“Nine on the Richter,” Hill said. “Higher than they could really measure precisely.” He shook his head and took another sip of the dorphed booze in his glass. “Folks are calling it a miracle. The death toll’s still under five hundred. It should have been hundreds of thousands. The four busted dams flooded out fifty cities.”
She shook her head. “A massive cleanup.”
“Yeah. But Liang’ll spend the money here. They’re busy fighting with the Moslems for control of all this. That’s a lot of consumers.”
Sumi sipped her own dorph blend, the only thing that got her through social occasions these days. “Does Crane know about the results of the quake?”
“Naw,” Hill said, pointing to Crane, who was dancing with his new wife. “For once in his life, the man is thinkin’ about something other than quakes. A wonderful sight, ain’t it?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happy before.”
“Buddy,” Hill said, “that’s ’cause he ain’t ever been happy before. It’s a scary idea.”
“Scary… how?”
Hill got thoughtful. “When you get happy,” he said, lowering his voice, “you forget to look behind you. You start trusting people. You make mistakes.”
“Then, I guess,” Sumi said, “I’ll not make any more mistakes.”
The man stared hard at her. “I’m talkin’ about Crane,” Hill said, finishing his drink. He looked at the glass. “I’m going for more refreshments.”
She watched him leave, realizing he didn’t trust her. Of course not, why should he? It didn’t matter anyway. Soon, she would be exposed for more of a fraud than any of them thought. She hoped it wouldn’t interfere in any way with Crane’s dream. She’d wanted to give that to him, to make up for everything she’d done.
“I hate to drink alone,” Kate Masters said from beside her. “How about you?”
Sumi smiled wanly. “I enjoy your company very much.”
“Good. How about your dorph recipe?”
“My secret.”
A group of Nepalese Sherpas had come out from their hidey-hole and were doing a vigorous display of acrobatics, tumbling and diving in syncopation over one another to the delight of the crowd.
“You have a lot of secrets, I think.”
Sumi’s body jerked involuntarily. “How so?”
“You really want to talk about this?”
“Yes.”
“Well, first off, you’re not who you say you are.”
Sumi’s heart was pounding. She could feel it in her throat as her face flushed. “You are mistaken, I—”
“I knew your mother,” Masters said. “The Women’s Political Association was in a limited partnership with your parents in a business deal. We all took a beating on that deal, your folks most of all. Your mother spoke of you constantly. It always bothered me that you dishonored her name by remaking your past.”
“It would have been a greater dishonor had I not,” Sumi replied, eyes cast down. “You knew, yet you said nothing?”
“I’d hoped we were friends. Are we?”
“Outside of Crane, I never had a friend.”
“And look what you did to him.”
Sumi was surprised again. “How—”
“I figured it out. I’m a smart girl.”
“Yeah,” Sumi said. “Me, too.”
Masters just stared at her, but her eyes were different. They were studying, dissecting. “You mean that literally?”
Sumi nodded. “Mr. Li knew and forced me to change my ancestry. To keep the world from discovering my parents’ deception I went along with him.”
“Does anyone else—”
“Only you.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Sumi took a deep breath. “I’m in trouble. I-I’m not sure what to do. I need… help.”
Masters fell forward, as if she’d tripped, her hand swinging out, touching Sumi’s crotch, pulling back immediately as she straightened. “Sorry, hon,” she said. “I’m from Missouri, still the ‘Show Me’ state. What sort of trouble?”
“By law,” Sumi said, “the President and Vice President must take a physical once a year. I’ve managed to avoid it far too long. The White House physicians are getting contentious about it. People are wondering why I’m avoiding it. Believe me, that kind of wondering will lead to terrible trouble for me.”
“Why trust me?”
“Somehow I’ve always felt you were trustworthy. I don’t know if I completely trust you, but I do not trust the White House physicians.”
“Do you have to use them?”
Sumi shook her head. “I could demand my own doctor.”
“Okay,” Masters said. “We’ll start there.”
“You’ll help me?”
“Hey, I represent the Women’s Political Association, remember. Welcome to the club, sister.” She hugged Sumi.
“Thank you,” Sumi said, tears welling.
Kate Masters’ eyes twinkled. “Thank me when you’re President,” she replied.
Chapter 16: Compressional Strains
LA WAR ZONE
29 JULY 2026, 2:10 A.M.
“The proposal has some merit, and I’ll certainly consider it,” Mohammed Ishmael said.
Abu Talib sank farther down in his chair. “Brother Ishmael,” he said. “I gave Mr. Tang my word on this.”
“Tang,” he said scornfully. “A flunky. Mui Tsao’s harpy who is nothing but a double-ported chippy. And who were you speaking for, Talib?” Ishmael’s expression was serious as he stared across the table at Talib.
They were in a bunker that was small, claustrophobic, the long, glowing table taking up most of it. Somewhere under the Zone, it was a redoubt that Talib hadn’t seen before. The walls were lead, the door heavy and airtight like ones found in submarines.
Metal bunks folded out from the walls. Storage lockers and shelving covered every available space and were crammed with bottled water, canned food, and staples in sealed jars. A classically designed and supplied bomb shelter and bunker.
Ishmael walked around the table and leaned low, his face only inches from Talib’s. “I asked you who you were speaking for,” he said loudly. “Because it sure wasn’t for me—and it sure wasn’t for my people!”
Talib bristled and jumped up, his chair overturning and clattering to the floor. Martin Aziz darted around the table and placed himself between the two men.
“My brother,” Aziz said to Ishmael, “Talib’s agreement with Tang gets us almost everything we want, and in return all we have to do is to agree to stop the violence. Do you understand?”
“What I understand,” Ishmael said, pushing his brother aside to face Abu Talib, the two men eye to eye, “is that my methods have brought us this far—a foothold in our Homeland, the whites sucking up to us, asking for favors. If these methods have brought us this far, why should we abandon them now?”
“Have you forgotten the focus buildings?” Talib asked. “Liang Int knows, and threatens to shut them all down.”
Ishmael raised his hands in exasperation. “The focus buildings,” he said. “Always the focus buildings.” He arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t around then, Brother, but we survived just fine before we had focus buildings to give us power. Damn!”
He walked away from Talib, squeezing past Martin Aziz to stand at the head of the table, fifteen feet distant. He slammed his hands, palm down, on the tabletop and stared fire at Talib. “And has it ever occurred to your rock head that if they were to shut down the focus buildings, we’d probably respond with a massive exodus to New Cairo? Imagine that, if you will. Imagine the Memphis exodus multiplied by fifty with no earthquake to cover it. Imagine the fights. Imagine the bloodshed. Imagine the public relations.”
Talib felt suddenly stupid. “I never thought of that.”
“Well, your white friend Mr. Tang certainly did! And so, for an end to the violence that’s got us this far, what do we really get in return? Only a promise that they would keep doi
ng what they’re doing now—nothing. If they’d figured an advantage to be gained by shutting down the focus buildings, believe me, they wouldn’t have consulted us about doing it.
“The reason they haven’t fought it out with us is simple: We are a part of this… this landscape, part of the fabric of this country. If everybody else sees them going after us, it’ll get them thinking about themselves. Case in point. The G was called off the Zone fighting in Memphis almost immediately for PR reasons, and Liang made sure the teev was full of pictures of the quake, not the exodus.”
“Leonard,” Aziz said softly. “Can’t we use this as an opening, though? Can’t we try and follow through? If they’re willing to let us coexist now, why fight them? Already over a thousand of us, mostly children, have died in clashes with the G.”
“Martyrs,” Ishmael said. “And I know how many have died.”
Talib drew himself up to his full height. He’d resigned from the Foundation and now he was about to resign from NOI. What was he to become: a man without a job, without even a place to call home? “Brother Ishmael,” he said officiously, “given the nature of your lack of trust in me and the worthlessness which will attach to my work from now on, I respectfully submit my resignation as spokesman for Nation of Islam.”
“Would you sit down, Abu?” Ishmael sighed. “I respect your opinion and the job you do. You’re irreplaceable. We’ll work something out with this Tang thing, all right? I told—asked—you to sit down.”
Talib sat. “I’ve been working in New Cairo,” he said. “A mass exodus isn’t feasible. There’s not enough housing. The people we displace will destroy much in order to keep it from us. People, especially city people, have to be taught how to farm, to work with their hands. Drop twenty million people into that situation and you’ll have food and water and sewage problems you never even dreamed of.”
“I know,” Ishmael said. “We’re not ready yet. That’s why I’m considering the deal you’re negotiating with Tang.” Ishmael looked over at Aziz. “Would you sit down, too? You make me nervous.”
“I simply ask,” Ishmael said, “that no one presume on my authority. May I have general agreement on that?”
Nods around the table.
“Good. I agree that movement to New Cairo will be slow. Let us get the first settlement entirely on its feet and we’ll expand from there. Meanwhile, Brother Talib has done us the greatest service in bringing the news of Crane’s ultimate goal: to use nuclear weapons to fuse the Continental Plates. Crane will be our focus.”
“Why?” Talib asked. “He will not be able to get the nuclear material or the authority to do such a thing.”
Ishmael looked at Talib as if he were a child. He smiled beatifically, sitting back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I continually wonder how it is possible,” he asked softly, “for you to have worked so closely with this man and not recognized his power?”
“His power is in his madness,” Talib said.
“His power resides in the clarity of his vision,” Ishmael returned. “The same place my power resides.”
“He’s dead in the water,” Talib said.
“He will find a way,” Ishmael said. “And it will be up to us to stop him. Crane is my Satan, Abu. I want no misunderstanding. He is the greatest battle I will ever fight. Like Mohammed with the Meccans, ‘Though they gave me the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left to bring me back from my undertaking, yet will I not pause till the Lord carry this cause to victory, or till I die for it.’ Promise me that if I do not live to see this through, the rest of you will continue after me.”
“I swear,” Talib said, “that I will not stop dogging Crane if there is breath in my body.”
“And I,” Martin Aziz said.
“Good. It is Crane who will ultimately provide the key to our Homeland. I don’t know how yet, but I can see it just as surely as I can see my own death calling out to me. Is there any other business from the outside world?”
Talib looked at the tabletop, then cleared his throat. “With all due respect and humility,” he said, voice choked, “I would like to ask your permission for your sister’s hand in marriage.”
“An alliance,” Ishmael said. “You don’t want Crane’s woman any longer?”
“I was a fool,” Talib said.
“Yes, you were,” Brother Ishmael responded. He stood and walked around to Talib. “But you are a fool no longer.” Talib got up; the two men embraced. “Welcome to our family. We will be real brothers now.” He kissed Talib on each cheek. Smiling, he said, “Let me go to find Khadijah and bring her to you. We must celebrate.”
In truth, Mohammed Ishmael could have sent someone to fetch his sister, but he needed time alone. He knew that Talib was a good man who was becoming a good Muslim, but the convert hadn’t yet begun to grasp the proper attitude when dealing with the Infidel. Ishmael knew he’d have to watch his new brother carefully—especially since Crane was drawing Talib and him into the web that would ensnare the three of them and shape their fate. Ishmael could feel it drawing around him now. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. Like Moses, he’d see the promised land, but not live long enough to enter it.
Out in the hallway, facing the wall so none could see, he cried for himself, then cursed his weakness. Only the words of the Prophet brought him any solace. “Be in the world like a traveler, or like a passerby and reckon yourself as of the dead.”
So be it.
SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND
13 AUGUST 2026, 4:23 P.M.
Sumi Chan watched her security monitor as Kate Masters’ helo glided gently onto the pad, disgorging the woman and an older man carrying a medical case. Lights around the pad blazed, catching the sequins of Masters’ bright red body suit, lighting her up like the Chinese opera on festival nights.
Sumi saw the figures approach the house elevator. She felt great trepidation, for she’d never trusted anyone with her secrets, not even Crane, and now she’d see what price she would pay for indulging in trusting Kate Masters.
The visitors disappeared from the screen and she switched to a shot inside the elevator. The doors opened and Masters and the doctor stepped in. Finding the camera immediately, Kate used its lens as a mirror and fixed her hair. “Hope these pictures look good in the archives,” she said, pulling her low neckline down a touch and winking.
The Vice President’s quarters were located in Silver Spring, Maryland, minutes from the Capital. The entire house was underground and electronically secured, leaving her protected without the expense of bodyguards. Sumi already had figured out a dozen ways in which the security could be breached here, but it didn’t matter. No one in the history of the United States had ever gone after a Vice President. They were too powerless and easy to replace.
Sumi hit the door activation button and hurried through the small but elegant traditional Chinese house whose windows looked out at holo projections of the Henan Province where she’d grown up—rolling farmland, workers tilling the fields, the Huang He River flowing gently from west to east in the distance. Over the course of a year, she’d watched the planting, growing, and harvesting of two crops, complete with typhoons in the spring and killing frost in the winter.
The elevator doors opened into her living room. Masters bounced into the room and gave Sumi a hug. “All this secrecy is very exciting.”
“I’m getting cold feet,” Sumi whispered into Masters’ ear. “This doctor, how do you know we can trust him?”
Masters smiled and straightened. “Vice President Chan, I’d like you to meet my father, Dr. Ben Masters.”
“Pleased to know you,” the man said, shaking a relieved Sumi’s hand. She should have known Masters would handle things impeccably. “Katie tells me you’ve got yourself something of a gender problem here.”
Sumi nodded. “I don’t want them to know I’m a woman,” she said, and the words sounded odd coming out of her mouth.
“I’ll just give my report on your health,” the man returned, his
wrinkled face relaxed. “I’m not a census taker. How long since you’ve had a physical?”
“Not since I left China ten years ago.”
“Okay, then,” the doctor returned. “Where can I set up?”
“There’s a guest room at the end of the hallway,” Sumi replied. “Will that do?”
“Fine. Give me a few minutes to prepare.” The man walked off, Sumi turning to Masters.
Reaching out, Kate tousled Sumi’s severely combed-back hair, bringing it down on the sides and making bangs. She smiled with satisfaction when she was done as if, only now, could she truly accept Sumi as a woman.
“I’m ready back here!” Masters called from the guest room.
“Coming!” Sumi said.
Kate stopped her. “Sit for a second. I want to ask you something personal.”
“About sex, right?” Sumi said, feeling herself tighten up involuntarily. “I’ll tell you what I told Mr. Li. I have had to suppress those urges in order to maintain my charade.”
“Are you asexual?”
“No.”
“Do you like girls or boys?”
“I’m not attracted to women. Why are you asking me these things?”
“Okay. What kind of man do you find attractive?”
“Kate,” Sumi said, nervous, “what are you getting at here?”
“Just answer my question. What kind of man attracts you—young stud? Muscleman?”
“No.” Chan laughed. “This is silly. A game.”
“Play. What kind of man?”
“I don’t know… intelligent. Someone who’ll give me a mental challenge. Middle-aged… past all that young man’s nonsense. Strong but vulnerable. Sure of himself but open to interpretation….”
“You’re describing Crane.”
“What?”
“This is Crane you’re talking about.”
Sumi flinched, a hand coming to her mouth.
“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
Sumi gasped and turned away. Now Masters knew all her secrets. The woman hugged her from behind, resting her head on Sumi’s shoulder.