haha. I see how it is.” Both men laughed, golfing in comfortable silence for a time. It was peaceful there at the driving range, hardly any clouds in the sky; there rarely were in this country. Nothing but endless turquoise blue and waves of sandy dunes stretched to the horizon. It was just another perfect day in the
Rub al Khali.

Eventually, John spoke up again. “Well Todd, I appreciate you letting me air my concerns to you. I hardly think of you as my immediate supervisor anymore.”

“That’s how I like to run things. Nice and casual.” He smirked.

“Well, but think about what I said...about our friends, our families back home. Please?”

“I will John. But I need your head in the game. The first five Solifuges are going to be launched up to the asteroid in three weeks, for construction on the anchor.”

“Talk about mission creep.”

“I know, but we’ve delivered a great product, and the higher-ups want to see what it can really do. I need you on this one.”
“I hear you, boss.”

“Good.” Todd whacked another ball; it was a terrific drive. The white dot flew like a rocket, traveling on and on. He didn’t even see where it landed.

****

On the road back home that evening, Todd couldn’t shake what Bolivar had said. Was he endangering his family and friends back in the U.S? Would the press do some digging, find out that he had switched teams for better pay, had abandoned his country?
It won’t look good no matter how you spin it.
He also grew concerned about John. Should he ask him to step down, or to take a leave of absence? He couldn’t have one of his project team members naysaying the mission at this critical juncture. Doubt spreads like wildfire on a team like this one. He’d seen it happen before, at NASA; it had almost scuttled a rover launch. He resolved to talk to John again tomorrow during their lunch break.

Todd pulled his silver SUV up to a two-laned roundabout, waiting to merge into the flow of vehicles that revolved around a large concrete and steel statue, a piece of modern art commissioned by the company; the artist a student from one of the nearby universities. Waves of motion in the steel implied expansion and strength simultaneously. The corporation’s planned community used roundabouts instead of traffic lights when necessary for their entire transportation infrastructure; it was said roundabouts improved the flow of traffic. They’d installed sculptures in the center of every one of them.
Not a fan of this particular piece,
thought Todd as he surveyed its bulky mass and jutting lines.

Todd’s rear window abruptly shattered, jagged pieces of glass exploding into the car’s interior. In an instant, Todd went from critiquing an art student’s term project to adrenaline-fueled panic.
Fuck. Did someone rear-end me?
Ducking quickly while glancing in his side mirror, Todd saw a hand pointing something out of the driver’s window of the car behind him, heard gunfire. Bullets bounced off his car’s aluminum frame quite close to his head.
Fuck. fuck fuck fuck.
He kicked the gas pedal down, not even looking to see if he was clear to merge into the roundabout, still keeping his head below the window line. Thankfully he had pulled ahead during a lull in traffic, and his path was clear. Raising his head slightly, Todd circled the statue, looking for the exit that led home.
What the hell is happening? They’re trying to kill me!
More gunshots rang out from behind him, distant this time.

With an urgent, alarmed tone of voice, Todd verbally instructed his car to call the police. A voice in Arabic answered almost immediately. All he could manage in reply was an accented imperative: “
Awayne!
Help me!
”
The voice on the other end of the line started barking orders or questions, Todd couldn’t tell which. Swerving out of the way of a tractor-trailer, he saw the rise of his apartment complex not two blocks away. He accelerated, jamming down the pedal purely on instinct. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, dancing back and forth between lanes, he aimed for the front entrance of the high-rise.
If I can get inside, building security will protect me.

Todd slammed on his horn, hoping to God that the few pedestrians strolling down the sidewalk in front of his building would get out of the way. Thankfully they did, a cluster of women screaming as they noticed the car barreling toward them at 120 kilometers an hour. At the very last second Todd hit the brake pedal, simultaneously pulling up on his handbrake. It would be a hell of a maintenance bill, but he figured his life was worth slightly more than the company car. The compact SUV swerved right, skidding loudly on its tires as it hit the sidewalk’s curb at an angle. The car’s momentum lifted it up on two wheels before crunching its frame back down on the pavement as it came to a jolting stop. Chancing a glance out his glassless rear window, Todd saw the gunman’s car was only fifty meters behind, and closing. He wouldn’t have time to exit the vehicle and get inside the apartment
This is it. I’m sorry Anne.

There were more gunshots, firing right next to him. They sounded different.
Another caliber?
Todd looked up. Someone was firing back at the gunman’s car.
Security! No wait…

And suddenly Samam, his family’s cook and live-in maid was kneeling, firing a pistol across the hood of his car, using its damaged frame as cover. She was wearing her green hijab like always.
Where did Samam get a gun? Where did she learn to shoot?!

A well-placed shot pierced the gunman’s front right tire as it approached the apartment building, the tire bursting loudly. Todd could see only one masked figure inside the matte black car, holstering his gun in order to grab the steering wheel. The attacker’s car wobbled from the crippling hit and peeled away, wary of the sudden onslaught of return fire. Now the apartment security guards were rushing outside, one on his radio calling for backup. The gunman accelerated away, heading down the main thoroughfare before turning down a side alley, vanishing behind a coffee shop storefront. Just as quickly as the attack had begun, it was over.

“Mr. Wittry! Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Samam opened the passenger side door; he hadn’t even thought of locking it.

“I’m...I’m fine. I’m okay.” Todd patted his chest, felt the back of his head. Only a slight trickle of blood where a sliver of glass had cut him behind his ear.

Samam pointed at the security guards, issued instructions to the two uniformed men.

“Anne is not at home, she’s still at the university.”

“Oh good. Good. Thank God.” Samam looked at his head wound.

“We should get you to a hospital and get your cut looked at.”

“No I’m all right, really. Samam….” Todd unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the driver’s side door, which groaned in protest.

“Yes, Mr. Wittry?”

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I mean…”

“I’ve known how to fire a pistol since I served in the army at eighteen. Your employer, Mr. Al-Hatem ensures that all of his company’s domestic servants are capable of serving as security detail, should the need arise. You are an invaluable asset, Mr. Wittry, and you must be protected.”

“Well Jesus. Thank you. You saved my life. How…how did you know to come get me, where I was?”

Samam nodded and smiled warmly. “No thanks are necessary. It is my pleasure to serve. We monitored your call to the police, tracked your location via GPS, and determined your intended route. Now, let’s dress your cut upstairs while we wait for the police to arrive, shall we? I’ve made tea and cookies.”
 

Chapter 7
1332 CE, the Byzantine Empire

Ibn Battuta had never been one to gasp in amazement, or hang his mouth open in slack-jawed awe, but such was his current state as he gazed in wonder at the city that lay before him. It was the greatest city of the Rum, Constantinople. His eyes ran with delight over the skyline, brilliant domed churches and imposing towers interposed amongst a sprawling city, its defenses unbreachable, its might and grandeur unequaled in the western world. Here was the successor to ancient Rome, the bastion of Europe. It had checked innumerable invaders over the centuries; even the Arabs in their sweeping conquests had failed to breach its walls.

He stabled his horse and pack animals before entering the metropolis. Swerving left and right to avoid the constant press of people, Ibn Battuta made his way to a central plaza, its name unknown to him, and ducked into an alleyway briefly to observe the crowd. Light-skinned men spoke in strange tongues, monks and priests of Isa, the Christian Son of God, clasped rosaries and staves of crossed oak wood. Bells and clappers rang from towers high above replacing the familiar call to prayer. Women went unveiled, uncovered, eyes of blue, green, grey, and brown. This was the gateway to another world, a land outside the
Dar-Al-Islam
, though People of the Book these foreigners remained. And yet, here and there he saw Arabs and Turks, Persians and Kurds, Muslims of various denominations, traders and dignitaries, even the occasional Imam. This was too a cosmopolitan city, a city that brought a host of peoples together, the ancient heart of an empire that was old when the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, was young.

Above it all was the Hagia Sophia. It was to this church that Ibn Battuta made his way almost immediately, threading through the various byways and cobblestone streets that led into the capital’s center. It took him almost two hours to arrive at its entrance, the seat of the Patriarchate, the Church of the Holy Wisdom. The building’s stone foundation was massive, its footprint the equal of an entire village; he had not thought humans were capable of constructing such an enormous thing. Cut marble blocks the size of oxen shouldered arching columns and sweeping buttresses that reached high into the heavens, though here and there Ibn Battuta saw signs of damage, cracks brought on from age or the occasional earthquake.

Christian patrons and devotees passed within the church’s bronze doorways, the alert, reproving eyes of two priests admitting all with earnest watchfulness. He studied them for a moment. They seemed not so different from his own faith’s clerics: the long beards, the flowing robes of black, though the iconography was somewhat strange to him. One of the priests took note of his studious glances from afar and frowned disapprovingly. Ibn Battuta’s heart grew heavy in his chest with sudden realization.
I am not welcome within.
The explorer had at last found one place he could not venture, one voyage he could not undertake. The thought saddened him, and he felt strangely empty. At last he turned away, the sun dipping low in the sky, and began his search for an innkeeper who spoke Arabic.

****

He stayed in that city of Christians for more than a month, learning bits of their language and customs, perusing their goodly wares. He spoke with scholars, at least the less xenophobic ones, of philosophy and theology, and partook of their teas, though abstaining from the wines that were consumed in abundance. He was even granted a cursory audience with the Rum Emperor, Andronicus III.

Slowly, it came to Ibn Battuta that this city, like Baghdad, was past its prime. It was a capital of great provenance but failed ambition, resting on its laurels and faded glory. It had not recovered entirely from its sacking by those barbarous Franks more than a century ago. It seemed to him that what wealth and lands Constantinople once possessed were slowly being stripped away by the Turks and others more ambitious, less decadent.
Is such the fate of all mankind’s creations? Can such a place find renewal, rebirth?

His thoughts turned away from the throng of peoples in the city and drifted to the country. He needed room to breathe; this place was suffocating. As comfortable as Ibn Battuta was amongst the learned and the cultured, he felt too confined here, too cloistered.
I must get away, into the country.
..
the wide expanse of the Steppe
.

And so after a month’s time the Maghrebi explorer set out once more, traveling east across Anatolia to the open plains in the depth of winter. It was so cold that he insisted on covering himself in three fur coats, two pairs of trousers, and boots lined with bearskin. Each night and morning when he washed or performed ablutions with steaming water heated on the campfire, the water would freeze as it ran down his face, turning his beard into a solid mass of ice. At each meal he and the occasional companion would eat Turkish
dugi
, a plain, unflavored millet porridge mixed sometimes with horse or sheep’s meat. Further and further his line of travel extended, deep into the countryside of the Khanate. Eventually, he came upon the settlement of Astrakhan, the great city of the Golden Horde, as it lay beside the frozen belly of the Volga River, covered in snow.  Even here, at what seemed to Ibn Battuta to be the ends of the Earth there were those educated aristocrats and scholars, fluent in the melodious language of his people, who welcomed him with open arms and a warm hearth. It was as far from home and as far north as he’d ever been. And yet, it was not the end of his journey, nor its outer limit. He resolved to go further still.

****

Amina had been at her computer from six in the evening when her mother knocked on her door at ten o’clock, carrying a cup of herbal tea. The drink was warm, consisting of mint and lemon leaves steeped with cardamom and lavender honey. It had been many months since Ali’s passing, and she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into this project, to the objection of many of her immediate family who thought it too deranged, too obsessive, even if she was a grieving widow. Only her mother had supported her, stood by her side as she compiled all of Ali’s writings, his posts, into a single book. A comprehensive digest, dedicated to his memory, that his message, his fire, might live on.

“My beautiful daughter, I’ve brought you some tea. Drink it. You need your strength.” She placed the cup of steaming liquid in front of Amina on her drafting desk, the herbal smell wafting towards her pale face. She had not often left her room and had nearly forsaken sunlight, to her father’s consternation.

“Thanks, mom. I will.”
“How’s your work coming?” Her mom sat beside her on the edge of the bed.

“It is coming along, slowly. There is a lot of formatting to do, as well as linking the narrative together; it takes time. I’m also illustrating the margins with some of my own artwork. See?” Amina pointed at her screen. There on the edges of the document contained in the word processor were beautiful scrolling illustrations: flowers stretching upwards, stems and leaves intertwining with one another, the occasional hummingbird hovering in mid-flight, delicately sampling each blossom’s wares. There too on other pages were repeating geometric motifs in the Islamic style, framing new chapters as a doorway or a window’s shutter. It was a work of classical antiquity, of a priceless medieval manuscript come to life in the confines of her laptop; each page was stunning. Amina’s mother was pleased, though not surprised, with the amount of effort and care her daughter had devoted to the document.

“It is lovely. When will you be finished?”

“Soon. Soon, I think. But there is the matter of finding a publisher…”

“Finish it, and then worry about such things. God will show you the way, if it is just. And I know it is.”

“Thanks, mom. And thank you for the tea.” Amina finally sipped at the drink, and warmth flowed into her face, her cheeks reddening. “I’ll go to bed soon, get some rest.”

“You’d better. I’ll tell your father you’re looking well.” She rose to depart, kissing the top of her daughter’s head as she did so. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, mom.”

Amina watched the door close behind her and then returned to her computer screen. Opening her email inbox in her web browser, she reexamined the email she had received just an hour ago.
 

Ms. Hannachi,

Good Evening, and peace be upon you. I simply wished to offer my belated condolences on the recent passing of your fiancé. I always appreciated his thoughts on reform and Arab society.

Take Care,

-Nur Bin Zayed Al-Hatem

She had received many such emails in the past months, kind words from fans of Ali’s blog or his newspaper columns. A smaller amount of emails were barbed threats and incendiary attacks; those Amina simply deleted or, if they were particularly malicious, forwarded on to the police. She recognized the name attached to this one, however. Where had she heard it before? Such a thing would bother her, she knew, though she would not be able to dredge up the association if she tried.
A friend of a friend, perhaps. Some coworker from the bank?
The answer might eventually spring forth from her unconscious unasked for, when she had forgotten to think on it.

She finished her tea and, leaning from her chair, collapsed back onto her bed in one swift motion. There would be more work to do tomorrow, more illustrations, more editing, but what then?
It will come as God wills.

****

The artificial arachnid lifted its right rearmost leg and moved it forward, slowly, carefully, the limb’s movement betraying its apparent weightlessness in microgravity. Stretching forward, its servomotors spinning silently (for of course there is no sound in a vacuum), splayed pincers at the limb’s tip clasped firmly onto a tiny, jagged outcropping at the crater’s rim. In a display of added caution, as the artificial creature was tetherless and might drift off into the void of space were it not firmly attached to the asteroid, the robotic spider’s abdomen lowered itself onto the planetoid’s surface, embedded adhesive rollers clinging to the ground with almost supernatural strength. Slowly, another leg and then another stretched forward and repeated the process. Half meter by half meter the solifuge pulled itself forward, looking ever so much like a spider on a wall. Observers working the mid-afternoon shift noted its progress from cameras mounted in the automaton’s head and from various satellites stationed in close orbit.

“Boy you just can’t improve much on Mother Nature’s designs, huh.”

“Sure can’t.” The two women, members of Todd Wittry’s project team, ate shawarma at their computer terminals as they monitored the AI command codes and telemetry from the spider. Another two-person team sat on the other side of the enclosed, windowless room monitoring their own solifuge robot. One was a robotics engineer and the other a computer programmer just as the two women were. There were other teams in other rooms; the asteroid now supported a veritable swarm of spiders, ten in total, all functioning in close proximity to one another on the same rim of the crater.

Several of the solifuges worked in pairs, ceramic chassis glowing like lanterns in the crater’s penumbra. Each team drilling and boring, sinking meter long titanium bolts into the asteroid’s crust, anchoring the foundation of a vast platform and silo that would serve as the base for the elevator’s space-bound components, its counterweight in orbit.

For the hundredth time that day one spider’s medial claws clamped down tightly on a rocky bit near the rim of the depression, but this time the pitted stone broke apart beneath its grip, sending pieces of debris flying in every direction. The robot’s other legs reacted quickly, each extremity automatically bracing itself and tightening its grip, but the collapse of the rock beneath its body expanded exponentially outwards from its epicenter. The solifuge suddenly found itself floating rapidly away from the asteroid on a spaceward trajectory. Silent alarms immediately appeared onscreen at the control center planetside, Al-Hatem employees shook off the monotony of an uneventful afternoon, drew themselves up to their command consoles, ready to initiate control guidance and stabilization programs or even manually pilot the solifuge itself. Thankfully R&D had built a resilient machine that was as fond of its own self-preservation as its creators were. The robot’s AI quickly fired up its dorsal RCS thrusters, small bursts of highly compressed gas slowing and then stopping its unplanned flight. Incrementally, the spider propelled itself back towards the grey planetoid, its velocity slowed such that its landing was as nimble and gentle as a true spider’s descent onto a terrestrial cobweb. The event’s human spectators breathed a collective sigh of relief as the solifuge returned to its work, as if nothing untoward had happened. The creature had done as it had been programmed to do; there would be no setback or delay.

****

Placing his tablet displaying the day’s briefing down beside him on the couch, Todd Wittry silently expressed his own relief that they had not lost the temporarily wayward $55 million machine. Below him his dog Thor placed his furry head on his master’s lap, wishing for nothing more than to be petted and have his ears scratched, as was his constant wont. Anne Wittry sat across from him on a plush Devon looking concernedly at Todd and their visitor, Karim Thawadi, Sheikh Nur’s executive officer and Todd’s immediate supervisor. Samam, their housekeeper and newly discovered guardian stood behind them in the kitchen, observing the entire scene with a nonchalant, though alert, eye.