The Prophet's Ladder (16 page)

Nur turned to look at Amina as his palm print was scanned at the entrance to the heart of the structure, the cable’s base and the elevator’s staging depot. It was where cargo and passengers would be loaded and unloaded as soon as the device became fully operational, a matter of a few months and weeks more. “I think you’ll be pleased with what you’re about to see. I would only ask that you not take any pictures with your phone or use any other recording technology. Your devices will be scanned for data—no matter what—upon your exiting the facility, so best to warn you in advance.”

Amina blushed. “No! No of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The burnished metal doors swung open automatically on their tracks and the glory of his life’s work was there before them, laid bare. There was the cinereal cable, its broad girth buried deep, deep in the earth’s crust, its length extending straight up the center of the tower’s pagoda shape into the sky above, a blue circle of light visible at the apex’s opening. Surrounding the cable were massive machines built into the walls, seemingly torn from some soviet bloc state’s industrial nightmare, each alive and buzzing, lights flashing in sequence. This was monumental architecture of a modern sort; the structure’s scale echoing the Neolithic henges and Egyptian Old Kingdom pyramids of epochs past. Sleek, reflective aluminum panels clasped broad, finely balanced platinum gears, arms, and trolleys the size of buses. Hundreds if not thousands of monitoring stations, engineering terminals, sensor arrays, hazmat, fire, and other safety vehicles surrounded the cable platform, while teams of technicians and workers swarmed every subsystem, every hill and valley of sophisticated electronic paraphernalia extending from the tether’s center, a Victorian techno-futurist’s hedge maze. To the eastern end of the structure lay a strip of elevated, reinforced asphalt leading to a pair of distant gates as a cathedral nave, the roadway designed to accommodate bulk cargo traffic into the interior of the tower.

Atop an octagon shaped dais the diameter of a football field rested the elevator itself. It resembled nothing so much as a house-sized lotus flower: petals of solar panels collapsed inwards towards the cable on every side, dark blue segments overlapping and shading one another protectively. At the elevator’s center a circular series of rollers enveloped the cable’s breadth, the disk’s unmoving treads gripping tightly the graphene hawser. The base of the elevator platform was a more simplistic affair of titanium panels supported by innumerable crisscrossing girders stretching across the elevator’s ambit. Amina noticed a pressurized cabin, almost a shack, near the center of the elevator, seemingly designed to accommodate human passengers. The entirety of the elevator ‘car’ itself appeared almost comically delicate, as fragile looking as a glass sculpture when compared to the mighty rockets of the twentieth century, its ancient competition.

Amina stood there for a full five minutes, taking it all in, while Sheikh Nur stood by in silence, not uttering a sound, waiting for her to absorb the image, his dream. Finally she spoke. “This is...incredible. Will it work?”

“I think so, yes.” Sheikh Nur guided Amina to his office, which had several observation windows for a bird’s eye view of the launch floor.

Amina continued with her questions as soon as the door shut out the deafening ruckus of the Tower’s interior. “What will you transport up the elevator first? Human passengers?”

“Nothing that dramatic. Only a few additional components for the asteroid depot, some refined materials, and additional batteries for the facility’s solar cells. No human passengers on the test run and it will only be carrying a half load, just in case something goes wrong...God forbid.”

“God forbid.” Amina habitually echoed the sentiment. “How much weight can it carry into orbit?”

“When all is operating smoothly, effectively three hundred metric tons beyond the weight of the elevator car itself, though we’re looking to substantially increase the carrying capacity once we’re up and running.”

“And how long would a one way trip take?” Amina smiled. “Not that I’m interested in going myself, of course.”

Sheikh Nur returned her smile with another. “Of course. Well, a trip would take a few days, depending on several factors. We’ve yet to do a speed run, or any run at all for that matter!”

“I’m sorry to be a pest with all of these questions, Sheikh, but one more, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Certainly.”

“Why?” Amina’s gaze seemed steadfast, direct, in a way that few people, man or woman, had dared to look at the sheikh. He was impressed.

“Why what?”
“Why all of this? Why build a space elevator? Why not alleviate the ills of the UAE or even the entire Arabian Peninsula with all this money? You could instead build more schools or better roads, even fight food scarcity and climate change while you’re at it.”

The sheikh took in a breath. “Well for one thing,” he gestured out the office windows at the construction surrounding the elevator, “ this isn’t all my money. Not even a significant fraction of it. The money we used for this project comes from investors: corporations, kings, Sheikhs, African dictators, bankers like your father, other less savory individuals and institutions. Those noble causes you mentioned— and they are noble, certainly—don’t attract this amount of financial support. There is not enough of a return on investment on building schools or fighting climate change, believe me. I wish that it were so.” Nur turned in his swivel chair and himself looked out the window, his hands clasped in front of his face as though in supplication or prayer. He continued, meditatively. “Frankly I also believe that we are, in a sense, addressing the issue of climate change, as you mentioned. I’ve spoken to some of the best climatologists, chemists, and environmental scientists in the world; some of them even work for me. I’ve read the reports myself.” Nur poured Amina and himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “To speak truthfully, things are going to get very difficult for humanity in the next one hundred years. There is too much CO2 in the atmosphere. There will be widespread drought, starvation, mass migration, wildfires, rising sea levels. Much of Eden, Allah’s gift and blessing to his children, will become a desert.”

Amina frowned. “Don’t you believe that humanity has the capacity to find solutions to those problems?”

“Yes I do, but it is unwise to keep all of your eggs in one basket, so to speak. Our species will survive, flourish even, in time, but there will be upheaval and suffering in the interim. And our solutions may very well come from the resources and technology developed in orbit, or on other settled worlds in our solar system, perhaps. I am merely hedging humanity’s bets. Giving us a better, fighting chance, God willing.
“Truly, miss Hannachi, I believe that we must construct this grandiose symbol, this tower, not only to inspire and help our fellow man, but to save our faith. Not just from exterior environmental threats, but from itself. That is the principle reason I’ve done all of this. Islam is degrading, or has at the very least stagnated, as your fiancé rightly pointed out. The vast majority of Muslims suffer under the despotism of a few conservative sects whose subscribers yearn for a golden age that never existed. I won’t idly stand by and watch our belief suffer. No longer. We must look forward. That’s why I helped get your book published.”

Nur turned back to face his guest, who listened attentively. “And if, in so doing, we improve the lot of our entire species, then all the better.”

Amina sat there sipping her water, absorbing Nur’s diatribe. It was almost impossible to believe, that he’d be able to overturn centuries of slow societal torpor, but here was the elevator; here were the resources and the drive. Her heart swelled with excitement. “I want to help you. However I can.”

Nur nodded, seemingly gratified. “I knew you would. But there will be a price, of course. There always is, when individuals attempt to move mountains. Actually...culture is more like a glacier; it takes an age to shift, wouldn’t you agree?” He stood. “Sorry, that was rhetorical. Anyways, you are aware that I know some of your father’s colleagues in government, old business friends of mine, and they are prepared to assist you with my proposal. I need you to run for the Tunisian legislature. How is it pronounced in French? The
Assemblée des représentants du peuple?
Yes.”

Amina was taken aback. “What? Why me? I’m…flattered, but I’m only a graphic designer! I have no skill in politics.”

“No, that’s not what Karim tells me. He told me that you were very popular at the book launch in Cairo; that you spoke very well. He claims you had the guests enthralled, lingering on your every word. And your unfamiliarity with Tunisian politics is exactly why you’ll do well there. You believe in what we’re doing here, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.” Amina began to process his proposal.

“And you believe in Ali’s message?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then this is the next step. Prosperity must be coupled with moderation if we are to win this culture war, and not just in the UAE, but also across the Middle East. I have colleagues who are moving this effort along in other countries: Yemen, Egypt, Algeria, Jordan, Morocco, even Saudi Arabia. We call ourselves
Al Sulema
,
The Ladder
, as we are a means to a greater height, a better life, for our people.”

“Another veiled attempt at Pan-Arabism?” She frowned disparagingly.

“No!” Nur was vehement. “No, not at all. The dustbin of Middle-Eastern history already contains seventy years’ worth of discarded despots and autocrats of that ilk. No. We are trying to remodel a culture, not replace a series of governments with another. We don’t care if the Arab world is united as one, only if its peoples are prosperous, educated, free to study and worship the Fashioner’s universe as they see fit.”

“No dream of a caliphate then?”

“None at all.”

“Very well then.” Amina was resolved. “Who do I speak to about running for the Assembly?”

Chapter 9

Todd stood in the control room of the launch facility feeling rather apprehensive. The entirety of Al-Hatem Aerospace, practically every single employee, even those who were not scheduled to work that shift, was crammed into the building, as were many hundreds of television crews, news reporters, press agents, various media icons, embassy delegates, government officials, even the president, prime minister, and three of the seven constituent monarchs of the United Arab Emirates were with Sheikh Nur in the PR auditorium, which had been filled with dinner tables and wait staff in anticipation of the post launch gala.

The heads of the various company departments paced or hovered alongside Todd as they watched the floor of the elevator launch platform from a second-story viewing window. It was four minutes to liftoff, and the buzz of technicians going over preflight checklists was incessant, a constant drone underlying every other conversation and sound in the room. As Todd checked his phone, not for the first time, to see if Anne had called or texted, inane thoughts popped into his head.
Can they call it ‘preflight’? It isn’t really flying at all, is it? ‘Pre-launch’ then? ‘Pre-lift’? ‘Pre-climb’?
Anne would be at her friend’s apartment, another professor from the university, watching the launch on television. Thousands of ‘elevator parties’, as they had come to be called, would be happening all over the world. Millions of people were glued to their smartphones, TVs, computers, radios, listening, watching. In his wayward homeland the American popular media and its attached megacorporations had turned the event into as big a deal as the Apollo 11 moon landing; there was already a children’s breakfast cereal and an action figure playset out on the market. There were gatherings in Times Square, the Champ de Mars, the Sydney Opera House, Red Square. All were watching, waiting. The elevator tether was completed: Todd’s team and their solifuge automatons had done their part, for now. It had taken two years and seven months to build, not counting the asteroid capture, more than twelve years to design. The first climb would begin at 2PM GST: Gulf Standard Time.

Todd wondered what the reaction would be if the whole thing failed to work. They had run hundreds upon hundreds of simulations, literally millions of tests on each piece of machinery: the grips, climbers, emergency boosters, solar arrays, and communications equipment. Some of the most powerful supercomputers in the world had tested and predicted the outcomes of all possible scenarios: gusts of solar wind shaking and straining the cable, odd gravitational surges from the sun or moon, and so on. Every Al-Hatem Aerospace employee had drilled, himself included, for every contingency, even the (hopefully) unlikely event of a thermonuclear attack on the launch facility itself. Todd swallowed nervously; his dread of the tether being cut or destroyed had been the subject of many a restless night’s nightmare in the last few months. Theoretically, were the tether to break apart it would not cause much collateral damage as it collapsed; it wasn’t very big, after all, and much of it would burn up in the atmosphere or reach terminal velocity as it fell upon itself, coiling downwards like a snapped kite string. It was the elevator car itself that would cause the most destruction as it fell, but the lift contained breaks and parachutes in the event of an unplanned free-fall, and its component parts were capable of breaking apart into four equal segments to diminish any potential fallout. Todd knew that some of the engineers had even suggested that a self-destruct or remote destruct mechanism be installed, but Sheikh Nur had himself nixed that idea, thank goodness.

One and a half minutes to launch, and the elevator car itself showed signs of life. Various components began moving, breaks testing themselves, gases escaping from various exterior thruster nacelles in controlled bursts; to Todd it was very much like a forest creature awakening from hibernation after a particularly long winter. The background chatter increased exponentially, reaching a fever pitch: Arabic and English commingling in scientific pidgin. Todd began to sweat. He knew the climb would not be as climactic or as awe inspiring as a chemical rocket launch, and he dreaded the reaction from the world press. Oh the memes they’d generate on the Internet, the cruel barbs that would be shared on social media, that vast echoing chamber, the derision! It would be brutal beyond a doubt.

Thirty seconds. Servos on the elevator car began to activate, and there was a moderate whine as the engines reached optimal levels, idling. The batteries installed on the docked car had been charged to full until the transport’s solar cells could unfurl outside the facility, a rose in spring. Ten seconds, and the world held its breath. Todd shuddered as, at a deep, almost visceral level, time seemingly slowed down to a crawl. Launch.

The car lurched upwards at an agonizingly slow pace. It seemed to barely move at first, but then, slowly picking up speed, it ascended into the tower atrium. Distantly, far removed from conscious awareness, Todd heard cheering; hundreds of people inside the facility watched as their life’s work, their singular passion for hundreds of exhausting days and sleepless nights, functioned as they’d intended. Some of his teammates, usually stoic, stolid scientists and programmers were laughing, hugging, and applauding like children on Christmas morning. Others punched the air, consciously willing the machine to ascend. Still others silently wept as their dream rose upwards, higher and higher. The car was moving at eight and a half kilometers per hour, slightly less than a human traveling at jogging speed. The car hovered above them and Todd was struck, only for a split second, by the strange, beatific vision of a deity or idol ascending into the empyrean.

The apex of the tower complex consisted of a small hole through which the space elevator’s cable ran. It was in fact, an iris that swiveled open, enlarging its aperture in the manner of a camera lens, granting passage to the car, which climbed steadily. It had been suggested that there was no need for the iris at all, that the infrequent amount of rain (less than 120 mm a year) did not necessitate the covering, but one never knew. Once clear of the tower’s interior the elevator car began to pick up a slight amount of speed. Now rising at a steady eleven kilometers per hour, the petals of solar cells unfurled beautifully, forming a perfect symmetrical nimbus about the transport. The panels were the most advanced, efficient solar voltaic cells in the world, manufactured in Germany, with an energy conversion ratio of slightly more than forty-five percent. Even more amazingly, in the event of sustained bad weather or if the car’s solar panels were to fail catastrophically, energy could be beamed directly from the elevator’s earthside hub to the underside of the car via a powerful microwave laser array known as a ‘maser’. A form of wireless energy transmission, the energy would be absorbed via rectenna collectors, fully capable of powering the car’s ascent or descent.

Todd watched from his terrestrial vantage as the car moved through the troposphere. Like most days, excepting the occasional sandstorm, the sky above the tower was a clear turquoise with not a wisp of cloud in sight. The elevator car would be visible to the naked eye for several more hours, and the company’s 70 meter long, high-altitude capable airship would ascend alongside the elevator cable, its position and cluster of high definition observation cameras and telescopes remotely operated from a mission control substation where yet another contingent of engineers would visually monitor the car for any possible discrepancy or malfunction.

Back at the PR gala, dignitaries, royalty, and other VIPs looked on at images of the still functioning, still climbing space elevator displayed on projector screens on all four walls. The party was already in full swing; those whose faith allowed them to drink did so, partaking of expensive bottles of champagne or wines with storied vintages. Sheikh Nur had quietly stepped out to watch his lifelong ambition launch from the tower platform floor. It was something he would not miss for any amount of kings’ favors or princes’ well wishes. He’d stood there, alone, watching the car climb upwards. No tears had been forthcoming, nor any great display of elation. Just an immeasurable wave of satisfaction when everything had worked as he knew it would. There had been no doubt, no hesitation, no nagging uncertainty, only the confidence of a man who had given his all to something. But now he stepped back into the room and was met with a wave of admirers and devotees. Even the American and Russian ambassadors offered their ‘sincere’ and ‘heartfelt’ congratulations, a calculated move to offset any potential ill will stemming from the cold war they’d initiated against his company. Nur knew they wouldn’t dare make a move against the elevator now, not with the whole world watching. Instead they’d race to develop their own, and would seek to curry favor with those who’d done it first. He smiled and accepted their felicitations warmly.

****

In Tunis Amina stood on top of a makeshift podium in Mohammed Bouazizi Square. The day was temperate and lovely, a fine ocean breeze mitigating the heat of the afternoon sun. A crowd of onlookers waited expectantly to hear her first public campaign speech since she’d announced her candidacy for the Assembly seat. Looking out over the crowd of two hundred some people, she observed that many faces were both watching her and simultaneously glued to their phones as the first images and video of the elevator launch was broadcast around the world. Hesitantly, but with gathering confidence she approached the microphone.

“
Bismillah
. My friends! My countrymen! My Fellow Tunisians!” Her amplified voice echoed across the crowd where so many had rallied for their rights years before. The square in which they stood had been renamed after the street vendor who’d died as a martyr: setting himself on fire, and in so doing instigating the Jasmine revolution. “I speak to you today at the advent of a new world. And there is no better time to speak, for as our brothers and sisters in the Emirates usher in a new space age, so we too in Tunisia must usher in a new age of governance.” The classical Arabic flowed forth now, her speech memorized and practiced in front of her bathroom mirror a hundred times previously. She had timed the rally to symbolically coincide with the launch, trusting in her sponsor the sheikh to ensure a success on his end of things.

“Many of you have read the works of my beloved, now deceased. He knew that Tunisia must be rejuvenated, that it must not again be stymied down by factionalism or religiosity as it once was.”

“I am here because I wish to see his dream come to light. I am here because I want to represent you in the Assembly of Representatives of the People.” A smattering of cheers and applause. She had their attention now. “And I am here to ask for your support. With your help we can get additional funding for our schools, so that our children are guaranteed a good education, and better job prospects. With your help we can get money to fill the potholes that riddle our neighborhood streets. With your help, God willing, we will even tackle income and property tax reform.” More applause.
Who doesn’t want better roads
? “This October I am asking for your vote. I marched with you when we kicked out Ben Ali. I marched with you on the streets when we won back our right to freedom of speech and fair, democratic elections. Let us exercise those rights, together.” Louder cheers now, she was winning the crowd. “Together we can accomplish anything!” Ad-libbing empty rhetoric, but it was effective. There were scores of faces smiling, row upon row of energetic, enthused Tunisians who she was certain would rally to her campaign. Raising one hand towards the crowd in the universal ‘V for victory’ gesture, Amina issued a final
Alhamdulillah
and confidently strode off the podium, the hand signal mirrored by many across the plaza. She knew from her work with her father, the endless board meetings, the late night phone calls, to always try and end on a high note, always keep it short, leave them wanting more. A young man replaced her onstage, a handsome, charismatic college student her campaign manager had hired to handle fundraising and public relations. He’d give the people her social media handles if they didn’t have them already, encourage campaign donations, and manage the less exciting, more mundane affairs of a political campaign. Someone handed her a cup of water, which she drank greedily, unaware that she’d been sweating despite the moderate weather.

Her thoughts were of Ali suddenly: his face, his kind, unwavering voice, so assured, so often passionate, railing against the rotting innards of a corrupt society, though often from a place of deep love and veneration. Earlier that morning she’d vowed to never forget how he spoke; they said that was always the first aspect of a dead person to vanish from one’s memory: their voice, the cadence of words and sounds that defined an individual. It was what had drawn her to him initially at university, the manner of his speech soft and inviting, like a hot bath or warm, scented beeswax. Amina knew then that she could not stop missing him, would never stop pining for every facet of his being, each peculiar mannerism. That was what love was. For all of God’s kindness there was also pain in absence, or so she’d been led to understand.

A deep breath, the weight of a heavy heart, and she moved forward, towards her waiting staffers hovering about her car.

****

Fifty-two hours. That was how long the elevator had taken to reach the asteroid, its terminal destination in orbit. Not wishing to miss a single minute of their efforts come to fruition, fearful of some catastrophic, unforeseeable ‘black swan’ event, many of the engineers at Al-Hatem had refused to go home or rest despite their severe lack of sleep, intermittently dosing themselves with caffeine pills and coffee, or even prescription amphetamines. There had been Internet-led viewer marathons devoted to watching the climb in its entirety, whole websites filled with comments dissecting and discussing every kilometer of the streamed ascent.  Late night talk show hosts in Europe, Asia, and the Americas bombarded the elevator climb and its keepers with sardonic jokes aplenty. A group of miniaturists in Vienna had even constructed a functional scale model of the tower and space elevator out of plastic toy bricks; it climbed the side of a twelve-story office building like an ornamented drainpipe.