The Hundred Gram Mission (7 page)

"And he is threatening to destabilize a refugee camp, within his own borders, to get what he wants?"

Anjana said nothing.

"I understand you have some contact with the former ambassador?"

"Jamal Khan. He is a family friend, yes."

"Will that be a problem?"

"Not in the slightest. What do you need me to do?"

"Meet him in person. Somewhere they have a Faraday Cage. Make sure nothing is recorded. Tell him we have an informal message for Prime Minister Begum. Next month, I will formally award E4 to the Bengali Moslems of Bogra and Jamalpur. Further, I will announce that E7 will be given to them as well, next year. However, he must speak in parliament in favor of birth control. All the family planning NGOs he expelled, must be readmitted."

Anjana’s eyes grew. "He will take that as an insult!"

"It
is
an insult. But this man needs to realize that I control the future of his country. If he wants to be unreasonable, then I’ll be unreasonable. Or, he can withdraw his militias, and we proceed with the original plan for E4."

"Understood. I’ll set up the meeting tonight."

"Is there anything else?"

"Nothing major. I do have a personal question, if you don’t mind."

"Of course not. What is it?"

"May I ask why you left the Geneva HQ? We’re honored to have you here, but Chennai – "

"Chennai is half underwater?" Lakshmi smiled. "You should always be proud of your city. No one else will be, if you aren’t.  I moved here
because
Chennai is flooded. Making Chennai my home puts my lot in with everyone else. Leaders from affected nations will take me more seriously."

Anjana nodded. "That’s quite committed of you."

"Thank you. If I was really committed though, I’d get a sex change. The last commissioner didn’t need to live by the sea to be taken seriously. He was male."

They shared bitter smiles.

"Is there anything else, Anjana?"

"Just one minor thing I’ve been tracking. I try to keep an eye on things as they develop, see if they go anywhere. I’m not sure this is anything yet, but I have a feeling. It’s quite unusual."

"What is it?"

"A private poll is being conducted in eight, major, Indian cities."

"A poll?"

"It asks questions that seem designed to gauge support for an interstellar space program."

"Interstellar?"

"I did some digging; the polling company is being funded by the Spektorov Foundation."

"Spektorov?" she raised an eyebrow. "What a loser that man is. Is interstellar travel even possible? Why is he wasting money on such a bizarre poll? He should stick to profiteering off space golf courses for his one percent friends."

"Well, he’s also polling in Russia, China, Europe, and the US."

Lakshmi laughed.

"The Big Five? He wants to spend public money and space assets on something he’ll try and make money out of. Typical billionaire."

"Should we be worried?"

"Why should we be worried?"

"The Big Five's shipyards are the only ones that can build habitat-scale. If Spektorov manages to win over a country, it could compete with our access."

Lakshmi smiled and shook her head.

"Don’t worry about this. Spektorov is just trying to not be remembered for building habitats for the rich, while a billion people live in refugee camps. No one is going to be impressed with his interstellar spaceships.  The Big Five are not going to forget how unhelpful Sun Star Mining has been. I wouldn’t waste any thought on it. Rubbish like this never goes anywhere."

Two Hours Later

"Did you eat? Did you take your medicine? Have you set the alarm system?"

The young girl on the screen rolled her eyes. She wore an old shirt and baggy shorts, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Beside her was a box of takeout noodles, chopsticks astride.  She held a game controller in both hands. She was looking away, her high score climbed on another screen.

"
Yes
Ama!" she frowned. "Of course I did."

"What about the dog? Did you feed the dog?" asked Lakshmi. 

"No, I gave him to a Chinese man who looked hungry."

"Don’t be horrible!"

The girl faced the screen and glared.

"
Of course
I fed the dog. He’s whining at the door, waiting for you to come home."

"I’ll be back very late, maybe around midnight. I have to call Geneva soon on a secure line. It will be a long call."

"We’re fine here Ama, just do your work and don’t worry about us." Her eyes went back to her game.

"I’m sorry darling; I know I said we’d spend more time together while you’re back from college."

"Its fine," she kept staring at her game, "I can take care of myself."

Lakshmi said nothing to that.

"Next week, I need you to stay with my aide for a few days."

"What?" she looked back at her mother.

"She’s young, Roshmita. You and Anjana will get along. She can show you Chennai."

"Where are you going?" Roshmita demanded.

"I have to go to Africa for a few days."

The girl dropped the controller.

"Why the hell are you going to Africa? Are you going to Sudan?"

"Don’t talk to me like that, child!"

"
Are
you going to Sudan!
Answer me!"

"Of course I am going to Sudan! Who else do you think they’ll send? It’s my job."

"You have to go and get killed for your job?"

"I’ll be fine, child."

"No you won’t! You think I’m stupid?" she clenched her hands, "They bombed that UN aid center! There were
no
survivors, Ama! You want to go to some climate-damned place and get killed? What do I tell your dog when
that
happens?"

"Don’t make this difficult, Roshmita. I am needed there."

"Fine! Go to Sudan! See if I care!" the screen turned blue and ‘CALL ENDED.’ 

Lakshmi redialed several times, but there was no answer.  Then she got up, drank some water, and looked over her notes.

Then, she called Geneva. 

Abdul Kareem Al-Rashid, I

2020, Newham, London

Londoners walked by the diner, hunched against the cold in their scarves and sweaters. Heat blasted from the outdoor, spinning griller. A couple warmed themselves in its heat oasis while a man carved meat for their sandwiches.

It was still quiet inside the LED-lit diner. The rush wouldn’t start till five. Metal chairs and tables crowded together in the small room. Squeeze bottles of olive oil and chili sauce elbowed salt and pepper shakers. On one wall was a huge picture of the Al Aqsa mosque. Facing it was an old picture of the queen. A TV in the corner showed live news from the House of Commons.

"The Niqab ban is the beginning of the end, Tariq," said the man with a glass eye. He sipped a small cup of Turkish coffee.  "The UK will burn if they pass it."

"You idiot," said the salt-and-pepper bearded man across from him. His heavy apron read ‘Al-Rashid’s, The Best Shawarmas.’ "That kind of talk got us into this mess in the first place." He looked down and saw his cup empty. "Kareem," he tapped the youth next to him. "Get me and your uncle some more coffee."

"Yes, Father."

"What?" said Glass Eye. "You want to blame this on me?"

"Don’t make this about you," Tariq shook his finger. "It’s about people too busy making a big deal out of Islam, to see that they’re making life unlivable for the rest of us. They should worry less about Sharia and more about fitting in."

Glass Eye shook his head. "It pains me brother, to hear you speak like that."

"What?" Tariq didn’t notice his son pouring him more coffee. "My faith somehow means less than yours, because I work hard in my restaurant instead of pamphleting the streets? This is our country now Wahleed, but it was theirs first. We have to integrate, follow the laws, and try to become a part."

"No. They don’t want us to integrate, and they never have. We are outsiders to them, just as our parents were. They only want us here to clean their toilets and sweep the floors. If we don’t stand up for our beliefs and way of life, no one will."

Tariq pointed at the TV. "How is that working out for us?"

"Let them ban it. It will not stop us. Moslem women will get arrested. They’ll go to jail, mothers, accountants, students. They’ll come out, and they’ll wear it again. It is a pointless ban, it will only make us stronger."

"You mean angrier. You are a radical, brother. You do nothing to make this country a safer, better place for our children."

Wahleed smiled. "You do business with mostly white people, yes? White, English, Christians?"

"So?"

"Do you tell them that being Christian is wrong?"

"Fuck off."

"But you are a Moslem. You know on the Day of Judgment, they will be held accountable."

"See? This is what I mean about integrating. You don’t know when to shut up.  What do you have to show for it, have you converted anyone? No. But you do have a criminal record for harassing people in the streets. Well done, Little Brother."

"I am not worried about my record here on Earth. A Moslem should only be concerned about what God thinks of him, and should always do his duty as dictated by the Quran."

"You see? Talk like this is the problem. We’ve come full circle." He downed his coffee. "I have to do a few more things. The five o’ clock rush is about to start."

"Just leave the news on," said his brother. "I want to see the judgment."

"We all want to see the judgment."

24 Hours Later

Kareem, second generation Yemeni British, stepped through the burnt rubble. He held a cloth to his nose, his eyes stung.

"Come away from there, Kareem," said Tariq Al-Rashid from behind the yellow caution tape. His eyes were red. "It’s not safe."

Kareem stepped his way back, carefully. The pictures of Al Aqsa and the queen were ash. The TV screen had melted into a paste of black and burned circuitry. The metal chairs had survived, but their plastic seats were just scorch stains.

In the street, a police car was parked with its siren lights flashing. A paramedic helped a blanket-wearing grandmother with her oxygen mask. Above, news drones hovered on quad rotors, the whole Internet watching through their cameras. 

"We’ll rebuild it," Wahleed put his hand on Tariq’s shoulder. The man’s apron was soot-stained. "The community, the brotherhood, we have the funds. You will be alright Tariq. It’s just property."

"Today it was just property," he replied.

"I’ve been talking to the other store owners on the street. The Turkish laundry owner, Marcel. He told me he got CCTV footage of the whole thing. He recognizes some of the arsonists, they are from the neighborhood, Tariq."

Tariq’s smile was thin, "there is no point. The police will not help, they never do."

"I’m not talking about going to the police."

Tariq’s eyes flared. "Don’t you dare! You idiot, you think that will solve anything? You think that will make things better for us? We cannot be baited!" He took a step towards Wahleed. "Promise me you will not do anything stupid. Promise me. Promise me!"

"I swear upon God, I will do nothing to them."

Tariq glared at his brother, and then turned and walked away. Kareem watched his father leave.

"Uncle?"

"Yes, Kareem?"

"I would like to see the footage."

Wahleed raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure about this?"

"Just show it to me."

"You should not cross your father," he shook his head.

"My father is a coward."

"He – he is just doing what he thinks is right, Kareem."

"And so am I. Show me the footage."

Andrew Jessop walked down the street. The curfew had been lifted: he was out late, after some drinks with his mates. What a week! Shit, they’d had some fun.

The street was deserted. Further up, red and white lights zipped past on the motorway. The LED streetlights were out, bulbs stolen by the residents. Red neon flickered outside a tattoo parlor. It was closed.

What the fuck?

He looked over his shoulder at the sudden footsteps. A man had appeared, hoodie pulled over. Andrew was sure he hadn’t been there before. He kept on walking. The man in the hoodie started to gain on him.

Andrew laughed to himself. What, was he afraid of some wanker? Fucking fag.

The man got closer.

"’Allo," Andrew called out to him.

"Hello," the man nodded.

"Nice night, eh?"