Clarkesworld: Year Six Read online

  CLARKESWORLD

  — Year Six —

  edited by

  Neil Clarke & Sean Wallace

  Copyright © 2014 by Clarkesworld Magazine.

  Cover art Copyright © 2012 by Martin Faragasso.

  Ebook Design by Neil Clarke.

  Wyrm Publishing

  wyrmpublishing.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-890464-27-1 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-890464-26-4 (trade paperback)

  Visit Clarkesworld Magazine at:

  clarkesworldmagazine.com

  Contents

  Introduction by Neil Clarke

  Scattered Along the River of Heaven by Aliette de Bodard

  All the Painted Stars by Gwendolyn Clare

  Prayer by Robert Reed

  A Hundred Ghosts Parade Tonight by Xia Jia

  And the Hollow Space Inside by Mari Ness

  What Everyone Remembers by Rahul Kanakia

  The Bells of Subsidence by Michael John Grist

  The Switch by Sarah Stanton

  Sunlight Society by Margaret Ronald

  A Militant Peace by David Klecha and Tobias S. Buckell

  All the Young Kirks and Their Good Intentions by Helena Bell

  In Which Faster-Than-Light Travel Solves All of Our Problems by Chris Stabback

  The Womb Factory by Peter M. Ferenczi

  Draftyhouse by Erik Amundsen

  All the Things the Moon Is Not by Alexander Lumans

  Fade to White by Catherynne M. Valente

  Astrophilia by Carrie Vaughn

  If The Mountain Comes by An Owomoyela

  From Their Paws, We Shall Inherit by Gary Kloster

  Sirius by Ben Peek

  Synch Me, Kiss Me, Drop by Suzanne Church

  Iron Ladies, Iron Tigers by Sunny Moraine

  Mantis Wives by Kij Johnson

  Pony by Erik Amundsen

  Robot by Helena Bell

  The Found Girl by David Klecha and Tobias S. Buckell

  muo-ka’s Child by Indrapramit Das

  Honey Bear by Sofia Samatar

  The Smell of Orange Groves by Lavie Tidhar

  Silently and Very Fast by Catherynne M. Valente

  Fragmentation, or Ten Thousand Goodbyes by Tom Crosshill

  You Were She Who Abode by E. Catherine Tobler

  Staying Behind by Ken Liu

  Immersion by Aliette de Bodard

  About the Authors

  Clarkesworld Census

  About Clarkesworld

  Introduction

  You probably know the drill by now. This book contains all of the original fiction we published in Clarkesworld Magazine during its sixth year. That was a particularly tumultuous year for me. In July of 2012, I had a “widow-maker” heart attack that nearly killed me. Afterwards, I took a long, hard look at my life and started pruning away the unnecessary and focusing on what was important: family, friends, etc. As I worked through this process, I came to the realization that I was on the wrong career path. After nearly twenty-five years, I had lost the fire that fueled my interest in my day job. While I wasn’t looking, my passion shifted to editing and publishing.

  One problem stood between me and my new dream job. Clarkesworld and Wyrm Publishing couldn’t pay my family’s bills, so practicality would have to rule while I continued to build the business. I think that was the moment when “if” changed to “when” for me. When events forced me to look for a new day job, I prioritized simplifying my life and chose a lower-level position that could still pay the bills, provide less stress, and have no expectations of overtime. This would allow me to focus more time on Clarkesworld. With that, I put myself on a new path, one that I hope leads me towards a better and more independent life.

  Since then, Clarkesworld has slowly, but steadily, grown. I can’t quit the day job just yet, but thanks to people like you, I’m even more confident it will happen. By purchasing this book, subscribing to Clarkesworld, writing a review, or supporting us at Patreon, you are helping me realize that dream. Thank you! It means a lot.

  Now . . . how about some stories?

  Neil Clarke

  March 19, 2014

  Scattered Along the River of Heaven

  Aliette de Bodard

  I grieve to think of the stars

  Our ancestors our gods

  Scattered like hairpin wounds

  Along the River of Heaven

  So tell me

  Is it fitting that I spend my days here

  A guest in those dark, forlorn halls?

  This is the first poem Xu Anshi gave to us; the first memory she shared with us for safekeeping. It is the first one that she composed in High Mheng—which had been and remains a debased language, a blend between that of the San-Tay foreigners, and that of the Mheng, Anshi’s own people.

  She composed it on Shattered Pine Prison, sitting in the darkness of her cell, listening to the faint whine of the bots that crawled on the walls—melded to the metal and the crisscrossing wires, clinging to her skin—monitoring every minute movement she made—the voices of her heart, the beat of her thoughts in her brain, the sweat on her body.

  Anshi had once been a passable poet in San-Tay, thoughtlessly fluent in the language of upper classes, the language of bot-handlers; but the medical facility had burnt that away from her, leaving an oddly-shaped hole in her mind, a gap that ached like a wound. When she tried to speak, no words would come out—not in San-Tay, not in High Mheng—only a raw croak, like the cry of a dying bird. Bots had once flowed to do her bidding; but now they only followed the will of the San-Tay.

  There were no stars on Shattered Pine, where everything was dark with no windows; and where the faint yellow light soon leeched the prisoners’ skin of all colors. But, once a week, the prisoners would be allowed onto the deck of the prison station—heavily escorted by San-Tay guards. Bots latched onto their faces and eyes, forcing them to stare into the darkness—into the event horizon of the black hole, where all light spiraled inwards and vanished, where everything was crushed into insignificance. There were bodies outside—prisoners who had attempted to escape, put in lifesuits and jettisoned, slowly drifting into a place where time and space ceased to have any meaning. If they were lucky, they were already dead.

  From time to time, there would be a jerk as the bots stung someone back into wakefulness; or low moans and cries, from those whose minds had snapped. Shattered Pine bowed and broke everyone; and the prisoners that were released back to Felicity Station came back diminished and bent, waking up every night weeping and shaking with the memory of the black hole.

  Anshi—who had been a scholar, a low-level magistrate, before she’d made the mistake of speaking up against the San-Tay—sat very still, and stared at the black hole—seeing into its heart, and knowing the truth: she was of no significance, easily broken, easily crushed—but she had known that since the start. All men were as nothing to the vast universe.

  It was on the deck that Anshi met Zhiying—a small, diminutive woman who always sat next to her. She couldn’t glance at Zhiying; but she felt her presence, nevertheless; the strength and hatred that emanated from her, that sustained her where other people failed.

&
nbsp; Day after day they sat side by side, and Anshi formed poems in her mind, haltingly piecing them together in High Mheng—San-Tay was denied to her, and, like many of the Mheng upper class, she spoke no Low Mheng. Day after day, with the bots clinging to her skin like overripe fruit, and Zhiying’s presence, burning like fire at her side; and, as the verses became stronger and stronger in her mind, Anshi whispered words, out of the guards’ hearing, out of the bots’ discrimination capacities—haltingly at first, and then over and over, like a mantra on the prayer beads. Day after day; and, as the words sank deeper into her mind, Anshi slowly came to realize that the bots on her skin were not unmoving, but held themselves trembling, struggling against their inclination to move—and that the bots clinging to Zhiying were different, made of stronger materials to resist the fire of Zhiying’s anger. She heard the fast, frantic beat of their thoughts processes, which had its own rhythm, like poetry spoken in secret—and felt the hard shimmer that connected the bots to the San-Tay guards, keeping everything together.

  And, in the dim light of Shattered Pine, Anshi subvocalised words in High Mheng, reaching out with her mind as she had done, back when she had been free. She hadn’t expected anything to happen; but the bots on her skin stiffened one after the other, and turned to the sound of her voice, awaiting orders.

  Before she left Felicity, Xu Wen expected security at San-Tay Prime’s spaceport to be awful—they would take one glance at her travel documents, and bots would rise up from the ground and crawl up to search every inch of skin, every body cavity. Mother has warned her often enough that the San-Tay have never forgiven Felicity for waging war against them; that they will always remember the shame of losing their space colonies. She expects a personal interview with a Censor, or perhaps even to be turned back at the boundary, sent back in shame to Felicity.

  But it doesn’t turn out that way at all.

  Security is over in a breeze, the bots giving her nothing but a cursory body check before the guards wave her through. She has no trouble getting a cab either; things must have changed on San-Tay Prime, and the San-Tay driver waves her on without paying attention to the color of her skin.

  “Here on holiday?” the driver asks her in Galactic, as she slides into the floater—her body sinking as the chair adapts itself to her morphology. Bots climb onto her hands, showing her ads for nearby hotels and restaurants: an odd, disturbing sight, for there are no bots on Felicity Station.

  “You could say that,” Wen says, with a shrug she wills to be careless. “I used to live here.”

  A long, long time ago, when she was still a baby; before Mother had that frightful fight with Grandmother, and left San-Tay Prime for Felicity.

  “Oh?” the driver swerves, expertly, amidst the traffic; taking one wide, tree-lined avenue after another. “You don’t sound like it.”

  Wen shakes her head. “I was born here, but I didn’t remain here long.”

  “Gone back to the old country, eh?” The driver smiles. “Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Of course,” Wen says, though she’s unsure what to tell him. That she doesn’t really know—that she never really lived here, not for more than a few years, and that she has a few confused memories of a bright-lit kitchen, and bots dancing for her on the carpet of Grandmother’s apartment? But she’s not here for such confidences. She’s here—well, she’s not sure why she’s here. Mother was adamant Wen didn’t have to come; but then, Mother has never forgiven Grandmother for the exile on San-Tay Prime.

  Everything goes fine; until they reach the boundary district, where a group of large bots crawl onto the floater, and the driver’s eyes roll up as their thought-threads meld with his. At length, the bots scatter, and he turns back to Wen. “Sorry, m’am,” he says. “I have to leave you here.”

  “Oh?” Wen asks, struggling to hide her fear.

  “No floaters allowed into the Mheng districts currently,” the man says. “Some kind of funeral for a tribal leader—the brass is afraid there will be unrest.” He shrugs again. “Still, you’re local, right? You’ll find someone to help you.”

  She’s never been here; and she doesn’t know anyone, anymore. Still, she forces a smile—always be graceful, Mother said—and puts her hand on one of the bots, feeling the warmth as it transfers money from her account on Felicity Station. After he’s left her on the paved sidewalk of a street she barely recognizes, she stands, still feeling the touch of the bots against her skin—on Felicity they call them a degradation, a way for the San-Tay government to control everything and everyone; and she just couldn’t bring herself to get a few locator-bots at the airport.

  Wen looks up, at the signs—they’re in both languages, San-Tay and what she assumes is High Mheng, the language of the exiles. San-Tay is all but banned on Felicity, only found on a few derelict signs on the Outer Rings, the ones the National Restructuring Committee hasn’t gone around to retooling yet. Likewise, High Mheng isn’t taught, or encouraged. What little she can remember is that it’s always been a puzzle—the words look like Mheng; but when she tries to put everything together, their true meaning seems to slip away from her.

  Feeling lost already, she wends her way deeper into the streets—those few shops that she bypasses are closed, with a white cloth spread over the door. White for grief, white for a funeral.

  It all seems so—so wide, so open. Felicity doesn’t have streets lined with streets, doesn’t have such clean sidewalks—space on the station is at a ruthless premium, and every corridor is packed with stalls and shops—people eat at tables on the streets, and conduct their transactions in recessed doorways, or rooms half as large as the width of the sidewalk. She feels in another world; though, every now and then, she’ll see a word that she recognizes on a sign, and follow it, in the forlorn hope that it will lead her closer to the funeral hall.

  Street after street after street—under unfamiliar trees that sway in the breeze, listening to the distant music broadcast from every doorway, from every lamp. The air is warm and clammy, a far cry from Felicity’s controlled temperature; and over her head are dark clouds. She almost hopes it rains, to see what it is like—in real life, and not in some simulation that seems like a longer, wetter version of a shower in the communal baths.

  At length, as she reaches a smaller intersection, where four streets with unfamiliar signs branch off—some residential area, though all she can read are the numbers on the buildings—Wen stops, staring up at the sky. Might as well admit it: it’s useless. She’s lost, thoroughly lost in the middle of nowhere, and she’ll never be on time for the funeral.

  She’d weep; but weeping is a caprice, and she’s never been capricious in her life. Instead, she turns back and attempts to retrace her steps, towards one of the largest streets—where, surely, she can hammer on a door, or find someone who will help her?

  She can’t find any of the streets; but at length, she bypasses a group of old men playing Encirclement on the street—watching the shimmering holo-board as if their lives depended on it.

  “Excuse me?” she asks, in Mheng.

  As one, the men turn towards her—their gazes puzzled. “I’m looking for White Horse Hall,” Wen says. “For the funeral?”

  The men still watch her, their faces impassive—dark with expressions she can’t read. They’re laden with smaller bots—on their eyes, on their hands and wrists, hanging black like obscene fruit: they look like the San-Tay in the reconstitution movies, except that their skins are darker, their eyes narrower.

  At length, the eldest of the men steps forwards, and speaks up—his voice rerouted to his bots, coming out in halting Mheng. “You’re not from here.”

  “No,” Wen says in the same language. “I’m from Felicity.”

  An odd expression crosses their faces: longing, and hatred, and something else Wen cannot place. One of the men points to her, jabbers in High Mheng—Wen catches just one word she understands.

  Xu Anshi.

  “You’re Anshi’s daughter,” the man says
. The bots’ approximation of his voice is slow, metallic, unlike the fast jabbering of High Mheng.

  Wen shakes her head; and one of the other men laughs, saying something else in High Mheng.

  That she’s too young, no doubt—that Mother, Anshi’s daughter, would be well into middle age by now, instead of being Wen’s age. “Daughter of daughter,” the man says, with a slight, amused smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll take you to the hall, to see your grandmother.”

  He walks by her side, with the other man, the one who laughed. Neither of them speaks—too hard to attempt small talk in a language they don’t master, Wen guesses. They go down a succession of smaller and smaller streets, under banners emblazoned with the image of the phuong, Felicity’s old symbol, before the Honored Leader made the new banner, the one that showed the station blazing among the stars—something more suitable for their new status.

  Everything feels . . . odd, slightly twisted out of shape—the words not quite what they ought to be, the symbols just shy of familiar; the language a frightening meld of words she can barely recognize.

  Everything is wrong, Wen thinks, shivering—and yet how can it be wrong, walking among Grandmother’s own people?

  Summoning bots I washed away

  Ten thousand thousand years of poison

  Awakening a thousand flower-flames, a thousand phoenix birds

  Floating on a sea of blood like cresting waves

  The weeping of the massacred millions rising from the darkness

  We received this poem and its memories for safekeeping at a time when Xu Anshi was still on Felicity Station: on an evening before the Feast of Hungry Ghosts, when she sat in a room lit by trembling lights, thinking of Lao, her husband who had died in the uprisings—and wondering how much of it had been of any worth.

  It refers to a time when Anshi was older, wiser—she and Zhiying had escaped from Shattered Pine, and spent three years moving from hiding place to hiding place, composing the pamphlets that, broadcast into every household, heralded the end of the San-Tay governance over Felicity.

  On the night that would become known as the Second Ring Riots, Anshi stood in one of the inner rings of Felicity Station, her bots spread around her, hacked into the network—half of them on her legs, pumping modifiers into her blood; half of them linked to the other Mheng bot-handlers, retransmitting scenes of carnage, of the Mheng mob running wild in the San-Tay districts of the inner rings, the High Tribunal and Spaceport Authority lasered, and the fashionable districts trashed.