The Years Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2009
Page 1
THE YEAR’S BEST SCIENCE FICTION
AND FANTASY, 2009 EDITION
Edited by
RICH HORTON
This book is for Mary Ann.
Copyright © 2009 by Rich Horton
Cover art by Cura Photography.
Cover design by Stephen H. Segal.
Ebook design by Neil Clarke.
All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.
ISBN: 978-1-60701-268-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-60701-214-6 (trade paperback)
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION, Rich Horton
26 MONKEYS, ALSO THE ABYSS, Kij Johnson
SHOGGOTHS IN BLOOM, Elizabeth Bear
GLASS, Daryl Gregory
THE HISS OF ESCAPING AIR, Christopher Golden
ARAMINTA, OR, THE WRECK OF THE AMPHIDRAKE, Naomi Novik
WE LOVE DEENA, Alice Sola Kim
THE ART OF ALCHEMY, Ted Kosmatka
FALLING ANGEL, Eugene Mirabelli
THE FIFTH STAR IN THE SOUTHERN CROSS, Margo Lanagan
KING PELLES THE SURE, Peter S. Beagle
CHARACTER FLU, Robert Reed
GIFT FROM A SPRING, Delia Sherman
THE REGION OF UNLIKENESS, Rivka Galchen
DALTHAREE, Jeffrey Ford
THE RAY-GUN: A LOVE STORY, James Alan Gardner
THE GOD OF AU, Ann Leckie
THE FANTASY JUMPER, Will McIntosh
THE MAGICIAN’S HOUSE, Meghan McCarron
BALANCING ACCOUNTS, James L. Cambias
SUICIDE DRIVE, Charlie Anders
THE SMALL DOOR, Holly Phillips
THE EYES OF GOD, Peter Watts
FIROOZ AND HIS BROTHER, Alex Jeffers
INFESTATION, Garth Nix
A WATER MATTER, Jay Lake
THE GOLDEN OCTOPUS, Beth Bernobich
BLUE VERVAIN MURDER BALLAD #2: JACK OF DIAMONDS, Erik Amundsen
THE ROAD TO LEVINSHIR, Patrick Rothfuss
FIXING HANOVER, Jeff VanderMeer
BOOJUM, Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette
THE DIFFICULTIES OF EVOLUTION, Karen Heuler
CATHERINE DREWE, Paul Cornell
SILENT AS DUST, James Maxey
EVIL ROBOT MONKEY, Mary Robinette Kowal
IF ANGELS FIGHT, Richard Bowes
SPIDERHORSE, Liz Williams
THE TEAR, Ian McDonald
BIOGRAPHIES
HONORABLE MENTIONS
PUBLICATION HISTORY
ABOUT THE EDITOR
THE YEAR IN FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION, 2008
RICH HORTON
It’s a mug’s game to try to define science fiction, but I’m going to at least gesture in that direction. As opposed to mysteries or romances, which are defined by plot, and horror, which is defined by mood, sf and fantasy are defined by setting. (Probably historical fiction also can be defined by setting.) (And mainstream? I’m not sure. Dare one say it’s defined by character? Perhaps instead we should say it’s not a genre at all. As for experimental fiction, it seems defined by language or structure.)
Then how do sf and fantasy differ? The setting of an sf story is, in the story’s terms, plausibly real, and not our present or past, while the setting of a fantasy story is not plausibly real. Thus a fantasy can be set in our present, with magic (i.e. urban fantasy) or in an alternate past, with magic (historical fantasy), or in a secondary world, with or without magic, but not one that, in story terms, might be real. This last proviso allows that curious category of fantasy without magic: stories like Swordspoint. (Although Swordspoint’s world actually does have magic, as its sequels show.) What I mean here is that there are certain stories we usually call fantasy that appear to be set in something very like our world, but clearly not our world—the geography doesn’t fit, or the history doesn’t fit. And, crucially, there is no connection to our world. It’s not an alternate history, it’s not (at least not explicitly) a parallel world, and it’s not an oddly Earthlike other planet . . . it’s just there. I admit there’s something unsatisfying about this—why not call these stories either variants of historical fiction (much like so-called “Ruritanian” stories) or variants of alternate history (and thus sf)? Here I call on Damon Knight—when we point at these stories (like Swordspoint) we usually say fantasy—so they’re fantasy. (And they are, all in all, fairly rare.)
Which leaves science fiction. Stories that—in the internal story terms—are set in a plausibly real world, but not our world either present or past. That leaves the future, or parallel worlds, or astronomically different worlds (nominally other planets), or an alternate history. (Or, rarely, a special case: secret history, in which the story terms do suggest that the world is ours, but understood differently.) There’s no requirement here for a technological focus. And no real requirement for any “science” at all, except in that the connection to “our” world needs at least a handwaved scientific explanation. The key phrase here is that the plausibility requirement is “in story terms”—that is, the author need not necessarily believe that his “science” (his FTL drive, for example) is actual rigorous, or even sensible—just that it works. (And how is this different from a fantasy story claiming that magic works internally to the story? Good question, and I would just say the main difference is feel or attitude.)
As for “fantasy,” writers are continually redefining fantasy—the field is always what the latest stories say it is. But what does that really mean? Every year some writers are happily producing heroic fantasy, others urban fantasy, some science fantasy, some slipstream. And indeed I keep looking at the stories I choose for these anthologies and I keep failing to find overarching trends. (Even though my personal selection bias might be presumed to narrow things.) Perhaps one way to classify fantasy is by setting. Is the story set in a secondary world? In our world with a slight magical irruption? In a changed historical setting—either fantastical alternate history or the past viewed as fantasy? In a world based on myth? In an entirely artificial location?
So this year I have a story by Patrick Rothfuss, “The Road to Levinshir,” that is at core as traditional a heroic fantasy as you could want, set in a fairly typical secondary world. (And immensely entertaining and very moving.) But also Jeffrey Ford’s “Daltharee,” completely odd, a story of a city in a bottle with a frame that seems steampunkish at times. And “Blue Vervain Murder Ballad #2: Jack of Diamonds,” by Erik Amundsen, which echoes American riverboat stories and deals with the devil. Or Karen Heuler’s “The Difficulties of Evolution,” quite unplaceably weird, about people evolving into birds or animals as they grow.
Holly Phillips, in “The Small Door,” is achingly moving in a story with an almost suburban setting—no obvious fantastical world here—just a tiny fantastical escape, with, alas, limits. The fantasy world of Christopher Golden’s “The Hiss of Escaping Air” is Hollywood—the real bite of the story, however, lies in the mind of the main character, a basically decent person who lets revenge make her do something unexpectedly awful. Delia Sherman’s “Gift From a Spring” is set in rural France, with an artist protagonist, working at a ballet school—it’s a very grounded story somehow, despite the
magical nature of the ballerina.
Ann Leckie has written several recent pieces examining the pitfalls of dealing with deities—the best of these is “The God of Au,” which is, thus, set in a secondary world. Peter S. Beagle’s “King Pelles the Sure” seems set in a fairly generic secondary world (but sans magic)—except that the story speaks gently, without hectoring, very directly to our present situation in Iraq. (Though really more broadly to the impulse towards war in general.) “Araminta; or The Wreck of the Amphidrake,” by Naomi Novik, is also set in something of a secondary world—but one with considerable parallels to, perhaps, Regency England—more importantly, it’s a pirate story, which means it’s a fantasy in a different—very fun—way.
The closer I look at my selections the more I see how much fantasy these days is really set in near variations of our present world. Not all of this strikes me as “urban fantasy”—indeed, most of it avoids the more obvious “urban fantasy” tropes. But if it’s fantasy set in a city called New York, surely it’s urban fantasy in some sense, eh? So with Eugene Mirabelli’s “Falling Angel,” a stark look at a man’s obsessive relationship with a literal angel that fell to his roof. (One might compare it to another “angel in New York” story from last year, Peter S. Beagle’s “Uncle Chaim and Aunt Rifke and the Angel,” one of five Beagle stories I agonized over including here before settling on “King Pelles the Sure.”) “If Angels Fight” might be my favorite Richard Bowes story yet—and he’s surely an “urban fantasist,” with his stories often set in either Boston or New York, as with this one, about the black sheep of a Boston political family—so this becomes in one sense a very political story, but one that turns movingly on a striking fantastical idea.
Meghan McCarron’s “The Magician’s House” is closer to “suburban fantasy” perhaps—and very disturbing it is, about a girl learning magic from a local wizard. And I’m not sure how to categorize Kij Johnson’s “26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss” except to call it a delight—perhaps there’s a hint of Ray Bradbury in the background of this story about woman and the rather unusual disappearing monkey act she runs.
One of the key strengths of contemporary set fantasy is that so often we directly sympathize with the main character—we can so easily see ourselves as them—which ups the ante powerfully in a story like Alice Sola Kim’s “We Love Deena,” where the protagonist can jump into people’s heads—and uses that ability to sort of stalk her ex-lover. In a different way James Maxey’s “Silent as Dust” invites us to identify with a ghost—who is not quite a ghost really, but may as well be, living uninvited in the interstices of an old friend’s life. And again, the idea that we too might be that ghost makes the story work.
And yet there remain stories that draw us in with their exotic settings. For example “Firooz and his Brother” by Alex Jeffers, set in old Samarkand—but involving in a contemporary fashion too, with its gender-bending central idea. Or Liz Williams’s “Spiderhorse,” in which the Norse myths (and Odin’s horse) are viewed from a very original angle. And again Jay Lake’s “A Water Matter” is set in a secondary world, not entirely unfamiliar in outline (though originally limned), and it deals with magic and revenge and the question of ruling family succession—all subjects long central to fantasy. But made new again, as the best writers continue to manage.
So that’s what the world of fantasy (at shorter lengths) looks today—at least as viewed through the doubtless distorted lens of my personal preferences. Secondary worlds, and fantasticated historical (or mythical) settings remain popular, but contemporary or near-contemporary settings seem to predominate slightly. Only a couple of stories seem to fit to me into such categories as “the New Weird” or alternately “slipstream.” And only a couple negotiate with science fictional ideas—so-called “science fantasy” is indeed one of my personal favorite subgenres, but little in that area came my way last year.
And now to the science fiction stories in the volume. Again, an attempt at broad categorization follows. I thought classifying them based on their setting, or sub-setting, might be interesting. Let’s see where that takes us.
First up is a story that pretty much violates my “setting” definition: “The Region of Unlikeness” by Rivka Galchen is set pretty much in the present, pretty much in our world. (Maybe that’s how an sf story got into the New Yorker? (Nahh . . . Jonathan Lethem’s “Lostronaut,” also from 2008 at the New Yorker, is straightforwardly set in the future, about an astronaut lost in space.)) But Galchen’s story beautifully details the protagonist’s relationship with two older men, in a way that suggests they have invented time travel. (Which makes it perhaps a secret history, or which suggests a
“real” future—either way shoehorning just barely into the space of my vague definition.)
Next, how many stories are set in the nearish future on Earth. Daryl Gregory’s “Glass” is perhaps pure sf in this mode—extrapolating a plausible near-future scientific development. Will McIntosh’s “The Fantasy Jumper,” published in a horror-oriented magazine, looks at the horrific uses a virtual technology could be put to. Ted Kosmatka’s “The Art of Alchemy” is about plausible technological developments—and also, more importantly, about characters caught up in them. Peter Watts, “The Eyes of God” is very scary, about a future in which a tendency to criminal actions becomes in essence criminal. Mary Robinette Kowal “Evil Robot Monkey” looks at the plight of a sort of “uplifted” chimp. Garth Nix, in “Infestation,” gives vampires a science fictional basis (though for many the word vampire immediately makes the story fantasy). Robert Reed, in “Character Flu,” cleverly examines a scary sort of “virus.”
Farther in the future, with other worlds implied, we have Margo Lanagan’s “The Fifth Star in the Southern Cross,” in which a ruined environment has meant ruined fertility, and as a corollary, aliens are used as prostitutes. James L. Cambias, in “Balancing Accounts” tells what in some ways is as traditional as SF story as we see these days: robots, spaceships, and the outer planets. What more can an SF reader want? Paul Cornell’s “Catherine Drewe” is more ambiguous, as its future is based on an alternate past, and some alternate scientific principles: but it is set on Mars. James Alan Gardner’s “The Ray Gun: A Love Story” is almost a fable, but concerning a real true SF trope: a ray gun. Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette, in
“Boojum,” give us battles with aliens at the edge of the Solar System, and living spaceships. Ian McDonald’s “The Tear” takes us much farther to the future, and features very strangely altered humans, and other planets, and interstellar war. Charlie Anders’s “Suicide Drive” is a very original take on the idea of an expensive expedition to other stars.
Alternate history is of course a very common trope. And so is steampunk. All the alternate histories to hand have steampunk elements (though the Bear only at a stretch), including Cornell’s “Catherine Drewe” which I’ve already mention. Elizabeth Bear’s “Shoggoths in Bloom” marries Lovecraft and the runup to World War II with a look at American racism. Beth Bernobich’s “The Golden Octopus” is set in a wildly alternate Ireland, and takes on time travel as well. Finally, Jeff VanderMeer’s “Fixing Hanover” is set in a steampunkish milieu in what make be an alternate past, or alternate future, or just a different world.
It is, I suppose, incumbent on me to briefly review the commercial state of play in the field. And it isn’t that pretty a picture. As I write these words we have been stunned by the news that Realms of Fantasy is being suddenly closed after fifteen years of publication. (A victim of the generally gloomy economic climate, of some apparent distribution issues, and perhaps of a long-term stagnation in magazine sales.) More happily, it now appears that the magazine will be revived in a few months. At about the same time we learned that F&SF is switching to bimonthly publication—with thicker issues to be sure, but still there will be reduction in word count overall. The other prominent fantasy venues—in print, Weird Tales, Black Static, Black Gate most notably, and on the web Fantasy Magazine, Chiaros
curo, and Strange Horizons (but there are many more) continued much as before. The best news is a couple of new sites—Tor.com (which publishes plenty of SF as well) and “literary adventure fantasy”-oriented Beneath Ceaseless Skies. There is as much or more outstanding short fantasy being written as ever—but it’s still hard, harder than ever perhaps, to publish it prominently or for much remuneration. There were not as many changes in the SF half of the field, perhaps, though we are seeing Postscripts switch to an anthology format from a magazine.
In part because this was a truly remarkable year for anthologies, the artistic health of the field seems as strong as ever. If the commercial health is a bit wobbly, perhaps that mainly reflects our entire economy. But be assured—as I trust this book demonstrates—there remains plenty of magnificent science fiction and fantasy to read.
26 MONKEYS, ALSO THE ABYSS
KIJ JOHNSON
1.
Aimee’s big trick is that she makes twenty-six monkeys vanish onstage.
2.
She pushes out a claw-foot bathtub and asks audience members to come up and inspect it. The people climb in and look underneath, touch the white enamel, run their hands along the little lions’ feet. When they’re done, four chains are lowered from the stage’s fly space. Aimee secures them to holes drilled along the tub’s lip and gives a signal, and the bathtub is hoisted ten feet into the air.
She sets a stepladder next to it. She claps her hands and the twenty-six monkeys onstage run up the ladder one after the other and jump into the bathtub. The bathtub shakes as each monkey thuds in among the others. The audience can see heads, legs, tails; but eventually every monkey settles and the bathtub is still again. Zeb is always the last monkey up the ladder. As he climbs into the bathtub, he makes a humming boom deep in his chest. It fills the stage.
And then there’s a flash of light, two of the chains fall off, and the bathtub swings down to expose its interior.