The Long List Anthology Volume 4

by David Steffen

  “Very.” The Scholast scraped faster. “The whole’s much larger than your habitat. Now, your orbit’s shifted since the Crash, so you’re not harvesting much power, but there should be enough for what I have in mind.”

  Jane struck the ground with her staff, and spoke in a tongue the Princess Martial did not recognize.

  Nothing happened.

  Screams filtered a long way down from the throne room above.

  Jane spoke again, different words.

  The answer, when it came, deafened. Prayer mirrors, larger than any the Princess had ever seen, flared with cold blue light all around.

  A red box took shape in the air before the Princess, as if made of fireflies.

  “The gods want to meet you,” Jane said. “I am not part of this place, and they must know I have your approval for what I wish to do.”

  The Princess placed her hand within the box. She felt a gentle flutter against her skin, and the box turned green.

  The prayer mirrors showed many pictures of the world: enemy soldiers battering the King’s door, the General pierced through the stomach by a lance, hordes of White Star troops boiling over the castle ramparts, and the cavalry colonel, free, cutting a House Guard’s throat with his saber. These were not images of the future, such as diviners see—but true impressions of the present moment.

  “Your world,” Jane said, “was built by paranoids. They built eyes everywhere, and in each eye, they placed a tiny spear.”

  She spoke a word, and the White Stars began to die.

  The troops within the castle fell first, holes burned through their helmets. The colonel’s heart cooked in his chest. House Guards found their enemies dead in mid-stroke. Battering rams fell, and bodies followed.

  The deaths moved out from the castle to the camps. We all saw the horror: a swarm of long, sharp insects rising from the earth, shaking off the dust of centuries to train themselves upon their victims. The White Stars tried to run.

  “Stop,” the Princess Martial said. “It’s done. Let the others go.”

  “They are your enemies. Isn’t that the way you all think, you and your General and Rathland? Save the ones on your side, and to hell with the rest?” Jane’s voice cracked. Her eyes were red with god-light. “With this power, I could make you all obey. I could impose peace.”

  “Will you kill them just to prove a point?”

  Jane caught her breath, and lowered her staff.

  The eyes closed, and the prayer mirrors dimmed.

  Jane knelt for a while, beneath the earth, in silence, until the Princess Martial lifted her up, and together they left that place of impossible emptiness, and impossible fires.

  • • • •

  We suffered casualties. We mended and wept. We loaded wagons high with corpses and burnt them downwind and downriver, but even so the smell of seared meat reached us. In the diviners’ well, Jane and the Princess Martial had done brutal and effective work, or caused it to be done, but someone always cleans up after.

  The day came when the Scholast was to leave us. “Someone will follow after me, to teach.”

  “Not you?”

  “I am not a gifted teacher, and we are rarely sent to the same place twice.”

  “Partiality,” the Princess Martial said, with bitter humor.

  “Yes. And besides, as you’ve seen, I still have much to learn.”

  “The teacher they send will teach your doctrine of universal love. Perhaps I’ll learn, and join you out among the stars.”

  “You care for this ground too much. At any moment the paths might close, and leave you stranded on a distant star.”

  “I would leave, and learn to love the universe in general, because I care for you in particular.”

  “A fine paradox.” Jane smiled a secret smile. “Don’t tell the teacher. She may not understand.” The drums began, and Bel Mei waited by the arch. She had asked the honor of ushering the Scholast out. She wore mourning white.

  “One question before you go,” the Princess asked.

  “I’ll answer, if I can.”

  “The world was built, you said. There was awe in your voice, and you never spoke with awe of the diviners’ gods. Who, then, built it? The titans?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the Scholast said. “We did. One day we’ll remember how.”

  She kissed the Princess Martial’s hand, then took Bel Mei’s and walked with her toward the arch, and under, but not through. In her last moment, as in her first, we who watched her saw many things, and fruitlessly compared them after. The Princess never told us what she saw. That one truth she would not yield us during composition, though she herself ordered us to write this true and exact chronicle of the Scholast’s stay in the Low Waters Kingdom. What the Princess Martial saw, she will take with her to the stars.

  * * *

  Max Gladstone is the author of the Hugo-nominated Craft Sequence, of which the most recent novel, RUIN OF ANGELS, was released in September 2017. Max’s interactive mobile game, CHOICE OF THE DEATHLESS, was nominated for the XYZZY Award, and his critically acclaimed short fiction has appeared on Tor.com and in Uncanny Magazine, and in anthologies such as XO Orpheus: Fifty New Myths and The Starlit Wood: New Fairy Tales. In addition to his solo and creator-owned work, Max is the lead writer on the BOOKBURNERS serial, a contributing writer on THE WITCH WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD, and contributed a comic for the Kodansha Press anthology GHOST IN THE SHELL: GLOBAL NEURAL NETWORK. Max has sung in Carnegie Hall and was once thrown from a horse in Mongolia.

  Paradox

  By Naomi Kritzer

  This is the original timeline. You know, the one all of us came from. So we can’t do anything to it, or we won’t be born to invent time travel. We can only meddle with other timelines.

  This is the original timeline. We’re trying to fix things. Unfortunately for you, if we ever do manage to fix them, you’ll probably vanish into oblivion, never having even been born. We have theologians in our future trying to decide, in that case, what happens to your soul; some of them think you’ll still be born, as a different person and in a different body, to live and die in that other reality. It’s controversial. Most people think you just won’t ever exist.

  We’ve been trying to fix things but somehow we keep making them worse. We’re wondering if we should stop interfering. Maybe after this try.

  We used to try to fix things, but somehow we always ended up causing what we were trying to prevent. The story of how we caused the sinking of the Titanic is hilarious. At least as long as you didn’t know anyone on the Titanic. Remind me what year it is right now?

  Yes, we’re trying to fix things and hoo boy you should’ve seen them before we started! The good news for you is that you’re not living under a global regime run by the Pacification Committee. You’ve never heard of the Pacification Committee, you say? You’re welcome.

  There’s a plan. There’s a good plan. It might not be quite so good from your personal perspective, but we’re very confident in the plan as a whole.

  There’s no plan. Sorry. We’re winging it. Can I have a sandwich, while you’re up? I didn’t pack a lunch.

  You are correct, I am a time traveler! Unfortunately, I can’t actually change anything, at least not anything that matters. The time stream protects itself too carefully. I’m just here to interview people, you know, to get a folks-on-the-street sense of what things looked like… before. Oh, I can’t tell you before what. But can I interview you? Please? History will thank you.

  The whole concept of a Darkest Timeline is inherently subjective. I’ve always thought the one where light can barely get through the ash in the air is the darkest timeline because I like being literal about these things. Oh, that had nothing to do with the Clean Air Act—I mean, there’s a timeline where it didn’t get passed, but the one I’m thinking of is post-nuclear. I mean, I guess you can also argue that it’s figuratively the darkest timeline as well. No one can really contest it on literal grounds, though, and figuratively ther
e are some other contenders.

  We tried to fix the rise of the Excoriat in 2050 and in trying to address the root causes of that, we accidentally caused World War I. Then we tried to undo the damage and instead we accidentally made the rise of Hitler possible. Then we had to come back and try to undo the nuclear catastrophes but we were sort of flying by the seat of our pants and we’ve decided not to add up all the additional deaths we caused but at least you made it out of the Cold War without anyone nuking anyone else. You may not like what you’ve got at this point but we have learned our lesson and aren’t making any more alterations to the time stream. We’re pretty sure it was worth it, though. They wore the skins of their enemies. Quilts were involved. You probably don’t want any more details.

  We’re pretty sure JFK was shot by a time traveler, but we’re not sure why.

  Do you have any idea how many joules of energy it takes to travel through time—yeah, we’ve got that movie, too. It’s a lot, okay? A whole lot. We don’t send very many people back here.

  Look. Through extensive research and effort and conscientious work, we gave you a shot at defeating fascism by handing you a fascist who can’t even go down stairs competently. He can barely tie his own shoes. His organization leaks like a sieve. Quit your whining and take this chance. It is the best one we could offer you.

  What is it you think you need from the future to get you to act now? Reassurance that your actions will matter? Really? Because I can’t actually give you that. I’ve never heard of you. Your name isn’t in any of the history books. If you need to know you matter, don’t ask history, ask the people you matter to.

  The fact is that anything we do pales in comparison to anything you do. Do you think Rosa Parks was a time traveler? Rosa Parks was not a time traveler.

  You need my reassurance that your actions won’t matter? Really? Good lord. Where I come from, your name is a household word. You’re known to third graders. We named a doctrine after you. A strategy. A groundbreaking scientific theory. A potent form of humiliation. An execution method. A literary prize. You’ll never be forgotten. Ever. The only question is what you’re going to be remembered for.

  Time travel to the past isn’t actually possible. I mean, obviously it used to be possible, but now it isn’t, so I’m stuck. It’s hard to explain. Something something quantum something. Do you have legal alcohol in this timeline, because I would really love a drink right now.

  So the way we solved the butterfly problem is that we only go to timelines that are dead-ending soon anyway. Any questions you want answered? There’s nothing I can’t tell you, it won’t matter.

  So the way we solved the grandfather paradox is that we realized that we can create new timelines, but we always go back to our own in the end. So I’m here to see if what my colleague did yesterday has worked yet. If I’m right, things will be a lot better for you! If I’m wrong, well, look, we’re doing our best.

  We find the Mandela Effect weird, too. Because that movie people say they remember with the Genie never existed, and the Berenstain Bears were spelled the same in every timeline, but we totally did save Nelson Mandela. He was going to die in prison from an illness but we treated him. We did a good job of it, too, didn’t he live to be almost a hundred in the end? Anyway, no one should remember the version of history where he died. We’re not sure if some people actually do, or if it’s like that movie, people are just wrong a lot and sometimes they’re wrong in extensive detail.

  Every timeline is the darkest timeline. I don’t know what else to tell you. We’ve tried and tried and tried, but it always ends in disaster.

  We tried shooting Hitler, Stalin, Pinochet, Pol Pot, Queen Victoria, Andrew Jackson. We tried saving JFK, Archduke Ferdinand, Indira Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Ken Saro-Wiwa, Leon Trotsky, Yitzhak Rabin, Sitting Bull. We tried warning airport security on September 11th, 2001, to confiscate all box cutters. We tried warning Indonesia and Thailand and all the rest about the 2004 tsunami. Well, obviously we didn’t make any of those changes in your timeline. But anyway, you’d be amazed at how many despots you can kill in infancy only to find out twenty years later that someone’s taken his place.

  We have advanced mathematical models regarding exactly what changes will do to the timeline, and we’ve worked backwards to determine exactly what needs to happen. I know you don’t see your own purpose—that’s not at all surprising, at this point—but the models have determined conclusively that you have to be killed. It’s for the good of the world, and history thanks you.

  There is tremendous debate where I come from about meddling with the past. Obviously there is tremendous scope for improvement—extinctions, the Library of Alexandria—but from where we stand, everything turned out okay. Humanity is thriving. So we’re hesitant to make any tweaks because you just never know.

  We are physically unable to make changes to the past. We thought it might be possible to offer advice, but it turns out that when we attempt to offer any specific advice our voices become inaudible. Anyway, I’m here, and I’ve come to you, but I can’t tell you anything specific about the future, I can’t tell you anything specific about actions that might help. Here’s what I’m going to tell you: don’t lose hope, don’t give up, your actions matter. Did you hear that? Hello?

  I’m from the future and I’ve come to visit the past because I always loved the ’teens and ’twenties, the golden era. The music, the fashion, the arts… Who? Oh, I never paid much attention to the politics of the period. I just liked the dance crazes. I’d ask you if you liked my favorite artist, but you won’t have heard of them yet!

  In my era we’ve cured cancer, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and diabetes. Shame we didn’t cure everything in time to save you… oh, wait, I’m sorry, I had you confused with someone else. I have no idea what you die of.

  People have funny ideas about time travelers. I mean, yes, we know the future. But we don’t have some sort of magical insight into the what-ifs. Like, what if someone had saved JFK from being shot? Would he have gotten us out of the Vietnam War sooner, or would he have started a nuclear war with the Soviet Union? We don’t know that any more than you do.

  What exactly is it that you think time travelers should be doing? You’re here. Why aren’t you doing it?

  * * *

  Naomi Kritzer has been writing science fiction and fantasy for twenty years. Her short story “Cat Pictures Please” won the 2016 Hugo and Locus Awards and was nominated for the Nebula Award. A collection of her short stories was released in 2017, and her YA novel, CATFISHING ON CATNET (which is based on “Cat Pictures Please”) will be coming out from Tor in November 2019. She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota with her spouse, two kids, and four cats. The number of cats is subject to change without notice.

  Angel of the Blockade

  By Alex Acks

  “You’re a cheap asshole,” I call to Bara as I cross the threshold of the bar. I don’t have to wait for my Traveler to give me a rundown to know they’re there. Bara’s always there. Bara doesn’t sleep, shit, or fuck as far as I know.

  The bar smells like old socks, sour beer, and just an edge of mustiness, which means the air filters are probably a couple weeks past due. Starting to go moldy, but not bad enough to actually give anyone a respiratory infection. It almost overwhelms the weird, dirty cinnamon scent that characterizes Corona Nine Station and never leaves the back of your throat once you’ve sucked in your first lungful.

  “And you’re a sleazy shitbag,” Bara returns calmly. Their ident chip reads off to my Traveler as human, their voice—not too high, not too low—sounds like they’re speaking through a metal tube, and what those things add up to isn’t any of my fucking business. I like Bara, and Bara likes me, and that’s all that matters. “Business or boredom?”

  “Business today.”

  “Okay. Business drink coming right up. Your table’s free.”

  “I know.” In that brief time, my Traveler’s finished flitting around for a quick survey and clicks out th
e locations of everything in the bar to the little implant in my jawbone. Nothing and no one interesting, in its opinion. My normal place in the right mid where I won’t have to dodge too many outstretched legs and cocked elbows is clear. Probably because in station time, it’s just about breakfast, and so-called normal people have this thing about not drinking their morning carbohydrates mixed with alcohol in a shitty hole in the wall where your feet stick to the floor.

  People like me? We live on our own time.

  I move among the tables and the few patrons (human, human, human, most of them identifiable as smugglers or black marketeers because their ident chips roll off with that particular flat note that indicates knock-offs just expensive enough to dodge cursory security checkpoints) and then slide into my chair with as much grace as anyone can under 0.5 g.

  Fuck gravity, I hate it. Makes my teeth ache.

  Thump-sklich of footsteps (Bara probably weighs about 120 kilos) and then the solid click of a sipper cup being set down. I rest my elbow casually on the table, which is a mistake because it’s also sticky. “Did you fire your server again?”

  “Nah, he left. Wanted to join the army. Can’t remember which one.” In their tone, I hear the shrug that puts the period on that statement.

  “Guess they pay better than you.”

  “Haven’t had a server get shot in years.”

  My Traveler, now settled in its customary spot somewhere over my right shoulder, guides my hand with subtle pressure behind my ear so I pick up the cup with no fumbling. Me and my Traveler have been together a long time. We’ve learned each other. I raise the cup in the direction of Bara’s voice in a little salute. “Money isn’t everything—”

  Bara finishes the saying with me: “—Cause you can’t gamble it when you’re dead.” They laugh. “Who you waiting for?”

  “New one. Haddan?” The question is implicit—Someone you know?