The Hundred Gram Mission (8 page)

He said nothing.

"You mind keeping your distance then, eh?"

"You Andrew Jessop?"

He stopped. "Yeah. How do you know my name?"

"I went to school with you, you dumb slag," he pulled back his hood. "Kareem, we had Shop together during A Levels."

"Fucking hell! Kareem! Oh you tosser, I thought you were creeping up to stab me!"

Kareem laughed.

"What you doing on Barley street at this time?"

"Short cut to home.  You’re one to talk!"

"Just walkin’, you know? Been some tough days."

"Right. You – been okay? You know, with ‘em – "

"The riots? Yeah, why shouldn’t I?"

"You know – just asking."

"Got any fags?"

Andrew pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. 

"Cheers," Kareem took one and lit it. He took a big drag.

"My Dad hates it when I smoke, but my uncle gives no fucks."

"Your uncle?"

"He’s traditional, you know? No drinking, but nothing in the Quran about smoking," he laughed. "You ever read the Quran?"

"Fuck off mate," Andrew laughed. "I haven’t read the fucking Bible. Why am I going to read your book?"

"Fair enough," he took another puff. "It’s very precise on what do to about your enemies."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," and he shot him in the gut.

Andrew staggered back, staring. Kareem shot him twice in the chest, and after he fell, once in the head. He stood over the body, the smell of cordite and blood in the air. Slowly, he pulled out his phone, took a picture, and uploaded it. He put the gun back in his pocket, and walked towards the motorway.

2051, Zinjibar, Abyan Governorate, Yemen

"We need to get a pig to rape Sukarno."

The four bearded men sat closely on deep, easy chairs. Cigarette smoke filled the dim room. The low table carried small cups of thick, black, coffee. A woman in a black abaya came in, placing glasses of water from a tray.

"No, that’s not good enough," the fattest speaker shook his head. He wore faded street clothes and sneakers. "We should put it on Youtube, and then send his family the link."

A well groomed man in a business suit, crossed his legs and laughed. "And what will that colorful act achieve? Besides on pig-fucking search traffic."

The first man’s eyes flashed. "What will it achieve? We’ll show that cocksucker and everyone else what happens when they ruin an operation! How are we supposed to go after the Chinese space elevator, now that they know we are sitting
right outside?
"

One of the men stood up and went to the window. In the compound, small children were sitting on benches drinking their morning milk. Older girls in bright headscarves snapped at them, keeping them in line. Further off, two men were washing an array of solar panels. A third sat guarding their rifles and sipped red tea.

"We are no one to tell Sukarno and his followers, how to behave," said the oldest man. He wore a white, traditional, dishdasha and counted worry beads, one-handed. "Who are we? Just a group of men in the Gulf. Sukarno is Indonesian. He and his followers heeded our call. Let them conduct Jihad in their own way."

"But Hajji," the youngest man, who wore a soccer shirt and designer jeans, "They
have
ruined our plans. The Chinese had no idea we were in the area. Now, they will clean us out. In Congo they were very thorough, I was lucky to escape."

A child looked up and saw the man by the window. He waved, suddenly all smiles. The man waved back.

"I don't think it is us they will come after said," the old man. "Sukarno’s group is ready to follow their own path. It is how these things happen. They are too different, too hotheaded. China will not confuse them with us. All the same, it is a good thing the Indonesians don't know about Black Fire."

The fat man glared at him. "Has anyone told the Chinese this? Because in the video Sukarno is quite clear that he is part of Jemaat Ansar. You think the Chinese won't seek us? What happens when they trace the money?
That's
when people will start to find out about Black Fire."

At the window, the man held his phone up to the sun. The app read his location and facing. A drop down menu appeared, showing him what spy satellites were passing overhead.

"The money cannot be traced," said the suit. "You do not understand crypto-currencies. Our money is completely anonymous. Pretend it is like our websites."

"That’s not correct," said the kid. "Our websites are hidden services. Anyone with the right onion address can access them. They just cannot find our computers."

"Yes, but that is all too much for Faisal," the suit waggled his finger. "He is a dinosaur of Hawala
[xiii]
banking and message couriers. If he does not understand anonymity networks and crypto currencies, today is not the day for us to try and change that."

"Hisham, you insult me brother, but you do not have to worry about drone strikes, over in Dubai," the fat man’s eyes were slits. "Look, whether you call it the natural splitting of jihadist movements, or the actions of village idiots, Sukarno has declared his presence to the Chinese and
given them
our name
.  How can you all be so sure they will not find us? Do you think any effort will be spared if they learn what we are working on?"

The man at the window put away his phone, and cleared his throat. The others turned and looked to him.

"I feel you are all correct," his bald head gleamed. "Sukarno’s actions are insubordinate in the extreme. Our operation against the Chinese space elevator is now compromised. We have to abandon it, but it was never our main goal. We must get Al-Rawi and his men out, and cut Sukarno’s funding."

"He will not like that," the older man said.

"We will do it slowly. If he survives the Chinese, I want to be able to work with him again, someday. And if they are really splitting off, then he will have to find his own funding, anyway. I understand they have stolen a high end, pharmaceuticals printer?  He is already doing the needful. Between narcotics, medicine, and the sex trade, they will do fine."

"He has named us," said Faisal the fat man, fidgeting.

"And the Chinese will come looking for us. This cannot be helped. We knew we would be identified and hunted, sooner or later."

"But not this soon, Father," said the kid. "Black Fire is not ready yet."

"Indeed Wahlid. But there is very little that can be tied to us.  All jihadists fight to protect Islam against the power of nonbelievers, apostates, or abuse by our own. Their targets are governments, foreign troops, infidels.  They goals are to expel invaders from Moslem lands, or to bring Islamic rule to wayward ones. They fight for land, water, power."

"We do none of these things," said Hisham, the suit.

"Exactly. We are an outlier, we will make no more sense to their intelligent computers and analysts, than we do to our own, ignorant, brothers and sisters. We are jihadists against technologies that can weaken the emerging Caliphate
[xiv]
. With each dry drinking well, each empty plate, the consciousness of the world’s Islamic peoples grows. Those who have subjugated them grow weaker, as will their infidel allies.  This century is like a great fast. When it is finally broken, we will all be free."

"Abdul Kareem, it is not too hard to understand that we attack engineers and experimental kelp farms," said Faisal. "They will know that we target technology that alleviates the pressures of population on the world’s governments. Do you think the Chinese will think this trivial?"

"I think they will see it as a very real, but very small risk. Which is another reason we must abandon the attack on
Tianguo De Jieti
[xv]
. We cannot give the Chinese computers data that validates concern about us.  Like the Americans, they are data driven. If there is no data that we are still a threat, they will leave us alone."

There was awkward silence around the table.

"We didn’t pick the Chinese out of a hat," said Hisham. "They are as much a threat as the US. Their graphene space elevator was a perfect test target for Black Fire."

"Yes but right now, we need to confuse their thinking computers. We need to do something that breaks whatever predictive models they will be applying to us. Something that will get us de-prioritized."

"Do you have something in mind?" asked Wahlid.

"Yes. Lakshmi Rao, head of the UNHCR. She's behind the Orbital Refugee Resettlement Program. If she gets her way, millions of people are going to be fired off into space, where they will be helpless and perfectly controlled. Recently, she has been undermining our brothers in the Bangladeshi climate camps."

"Orbital refugee resettlement is a joke!" said fat Faisal. "More are born in camps
daily
, than Rao can resettle in ten years. Money that could go to camps, they are wasting on these ridiculous space prisons. Rao is so ineffective, we should be protecting her!"

"Perhaps, but this is about survival," said Hisham. "We need to throw off the Chinese AI. If killing Rao doesn't make sense for us to do, let's do it."

"I can't believe I'm having this conversation."    

"Let’s talk to our scholars," sad Kareem. "I want them to issue a fatwa against her. We will publically take responsibility. There are Indian groups that will support us, and they will come forward. Either they will reach out to us, or they will assassinate her, themselves."

"A worthy goal," said the older man.

"And one that will affect the Chinese computer models. There is an immediate opportunity to consider. I just read about it this morning, which is what got me thinking about her."

"What’s that?" asked Faisal.

"She is going to visit refugees in Sudan."

"So?"

"We are owed favors there."

White lights and air conditioning were what made this cave, different.

Face-masked men in clean room suits looked up from their computers and lab tools. The visitors nodded as they walked by.  One opened each glass door and spoke to the men inside. Some he shook hands with or patted on the back. To all, he listened and nodded.

"The tests are coming along very well," said one of the face masks. "Replication across selected media is within our target range. The machines are still viable even at three percent carbon. With sufficient energy and resources, the reproduction interval is as fast as eight minutes."

"Doctor Zakayev, How long before Black Fire will be ready for a test?" asked Kareem.

"We have been testing it, Sir."

"He means in the field," said Faisal. "Live targets."

"Soon. The problem is maintaining control after two million cycles.  Control becomes unreliable.  statistically, it becomes impossible."

"You keep telling us that control is the problem," said Faisal.

"But it is. Unless there is some circumstance where it can be allowed to burn uncontrolled, this will always be the issue. An exponential weapon cannot be tested safely. That is the very nature of it.  We can make you a more practical weapon, but it will not be as powerful as this."

"What if we tested it in space?"

Faisal and Zakayev regarded him.

"No, seriously, what if we did?"

"A space station or spaceship environment would be contained," Zakayev nodded. "The extreme heat and cold of space will help sterilize, as well. I suppose yes, that is the safest option."

"Faisal, do you think our new Uighur friends on E2 could help?"

"Well they
are
in space. They are just lip service warriors, though. Social media liketivists."

"We wouldn't need them to be much more than that. All they have to do is sneak a sample of Black Fire into a greenhouse module. Something that can be jettisoned.  They would be safe.  We can make sure of that, can’t we?"

"With enough preparation, yes," said Zakayev.

"I don't like it," Faial frowned, "working with amateurs?"

"We were all amateurs once. They would be happy for the opportunity to do something helpful."

"Let's see how they pan out first."

"Just keep an eye towards this. Especially with the Chinese hunting us, we need to see what Black Fire can do."

Suyin Lee, I

2025, Shanghai

"Suyin! Stop now, you naughty child!"

The kindergartner looked up. In one hand was a broken hair band. In the other, a rock. Before her on the ground, red-faced and wailing, was a boy. Standing around them were their peers, quiet voyeurs.

"Suyin!" the teacher pried the rock from the girl’s hand and flung it away. Some children watched it arc. Miss could throw. "Suyin, why did you hit Kang?"

"He hit me!" her face was indignant and four years old.  "Look," she held up the broken hair band, "look what he did to Lihwa's band."