The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight by Jonathan Strahan [Editor] Page B
Authors: Jonathan Strahan [Editor]
Tags: Fiction
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policeman appeared sceptical: he knew what he'd seen. Latifa put the back of her hand to her eyes and sniffed.
"All right," he said. "Everyone makes mistakes." He turned to the woman. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."
"It's nothing." She nodded to Latifa. "Good evening."
The policeman lingered in the doorway, thinking things over. Then he approached the counter.
"Let me see your storeroom."
Latifa gestured to the entrance, but stayed beside the cash register. She listened to the man moving about, rustling through discarded packaging, tapping the walls. What did he imagine he'd find – a secret compartment?
He emerged from the room, stony faced, as if the lack of anything incriminating only compounded his resentment.
"ID card."
Latifa produced it. She'd rid herself of her accent long ago, and she had just enough of her father's Tajik features that she could often pass as an Iranian to the eye, but here it was: the proof of her real status.
"Ha," he grunted. "All right." He handed back the ID. "Just behave yourself, and we'll get along fine."
As he walked out of the shop, Latifa began shaking with relief. He'd found an innocent explanation for her reticence to press charges: the card entitled her to remain in the country at the pleasure of the government, but she wasn't a citizen, and she would have been crazy to risk the consequences if the woman had called her a liar.
Latifa wheeled her bicycle out of the storeroom and closed the shop. The factory was six kilometres away, and the traffic tonight looked merciless.
"I had a call from Ezatullah," Latifa's grandfather said. "He wants to take over the transport."
Latifa continued brushing down the slides from the superconductor hopper. "What does that mean?"
"He has another partner who's been bringing goods across the border. This man has a warehouse in Herat."
Herat was just a hundred kilometres from the border, on the route from Kandahar to Mashhad. "So he wants us to make room for this other man's merchandise in our trucks?" Latifa put the brush down. It was an unsettling prospect, but it didn't have to be a disaster.
"No," her grandfather replied. "He wants us to bring the wire across in this other man's trucks."
" Why?"
"The customs inspectors have people coming from Tehran to look over their shoulders," her grandfather explained. "There's no fixing that with bribes, and the clothes make too flimsy a cover for the real cargo. This other man's bringing over a couple of loads of scrap metal every week; hiding the wire won't be a problem for him."
Latifa sat down on the bench beside the winders. "But we can't risk that! We can't let him know how many spools we're bringing in!" Ezatullah had kept his distance from their day-to-day operations, but the black market contacts to whom they passed the altered wire had long-standing connections to him, and Latifa had no doubt that he was being kept apprised of every transaction. Under-reporting their sales to hide the fact that they were selling twice as much wire as they imported would be suicidal.
"Can we shift this work to Kandahar?" her grandfather asked.
"Maybe the last part, the winding," Latifa replied. So long as they could double the wire before it reached Herat, there'd be no discrepancies in the numbers Ezatullah received from his informants.
"What about the kilns?"
"No, the power's too erratic. If there's a blackout halfway through a batch that would ruin it – and we need at least two batches a day to keep up."
"Couldn't we use a generator?"
Latifa didn't have the numbers she needed to answer that, but she knew Fashard had looked into the economics of using one himself. She texted him some questions, and he replied a few minutes later.
"It's hopeless," she concluded. "Each kiln runs at about twenty kilowatts. Getting that from diesel, we'd be lucky to break even."
Her grandfather managed a curt laugh. "Maybe we'd be better off selling the rest of the wire as it is?"
Latifa did a few more
"All right," he said. "Everyone makes mistakes." He turned to the woman. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."
"It's nothing." She nodded to Latifa. "Good evening."
The policeman lingered in the doorway, thinking things over. Then he approached the counter.
"Let me see your storeroom."
Latifa gestured to the entrance, but stayed beside the cash register. She listened to the man moving about, rustling through discarded packaging, tapping the walls. What did he imagine he'd find – a secret compartment?
He emerged from the room, stony faced, as if the lack of anything incriminating only compounded his resentment.
"ID card."
Latifa produced it. She'd rid herself of her accent long ago, and she had just enough of her father's Tajik features that she could often pass as an Iranian to the eye, but here it was: the proof of her real status.
"Ha," he grunted. "All right." He handed back the ID. "Just behave yourself, and we'll get along fine."
As he walked out of the shop, Latifa began shaking with relief. He'd found an innocent explanation for her reticence to press charges: the card entitled her to remain in the country at the pleasure of the government, but she wasn't a citizen, and she would have been crazy to risk the consequences if the woman had called her a liar.
Latifa wheeled her bicycle out of the storeroom and closed the shop. The factory was six kilometres away, and the traffic tonight looked merciless.
"I had a call from Ezatullah," Latifa's grandfather said. "He wants to take over the transport."
Latifa continued brushing down the slides from the superconductor hopper. "What does that mean?"
"He has another partner who's been bringing goods across the border. This man has a warehouse in Herat."
Herat was just a hundred kilometres from the border, on the route from Kandahar to Mashhad. "So he wants us to make room for this other man's merchandise in our trucks?" Latifa put the brush down. It was an unsettling prospect, but it didn't have to be a disaster.
"No," her grandfather replied. "He wants us to bring the wire across in this other man's trucks."
" Why?"
"The customs inspectors have people coming from Tehran to look over their shoulders," her grandfather explained. "There's no fixing that with bribes, and the clothes make too flimsy a cover for the real cargo. This other man's bringing over a couple of loads of scrap metal every week; hiding the wire won't be a problem for him."
Latifa sat down on the bench beside the winders. "But we can't risk that! We can't let him know how many spools we're bringing in!" Ezatullah had kept his distance from their day-to-day operations, but the black market contacts to whom they passed the altered wire had long-standing connections to him, and Latifa had no doubt that he was being kept apprised of every transaction. Under-reporting their sales to hide the fact that they were selling twice as much wire as they imported would be suicidal.
"Can we shift this work to Kandahar?" her grandfather asked.
"Maybe the last part, the winding," Latifa replied. So long as they could double the wire before it reached Herat, there'd be no discrepancies in the numbers Ezatullah received from his informants.
"What about the kilns?"
"No, the power's too erratic. If there's a blackout halfway through a batch that would ruin it – and we need at least two batches a day to keep up."
"Couldn't we use a generator?"
Latifa didn't have the numbers she needed to answer that, but she knew Fashard had looked into the economics of using one himself. She texted him some questions, and he replied a few minutes later.
"It's hopeless," she concluded. "Each kiln runs at about twenty kilowatts. Getting that from diesel, we'd be lucky to break even."
Her grandfather managed a curt laugh. "Maybe we'd be better off selling the rest of the wire as it is?"
Latifa did a few more
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