The Apex Book of World SF Part 17

She had just taken a message over the phone and was tearing out the ubiquitous Whilst You Were Out slip when Idris found himself in front of her gleaming white desk. His eyes fell longingly on those fair, smooth cheeks, then strayed across to her warm, dreamy eyes.

"Hi, Zani! I'm Idris," Idris said in a bright, cheerful voice, which he hoped would radiate confidence and friendliness and mask that blind desire bubbling just below the surface.

"Nice to meet you, Idris," replied Zani. She quickly looked up, and as quickly looked away.

"I'd like to welcome you to Solid Equipments." Idris wore a Ches.h.i.+re cat grin as he imagined himself lying next to that gleaming long hair, stroking it...oh, stroking it.... "Thanks," Zani replied, eyes not leaving the newsletter held in her dainty fingers.

"Will you have lunch?"

Zani glared up at him with a puzzled look, both the cosmetic pearls and her eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily.

"Lunch, you know," Idris elaborated. "Have lunch together, you and me--eating together...get to know each other. My treat!"

"No, thank you," Zani snapped. She swivelled her chair to face the computer screen and began typing fastidiously--even arrogantly, if one could do that.

"Next time perhaps," Idris said, his smile dropping like a shattered rock.

"Maybe, maybe not," muttered Zani as her dainty fingers ran rings around the keyboard.

Idris was crestfallen. Zani was obviously not interested in him. He crept away toward Finance, hoping that the carpeted floor would swallow him whole.

"That girl not your type."

Idris turned around to see fat Cindy Lam from Marketing with a half-eaten biscuit and a cup of milky sweet tea.

"What do you mean, not my type?"

"Not your type, very action one. I heard she got three or four boys chasing after her, but she only like rich people."

"How do you know this?" questioned Idris.

"I've been sitting in the cubicle opposite her," Cindy replied, "heard all her phone calls. Don't waste time."

"Okay, I won't waste my time with her," lied Idris.

He was not going to give up so easily. Just the sight of her warm, dreamy eyes and long, gleaming hair would lift his spirits and bring a song to his lips. Every effort he made would be worth it; she was going to be his. He knew it. It was just a question of time and effort.

Not wanting to appear too keen, Idris made a tactical decision not call her for the rest of the week. On Monday, he called her extension and in a deep and confident voice asked her to lunch. He was turned down, the slammed phone ringing like a bee in his ear. He refrained on Tuesday. Wednesday saw his roti canai luncheon request rejected. It was going to take more b.l.o.o.d.y effort than he thought!

By the time Friday had arrived, Idris was in the darkest of moods. Zani had rejected all lunch dates and ignored him when he came up to her with a bunch of fifty-dollar orchids. She just dismissed him as if he were an office boy, and the orchids ended up petals-first in the bin. To make matters worse, his workmates giggled, even laughed, at his every approach.

Cindy Lam said, "I told you so," repeatedly during lunch so that he felt sick in the stomach and offered her his nasi lemak, which she soon consumed without ceremony. "Not enough chilli," she said as she chewed the last mouthful.

"I'm going to get her," said Idris. "She's mine."

"How? She ignore you all the time."

"Somehow, she will be mine. I'll go to a bomoh."

"A bomoh, a shaman, a magic man?" asked Cindy with eyebrows raised.

"Just joking, lah," said Idris as he stood to get up.

"Wait, wait, you sit down." Cindy watched Idris reluctantly climb back onto the wooden bench with a fed-up expression. "If you are serious, I can help. My uncle's driver knows a very good bomoh. He call him the biggest, baddest bomoh in the world!"

"Sounds like a Michael Jackson song," muttered Idris.

"Don't be stupid," said Cindy with blazing eyes. "If you really want this girl, this bomoh will get her for you. You know my uncle's cousin dying from cancer last year, you know. Went to the bomoh, five days later, cancer gone! Just like that, doctors call it a miracle. I call it magic. Powerful magic! Not called the biggest, baddest bomoh for nothing!"

And so on to a taxi with torn plastic seats leaving Subang airport and on to a rattling bus departing Pudu Raya, Idris' eyes were transfixed on a hazy image of Zani, her gleaming hair billowing in the wind but just out of reach. He headed south in a speeding bus to Seremban and a hotel, a lodging house with eight rooms off a busy street with a rusty air-conditioner and thin, musty towels. Idris slept restlessly, tossing and turning as the air-conditioner stalled, started, changed gears, hummed, and clanged. How he wished he was tossing and turning with her instead, pressing his mouth against her fair, smooth cheek, her cherry-red lips. Soon, soon, Idris whispered, the flas.h.i.+ng lights outside falling upon his face in spectrum of garish colours so he looked like an extraterrestrial guest star from "The X-Files."

A tired, bleary-eyed Idris found himself in a rusty, battered taxi with its Mercedes star missing from the bonnet and a relic of a Chinese driver at the wheel, one tooth missing. And then up along the windy tree-lined roads, toward Simpang Pertang. Then a turn off onto a lane, a dirt track road, scaring a chicken that jumped over the taxi, squawking hysterically. Squeezing past a stubborn goat that no honking of the horn would budge, its big gla.s.sy eyes transfixed on his as they crossed paths, fluttering its eyelashes, letting loose a couple of flies that circled in the simmering air.

You here to see the biggest, baddest bomoh? he heard it say, swis.h.i.+ng its beard from side to side. Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. You better know what you're doing! Absolute fool! The goat nodded its head and pointed its horns at Idris. Idris fell back on the plastic-coated seat; he could have sworn it spoke, and the d.a.m.n goat was now chuckling away!

Finally they found the house, which to Idris' disappointment was quite ordinary, one in a row of eight, with nothing different about it. Was.h.i.+ng on the line, tricycle at the front, slippers and shoes entangled at the front door. This could surely not be the biggest, baddest bomoh's house, cancer-curer, witch-doctor extraordinaire. He called out a greeting anyway, removed his shoes and entered.

On a hard old sofa, below a rotating fan, in front of a large old television, with children yelling next door, Idris was dismayed. This could not be the powerful shaman Cindy boasted of. He had been taken for a ride, all the way up the b.l.o.o.d.y peninsula. All this way for nothing! Pak Hitam was about thirty-five, lanky, and wore a thin-lipped smile on his spotty face. He served tea clumsily, spoke with a thick, high-pitched Negri accent, and said that only true love would win Zani over. True love! What bulls.h.i.+t!

Idris repeated his story with all the semblance of patience he could muster, telling Pak Hitam what he wanted, what he needed: Zani, of all things, Zani, shapely legs, dreamy eyes, and all. Pak Hitam talked of love. Idris wanted potent potions. Idris argued that he had exhausted all love's avenues, all jalans, all lorongs. Pak Hitam had to help or he would kill himself, added Idris for dramatic effect. Yeah, jump into the Gombak river, people did it all the time! That worked like a little miracle. Pak Hitam agreed, taking Idris quite literally and seriously, the fool. Now for the true test: did this rambling man have the magic?

First, Pak Hitam lit a black candle, muttered some words, made strange gestures with his hands, inhaled deeply, and blew the dancing flame out, saying Zani would now be attracted to Idris. With the black smoke drifting by his lips, Idris stopped a curse in his throat. This was not the deal. Attraction was not enough. It was just allurement, and others could just as well entice her. After all, there were four other men to contend with. Rich guys, too!

Another spell, that was what was needed. What kind of spell? An ironclad guarantee of her, no matter what. No matter what? Yes, she would be his, without fail. Those are difficult spells, Pak Hitam countered. Nothing was too expensive to have Zani. Idris had come all this way, not for a possibility but a certainty. And surely the biggest, baddest bomoh, cancer-curer, witch-doctor extraordinaire, could do this. So you want her, no matter what? No matter what, replied Idris, licking his tumescent lips.

Pak Hitam, with great care, led him behind the house and up a verdant hill, toward a sacred site teeming with mosquitoes. They climbed a twisting, narrow track for forty minutes and reached a sudden clearing with six red half-rotting posts surrounding it. With each step of their uphill and somewhat sweaty journey, Pak Hitam seemed to grow taller, his frame bulkier, his voice deeper, and on reaching the clearing he was a different person, with authority and eyes sparkling with power. Absolute power!

Sitting on the damp ground beside a burner, smouldering charcoal, grey smoke bl.u.s.tering up the branches, acrid fumes filling his nostrils, a teary-eyed Idris heard the chanting. The voice rose and fell in dreamy waves, and Pak Hitam's eyes, bloodshot and puffy, closed and opened, closed and opened, like the mouth of a hungry fish. The words were a jumble, some with meaning, others a cacophony of tangled sounds.

When he was done, Pak Hitam uncrossed his legs, stood up, approached Idris, and coldly whispered, "She is now yours."

She was. For as soon as Idris was back in modern, flashy Singapore, away from jungle, chickens, and talking goats, Zani called.

He had just returned that Sunday evening to his one-bedroom flat when the telephone rang. Zani did not even ask if he was free, she was going to come over right now. Idris just said yes, of course, sure thing, anytime, no problem. He abandoned his half-eaten meal of fried rice in the kitchen and paced up and down, straightening posters, stacking magazines, lining up shoes, spraying air freshener indiscriminately.

Everything was just right. He put on some light background music, combed his hair, changed out of sarong and T-s.h.i.+rt into casual trousers and a tennis s.h.i.+rt with a grinning Lacoste crocodile. Bed made, cus.h.i.+ons arranged, curtains closed, lights dimmed. It was going to be perfect. Absolutely perfect. Pak Hitam had come through.

The door bell rang and Idris tactically waited a few seconds before opening it. It was Zani in person!

Idris could hardly believe it. There she was--glamorous, gorgeous, goluptious. Glistening eyes, soft skin, full cherry-red lips longing to be kissed, black gleaming hair. And that was just the top; below that was the most alluring and shapely body Idris had ever seen. The red blouse and black skirt would soon be off and he would-- The phone rang. Idris cursed himself for not putting the answering machine on. He reached for it, signalling Zani to come in.

It was Cindy Lam.

"Can't talk now, I'm busy,"

"How did it go? Did you meet Pak Hitam?"

"Yes, yes," said Idris impatiently, "I've got to go now."

"Did he agree to help?"

"Yes, yes he did." He looked back at Zani and grinned. Just ravis.h.i.+ng.

"How much he charge you?"

"Not much, not much," Idris replied as he motioned Zani to enter. Two hundred Malaysian was peanuts for this.

"You waste your money."

"Why?" countered Idris.

Zani smiled adoringly as she came in. Idris' heart soared. It was going to be a heavenly night. He would soon be lying next to that gleaming long hair, stroking it...oh, stroking it.... "Waste your money."

"Look Cindy, I'm willing to pay ten times that. She's here," Idris said triumphantly, "Zani is here in my flat!"

"Oh no, dear G.o.d!" hollered Cindy.

"What do you mean?" asked Idris irritably, angry at himself for letting her keep him on the line. Zani closed the front door with a thud that jolted Idris' heart like a gunshot.

"Zani died in a car crash on Friday after work."

The phone clanged onto the tiled floor, leaving Cindy's hysterical warnings flying aimlessly like buzzing insects. Idris' mouth was dry and gaping like that of a hooked fish, his eyes wide in terror. Sweat dripped down his pale face.

Zani smiled, the long, gleaming hair creeping down, her incisors, long and sharp, flas.h.i.+ng in the fluorescent light. Her eyes blinked, reddened and turned crimson; her face, like a rotten egg, was cracked all over, thick green liquid oozing out, spilling in huge globules down her blouse.

"Oh, darling, I'm yours."

"No, no!" shrieked Idris as he backed away.

She floated slowly across the room to him, gleaming hair billowing in an invisible wind, arms reaching for an embrace.

Even as Idris felt the hard concrete wall press against his back, he cursed the bomoh, the b.l.o.o.d.y awful power.

Zani floated down from the ceiling with a hungry smile, mouth open wide, incisors long and sharp, lunging longingly for his throat.

And all Cindy could hear was endless screaming.

"The Lost Xuyan Bride"

Aliette de Bodard.

Aliette de Bodard lives in Paris and has been publis.h.i.+ng stories steadily since 2006, several of which take place in the world of this story. She won the Writers of the Future compet.i.tion in 2007, and is currently working on more stories and a novel.

They say you are the one to see if I want to track down a missing person," the woman said, pulling to her the only chair in my office. She wore silk, embroidered with a qi'lin unicorn--a rank reserved for the highest businessmen of Fenliu.

I saw her long, lacquered nails and the impeccable yellow of her skin, the way she moved--sinuous and yet in perfect control--and I came to a conclusion. "I don't take clients from your background," I said.

"Indeed?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Too much trouble, Mr Brooks?" She'd switched from Xuyan to English on the last sentence. She was good. Likely she also spoke Nahuatl, the language of Greater Mexica. A true businesswoman, who would be at ease anywhere in North America.

"Yes," I said. "How odd that it's the richest who cause the most difficulties."

"I a.s.sure you I have no intention of causing difficulties," the woman said. "I will be straightforward."

That was familiar territory. "And leave me free rein?" I felt myself slide into the rhythm of an oft-practised dance, politeness relayed back and forth until we both reached an agreement. Xuyans could be difficult to handle, but I was used to dealing with them.

She surprised me by putting both hands on the table. "I have no time to bargain with you, Mr Brooks. If you will not take the case, I will find another investigator."

Money was tight; tight enough to make me regret moving west of the Rocky Mountains, into Xuyan territory. I could not afford to refuse her, and likely she had seen the peeling paint and the basic computer on my desk. But she was good at showing nothing. A good liar.

"Tell me the case," I said. "And I'll see whether I can take it."

She looked at me from under long lashes. "I am He Chan-Li. I work for Leiming Tech. I want you to find my daughter."

I said nothing, watching her. Watching her eyes, which told me all I needed to know: she was deciding what she could afford to tell me. And when she started speaking again, I knew I did not have her full trust.

"He Zhen did not come home seven nights ago," He Chan-Li said. "Her fiance hasn't heard from her either."

"Seven nights is a bit early to declare her missing," I said slowly.

He Chan-Li did not look at me. At last she said, "She had a tracking implant. We found it abandoned in a derelict building south of Fenliu."

A tracking implant. Not really surprising, for most of Fenliu's elite equipped their children with those, fearing kidnappings. Though...I remembered the fiance. "How old is she?" I asked.

"Sixteen," He Chan-Li said.

Sixteen was old. Sixteen was adulthood for girls in Xuya, far too late to bother with tracking. Most teenagers ran amok anyway, tracking implants or not. But I said nothing.

"Why a private investigator? The tribunal militia could--"

He Chan-Li shook her head. "No. This is a private matter, Mr Brooks. I will not bring the militia into it."

"I see." There probably was a reason, then, and I was going to have to find it--and soon. "Do you have leads? She might have run away--"

"No," He Chan-Li said. "She is not that kind of girl. And how would that explain the tracking implant? She never went into that area."

I could think of a few reasons for the tracking implant's location, knowing that Xuyan teenagers were no wiser nor more well-behaved than their American counterparts. But I said nothing, merely noted the "running away" as a possible explanation.

"I can show you her room," He Chan-Li said. "And you can talk to Wen Yi, her fiance."