Aara

It is a beautiful day. The sky is a clear blue, the sun is casting its friendly rays earthward. The air is cool, but not cold.

And piercing through every particle of it are the chants.

"Death to the Dictator."

The people are shouting.

"Death to the Dictator."

The phrase is a death sentence for those who utter it - apostasy against the men who claim to be representatives of God. Men who seek to be Gods themselves.

"Death to the Dictator."

I close my eyes and feel the power of the protest. I feel pride swelling through me. Pride for my people, and in no small way, pride for what I have helped unleash.

Today, under a clear blue sky, my countrymen are standing for the right against the powerful.

I silently pray that in some way my friend, Soroush is here to see this. I saw him shoved into a car and driven away. He was a leader of the protests and he will probably die. But for now, he is in prison.

And I am ready to join him.

Ours is a battle for the good, no matter what the risks. We know the odds. And yet, for some reason, so many of us have decided to take the bet.

Perhaps it is because we know that if we don't, we may never have another chance to do so.

"Death to the Dictator."

I know it isn't, but it feels like an unstoppable human wave.

And then it is time to disperse. In the past year, our tactics have improved. We've learned that there are simply too many protesters in too many places for the authorities to stop us all. We used to congregate and they used to attack - brutally. Now, we move and regroup like shapes appearing in sand.

One moment we're pedestrians milling about, the next we're protesters shouting our disdain. We shout and denounce, and then - before the authorities can shift their sights, we disperse and move on. Only to begin again someplace else. Most of the time, it works.

I laugh as I realize we're like some teleporting character from a sci-fi movie. You look for us in one place, and Zap!, we've moved to another and are striking at your rear. Despite our weakness, this is power.

And it is time to move.

But before we can, I feel a change in the air. People start running, and I hear the sound of motorcycles. And then gunshots and the sick crack of batons on skulls.

I don't know why, but I keep my eyes closed.

Somehow, I can see them coming. The Basiji, the 'men' who define a regime - attacking the innocent, shooting women, casting acid in the faces of those who defy their code.

My brain tells me to open my eyes and run, but I stand. I can feel a Basij, baton in hand, noticing me. He's sitting on the backseat of a motorcycle. He nudges his driver and they steer towards me. Baton swinging, he clears fleeing people from his path.

I hear a crash and shout of victory. A motorcycle has been brought down. In days past, the riders would be let free. But not today. Today, I know the bike will be torched and the rider beaten. The times of peace are past.

But the bike that was brought down was not mine.

I can hear mine drawing closer.

I know it's coming. And yet, as I begin to feel the staccato of its engine, I find myself unable to even open my eyes. My minds' eye just stares at the riders in hatred. My face projects only calm.

I am daring them to strike down a man who offers no defense - and I know that they will.

They come closer, faster.

The baton is raised.

And then, without a wince or a cringe, I am struck down.

I don't know it until later, but others in the crowd rescue me. They move me to an alleyway. They bandage my head. And they return to the fast-flowing conflict.

It is only later that I open my eyes.

And when I do, I am shocked.


Perhaps it is my physical state, but when I open my eyes I am stunned by the beauty of the woman tending to me. She has long jet black hair pulled back beneath a modest headscarf. She has deep and pure brown eyes, absent the vast quantities of makeup my countrywomen are prone to. And she has a smile. It doesn't come all at once. It starts a look of concern. And then when I open my eyes, it just spreads. Like a supernova. First her eyes light up, and then her joy flows from her cheeks, and then her mouth opens in pure happiness.

I've never seen anything like it.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Her voice is sweet. Her accent is not cultured. She seems meek.

I try to nod, but can't. "Yes," I whimper, suddenly realizing just how much my head hurts.

"Good," she says, quietly, "I watched you out there. With your eyes closed as the Basij came. I've never seen anything like it."

Her voice seems to gain confidence and power as she remembers what she saw.

I try to smile, but it hurts.

"Oh," she says, "Don't try to move too much. They hit you pretty hard. The riots have moved on though and we'll be okay here."

I blink my eyes.

She smiles again, her voice hushed but confident. "That'll work. Let's do one blink for 'yes', two for 'no'."

I blink once.

"My name is Aara," she says, "Don't worry about introducing yourself, that can come later."

Aara - Farsi for adoring. I imagine that the name is apt.

I want to ask who she is. I want to learn something more about her. But I can't. I'm immobilized. The pain of speaking would be too great.

She just sits there, cradling me. Smiling.

And then, finally, she talks again, "My husband was a Basij," she says, "Shall I tell you about him?"

I hope I heard correctly 'was,' not 'is.' I blink once.

"We got married when I was 16," she says, "He seemed a sweet man. He plied my family and me with jewels. He promised me care and love and adoration. He was a Basij and he played up the work he did as a volunteer - helping young boys become men and standing as a Guardian of the Faith. I was enamored."

She pauses, wistfully. She looks at me, and then decides to go on, "And then we got married. And then everything changed. He beat me. Constantly. He deprived me of sleep. He threatened me if I thought of leaving the house. He prohibited me from seeing even my parents. And he spoke proudly of his 'volunteer' work. I didn't know it when we got married, but he had been 'married' many times before. He was one of the select few chosen to rape virgin prisoners the night before their executions. The demand was technical, the government couldn't break our Law by executing virgins and so they had devised a solution. Some of those men renounced their work. But my husband never seemed to leave it."

She paused. I thought for a moment that I should pity her. But there was no sign of it on her face. She was just telling me a story of her past. Why, I couldn't imagine.

"My husband couldn't see me as a person." she continued, as if drawn along by some force she couldn't control, "If he did, then all those others would be people too. He would be destroyed. I represented his undoing and because of that I was punished. But he wasn't a bad man, just a broken one."

She believed it. I wanted to protest, but couldn't.

She continued.

"We had a son, Sarfraz. By the time he was three, it was clear something was wrong. It turned out the boy was autistic - severely autistic. My husband hated him. I could understand why. Sarfraz was a testimony to my husband's own failings. The son he had produced represented his own lack of manhood.

"So my husband stopped coming home, just to avoid Sarfraz. He volunteered more and more. The stretches of time would get longer and longer. And then, he volunteered for duty in the south. In Baluchistan. And the terrorists there killed him. They blew up his bus. There were only seven casualties, but my husband was one."

I waited.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this," she said, with a nervous but happy laugh. "I've never told a soul this. We aren't supposed to complain. But it was something about the way you stood. You seemed strong. And, it is hard to explain, but you seemed free. It was like they could hit you, like they had to hit you but you could stand and say and think what you wanted. Somehow, it seemed like they were the ones constrained. You were free."

I hadn't said a word, I'd barely thought it, but she'd hit it right on the head. I had experienced freedom.

My head still hurt - the aftereffects weren't kind.

"Should I go on?" she asked.

I blinked once.

She thinks for a moment. I love watching her eyes as they judge just how much to tell. And then, with a clearing, she makes up her mind. I know before she says a word that she won't let herself be constrained.

"When my husband died, it was like a weight had been lifted off of me. I hated him. I hated the Basij. And I loved my son. When he died, I felt like my life was suddenly restarted. And then, before long, reality hit. My family wouldn't talk to me. His family wouldn't talk to me. And I had no job, an autistic son, and nowhere to go. Aside from a little cash, I'd been left with nothing.

"So, I left our apartment and found something much smaller and cheaper. I sold our furniture. And then I started begging. My son and I, we talk every night. Well, I talk and he does what he does. It is beautiful, and hard. I sit there, watching him, telling him about my day and the people I've met. He doesn't answer or acknowledge me, but I hope that on some level he's listening. And I love it. And then, in the morning, I go out again."

I can't stop myself. "How long?"

"How long what?" she asked.

It hurts, but I force it out, "How long have you been begging?"

"Five years," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Do you need money?" I ask.

"No," she says, her face breaking out into another smile, "Not from you."

It seems an odd phrase, coming from a beggar.

I shift my head a touch, indicating my confusion.

"You've given me something else," she says, "You've given me hope."

Our eyes meet and I realize it's true. She would have asked for my pity fifteen minutes ago. But not now. I want to just lay there, staring into her eyes. She seems happy to oblige. Her fingers begin to run through the unbandaged parts of my hair, gently pushing apart the coagulated clumps of blood.

I can't explain why I say it, but I do. "You too," I answer.

With that, she leans down and kisses my forehead - holding there longer than necessary. It is a touch of kindness and of respect - and perhaps of love.

My heart races. I force it to settle and I just savor the moment.

She pulls her lips away and my eyes are drawn open. "Are you feeling better?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer. The ringing and pain are slowly subsiding.

"Let's test how you're doing," she says. She lifts my shoulders and sits me up.

"I think I can stand," I say.

So she stands up and grasps my wrists and slowly pulls me up to her.

My head hurts, but I make it.

I'm a little taller than she is.

She smiles again and looks up at me and nods, and then says, "And now we go our separate ways."

She's right of course.

I can picture the conversation with my parents and with my friends. The objections are a mile long. She's a young widow with a disabled son. I'm barely out of college. She's poor and uneducated and I'm from a highly educated family. Her life has been seeped in the Law and mine has been spent dancing along its edges. And she might be after our money - she is a beggar. Or perhaps her story is totally false and she picked a wounded man in an alley as her victim. I know my family won't allow it and I know they will make me agree.

I look at her. She smiles back and says, sadness creeping into her eyes as if she can read what I'm thinking, "It is a moment in an alleyway after a riot," she says, "It is nothing. And it can't work."

She's right.

I picture her telling her son about me. I picture her joy, and her sadness as her words bounce off of him.

But I know I must walk away.

I nod at her, my head still shooting with pain.

And then I turn away.

I can feel her eyes following me. I can feel her hope following me. And I know we will both be weaker when I've gone.

As I walk away, I see myself in the future, walking past her begging on the street. I'm going to my job. Our eyes meet, there is pain, and we look away. I can't humiliate her by leaving her money. So I walk by, trying to ignore her and her me.

The images are painful, but I must go.

And then I remember Soroush being shoved into the car. And I remember them taking him away. And I realize my turn may be next.

Like my countrymen, I have chosen to fight for the good, no matter what the risks.

And I may never have another chance.

As I turn back into the alley, I realize I love her. I can't explain. But when she sees me, her face lights up again and I realize that she loves me too.

Perhaps it is just an encounter in an alleyway after a riot.

But perhaps its foundations are more solid.

Manifesto

With a scratch, the ink was laid into the paper.

"A Manifesto."

The author leaned back, reflecting on the possibilities.

He would write a manifesto, a screed, a call to arms.

First, he had to begin by stating the problem:

"We are an ancient people. Our traditions and cultures have survived for thousands of years. Today, we find ourselves at the brink of annihilation."

So far he was just stating the obvious and the true. But he needed to excite his readers.

"Many would say our predicament is no fault of our own. Our enemies hunt us and display our bodies aloft as trophies. And every day, they grow stronger. But while they sin against us, our predicament is indeed our responsibility. Because while we have resisted them, we have done so half-heartedly - bound by the chains of convention. We must recognize that in times such these, resistance of any sort lays within the bounds, not only of moral possibility, but of moral obligation."

The author pondered. It was time to divide the enemy.

"It is true that our enemies hunt us. But our true enemies are only a fraction of those pushing against us. Our true enemies are only their rulers: poolers of wealth and creators of serfs, they crush and oppress their own people as surely as they do ours."

Another pause as the author considered.

"Our kind wants only to trade. When we take without trade, it is through necessity alone. We mean no ill to anyone. But our way if life is being undermined. Our regions are being colonized by those not native to them. Our culture is under threat from marauders who would steal our ancestral treasures in the dead of the night. They may be condemned, but our sporadic acts of resistance are natural outpourings of our pride being daily trod underfoot and of our way of life being eaten away by the unrelenting cultural, social and ultimately physical advance of our enemies. Sadly, our sporadic acts of resistance do nothing to stem this tide. It would seem that our path is set, our future determined, our fate sealed."

And now, the author would provide hope.

"But it need not be so. We can coordinate and fight against our oppressors. By throwing off the chains of conscience, we can slaughter our enemies indiscriminately. With that, they will be stopped. Indeed, with every act of resistance, we will free two souls - the oppressor from his sins, and the victim from the mental prison of his oppression."

The author took in a long breath and then charged forward.

"Fear will our enemies' ever-present companion. And when his slaves rises up against him, we will be there as brothers, ready to join the battle against our common enemy. Together, we can cast off the colonizer's heavy hand. We are the vanguard of freedom, stealing the wealth of our enemies of equality. Rather than facing a certain defeat, we now require only the power of the masses to secure our final victory."

Now, for a dramatic ending.

"That power shall be ours. As surely as the sun rises, the oppressed of the world will throw off their chains and join us. They will regain the pride of men, they will be free, and a new era will await them."

The author reviewed his work. When he was satisfied, he handed it to his niece for review. "What do you think?" he asked.

She read it slowly and carefully, and then looked up at her uncle.

"None of it is really true," she said.

"Perhaps," said her uncle, "But perception is more important than reality."

"Do you think it will work?" she asked.

"I believe it will." he answered, "It will strengthen our backbone, weaken our enemies and split them from one another."

His niece shook her head. "Nobody will believe any of this."

"And why not?" asked her uncle.

"Uncle," said his niece patiently, as if she considered her uncle delusional, "It's the year 800 and we're dragons."

The Perfect Weapon

The modest house at 1953 Pine St. in Elk Grove was like any other house on the block. A ranch built in the post-war period, it had the same off-white aluminum siding as all of its neighbors. A tidy and perfectly squared-off lawn led to a small staircase, a tiny porch, and a plain white front door. A large living-room window looked out over the street. As with every other house on the block, the shades were drawn. It was occupied by a husband, a wife and two teenage children. All in all, it was not a noticeable house.

On a street full of gossips, nobody talked about it.

The family did have the occasional visitors. Bland-looking men and women in bland-looking rental cars. They always came during the day, when the husband and children were out. But otherwise, nothing seemed the least bit amiss.

But on January 27th, 2010, all of that changed.

On that day, at 11:14am, 1953 Pine Street became the talk of the town. In a rush, a fleet of bland-looking rental cars with bland-looking drivers and passengers jammed the street. And one after another those visitors walked up to and knocked on the front door. It opened, they walked in, and it closed.

The rumors began to fly. Was the woman in the house dealing drugs? If so, why did she live in such a modest home? How did so visitors fit in such a small house? And how come nobody ever saw who opened the front door?

There was no way the neighbors could have known the truth.

Just that previous night thousands and thousands of small black creatures had appeared in various cities around the world. The creatures were just two inches long. They flew on micro-wings and appeared  to be nothing more than over-sized flying cockroaches. But a few, in Cairo and Damascus, had been noticed by men and women who could tell something was different about them.

They recognized the creatures for what they were. Not insects, but robots.

Through secure communications channels that connected the spies of the world, their discovery laboriously traveled upstream. Notes were conceived, and hand transcribed on one-time pads. They were then transmitted by shortwave radio or satellite phone to central operations organizations in Washington, Tel Aviv, London, Paris and more. And in each of those stations, communications officers decoded the messages and rerouted them up the chain of command. Messages then flowed from intelligence bureau to intelligence bureau - trying to figure out which country was behind the micro-robots. Hours passed before they realized that none of them were. Within minutes of that realization, emergency protocols were triggered. Presidents and Prime Ministers around the world were informed that something was wrong.

However, try as they might, they had no idea what it was.

Of course, they all knew who it was. There were black robotic insects appearing across the globe. They didn't know what the bugs did, they didn't know who had delivered them. But every one of those intelligence agencies knew who had created them - the breadwinner of 1953 Pine St.

And so, in a rush of anonymous and spontaneous pilgrimage,  they made their way to that address.

Group by group, they walked up to the white door and knocked. A camera analyzed their faces and determined their identities. Their backgrounds were reviewed and then, moments later, a servo pulled open the door and welcomed them into the home. Each group was ushered into the plain-looking foyer of the single story house. They would then stand on an 8-foot square carpet while the front door was closed and their faces were screened a second time, to insure no uninvited guests had snuck in.

Finally, the entire carpeted area began to sink beneath the floor level. It was an elevator, cleverly built into the fabric of the post-war ranch. Nobody acted surprised, because every one of the guests knew where they were headed. Beneath the home was the weapons laboratory of the world famous - if you worked in the right world - Amelie Bedeau. Of course, if you did not work in the right world, then she was invisible.

Even her family did not know what lay beneath the foyer.

Amelie was a woman with a fascinating history. Her specialty was micro-electronics. While Hamas hunted for collaborators, they knew nothing of the insect-like creatures that attached themselves to clothes, embedded themselves in cracks, and clung to curtains throughout the territories. Israel knew so much because Israelis were listening to everything. Amelie had created the devices that enabled it. Predator strikes in Yemen and Pakistan were driven by intelligence her devices had provided. Other high-profile terrorists had simply disappeared, injected with poisons by insects she had created. Countless other acts of violent espionage, unreported in any media, had been enabled by her.

When it came to watching, and when it came to killing, Amelie Bedeau, mother of two teenagers and a wife to a workaday husband, was simply the best there was.

And she was not surprised in the least by the sudden arrival of her visitors.

They, however, were in the dark. They'd known of dozens of her robots working at a time - but never hundreds or thousands. Before, they'd always known who she was working for. This time they did not. And they'd always known what she'd built - what purpose was to be served. This time they did not.

It worried them.

Amelie had broken her lab into two. One half of it was a viewing gallery, with rows of seats for the representatives of various intelligence services, State Departments and Foreign Ministries. All had contracted with her in the past. The other half, shrouded in darkness and protected by bulletproof glass, was her workspace. She knew who was coming and she waited patiently for them to arrive. And when everyone was seated, she raised the lights on her side of the room.

Her shock of red hair was her only flamboyance.

"Welcome," she announced.

The crowd, not used to volunteering information or words, just sat silently.

"Obviously, I am aware of why you've come. Some of my creations have popped up on your radar. I believe," she said, holding up an example, "These are the devices you are so curious about."

Nobody in the room had actually seen one, they had only read reports. They craned forward for a closer look. But the insect was tiny, and nearly impossible to see.

"My visitors," she continued, ignoring their curiosity about the device, "After years of work, and using funds you have given me, I am pleased to announce that I have created the perfect weapon."

The fear was palpable. It was unsaid, but every man and woman in that room was wondering what, exactly, their funding had unleashed.

"It is small," Amelie continued, "But not as small as some of my other creations. It can fly great distances. It can be sustained by solar energy. And it contains within it the unmakings of governments."

She paused.

A map behind her lit up.

The cities of Tehran, Rangoon, Cairo, Jeddah, Damascus and Minsk.

"These governments."

Agents and diplomats reached for their secure phones, eager to warn somebody, anybody of the impending geopolitical destabilitization. 'Disaster!' was the thought rushing through their minds. Even those who looked forward to the destabilitization reached for their phones. It would not be seemly to stand out.

"I'm afraid gentlemen," said Amelie, "That your mobiles will not work here."

Reluctantly the phones dropped back into waiting pockets.

"These devices," said Amelia, "Are all part of a mesh network. A concept explored by the American government for their littoral naval vessels. Most of my devices have been small, and operate alone. But these perfect little machines work together for a greater effect than any one could possibly provide."

She paused again.

"And in five minutes, I will turn them on."

A man with a German accent blurted out, "What do they do?"

Amelie smiled, "Mr. Schwendtke," she replied, "They communicate, and they hide, and then they communicate again."

As confusion settled over the room, Amelie dimmed the lights and disappeared.

But a single red light remained on. And a timer next to it. And the minutes ticked by - feeling like hours. And then the timer hit zero, and the light turned to green.

Moments later, on massive screens, the images and words began to trickle in. Pictures of protests, messages of dissent - the baby steps of coordinated resistance.

Minute-by-minute the images and messages grew and multiplied.

Revolution was brewing.

And, somehow, Amelie had unleashed it.

Mr. Schwendtke blurted out again, "But what do they do!"

Every voice waited to hear the answer.

And then Amelie gave it to them.

"Every cell phone and every wi-fi connection, indeed, every wireless communications device in these cities, is now free. The robots are a network, a backbone of communications unhindered by tyrannical governments. Pictures and videos can be shared with the world. Opposition movements can coordinate their activities. And governments are unable to stop them. They communicate, they hide, and they communicate again."

"My friends," continued Amelia, "My little black bugs are the perfect weapon."

"My friends," she concluded, "My little black bugs are freedom."

Jason Webster

Under his breath, Jason Webster recites the Shahadah to himself, again and again, "There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet."

He is approaching the security check point, and he is praying that he can clear it.

He doesn't need to worry.

Just before entering the airport, Jason Webster had swallowed two latex balloons. Like a drug mule, he was transporting what he needed to hide inside of his body.

Customs might have caught him, airport security doesn't have a chance.

He places his shoes and laptop bag on the conveyor. He empties his pockets of any metal. And he walks through the detector. No beeps. No attention.

Even if there were profiling, Jason would be missed. Jason Webster is white. He is wealthy. And he's covered all of his bases. His round-trip ticket has been purchased with a credit card. He has a student visa. He never handled the contents of his latex balloons. His legal name raises no questions whatsoever.

He picks up his bags and walks towards his gate.

His stomach is beginning to hurt, but he puts it out of his mind and casually continues his passage.

"There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet." He whispers it under his breath.

Jason Webster is a student. He has received a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts - searching for meaning in beauty. He was a good student, but he was disappointed in his search. And so he searched elsewhere. He attended the dry churches of his native London - nothing. He experimented with drugs. He tried sex. But still there was nothing.

And then he found Islam. It started with a local mosque, and there was a taste of what he wanted. There was a taste of greatness in service to Allah. But it wasn't enough. He wanted total service, without question marks, doubts or room for dissent. Without moderation. And so, before long, he had broken with the congregation and had fallen into a smaller group - a more radical group. They met at a home, and they plotted death. And Jason discovered a way for his life to have meaning.

It started with swallowing two latex balloons.

Boarding comes and Jason breezes through. His papers are in perfect order.

His stomach is bothering him more now. He tries hard not to visibly wince - and he succeeds. He knows what is going on, the balloons are too large to digest. He is prepared for an uncomfortable trip.

The plane pulls back from the gate and with a roar of its engines, it takes to the skies.

Jason closes his eyes and silently recites the Shahadah again and again in his head. He is wearing a headset. He hopes his seat mate will think he is singing a song.

The beverage cart comes and he asks for water.

He checks his watch. It is 12:35pm.

5 more minutes.

He surprises himself. He is totally calm. He knows what he was doing and why. He hates his old world. He hates the weakness. He hates the emptiness. He hates the vanity and the promiscuity and the self-serving ways. He hates the blasphemy.

In the past months, he has learned so much, and he has so much to teach.

And he will teach. He will drive others to meaning.

It is what his service demands.

He opens a small medicine bottle and pulls out 5 capsules of fish oil. He recites, quietly, "Allahu Akbar" and he swallows the pills.

It is done.

He debates telling the pilot what he has done. But the orders are strict. Nobody is to know.

And so he waits.

Inside his stomach, the capsules break down and the oil is released.

In turn, the latex balloons begin to dissolve.

They are two parts of a binary explosive.

Jason Webster closes his eyes.

The explosives mix.

And the airliner splits apart in the sky.

----
In Washington DC, a TV newscaster is handed a piece of paper. He reads it and nods his head in disbelief. He looks at the off-camera man who handed it to him. Something is said and the newscaster grows pale.

And then, with a studied voice, he announces, "This just in. Seventeen, repeat, seventeen intercontinental airliners from Europe, Asia and North America have disappeared from radar without any indication of their fate. We will provide you more information as soon as soon as it breaks."

----

Walls alone can never make us safe.

----
* The above process of radicalization is loosely guided by the 2007 NYPD Report Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat
* The bomb described will not function. I do, however, invite any would-be terrorists to try it out.

Dr. Rajiv Chaudry

Dr. Rajiv Chaundry looked proud as he stood in the gleaming lobby of his newest building. The press huddled around, waiting to hear the latest from the world's wealthiest man.

"My family is not Christian," he began, "But I still remember Christmas, 2009 as the best day of my life."

Everybody already knew what he was referring to, it was a story he'd told many times, but they waited nonetheless. Rajiv spoke in a perfect American accent - according to legend, it had been honed in one of India's many call centers.

"On that day, America passed Healthcare Reform.

"On that day my father cried and spoke the most prophetic words of his life. 'India's day has arrived.'

"It can be hard to remember those days. India's was an economy just beginning to flower. Our GDP was just over 1 trillion US dollars. American healthcare spending only was over 2 trillion dollars. It represented a tremendous opportunity.

"The Republicans in those days were worried about the death of innovation - about massive costs - about twisted incentives. But we had other ideas. Indian hospitals had competed with American hospitals for international patients. The rich went to America. The middle class of the UK, Canada and a few other countries - well, they came here.

"When American stepped down the road of an even more unnatural and stilted health care economy, we knew our day was here. Healthcare is a massive industry - today larger than any other. And with reform, what little remained of the power of ownership and profits to drive quality in the United States was eliminated.

"We'd seen it a dozen times before. India was no stranger to the phenomenon: In what are essentially state-controlled industries, quality declines. Services become apathetic, buildings derelict, equipment shabby. And in healthcare, that means death.

"But we were already moving in the other direction. Thrust into international competition for middle-class patients, we applied the lessons of industry to healthcare. We were specializing our facilities and delivering cheaper, higher-quality services than anybody else on the planet. Even in those days, some Indian hospitals could deliver the world's best open heart surgery outcomes for an average of only $2,000 per operation. Today, India has grown into the world's largest economy on the back of healthcare. We provide fully 30% of all the world's health services - public or private. Our industry employs tens of millions. We've studied, we've learned and we've built.

"What you see today is a culmination of that effort."

Rajiv turned and the horizontal escalator we were on began to move. The facility was a gleaming, massive, machine of life. We were in what appeared to be a lobby.

As we moved, Rajiv continued to speak, "Folks, this hospital has 50,000 beds - by far the largest in the world. It is a medical city. We don't have a traditional admissions area. Instead, incoming patients are immediately assessed and sent to the area of the hospital most appropriate to them. We find that eliminating waiting times results in not only happier, but healthier, customers. Once in the appropriate area, patients are assessed by a doctor before we even begin to collect their paperwork. Past patients have radio ID cards that enable us to check them in without any paperwork at all.

He gestured out the window and towards a runway outside. "As many of you know, many of our efforts are geared towards enabling people around the world to take advantage of our fantastic care. That is why we started MediAir in 2014. With dedicated medical transports, including long-haul A380s, MediAir provided a huge number of innovations - FAA approved hospital beds, tracked loading to enable patients to get on and off the aircraft without even sitting up, a full suite of life support and medical systems, a fully trained medical staff, including an emergency OR on the A-380s. And last, but not least, onboard passport control, to enable patients to get from aircraft to hospital without delays. But we never had direct access to one of our hospitals - we always had to fight Indian traffic and Indian roads. Now, that has been changed. Aircraft can land on that runway right there. The aircraft pull into hangers and discharge patients directly into the hospital. The process is incredibly smooth - and admissions complications have been dramatically cut."

The escalator continued moving.

"We've built the best into every aspect of this hospital. The escalator system use RFid tags on patients to direct them to any portion of the hospital quickly and safely. Despite having a top speed of almost 15 miles per hour, the escalators are gentle. When they stop and go, they do so gently. This single innovation has enabled us to build a hospital on a scale never before seen."

The escalator whisked us into a large and darkened room. In all directions, on several floors, were individual workstations, encased in sound-proofing plastic.

"This is the hub of our virtual clinic system. Naturally, we want to reach our customers in their home countries. Not everything requires a long flight, and not everybody is willing to wait for the shoddy care their local health utilities can provide. So we built 30,000 small-scale clinics globally - but staffed here. We essentially built medical vending machines. In a private area of a shopping center, for example, a patient can walk into the kiosk, slide their credit card, and work with a doctor - no appointment required. Our doctors interact with patients and using advanced robotic technology can physically interact with patients. It takes a little practice, but our doctors acquire amazing tactile abilities using these devices. They can actually 'zoom in' on a small area and feel it in more detail than a human hand could possible provide. In addition, because of the number of doctors available, we have further cut waiting times. Of course, for an additional fee, you can be seen by 'your' doctor."

A hand went up.

"Yes?"

"Do you plan to provide surgery's using this equipment."

"No," said Dr. Ragiv, "We can't provide sufficient control of the environment through our virtual clinics. However, the clinics can be used to book MediAir flights. And we expect to deploy our first medical ships for more involved and emergency outpatient procedures. We will be parking the first ship in international waters off of the New Jersey coast. Future ships will serve other major population centers."

The reporter nodded and our escalator continued.

"I'd love to show you are R&D facility, but it is top-secret. We are in constant competition with other facilities in India and our secrets are, how shall I put it, sacrosanct. Needless to say, we have a full-scale research facility pushing the barriers of medicine to offer our patients more than any other hospital chain in the world. We have 200,000 beds throughout the chain, there is ample opportunity to profit from the best in medicine. Of course, we submit to the Indian Review Protocols for efficacy review on every innovation we deploy. The IRP has enabled India's healthcare system to provide unparalleled levels of patient safety even as it cut out the waste and red tape associated with the FDA. This is a competitive field, but it is also critical to India's future. The IRP has ensured we have the processes in place to both grow it and protect it."

We passed over a large artificial lake.

"Our innovations has slashed costs for a wide range of care. But they have also improved outcomes. I will admit that IndiaCare offers better gastric outcomes - particularly in diagnosis - but we are at or near the top of every other specialty. Specialist facilities do crop up now and then, offering innovations in specific areas and it is our guarantee that if they provide something you need, we'll hire them to do the job. We have sub-contracted no fewer than 150,000 procedures this year alone."

We were whisked onwards. The escalator shifted upwards. The opaque ceiling was replaced by a massive glass skylight. We were rising towards a gleaming tower.

"Health is a wonderful industry. Our employees change lives every day. It is amazing to consider, but only a decade ago, India was exporting doctors. Today, we import the best from all over the world. Fully half of our medical staff is from the US - doctors and nurses fed up with the hassles of providing care in the US, and the costs of doing so. Here, they just need to do their jobs. They work hard, they are paid very well and they never see an insurance form. We compensate them based on performance and, if they'd like, they can reside in our own on-site luxury condominiums. The housing complex has every conceivable facility - including synagogues and Kosher restaurants for our many Jewish doctors."

The escalator veered to the left and we reentered the hospital proper.

"Before this tour ends, I want to show you our next generation patient rooms."

The escalator came to a stop outside a cut-out room.

"We find that costs are far lower when patients are housed in wards. Of course, our patients also value privacy. So we offer compact, high-density beds. Where traditional hospitals had sliding sheets or drapes separating patients, we offer room separators that can be electrostatically tinted to be either opaque or clear. This approach cuts the risks of infection while providing a truly low-cost high solution."

Reporters nodded.

And then, unexpectedly, each of the walls suddenly lit up with images.

"Of course," Rajiv continued, "We didn't stop at making them opaque. Each of these walls is a low-cost O-LED monitor. Nobody wants to be cut off from the outside world. These monitors can allow a patient, sitting down, standing up or laying on their backs, to immerse themselves in almost any environment. They can put themselves in their own living rooms or at a cafe and interact with relatives or friends. Or they can just hang out on the beach and forget their troubles. And when it comes time to medical care, any portion of the wall can be used to display medical data, including X-rays, MRIs, test results, medical probe views and, of course, vital signs."

Rajiv paused and smiled his famous grin. "Folks," he said, "Welcome to the future."

He paused again.

"Any questions?"