Nebula Awards Showcase 2015

by Greg Bear

  The man spends long hours staring out the railing of the truck, as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful or more terrifying. Sometimes he talks to us, small nothings, pointing out a crane overhead or a derelict road with a speed limit sign—55 miles per hour, it says, radar enforced.

  At first our glassman noses around these conversations, but he decides they’re innocuous enough. He tells the man to “refrain from exerting a corrupting influence,” and resumes his perch on the other side of the truck bed. The prisoner’s name is Simon, he tells us, and he’s on watch. For what, I wonder, but know well enough not to ask.

  “What’s in it?” I say instead, pointing to the towering pipeline.

  “I heard it’s a wormhole.” He rests his chin on his hands, a gesture that draws careful, casual attention to the fact that his left hand has loosened the knots. He catches my eye for a blink and then looks away. My breath catches—Is he trying to escape? Do we dare?

  “A wormhole? Like, in space?” Tris says, oblivious. Or maybe not. Looking at her, I realize she might just be a better actor.

  I don’t know what Tris means, but Simon nods. “A passage through space, that’s what I heard.”

  “That is incorrect!”

  The three of us snap our heads around, startled to see the glassman so close. His eyes whirr with excitement. “The Designated Area Project is not what you refer to as a wormhole, which are in fact impractical as transportation devices.”

  Simon shivers and looks down at his feet. My lips feel swollen with regret—what if he thinks we’re corrupted? What if he notices Simon’s left hand? But Tris raises her chin, stubborn and defiant at the worst possible time—I guess the threat of that glassman hospital is making her too crazy to feel anything as reasonable as fear.

  “Then what is it?” she asks, so plainly that Simon’s mouth opens, just a little.

  Our glassman stutters forward on his delicate metallic legs. “I am not authorized to tell you,” he says, clipped.

  “Why not? It’s the whole goddamned reason all your glassman reapers and drones and robots are swarming all over the place, isn’t it? We don’t even get to know what the hell it’s all for?”

  “Societal redevelopment is one of our highest mission priorities,” he says, a little desperately.

  I lean forward and grab Tris’s hand as she takes a sharp, angry breath. “Honey,” I say, “Tris, please.”

  She pulls away from me, hard as a slap, but she stops talking. The glassman says nothing; just quietly urges us a few yards away from Simon. No more corruption on his watch.

  Night falls, revealing artificial lights gleaming on the horizon. Our glassman doesn’t sleep. Not even in his own place, I suppose, because whenever I check with a question his eyes stay the same and he answers without hesitation. Maybe they have drugs to keep themselves awake for a week at a time. Maybe he’s not human. I don’t ask—I’m still a little afraid he might shoot me for saying the wrong thing, and more afraid that he’ll start talking about Ideal Societal Redevelopment.

  At the first hint of dawn, Simon coughs and leans back against the railing, catching my eye. Tris is dozing on my shoulder, drool slowly soaking my shirt. Simon flexes his hands, now free. He can’t speak, but our glassman isn’t looking at him. He points to the floor of the truckbed, then lays himself out with his hands over his head. There’s something urgent in his face. Something knowledgeable. To the glassmen he’s a terrorist, but what does that make him to us? I shake Tris awake.

  “Libs?”

  “Glassman,” I say, “I have a question about societal redevelopment deliverables.”

  Tris sits straight up.

  “I would be pleased to hear it!” the glassman says.

  “I would like to know what you plan to do with my sister’s baby.”

  “Oh,” the glassman says. The movement of his pupils is hardly discernible in this low light, but I’ve been looking. I grab Tris by her shoulder and we scramble over to Simon.

  “Duck!” he says. Tris goes down before I do, so only I can see the explosion light up the front of the convoy. Sparks and embers fly through the air like a starfall. The pipeline glows pink and purple and orange. Even the strafe of bullets seems beautiful until it blows out the tires of our truck. We crash and tumble. Tris holds onto me, because I’ve forgotten how to hold onto myself.

  The glassmen are frozen. Some have tumbled from the overturned trucks, their glass and metal arms halfway to their guns. Their eyes don’t move, not even when three men in muddy camouflage lob sticky black balls into the heart of the burning convoy.

  Tris hauls me to my feet. Simon shouts something at one of the other men, who turns out to be a woman.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask.

  “EMP,” Simon says. “Knocks them out for a minute or two. We have to haul ass.”

  The woman gives Simon a hard stare. “They’re clean?”

  “They were prisoners, too,” he says.

  The woman—light skinned, close-cropped hair—hoists an extra gun, unconvinced. Tris straightens up. “I’m pregnant,” she says. “And ain’t nothing going to convince me to stay here.”

  “Fair enough,” the woman says, and hands Tris a gun. “We have ninety seconds. Just enough time to detonate.”

  Our glassman lies on his back, legs curled in the air. One of those sticky black balls has lodged a foot away from his blank glass face. It’s a retaliatory offense to harm a drone. I remember what they say about brain damage when the glassmen are connected. Is he connected? Will this hurt him? I don’t like the kid, but he’s so young. Not unredeemable. He saved my life.

  I don’t know why I do it, but while Tris and the others are distracted, I use a broken piece of the guard rail to knock off the black ball. I watch it roll under the truck, yards away. I don’t want to hurt him; I just want my sister and me safe and away.

  “Libs!” It’s Tris, looking too much like a terrorist with her big black gun. Dad taught us both to use them, but the difference between us is I wish that I didn’t know how, and Tris is glad.

  I run to catch up. A man idles a pickup ten yards down the road from the convoy.

  “They’re coming back on,” he says.

  “Detonating!” The woman’s voice is a bird-call, a swoop from high to low. She presses a sequence of buttons on a remote and suddenly the light ahead is fiercer than the sun and it smells like gasoline and woodsmoke and tar. I’ve seen plenty enough bomb wreckage in my life; I feel like when it’s ours it should look different. Better. It doesn’t.

  Tris pulls me into the back of the pickup and we’re bouncing away before we can even shut the back door. We turn off the highway and drive down a long dirt road through the woods. I watch the back of the woman’s head through the rear window. She has four triangular scars at the base of her neck, the same as Bill’s.

  Something breaks out of the underbrush on the side of the road. Something that moves unnaturally fast, even on the six legs he has left. Something that calls out, in that stupid, naive, inhuman voice:

  “Stop the vehicle! Pregnant one, do not worry, I will—”

  “Fuck!” Tris’s terror cuts off the last of the speech. The car swerves, tossing me against the door. I must not have latched it properly, because next thing I know I’m tumbling to the dirt with a thud that jars my teeth. The glassman scrambles on top of me without any regard for the pricking pain of his long, metallic limbs.

  “Kill that thing!” It’s a man, I’m not sure who. I can’t look, pinioned as I am.

  “Pregnant one, step down from the terrorist vehicle and I will lead you to safety. There is a Reaper Support Flyer on its way.”

  He grips me between two metallic arms and hauls me up with surprising strength. The woman and Simon have guns trained on the glassman, but they hesitate—if they shoot him, they have to shoot me. Tris has her gun up as well, but she’s shaking so hard she can’t even get her finger on the trigger.

  “Let go of me,” I say to
him. He presses his legs more firmly into my side.

  “I will save the pregnant one,” he repeats, as though to reassure both of us. He’s young, but he’s still a glassman. He knows enough to use me as a human shield.

  Tris lowers the gun to her side. She slides from the truck bed and walks forward.

  “Don’t you dare, Tris!” I yell, but she just shakes her head. My sister, giving herself to a glassman? What would Dad say? I can’t even free a hand to wipe my eyes. I hate this boy behind the glass face. I hate him because he’s too young and ignorant to even understand what he’s doing wrong. Evil is good to a glassman. Wrong is right. The pregnant one has to be saved.

  I pray to God, then. I say, God, please let her not be a fool. Please let her escape.

  And I guess God heard, because when she’s just a couple of feet away she looks straight at me and smiles like she’s about to cry. “I’m sorry, Libs,” she whispers. “I love you. I just can’t let him take me again.”

  “Pregnant one! Please drop your weapon and we will—”

  And then she raises her gun and shoots.

  My arm hurts. Goddamn it hurts, like there’s some small, toothy animal burrow­­ing inside. I groan and feel my sister’s hands, cool on my forehead.

  “They know the doctor,” she says. “That Esther that Bill told us about, remember? She’s a regular doctor, too, not just abortions. You’ll be fine.”

  I squint up at her. The sun has moved since she shot me; I can hardly see her face for the light behind it. But even at the edges I can see her grief. Her tears drip on my hairline and down my forehead.

  “I don’t care,” I say, with some effort. “I wanted you to do it.”

  “I was so afraid, Libs.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll get home now, won’t we?”

  “Sure,” I say. If it’s there.

  The terrorists take us to a town fifty miles from Annapolis. Even though it’s close to the city, the glassmen mostly leave it alone. It’s far enough out from the pipeline, and there’s not much here, otherwise: just a postage stamp of a barley field, thirty or so houses and one of those large, old, whitewashed barn-door churches. At night, the town is ghost empty.

  Tris helps me down from the truck. Even that’s an effort. My head feels half-filled with syrup. Simon and the others say their goodbyes and head out quickly. It’s too dangerous for fighters to stay this close to the city. Depending on how much the glassmen know about Tris and me, it isn’t safe for us either. But between a baby and a bullet, we don’t have much choice.

  Alone, now, we read the church’s name above the door: Esther Zion Congregation Church, Methodist.

  Tris and I look at each other. “Oh, Christ,” she says. “Did Bill lie, Libby? Is he really so hung up on that sin bullshit that he sent me all the way out here, to a church . . .”

  I lean against her and wonder how he ever survived to come back to us. It feels like a gift, now, with my life half bled out along the road behind. “Bill wouldn’t lie, Tris. Maybe he got it wrong. But he wouldn’t lie.”

  The pews are old but well-kept. The prayer books look like someone’s been using them. The only person inside is a white lady, sweeping the altar.

  “Simon and Sybil sent you,” she says, not a question. Sybil—we never even asked the woman’s name.

  “My sister,” we both say, and then, improbably, laugh.

  A month later, Tris and I round Bishop’s Head and face north. At the mouth of our estuary, we aren’t close enough to see Toddville, let alone our home, but we can’t see any drones either. The weather is chillier this time around, the water harder to navigate with the small boat. Tris looks healthy and happy; older and younger. No one will mistake her for twenty-five again, but there’s nothing wrong with wisdom.

  The doctor fixed up my arm and found us an old, leaky rowboat when it was clear we were determined to go back. Tris has had to do most of the work; her arms are starting to look like they belong to someone who doesn’t spend all her time reading. I think about the harvest and hope the bombs didn’t reap the grain before we could. If anyone could manage those fields without me, Bill can. We won’t starve this winter, assuming reapers didn’t destroy everything. Libby ships the oars and lets us float, staring at the deep gray sky and its reflection on the water that seems to stretch endlessly before us.

  “Bill will have brought the harvest in just fine,” I say.

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  I think about his short, patchy hair. That giant green monster he brought back like a dowry. “He’s good with the old engines. Better than me.”

  “I think he loves you. Maybe one of you could get around to doing something about it?”

  “Maybe so.”

  Tris and I sit like that for a long time. The boat drifts toward shore, and neither of us stop it. A fish jumps in the water to my left; a heron circles overhead.

  “Dad’s probably out fishing,” she says, maneuvering us around. “We might catch him on the way in.”

  “That’ll be a surprise! Though he won’t be happy about his boat.”

  “He might let it slide. Libby?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You aren’t sorry if you’d do it again,” I say. “And I’m not sorry if I’d let you.”

  She holds my gaze. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  We have the same smile, my sister and I. It’s a nice smile, even when it’s scared and a little sad.

  NEBULA AWARD NOMINEE

  BEST NOVELETTE

  “PEARL REHABILITATIVE COLONY FOR UNGRATEFUL DAUGHTERS”

  HENRY LIEN

  This is Henry Lien’s first nomination for a Nebula. “Pearl Rehabilitative Colony for Ungrateful Daughters” appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction.

  I am called familial name Jiang, personal name Suki, although I prefer to be referred to as Her Grace, Radiant Goddess Princess Suki, and I think that this is the stupidest essay ever assigned and I think that Pearl Rehabilitative Colony for Ungrateful Daughters is the stupidest place under Heaven.

  You wish us to write this essay about what we have done and learned during our sentence here at Pearl Colony. You have “Wicked Girls Return as Good” carved over the entrance gate. You think that girls can be humiliated into excellence. You think that we can be shamed into preparing for the examination for Pearl Opera Academy next year by making us say that we are lazy and ungrateful. Think whatever you want. I do not have any “acts of undutiful disrespect of my Honorable Parents” to confess in this essay because my parents were stupid to send me here. Piss me off to death!

  Even if they had wanted a boy. Even if I was adopted. If they did not want me, they could have just thrown me away with the kitchen trash instead of sending me here to be tortured to death.

  I want to go home.

  Except my stupid, stupid parents are there.

  I miss my cat. I fear no one has been tinting her fur while I have been gone.

  Most of all, I miss my hair. Aiyah, I think I am going to cry again. My beautiful hair. My legendary hair. And all you nuns were so mean to me when you cut it off.

  “You are not going to cut my hair,” I say to the nuns.

  “Mistress Suki. Your parents have sent you here so that we can save you from your own undutiful nature. You shall learn to obey so that you can learn to excel. And we shall cut your hair.”

  Half of the girls have gone through the line and all submitted to having their hair amputated by the nuns without fighting back.

  I say to the nuns, “I have my hair massaged and dressed twice each month at the most high-grade beauty sanctuary in all of Tsukoshita Bay by a former first assistant to the second personal lady-in-waiting of the Empress Dowager.” And they think I am going to permit them to touch my hair? Make me die of laughing! “You are just a bunch of ugly, talentless nuns who hide here because you could not survive in the real world.”

  “Aiyah!” they cry. “Ho
w dare you say such things to your elders, you wicked, ungrateful girl?”

  “Is that not the sort of thing that wicked, ungrateful girls say?”

  “Aiyah!” they all gasp. “You shall learn your place, wicked one!”

  All of the girls are looking away from me. Except one girl. What is she staring at?

  As the nuns come at me, I prepare to enter combat position and I dig the inner edges of my skates in. The surface of the pearl under my skates feels a little too grippy. They think that the pearl here at Pearl Colony is high-grade pearl, but it is just common road-grade pearl, as sufficient for skating on as any other street or handrail or rooftop in the city of Pearl, but really unacceptable for fighting on. The entire miserable campus of Pearl Colony is made out of this cheap road-grade pearl. Why do they even bother? They might as well just make buildings out of cut rocks and tree slices like primitives used to before they discovered the pearl, or like out in Fallen-Behind places like the Shin mainland.

  The four nuns prepare to encircle me. However, they are not Academy-level practitioners of Wu-Liu. Since no other form of Kung-Fu is performed on bladed skates, any weakness in either skating training or combat training leaves you full of weaknesses in the combined art form of Wu-Liu. I can see just from how the nuns shift their weight that none of them received equal training in both skating and combat.

  They skate in a circle around me, tighter and tighter, hoping to rein me in like a frightened animal. The wrong technique, as this leaves their wall of defense no stronger at any point than one person deep.

  I prepare to skate with full force into one of the nuns, and enter into position to perform the two-palm lightning butterfly block chop. As she sees me charging her, the old turd crouches down into position to perform the incredibly stupid five-point fire chicken move and I am laughing so hard, I almost lose hold of my position. Make me die of laughing! I change the energy flow of the nun’s ridiculous pecking hand and use the fulcrum of her elbow to send her hand slapping against her own shoulder.