The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Three

by Jonathan Strahan

  "A single room, sufficient for a dozen mortals," said Fitz. "Ah, Um-Uthrux has made its host. Please gather as many pirates as you can to fire on it, Hereward. I will require some full minutes of preparation."

  The puppet began to take off his bandanna and Hereward shielded his face with his hand. A terrible, harsh light filled the cavern as Fitz removed an esoteric needle that had been glued to his head, the light fading as he closed his hand around it. Any mortal that dared to hold such a needle unprotected would no longer have hand or arm, but Fitz had been specifically made to deal with such things.

  In the brief flash of light, Hereward saw a truly giant starfish beginning to stand on its lower points. It was sixty feet wide and at least that tall, and was not pale yellow like its lesser predecessors, but a virulent colour like infected pus, and its broad surface was covered not in a rasping, lumpy structure of tiny suckers but in hundreds of foot-wide puckered mouths that were lined with sharp teeth.

  "Fury!" roared Hereward as he sprinted back along the wharf, ignoring the splinters in his now bare feet, his ruined boots flapping about his ankles. "Fury! Sea-Cats! To arms, to arms!"

  He kept shouting, but he could not see Fury, and the pirates in sight were gold-drunk, bathing uproariously in piles of coin and articles of virtu that had spilled out of the broken treasure houses and into the cobbled streets between the buildings.

  "To arms! The enemy!" Hereward shouted again. He ran to the nearest knot of pirates and dragged one away from a huge gold-chased silver cup that was near as big as he was. "Form line on the quay!"

  The pirate shrugged him off and clutched his cup.

  "It's mine!" he yelled. "You'll not have it!"

  "I don't want it!" roared Hereward. He pointed back at the harbour. "The enemy! Look, you fools!"

  The nearer pirates stared at him blankly. Hereward turned and saw . . . nothing but darkness.

  "Fitz! Light the cursed monster up!"

  He was answered by a blinding surge of violet light that shot from the wharf and washed across the giant starfish, which was now completely upright and lifting one point to march forwards.

  There was silence for several seconds, the silence of the shocked. Then a calm, carrying voice snatched order from the closing jaws of incipient panic.

  "Sea-Cats! First division form line on the quay, right of the wharf! Second to load behind them! Move, you knaves! The loot will wait!"

  Fury emerged from behind a building, a necklace of gold and yellow diamonds around her neck. She marched to Hereward and placed her arm through his, and together they walked to the quay as if they had not a care in the world, while pirates ran past them.

  "You have not become a leoparde," said Hereward. He spoke calmly but he couldn't help but look up at the manifested godlet. Like the smaller starfish, it was becoming quicker with every movement, and Fitz stood alone before it on the end of the wharf. There was a nimbus of sorcerous light around the puppet, indicating that he was working busily with one or more energistic needles, either stitching something otherworldly together or unpicking some aspect of what was commonly considered to be reality.

  "Cold things from the sea, no matter their size, do not arouse my ire," replied Fury. "Or perhaps it is the absence of red blood . . . Stand ready!"

  The last words were for the hundred pirates who stood in line along the quay, sporting a wide array of muskets, musketoons, blunderbusses, pistols and even some crossbows. Behind them, the second division knelt with their own firearms ready to pass on, and the necessaries for reloading laid out at their feet.

  "Fire!" shouted Fury. A ragged volley rang out and a cloud of blue smoke rolled back across Hereward and drifted up towards the treasure houses. Many shots struck home, but their effect was much less than on the smaller starfish, with no visible holes being torn in the strange stuff of Um-Uthrux.

  "Firsts, fire as you will!" called Fury. "Seconds, reload!"

  Though the shots appeared to have no affect, the frantic movement of the pirates shooting and reloading did attract Um-Uthrux's attention. It swiveled and took a step towards the quay, one huge point crashing down on the middle wharf to the left of Mister Fitz. Rather than pulling the point out of the wreckage it just pushed it forward, timber flying as it bulled its way to the quay. Then with one sweep of a middle point, it swept up a dozen pirates and, rolling the point to form a tight circle, held them while its many mouths went to work.

  "Fire and fall back!" shouted Fury. "Fire and fall back!"

  She fired a long-barrelled pistol herself, but it too had no effect. Um-Uthrux seized several more pirates as they tried to flee, wrapping around them, bones and bloody fragments falling upon shocked companions who were snatched up themselves by another point seconds later.

  Hereward and Fury ran back to the corner of one of the treasure houses. Hereward tripped over a golden salt-boat and a pile of coins and would have fallen, had not Fury dragged him on even as the tip of a starfish point crashed down where he had been, flattening the masterwork of some long-forgotten goldsmith.

  "Your sorcerer-puppet had best do something," said Fury.

  "He will," panted Hereward. But he could not see Fitz, and Um-Uthrux was now bending over the quay with its central torso as well as its points, so its reach would be greater. The quay was crumbling under its assault, and the stones were awash with the blood of many pirates. "We must go higher up!"

  "Back Sea-Cats!" shouted Fury. "Higher up!"

  The treasure house that had sheltered them was pounded into dust and fragments as they struggled up the steep, cobbled street. Panicked pirates streamed past them, most without their useless weapons. There was no screaming now, just the groans and panting of the tired and wounded, and the sobbing of those whose nerve was entirely gone.

  Hereward pointed to a door at the very top of the street. It had already been broken in by some pirate, but the building's front appeared to be a mere façade built over a chamber dug into the island itself, and so would be stronger than any other.

  "In there!" he shouted, but the pirates were running down the side alleys as one of Um-Uthrux's points slammed down directly behind, sending bricks, masonry and treasure in all directions. Hereward pushed Fury towards the door, and turned back to see if he could see Fitz.

  But there was only the vast starfish in view. It had slid its lower body up on to the quay and was reaching forth with three of its points, each as large as an angled artillery bastion. First it brought them down to smash the buildings, then it used the fine ends to pluck out any pirates, like an anteater digging out its lunch.

  "Fitz!" shouted Hereward. "Fitz!"

  One of Um-Uthrux's points rose up, high above Hereward. He stepped back, then stopped as the godlet suddenly reared back, its upper points writhing in the air and lower points staggering. A tiny, glowing hole appeared in its middle, and grew larger. The godlet lurched back still farther and reached down with its points, clawing at itself as the glowing void in its guts yawned wider still. Then, with a crack that rocked the cavern and knocked Hereward over again, the giant starfish's points were sucked through the hole, it turned inside out and the hole closed taking with it all evidence of Um-Uthrux's existence upon the earth and with it most of the light.

  "Your puppet has done well," said Fury. "Though I perceive it is called Fitz and not Farolio."

  "Yes," said Hereward. He did not look at her, but waved his arm, the brassard leaving a luminous trail in the air. "Fitz! To me!"

  "It has become a bloody affair after all," said Fury. Her voice was a growl and now Hereward did look. Fury still stood on two legs, but she had grown taller and her proportions had changed. Her skin had become spotted fur, and her skull transformed, her jaw thrust out to contain savage teeth, including two incisors as long as Hereward's thumbs. Long curved nails sprouted from her rounded hands, her eyes had become bright with a predatory gleam, and a tail whisked the ground behind.

  "Fury," said Hereward. He looked straight at her and did not back aw
ay. "We have won. The fight is done."

  "I told you that I ate my enemies," said Fury huskily. Her tail twitched and she bobbed her head in a manner no human neck could mimic. Hereward could barely understand her, human speech almost lost in growls and snarls.

  "You did not tell me your name, or your true purpose."

  "My name is Hereward," said Hereward, and he raised his open hands. If she attacked, his only chance would be to grip her neck and break it before those teeth and nails did mortal damage. "I am not your enemy."

  Fury growled, speech entirely gone, and began to crouch.

  "Fury! I am not your—"

  The leoparde sprang. He caught her on his forearms and felt the nails rake his skin. Fending her off with his left hand, he seized hold of the necklace of yellow diamonds with his right and twisted it hard to cut off her air. But before he could apply much pressure, the beast gave a sudden, human gasp, strange and sad from that bestial jaw. The leoparde's bright eyes dulled as if by sea-mist, and Hereward felt the full weight of the animal in his hands.

  The necklace broke, scattering diamonds, as the beast slid down Hereward's chest. Fitz rode on the creature's shoulders all the way down, before he withdrew the stiletto that he had thrust with inhuman strength up through the nape of her neck into her brain.

  Hereward closed his hand on the last diamond. He held it just for a second, before he let that too slip through his fingers.

  "Inside!" called Fitz, and the puppet was at his companion's knees, pushing Hereward through the door. The knight fell over the threshold as Fitz turned and gestured with an esoteric needle, threads of blinding white whipping about faster than any weaver's shuttle.

  His work was barely done before the wave hit. The ground shook and the sorcerous bubble of air bounced to the ceiling and back several times, tumbling Hereward and Fitz over in a mad crush. Then as rapidly as it had come, the wave receded.

  Fitz undid the bubble with a deft twitch of his needle and cupped it in his hand. Hereward lay back on the sodden floor and groaned. Blood trickled down his shredded sleeves, bruises he had not even suspected till now made themselves felt, and his feet were unbelievably sore.

  Fitz crouched over him and inspected his arms.

  "Scratches," he proclaimed. He carefully put the esoteric needle away inside his jerkin and took off his bandanna, ripping it in half to bind the wounds. "Bandages will suffice."

  When the puppet was finished, Hereward sat up. He cupped his face in his hands for a second, but his burned palms made him wince and drop them again.

  "We have perhaps six hours to gather materials, construct a raft and make our way out the gorge," said Fitz. "Presuming the eagre comes again at the usual time, in the absence of Um-Uthrux. We'd best hurry."

  Hereward nodded and lurched upright, holding the splintered doorframe for support. He could see nothing beyond Fitz, who stood a few paces away, but he could easily envision the many corpses that would be floating in the refilled harbour pool, or drifting out to the gorge beyond.

  "She was right," he said.

  Fitz cocked his head in question.

  "Meat and water," replied Hereward. "I suppose that is all we are, in the end."

  Fitz did not answer, but still looked on, his pose unchanged.

  "Present company excepted," added Hereward.

  The Small Door

  Holly Phillips

  Holly Phillips lives in a small city on a big island off of Canada's western coast. She is a full-time writer, but has recently decided to call herself a "professional fantasist." It probably won't cut down on the number of blank looks she gets when she's introduced to strangers at a dinner party, but the subsequent conversation might be a lot more fun. Holly's most recent novel, The Engine's Child, was released by Del Rey in November 2008.

  Only two more months to the end of school, and like a tantalizing forerunner to summer, the fair came to town. Sal saw the carnies setting up rides as the bus crawled by the arena parking lot that Thursday morning. The Sizzler, the Tumbler, the Tilt-a-Whirl. The Ferris Wheel, unlit and seatless, leaning on its crane. Sal imagined it busting loose and rolling off down the highway, across the bridge, up the hill past the school and on out of town. She knew exactly how it would sound, a hollow steel-on-concrete rumble, louder than the river that ran so smoothly in its banks. She kept her face pressed to the window until the parking lot was out of sight, but the Wheel only raised itself a little closer to vertical.

  After school everyone walked past the bus stop, a chain of kids like a clumsy bead necklace, bunches and pairs strolling down, even the cool kids, even the rebels who might plan to get stoned first, but who were still going to ride the rides. Sal, remembering the sideways swoop and crush of the Sizzler, the jangle of rock music and yelling kids, the smells of burnt sugar and hot oil and cigarettes—the expansion of the parking lot into a convoluted world that could seem to go on forever as long as you took the long way around every ride and that only got brighter and louder and hotter as the day fell into evening and evening into night—Sal, remembering all this, stood alone at the bus stop and waited for the bus that would take her past the fair and home.

  Her mom was in the kitchen, crushing garlic into a bowl of soya sauce.

  "What are we having?" Sal said.

  "How was school? Did you do okay on the math test?"

  "Sure, I guess." The test had been last week. "What are we having?"

  "Baked chicken. Macey said she might be hungry tonight."

  "Oh." Sal picked up a garlic clove and peeled the papery skin.

  "Wash your hands."

  Sal peeled another clove. "Is she awake?"

  "She had a good sleep this afternoon. You might go up and see."

  Sal brushed the garlic papers into the garbage and rinsed her hands, debating whether to mention the fair. Probably she shouldn't. Probably her mom wouldn't appreciate the reminder of the passage of time. Anyway, it wasn't like Sal could go, even if she wanted to. Which she didn't.

  Macey lay propped up on big pillows, her face turned to the window. She looked like a fragile bone doll these days, all the flesh under her skin eaten up by fever, and when she lay still Sal always found it hard to believe she would move again. She didn't stir when Sal opened her door, but she wasn't asleep. She said, "The Weirdo has another cat."

  "Really?" Sal shut the door and toed off her shoes. The bed had been pushed up close to the big window so Macey could look out over the back yard to the alley and the houses on the other side. Sal climbed up, careful of her sister's feet, so she could look out too. "Is it hurt?"

  "I think it's maybe pregnant."

  Sal contemplated the gruesome possibilities of kittens in the Weirdo's hands. She could just see over the high fence to the roofed chicken-wire pens in the Weirdo's yard. It was impossible to know what was in any of those pens until you saw what the Weirdo took out of one. Cats, raccoons, crows, even a puppy once, taken out of a pen and carried inside and never seen again. Three days ago it had been another raccoon. Macey was keeping a log.

  Sal said, "Do you think he'll wait until the kittens are born?"

  "Gross."

  Neither knew what the Weirdo did with his captives, but it was hard to think of a possibility that wasn't horrible. Not when you saw that figure, with its thatched gray hair, lumpy shoulders and white hands as big as baseball gloves, carry some hapless creature into the house with the broken drainpipes and curtained windows. Even cooking and eating seemed too simple, too close to human.

  "Sal," Macey said, "we've got to find out."

  "You keep saying that." Sal picked fuzzies off the bedspread, her mind drifting to the candy-bright commotion of the fair.

  "But now I have a plan."

  Sal's eyes slid to her sister's face. Despite being twins, they'd never looked that much alike. Now, with Macey gone all skinny and white, her eyes shiny with fever and her hair dull and thin, they hardly seemed to belong to the same species. Sal glared at her own robust health when she
brushed her teeth in the mornings, seeing ugliness in the flesh of her face, the color of her skin. Macey's mind, too, had changed, as if, riding a tide of febrile blood, it had entered a realm that Sal could not even see.

  "What kind of plan?" she said warily.

  Macey finally moved. She rolled her head on the rainbow pillowcase and gave Sal a glittering look. The late light of afternoon shone on the sweat that beaded her hairline. Not the worst fever, Sal knew. The worst fever baked her sister dry, and sounded like ambulance men rattling their stretcher up the stairs.

  The smell of garlicky chicken wafted into the room as Macey gave Sal her instructions.

  Friday was garbage day.

  There was no way in the world to do it casually. Maybe if she was old enough to drive, and had a car . . . But no. Sal didn't think in ifs. If led to If only Macey wasn't sick, and even If only Sal's bone marrow was a match. If never did anybody any good at all.

  There was no way to do it casually, so she just did it. She left the house like she was going to school, walked around the block to the front of the Weirdo's house, lifted the lid of his trash can, hoisted out the sack, dropped the lid and walked away. She didn't look at the Weirdo's windows. If he saw her, he saw her, that was all. She stashed the trash bag, neatly closed with a yellow twist tie, inside the unused garden shed at the side of her house, and then ran, legs and lungs strong from PE, for the bus.

  When she got home from school, her parents were in the living room having The Discussion: mortgages, private donor lists, tissue matches, travel costs, hospital fees, time. Time sliced into months, into weeks. Seven weeks to summer holidays. Sal drifted past them to the kitchen, ran cold tap water into a glass, and carried it up the stairs.

  Macey hardly seemed to dent her pillows anymore. Her hands lay on the sheet's hem, her head canted toward the window. Sunlight filtered cool through spring clouds and gauze curtains, the same sunlight that dulled the lights at the parking lot fair. Sal had kept her eyes on her book as the half-empty bus trundled past, but the smells—hot dog, caramel, cigarette, machine—had billowed in the open windows and made her hungry. She stood in the doorway until she was sure Macey was asleep, then drank the cold water in one smooth series of gulps and carried the glass back down. The Discussion continued. Even Sal knew the end result would be the same: wait and see. Months, weeks, days. The fair was in town until Monday. She put the glass in the sink and went out the back door.