Alif the Unseen (36 page)

“I lost it,” said Alif, head drooping. “The
Alf Yeom
. I lost it.”

Sakina’s eyes went wide.

“Lost it? How? Who has it now?”

“I have no idea who could have taken it. The Hand doesn’t have it. Sheikh Bilal doesn’t have it. I was holed up in Basheera, using it to code, and then everything went to
hell—”

Sakina leaned forward and pressed her hands together beneath her chin, fixing Alif with an urgent, sun-colored stare.

“Say that again. What do you mean you were using it to code?”

Alif struggled for the right words to explain.

“I figured out what Al Shehab—we call him the Hand—wanted to do with it. He believed all those mystics who’d been trying to understand the
Alf Yeom
for centuries
were going about things from the wrong end. He thought that since the book can be understood as a symbol-set, there was an obvious application for computing. He thought, in other words, that he
could use the
Alf Yeom
to create a totally new coding methodology, a sort of supercomputer built out of metaphors.”

Sakina sat back and studied Alif in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable.

“And you did it,” she said. “You made it work.”

“Sort of. The code was only viable for a few minutes before the computer I was using crashed. You have to remove too many parameters to work like that. It causes a lot of errors. Computers
are like angels—they’re built to obey commands. If you give them too much interpretive leeway they get confused.”

“Hmm.” Sakina worried the end of one of her braids with a claw-tipped finger. “I’m impressed you’re willing to admit as much. Most people who become convinced that
kind of power is within their grasp stop believing in the possibility of failure. I’m also worried that the book is now out in the open, and that more of your kind will attempt to use it for
the same ends. Not all of the
banu adam
are as farsighted as you.”

Alif twisted his hands anxiously. Behind him, NewQuarter and Sheikh Bilal were stirring on their sleeping mats.

“I’ll find out who took it,” Alif said, lowering his voice. “And when I do I’ll get rid of it.”

“I don’t have the authority to tell you what to do with it,” said Sakina with a slight wince. “But I don’t like the idea of getting rid of books. That manuscript is
a legacy of your race, for good or ill.”

“Mostly ill,” said Alif.

“Even so. The
Alf Yeom
is not evil in and of itself—for the djinn it is history. Like so many things, it becomes corrupt in the hands of man. But if we were to destroy all
the things that man has made corrupt, the earth would be barren in a day.”

“I wouldn’t be destroying the
Alf Yeom,
” Alif pointed out. “Just the man-made copy. The djinn will still have all of theirs. You’ll lose
nothing.”

Sakina responded by looking away, as though considering some eldritch facet of their conversation. Though she had complimented him on his intellect, Alif felt outmatched even by her silences. He
attempted to steer her back toward his most immediate concern.

“Vikram said he was taking the convert and Dina here, to the Empty Quarter. Do you know—is there any way to find out if they made it, or where they might be if they did?”

Sakina roused herself from her reverie.

“ We could look for them,” she said, “but I have to tell you, Alif, any
beni adam
without a protector in the Empty Quarter is not likely to survive for long.
You’re not meant to be here, and your minds are not equipped to interpret what you see. It’s taxing on the sanity of all but the most spiritually elite. You’ll start to feel the
undertow of this place yourself soon enough.”

“Then we have to go now.” Alif was haunted by the image of Dina undone by madness. He needed to see her.

“Go where?” NewQuarter sat up, rubbing his frowzy head and yawning.

“To find my friends,” said Alif. “They may have been stranded here after everything went down at Al Basheera.”

“Good God, you brought a woman.” NewQuarter noticed Sakina for the first time. He hastily ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair.

Alif introduced NewQuarter and Sheikh Bilal, who stuttered out a greeting while arranging his rumpled head cloth, still not fully awake. Sakina smiled at them, seeming not to notice their
furtive glances at her eyes and teeth and hands. When they had made themselves presentable, they followed her downstairs into the main room of the bar, or inn, or whatever it was; the tables were
less populated now and only a few uncanny patrons could be seen around them. The candle flame from the night before appeared to be passed out at its table, sleeping off the contents of the empty
glass dangling from its flickering hand. The shadow that had served them—if it was the same shadow—reappeared with bowls of a steaming white liquid that turned out to be hot honeyed
milk, along with a plate of bread. Alif ate with a better appetite than he had had the day before.

“How do we pay this guy?” he asked Sakina as he tore into a piece of bread, realizing he had no currency of any kind, nor any knowledge of whether the djinn used currency to begin
with.

“If you can’t pay with things, you could pay with skills,” said Sakina, motioning to the shadow.

“Well, wait a minute,” said Alif, looking from the shadow to Sakina. “My skills are more or less limited to computers—I’m not sure how much help that is to an, ah,
to a—”

Effrit, said the shadow,
I’m an
effrit.
And I’ve got a two-year-old Dell desktop in the back that’s had some kind of virus for ages. The screen goes black five
minutes after I turn the damn thing on. I have to do a hard reboot every time.

Alif felt a new vista of serendipitous opportunity open before him.

“You’ve got Internet in the Empty Quarter?” he asked in an awed voice.

Cousin,
said the shadow,
we’ve got WiFi
.

* * *

It took Alif no more than fifteen minutes to debug the
effrit’s
machine. The problem was an old and very clunky spyware applet he had seen before, one that had
slipped past a suite of antivirus software that was out of date. Alif removed the program and ran a few updates.

“I’ve deleted all your cookies just to be safe,” he told the shadow. “So the sites you visit frequently may need to reinstall them. That’ll happen automatically.
Just make sure you keep your antivirus software up-to-date—there are new definitions almost every day, so you don’t want to fall behind.”

I’ve heard cookies are dangerous,
said the shadow.

“They’re not. You can’t get a virus without executable content, which cookies don’t have. But the spyware geeks like them because they’re a fast way to collect your
information, so that’s what a lot of phishing programs target first. Just keep your software current—including browser updates—and you should be fine.”

Thanks.
The shadow floated over the keyboard as Alif stood and began, as far as he could tell, to check its e-mail. Alif was pleased with himself. He turned to grin at NewQuarter and
the sheikh, who lurked in the doorway of the back room to which the shadow had led them, looking dubious.

“Wow,
akhi,
” said NewQuarter. “I’m impressed you just sat there and did that. I’m not sure I could string two coherent sentences together with a telepathic
special effect hanging over my shoulder.”

“It’s still there,” said Alif, hoping the shadow had not heard.

“Yes, I see that. Can we go now?”

Come back again soon,
said the shadow, with a hint of what felt like sarcasm. Alif thanked it with more flourish than was probably necessary, attempting to make up for
NewQuarter’s rudeness, and hurried back out into the main room where Sakina was waiting.

“I think we should start by consulting someone whose job it is to know what goes on in Irem,” she said. “I can only imagine that your friends are here in the city—Vikram
would not have left them out in the wastelands. You’ve seen what it’s like out there.”

“I thought it was rather beautiful,” said Sheikh Bilal.

“I think so, too,” said Sakina, “but I wouldn’t want to be out there alone for any length of time. There are older and stranger things than I prowling the dunes.”
She shouldered her bag and led them out the door into the street. The sky above was a brilliant rose color, like the most exquisite moment of sunrise stretched and spread from horizon to horizon.
The moon sat heady and blue—nearly full, Alif noticed—just above the flat roofs of the buildings around them. Sakina followed a path known only to herself, ducking down alleys that ended
in tiny squares overgrown with jasmine or dotted with pools of still water reflecting the moon; jewel-like places that Alif could only stare at for a moment before having to hurry to catch up. He
heard Sheikh Bilal murmur in appreciation at the scenery as he walked along behind him.

“A marvel,” the sheikh said. “Truly, the work of the Lord of Worlds surpasses all our puny understanding. You know, I read once that the human mind is incapable of imagining
anything that does not exist somewhere, in some form. It seemed a paltry enough truth at the time—I thought, of course it must be so, since in a sense everything we will ever discover or
invent has, in the eyes of God, already been discovered and invented, as God is above time. Seeing this, though, I begin to understand how much more profound that statement is. It does not simply
mean that man’s innovation is entirely known to God; it means there is no such thing as fiction.”

Alif grinned, buoyant with the euphoria of the place.

“Puts a different spin on that conversation we had about the stupid fictional pork,” he said.

“Have you changed your mind, then?”

“I’m not sure. I’m still hard-pressed to give a damn about World of Battlecraft.”

“I’m not,” said the sheikh in a more serious tone. “If a video game does more to fulfill a young person than the words of prophesy, it means people like me have failed in
a rather spectacular fashion.”

Alif slowed his steps to walk beside the sheikh.

“You’re not a failure, Uncle,” he said, the words awkward and insufficient in his mouth. “It’s only that we don’t feel safe. A game has a reset button. You
have infinite chances for success. Real life is awfully permanent compared to that, and a lot of religious people make it seem even more permanent—one step the wrong way, one sin too many,
and it’s the fiery furnace for you. Beware. And then at the same time, you ask us to love the God who has this terrible sword hanging over our necks. It’s very confusing.”

“Ah,” said Sheikh Bilal, looking melancholy, “but that’s the point. What is more terrifying than love? How can one not be overwhelmed by the majesty of a creator who
gives and destroys life in equal measure, with breathtaking swiftness? You look at all the swelling rose hips in the garden that will wither and die without ever germinating and it seems a miracle
that you are alive at all. What would one not do to acknowledge that miracle in some way?”

“Enough,” said NewQuarter, lagging behind and looking sulky. “I’m feeling overstimulated as it is. I need to conserve my brainpower.”

As they rounded a corner, Sakina halted in front of a low wall with an arched wooden door built into it.

“When we go in,” she said in a hushed voice, as though fearful of being overheard, “you must do your best not to scream or faint or do any of the other things you will be
tempted to do. And the princeling must learn a little humility. Answer any questions he asks in as prompt and thorough a manner as you can. All right?”

“He?” Alif glanced back at NewQuarter, who made an unhappy face. “Who are we going to see?”

In response, Sakina pushed open the door. Beyond it was a tiled courtyard with a small fountain at the center, splashing merrily into a shallow basin; date palms ringed the perimeter, draping
their fruit over the walls with generous dignity. At one end of the courtyard, a monster sat, or hovered, over a pile of cushions. It looked very similar to the giant apparition Alif had seen on
the road at the edge of the city: an enormous torso topped by an improbable, toothy head, skin shining darkly in the half-light, its body fading into mist below the waist. He heard NewQuarter fall
back with a muffled shriek. Sakina shot him a nasty look over her shoulder and went to kneel before the creature, ornaments shining in her braids as she bent her head.

“Noble sir,” she said, “I’ve come with these three insignificant and unworthy
banu adam
to ask for information. I hope you will not refuse us.”

The thing made a rumbling, displeased sound in its gullet.

“That all depends,” it said, in a voice that reverberated in Alif’s chest, “on what information you want.”

Sakina looked back at Alif. He swallowed once, then twice; moisture seemed to have evaporated from his throat.

“My friends,” he said in a dry wheeze. “Two girls—two women, I mean. They would have been brought here by a guy called Vikram the Vampire, if they were ever here at all.
It’s very important that I find them. I’m—I’m sort of responsible for the trouble they were in, you see.”

“Vikram the Vampire,” said the thing. “Vikram the Vampire has been dead these three months or more.”

“I know,” said Alif, attempting to keep impatience out of his voice. “But did he leave any such women behind when he died? Did he tell anyone where they were, or leave them
with protection of any kind?”

“If he did, it was under the strictest confidence, and one does not break the confidences of the dead.”

Alif looked at Sakina in despair.

“Noble sir,” she said hastily, “no one can argue with your wisdom. But this boy also has a trust to discharge, and he cannot do so if he can’t find the women to whom he
owes that trust. We know that the mud-made cannot survive indefinitely in the Empty Quarter. Wouldn’t it be better for us all if they were simply reunited and left this place?”

“You’re assuming I know of these women and where they might be. I have made no such admission.”

A dark shape was visible in the far wall beyond the misty outline below the creature’s waist. Squinting at it, Alif realized it was a door. He was possessed by a wild idea.