Read Online The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight by Jonathan Strahan [Editor] - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Strahan [Editor]
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
can bury it in the ground, so if it does shatter no one will get hurt."
"How is this meant to help us?" her grandfather asked irritably. He lifted his right foot to examine the sole; a splinter of superconductor was poking through the skin.
Latifa said, "The mains power in Kandahar is unreliable, but it's still far cheaper than using a generator. A few of these storage coils should be enough to guarantee that we can run the kilns through a blackout."
"You're serious?"
Latifa hesitated. "Give me a few days to do some more experiments, then we'll know for sure."
"How many days of school have you missed already?"
"That's not important."
Her grandfather sat on the ground and covered his eyes with one hand. "School is not important now? They murdered your mother because she was teaching girls, and your father because he'd defended her. When she grew so afraid that she sent you to me, I promised her you'd get an education. This country is no paradise, but at least you were safe in that school, you were doing well. Now we're juggling money we don't have, living in fear of Ezatullah, blowing things up, planning some new madness every day."
Latifa approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "After this, there'll be nothing to distract me. We'll close the factory, we'll close the shop. My whole life will be school and homework, school and homework all the way to Eid."
Her grandfather looked up at her. "How long will it take?"
"Maybe a couple of weeks." The coils themselves didn't have to be complicated, but it would take some research and trial and error to get the charging and discharging circuitry right.
"And then what?" he asked. "If we send these things to Kandahar – with the kilns and everything else – do you think Fashard can put it all together and just take over where we left off?"
"Maybe not," Latifa conceded. Fashard had wired his own house, and he could repair a sewing machine blindfold. But this would be tricky, and she couldn't talk him through the whole setup on the phone.
She said, "It looks like Eid's coming early for me this year."
I n Herat, in the bus station's restroom, Latifa went through the ritual of replacing her headscarf and manteau with the burqa and niqab that she'd need to be wearing when she arrived in Kandahar.
She stared through the blue gauze at the anonymous figure reflected in the restroom's stained mirror. When she'd lived in Kabul with her parents, she'd still been young enough to visit Kandahar without covering her hair, let alone her face. But if anything, she felt insufficiently disguised now. On top of her anxiety over all her new secrets, this would be her first trip home without Amir travelling beside her – or at least, ten metres ahead of her, in the men's section of the bus. Fashard had offered to come and meet her in Herat, but she'd persuaded him to stay in Kandahar. She couldn't help being nervous, but that didn't mean she had to be cowed.
It was still early as the bus set out. Latifa chatted with the woman beside her, who was returning to Kandahar after visiting Herat for medical treatment. "I used to go to Quetta," the woman explained, "but it's too dangerous there now."
"What about Kabul?" Latifa asked.
"Kabul? These days you'll wait six months for an appointment."
The specialists in Herat were mostly Iranian; in Kabul, mostly European. In Kandahar, you'd be lucky to find anyone at all with a genuine medical degree, though there was a wide choice of charlatans who'd take your money in exchange for pharmaceuticals with expiry dates forged in ballpoint.
"Someone should build a medical school in Kandahar," Latifa suggested. "With ninety percent of the intake women, until things are evened out."
Her companion laughed nervously.
"I'm serious!" Latifa protested. "Aren't you sick of travelling to every point of the compass just to get what other people have at home?"
"Sister," the woman said quietly, "it's time to shut your mouth."
Latifa took her advice, and
"How is this meant to help us?" her grandfather asked irritably. He lifted his right foot to examine the sole; a splinter of superconductor was poking through the skin.
Latifa said, "The mains power in Kandahar is unreliable, but it's still far cheaper than using a generator. A few of these storage coils should be enough to guarantee that we can run the kilns through a blackout."
"You're serious?"
Latifa hesitated. "Give me a few days to do some more experiments, then we'll know for sure."
"How many days of school have you missed already?"
"That's not important."
Her grandfather sat on the ground and covered his eyes with one hand. "School is not important now? They murdered your mother because she was teaching girls, and your father because he'd defended her. When she grew so afraid that she sent you to me, I promised her you'd get an education. This country is no paradise, but at least you were safe in that school, you were doing well. Now we're juggling money we don't have, living in fear of Ezatullah, blowing things up, planning some new madness every day."
Latifa approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. "After this, there'll be nothing to distract me. We'll close the factory, we'll close the shop. My whole life will be school and homework, school and homework all the way to Eid."
Her grandfather looked up at her. "How long will it take?"
"Maybe a couple of weeks." The coils themselves didn't have to be complicated, but it would take some research and trial and error to get the charging and discharging circuitry right.
"And then what?" he asked. "If we send these things to Kandahar – with the kilns and everything else – do you think Fashard can put it all together and just take over where we left off?"
"Maybe not," Latifa conceded. Fashard had wired his own house, and he could repair a sewing machine blindfold. But this would be tricky, and she couldn't talk him through the whole setup on the phone.
She said, "It looks like Eid's coming early for me this year."
I n Herat, in the bus station's restroom, Latifa went through the ritual of replacing her headscarf and manteau with the burqa and niqab that she'd need to be wearing when she arrived in Kandahar.
She stared through the blue gauze at the anonymous figure reflected in the restroom's stained mirror. When she'd lived in Kabul with her parents, she'd still been young enough to visit Kandahar without covering her hair, let alone her face. But if anything, she felt insufficiently disguised now. On top of her anxiety over all her new secrets, this would be her first trip home without Amir travelling beside her – or at least, ten metres ahead of her, in the men's section of the bus. Fashard had offered to come and meet her in Herat, but she'd persuaded him to stay in Kandahar. She couldn't help being nervous, but that didn't mean she had to be cowed.
It was still early as the bus set out. Latifa chatted with the woman beside her, who was returning to Kandahar after visiting Herat for medical treatment. "I used to go to Quetta," the woman explained, "but it's too dangerous there now."
"What about Kabul?" Latifa asked.
"Kabul? These days you'll wait six months for an appointment."
The specialists in Herat were mostly Iranian; in Kabul, mostly European. In Kandahar, you'd be lucky to find anyone at all with a genuine medical degree, though there was a wide choice of charlatans who'd take your money in exchange for pharmaceuticals with expiry dates forged in ballpoint.
"Someone should build a medical school in Kandahar," Latifa suggested. "With ninety percent of the intake women, until things are evened out."
Her companion laughed nervously.
"I'm serious!" Latifa protested. "Aren't you sick of travelling to every point of the compass just to get what other people have at home?"
"Sister," the woman said quietly, "it's time to shut your mouth."
Latifa took her advice, and
Similar Books
