Do you know how I hunt the blueback? I seize his child, and he forgets himself. Come and see what I’ve baited forth. Come and see how I have learned to hunt.
Alanie could hear Eliam’s cursing as he drew nearer, and Elbe had begun to sob with fear, but Alanie cared only for the deeps.
Again and again she called out to the kraken.
The hunt is the same on sea or shore. The hunt is always the same. I have listened; I have learned. Come and see what follows me.
Again and again she called, and down in the deeps great shadow creatures stirred and shifted. Alanie felt the currents change, and she redoubled her calls, and Moriabe’s children slid from beneath ocean sands and eased from night-black trenches.
The hunt is the same on sea or shore, Alanie sang. A great blueback has forgotten himself in the chase to save his child. Come and hunt; come and see.
The ocean currents shifted and swirled. The waters around Alanie began to froth as kraken surged upward.
Come and hunt; come and see.
She could feel the kraken rising from the depths, feel the ocean rushing past her skin, faster and faster, see the sunlight streaming down through the waters, and the specks that floated far above, so small so small.
See what I have baited forth, Alanie called. He is soft. No gristle at all. He is soft.
Moriabe’s children surged for the surface.
Eliam was still shouting and Elbe had grabbed Alanie’s arm to point at the boiling waters all around, but all their words were lost. The ocean’s roar drowned them out completely. The only sounds in Alanie’s ears were the voices of the kraken, rising.
Sister, the kraken called. Sister.
Alanie spread her arms wide, welcoming her kin.
THE VAPORIZATION ENTHALPY OF A PECULIAR PAKISTANI FAMILY
Usman T. Malik
Usman T. Malik (www.usmanmalik.org) is a Pakistani writer resident in Florida. He reads Sufi poetry, likes long walks, and occasionally strums naats on the guitar. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Tor.com, Strange Horizons, Black Static, Daily Science Fiction, Exigencies, and Qualia Nous, among other places. He is a graduate of Clarion West.
1
THE SOLID PHASE of Matter is a state wherein a substance is particulately bound. To transform a solid into liquid, the intermolecular forces need to be overcome, which may be achieved by adding energy. The energy necessary to break such bonds is, ironically, called the heat of fusion.
ON A FRIDAY after jumah prayers, under the sturdy old oak in their yard, they came together as a family for the last time. Her brother gave in and wept as Tara watched, eyes prickling with a warmth that wouldn’t disperse no matter how much she knuckled them, or blinked.
“Monsters,” Sohail said, his voice raspy. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the sky, a vast whiteness cobblestoned with heat. The plowed wheat fields beyond the steppe on which their house perched were baked and khaki and shivered a little under Tara’s feet. An earthquake or a passing vehicle on the highway? Perhaps it was just foreknowledge that made her dizzy. She pulled at her lower lip and said nothing.
“Monsters,” Sohail said again. “Oh God, Apee. Murderers.” She reached out and touched his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” She thought he would pull back. When he didn’t, she let her fingers fall and linger on the flame-shaped scar on his arm. So it begins, she thought. How many times has this happened before? Pushing and prodding us repeatedly until the night swallows us whole. She thought of that until her heart constricted with dread. “Don’t do it,” she said. “Don’t go.”
Sohail lifted his shoulders and drew his head back, watched her wonderingly as if seeing her for the first time.
“I know I ask too much,” she said. “I know the customs of honor, but for the love of God let it go. One death needn’t become a lodestone for others. One horror needn’t –”
But he wasn’t listening, she could tell. They would not hear nor see once the blood was upon them, didn’t the Scriptures say so? Sohail heard, but didn’t listen. His conjoined eyebrows, like dark hands held, twitched. “Her name meant a rose,” he said and smiled. It was beautiful, that smile, heartbreaking, frightening. “Under the mango trees by Chacha Barkat’s farm Gulminay told me that, as I kissed her hand. Whispered it in my ear, her finger circling my temple. A rose blooming in the rain. Did you know that?”
Tara didn’t. The sorrow of his confession filled her now as did the certainty of his leaving. “Yes,” she lied, looking him in the eyes. God, his eyes looked awful: webbed with red, with thin tendrils of steam rising from them. “A rose God gave us and took away because He loved her so.”
“Wasn’t God,” Sohail said and rubbed his fingers together. The sound was insectile. “Monsters.” He turned his back to her and was able to speak rapidly, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I’m going to the mountains. I will take some bread and dried meat. I will stay there until I’m shown a sign, and once I am,” his back arched, then straightened. He had lost weight; his shoulder blades poked through the khaddar shirt like trowels, “I will arise and go to their homes. I will go to them as God’s wrath. I will –”
She cut him off, her heart pumping fear through her body like poison. “What if you go to them and die? What if you go to them like a steer to the slaughter? And Ma and I – what if months later we sit here and watch a dusty vehicle climb the hill, bouncing a sack of meat in the back seat that was once you? What if...”
But she couldn’t go on giving name to her terrors. Instead, she said, “If you go, know that we as we are now will be gone forever.”
He shuddered. “We were gone when she was gone. We were shattered with her bones.” The wind picked up, a whipping, chador-lifting sultry gust that made Tara’s flesh prickle. Sohail began to walk down the steppes, each with its own crop: tobacco, corn, rice stalks wavering in knee-high water; and as she watched his lean farmer body move away, it seemed to her as if his back was not drenched in sweat, but acid. That his flesh glistened not from moisture, but blood. All at once their world was just too much, or not enough – Tara couldn’t decide which – and the weight of that unseen future weighed her down until she couldn’t breathe. “My brother,” she said and began to cry. “You’re my little brother.”
Sohail continued walking his careful, dead man’s walk until his head was a wobbling black pumpkin rising from the last steppe. She watched him disappear in the undulations of her motherland, helpless to stop the fatal fracturing of her world, wondering if he would stop or doubt or look back.
Sohail never looked back.
MA DIED THREE months later.
The village menfolk told her the death prayer was brief and moving. Tara couldn’t attend because she was a woman.
They helped her bury Ma’s sorrow-filled body, and the rotund mullah clucked and murmured over the fresh mound. The women embraced her and crooned and urged her to vent.
“Weep, our daughter,” they cried, “for the childrens’ tears of love are like manna for the departed.”
Tara tried to weep and felt guilty when she couldn’t. Ma had been sick and in pain for a long time and her hastened death was a mercy, but you couldn’t say that out loud. Besides, the women had said children, and Sohail wasn’t there. Not at the funeral, nor during the days after. Tara dared not wonder where he was, nor imagine his beautiful face gleaming in the dark atop a stony mountain, persevering in his vigil.
“What will you do now?” they asked, gathering around her with sharp, interested eyes. She knew what they really meant. A young widow with no family was a stranger amidst her clan. At best an oddity; at her worst a seductress. Tara was surprised to discover their concern didn’t frighten her. The perfect loneliness of it, the inadvertent exclusion – they were just more beads in the tautening string of her life.
“I’m thinking of going to the City,” she told them. “Ma has a cousin there.
Perhaps he can help me with bread and board, while I look for work.” She paused, startled by a clear
memory: Sohail and Gulminay by the Kunhar River, fishing for trout. Gulminay’s sequined hijab dappling the stream with emerald as she reached down into the water with long, pale fingers. Sohail grinning his stupid lover’s grin as his small hands encircled her waist, and Tara watched them both from the shade of the eucalyptus, fond and jealous.
By then Tara’s husband was long gone and she could forgive herself the occasional resentment.
She forced the memory away. “Yes, I think I might go to the city for a while.” She laughed. The sound rang hollow and strange in the emptiness of her tin-and-timber house. “Who knows I might even go back to school. I used to enjoy reading once.” She smiled at these women with their hateful, sympathetic eyes that watched her cautiously as they would a rabid animal.
She nodded, talking mostly to herself. “Yes, that would be good. Hashim would’ve wanted that.”
They drew back from her, from her late husband’s mention. Why not?
she thought. Everything she touched fell apart; everyone around her died or went missing. There was no judgment here, just dreadful awe. She could allow them that, she thought.
2
THE LIQUID PHASE of Matter is a restless volume that, by dint of the vast spaces between its molecules, fills any container it is poured in and takes its shape. Liquids tend to have higher energy than solids, and while the particles retain inter-particle forces they have enough energy to move relative to each other.
The structure therefore becomes mobile and malleable.
IN THE CITY, Tara turned feral in her pursuit of learning. This had been long coming and it didn’t surprise her. At thirteen, she had been withdrawn from school; she needed not homework but a husband, she was told. At sixteen, she was wedded to Hashim. He was blown to smithereens on her twenty-first birthday. A suicide attack on his unit’s northern check post.
“I want to go to school,” she told Wasif Khan, her mother’s cousin. They were sitting in his six-by-eight yard, peeling fresh oranges he had confiscated from an illegal food vendor. Wasif was a Police hawaldar, and on the rough side of sixty. He often said confiscation was his first love and contraband second. But he grinned when he said it, which made it easier for her to like him.
Now Wasif tossed a half-gnawed chicken bone to his spotted mongrel and said, “I don’t know if you want to do that.”
“I do.”
“You need a husband, not –”
“I don’t care. I need to go back to school.”
“Why?” He dropped an orange rind in the basket at his feet, gestured with a large liver-spotted hand. “The City doesn’t care if you can read. Besides, I need someone to help me around the house. I’m old and ugly and useless, but I have this tolerable place and no children. You’re my cousin’s daughter. You can stay here forever if you like.”
In a different time she might have mistaken his generosity for loneliness, but now she understood it for what it was. Such was the way of age: it melted prejudice or hardened it. “I want to learn about the world,” she said. “I want to see if there are others like me. If there have been others before me.”
He was confused. “Like you how?”
She rubbed an orange peel between her fingers, pressing the fibrous texture of it in the creases of her flesh, considering how much to tell him. Her mother had trusted him. Yet Ma hardly had their gift and even if she did Tara doubted she would have been open about it. Ma had been wary of giving too much of herself away – a trait she passed on to both her children. Among other things.
So now Tara said, “Others who need to learn more about themselves. I spent my entire childhood being just a bride and look where that got me. I am left with nothing. No children, no husband, no family.” Wasif Khan looked hurt. She smiled kindly. “You know what I mean, Uncle. I love you, but I need to love me too.”
Wasif Khan tilted his head back and pinched a slice of orange above his mouth. Squeezed it until his tongue and remaining teeth gleamed with the juice. He closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded. “I don’t know if I approve, but I think I understand.” He lifted his hand and tousled his own hair thoughtfully. “It’s a different time. Others my age who don’t realize it don’t fare well. The traditional rules don’t apply anymore, you know. Sometimes, I think that is wonderful. Other times, it feels like the whole damn world is conspiring against you.”
She rose, picking up her mess and his. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“It’s either you or every hookah-sucking asshole in this neighborhood for company.” He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “My apologies. I’ve been living alone too long and my tongue is spoilt.”
She laughed loudly; and thought of a blazing cliff somewhere from which dangled two browned, peeling, inflamed legs, swinging back and forth like pendulums.
SHE READ EVERYTHING she could get her hands on. At first, her alphabet was broken and awkward, as was her rusty brain, but she did it anyway. It took her two years, but eventually she qualified for F.A. examinations, and passed on her first try.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Wasif Khan said to her, his face beaming at the neighborhood children as he handed out specially prepared mithai to eager hands, “but I’m proud of you.”
She wasn’t, but she didn’t say it. Instead, once the children left, she went to the mirror and gazed at her reflection, flexing her arm this way and that, making the flame-shaped scar bulge. We all drink the blood of yesterday, she thought.
The next day she enrolled at Punjab University’s B.Sc program.
In Biology class, they learned about plants and animals. Flora and Fauna, they called them. Things constructed piece by piece from the basic units of life – cells. These cells in turn were made from tiny building blocks called atoms, which themselves were bonded by the very things that repelled their core: electrons.
In Physics class, she learned what electrons were. Little flickering ghosts that vanished and reappeared as they pleased. Her flesh was empty, she discovered, or most of it. So were human bones and solid buildings and the incessantly agitated world. All that immense loneliness and darkness with only a hint that we existed. The idea awed her. Did we exist only as a possibility?
In Wasif Khan’s yard was a tall mulberry tree with saw-like leaves. On her way to school she touched them; they were spiny and jagged. She hadn’t eaten mulberries before. She picked a basketful, nipped her wrist with her teeth, and let her blood roast a few. She watched them curl and smoke from the heat of her genes, inhaled the sweet steam of their juice as they turned into mystical symbols.
Mama would have been proud.
She ate them with salt and pepper, and was offended when Wasif Khan wouldn’t touch those remaining.
He said they gave him reflux.
3
THE GASEOUS PHASE of Matter is one in which particles have enough kinetic energy to make the effect of intermolecular forces negligible. A gas, therefore, will occupy the entire container in which it is confined.
Liquid may be converted to gas by heating at constant pressure to a certain temperature.
This temperature is called the boiling point.
THE WORST FLOODING the province has seen in forty years was the one thing all radio broadcasters agreed on.
Wasif Khan hadn’t confiscated a television yet, but if he had, Tara was sure, it would show the same cataclysmic damage to life and property. At one point, someone said, an area the size of England was submerged in raging floodwater.
Wasif’s neighborhood in the northern, hillier part of town escaped the worst of the devastation, but Tara and Wasif witnessed it daily when they went for rescue work: upchucked power pylons and splintered oak trees smashing through the marketplace stalls; murderous tin sheets and iron rods slicing through inundated alleys; bloated dead cows and sheep eddying in shoulder-high water with terrified children clinging to them. It pawed at the towering steel-and-concrete structures, this restless liquid death that had come to the city; it ripped out their underpinnings and a
nnihilated everything in its path.
Tara survived these days of heartbreak and horror by helping to set up a small tent city on the sports fields of her university. She volunteered to establish a nursery for displaced children and went with rescue teams to scour the ruins for usable supplies, and corpses.
As she pulled out the dead and living from beneath the wreckage, as she tossed plastic-wrapped food and dry clothing to the dull-eyed homeless, she thought of how bright and hot and dry the spines of her brother’s mountains must be. It had been four years since she saw him, but her dreams were filled with his absence. Did he sit parched and caved in, like a deliberate Buddha? Or was he dead and pecked on by ravens and falcons?
She shuddered at the thought and grabbed another packet of cooked rice and dry beans for the benighted survivors.
THE FIRST WARNING came on the last night of Ramadan. Chand raat.
Tara was eating bread and lentils with her foundling children in the nursery when it happened. A bone-deep trembling that ran through the grass, flattening its blades, evaporating the evening dew trembling on them. Seconds later, a distant boom followed: a hollow rumbling that hurt Tara’s ears and made her feel nauseated. (Later, she would learn that the blast had torn through the marble-walled shrine of Data Sahib, wrenching its iron fence from its moorings, sending jagged pieces of metal and scorched human limbs spinning across the walled part of the City.)
Her children sat up, confused and scared. She soothed them. Once a replacement was found, she went to talk to the tent city administrator.
“I’ve seen this before,” she told him once he confirmed it was a suicide blast. “My husband and sister-in-law both died in similar situations.” That wasn’t entirely true for Gulminay, but close enough. “Usually one such attack is followed by another when rescue attempts are made. My husband used to call them ‘double tap’ attacks.” She paused, thinking of his kind, dearly loved face for the first time in months. “He understood the psychology behind them well.”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Nine Page 6
