Children, as if a Noah’s Ark of America, stared down from the great vid mural over the purple couch. They sang softly, swaying side to side, arms around each other’s waists.
“There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done,
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.”
“I’m fine,” the Major said. Three neutral ships, Chinese, Brazilian and Sengalese, were needed to make it back more than three thousand miles to the narrow neutral zone, then a fat double payment for a small twenty-footer at the edge of their territorial waters of ten miles. Good thing the Allah Navy was a joke. He’d leave out the two dead Aussies who had rented him their boat; Grandma wouldn’t approve.
“What about you?” He didn’t like her pale color. “Have you been bathing in the bio-regens?”
She breezily waved her hands, free of jewelry, wearing only dangling earrings and a simple heart-shaped necklace. Her doll-like body tucked in a simple purple dress, Grandma always looked as if she were about to go out or retire for the evening. She lazily kicked off her shoes.
“Is that an answer?” he persisted.
“As good as you’ll get, Major.” Grandma studied him, her probes knocking about his mind. She frowned. “Did you have that snarly attitude across the sea?”
“I kept off my knees,” he said sourly. “I didn’t want to tempt a beheading.”
“Tomas,” she said sternly.
“I behaved and said little. And they listened.”
“And?”
“You know what they’re like.”
“I do.”
“I don’t trust them.”
“Nor do I.” She frowned.
Twenty-eight years of devout service since Grandma found him semi-conscious in the hospital along with the remains of the 230th Battalion, the rest of the men and women floating off the beaches of Sicily. She’d stared into their eyes, held their hands, fed them, sang to them, reassured them, revitalized them. Promised them all this would not be in vain.
He would kill his own mother to protect Grandma.
“I trust us. Who we are. What we have to offer.” Grandma’s urgency softened into a smile. “You don’t even trust that much.” He shrugged and bit into another cookie. “You’re not exactly a walking advert for the Family sometimes.”
“I trust you. The only one.”
“Inside of half a cup of tea, you’ve blown up everything we stand for,” she said with mock disapproval. At least he hoped it was mock disapproval. “How did they leave it?”
“The Imam will talk to His Most Worthy Successor.”
“Good.” Grandma thoughtfully stirred her tea. “Two of the Collectors insist he’ll respond.”
“If they’re still the Collectors and not feeding us disinformation.” When Grandma continued stirring, he persisted, “Which is a possibility.”
“The Son hates his father,” Grandma said firmly. “We know of the fights.”
“If this isn’t a trap. For them to suddenly reach out…”
“Not so suddenly, Tomas,” she said vaguely, raising an eyebrow so he wouldn’t pursue.
“For how long?” he asked anyway.
Grandma rummaged about his mind. “Long enough.”
“I only know about that Saudi prince and the Pakistani merchant…”
“And a dozen more,” she scolded. “This one’s different. This time they can’t ignore their hunger.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant the reported food riots in the Caliphates of France and Germany or another sort of stirring. “They’re still Allahs.”
“And we’re still Americans.” Grandma sighed and squeezed his Gelinium leg. “I should’ve sued for peace in ’65 instead of letting more of you die uselessly for pride.”
“You saved us, Grandma. The Allahs only understand one thing.” He made two thick fists which Grandma slowly uncurled, one finger at a time.
“Not all of them. I have to believe that. Otherwise I lied to all of you when I said there would be another future.”
A mop-headed little girl poked her head in.
“What is it, honey?” Grandma asked.
“I left my ball.”
The child crawled under the couch and retrieved her basketball.
“How’s your passing?” Grandma held up her hands. The girl glanced anxiously at Tomas, who nodded; she gently tossed the ball. Grandma caught it in one hand, twirling the ball on her left forefinger before whipping it back across the room. The child gasped as the ball knocked into her chest.
“That’s how you pass. Again.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed and she fired the ball at Grandma’s head. Tomas tensed; eight-year-old girl kills Grandma with basketball was not a vidnews headline he wanted.
Grandma smiled, pleased. “Were you afraid to throw it too hard because of who I am?” The girl nodded carefully. “Aren’t you taught that we are all equal and deserve the same treatment?”
The girl hesitated. “Your Ninth Insight is revere the old.”
Grandma cleared her throat and underhanded the ball back. The girl bowed from the shoulders and dribbled her way out the door.
“Do I look that old?” Grandma spooned more sugar into her tea.
“Not a day over ninety-two, Lenora.”
She grunted dismissively and stared off for a moment. “You’re sure no one saw you?”
He flushed; her stare hardened.
“That’s not an insult, Tomas.”
“Yes it is,” he said stiffly.
“This cannot get out. We’re still not quite ready.”
8
Jalak Mustafa wiped her hands on a dishtowel and watched Azhar snore on the couch. She angrily switched off the football game. He woke up with a bleary smile.
“Hello, my she-cat.”
“It’s two o’clock.”
“I must’ve dozed.”
“For three hours it is sleep, not a nap.”
Mustafa knew the best response was a sweet smile conceding her righteous anger.
“What are your plans?”
He wondered who won the football contest. She snapped the towel at his head.
“Your friend the Imam has no more exciting adventures?”
“I’m sure I’ll hear soon.”
“I can’t wait for another prayer mat. I can cook the next one since we don’t have dinner tonight.”
“What happened to the fish?”
“Your sons ate it. They are growing boys. They expect their father to bring home food every night.”
Omar paused at the front door in his black Holy Guardians Disciple robe. The gangly fifteen-year-old,
