The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2014 Edition

by Rich Horton

  Though amazing, the peoples of this forest tell me far more spectacular creatures inhabit the border of the jungle and the floodplains. I hear tell of blazing jungle cats and perfectly beautiful Birds of Paradise, and wise elders of the Shobdtho village. At noon I will gather

  General Request regarding Ciallah Daroun.

  Drafted by Doyen-Générale Lenoir for the Esteemed Board,

  Stamped in Murex wax and the Book of the Academy.

  1118th turn, 4th moon.

  I understand there is some talk that the Golem from the mesa is no danger, and I would like further your education. The Histoire Naturelle is quite clear in this matter:

  “Hypothesis speaks of a heartbeat’s Song and the soul’s ringing Music that flows through the veins of all men and the beasts and the trees, though hard Theory from these hundred turns show the clear lack in the sand, rock, and earth; and so our Conclusion must focus on building histoire naturelle of the moving and breathing and all the combined Musics of the beauty we call Life.”

  —Observations 1:11

  We have built our entire natural history upon the breathing and dying, and would have continued at peace if not for the invention of the Stone Slaves. They produce the illusion that dead rock and ash can be as ensouled as a man and cause our libraries to crumble as the foundations are jerked from beneath.

  Their very existence causes a questioning of the Academy’s teachings and thus our authority. If the public realizes even once that this Ciallah Daroun is not just some giant in stone armor or black cloaks, but a seemingly thinking and feeling thing made from earth, where will we be?

  The hunt for him must continue, and we must go forward in sending Orchestral Marches to invade and clear the Plateau. Without Music they will be an easy target and we will suffer minimal casualties.

  By the power vested in me by the Convergence of Scholars, I ask as Doyen-Générale for full control of our Military Symphonies and the right to march North past the Shore into the Desert. It is a course as clear as physics and as simple as astronomy:

  “For the path to the solution follows the star of Parsimony: it is the quick and easy, the simplest of all the choices that are set before you; and with this guide in the mind and eye, you may walk forward with palms raised and faith that the laws of nature will ease your way.”

  —Recommendations 2:15

  Salut,

  Doyen-Générale Lenoir

  Dialogue With A Boulder.

  Written on Jungle Broadleaf,

  Discovered during Royaume-Shobdho Exchange.

  Found in the 1213th turn, 7th moon,

  Estimated to be written in 1118th turn, 5th moon.

  The elder stretches out, and the honor guards shift to allow entry to the guest.

  The elder begins to speak in characteristic slow, creaking lilt.

  Elder: You have been waiting to speak with us for several weeks, now.

  Visitor strides to the center of our Orchard, just beyond the reach of our limbs.

  Visitor: I have. I am a traveler, learning as much as I can about the world.

  The elder considers this weightily.

  Elder: We are of a kind, then. Though we cannot travel, we would always like to learn.

  The others shift eagerly as if buffeted by the wind, leaning in to listen to the words.

  Visitor: What would you like to know?

  Elder: What is your name? What is your nature? Where do you hail from? What is it like? Why are you here?

  The guest reels his head, overwhelmed, but begins speaking calmly.

  Visitor: My name is Ciallah Daroun. I am a scholar and a traveler from the mesa of the Benihajr, a dry silent place far across the Dividing Sea, at the center of a distant continent. I have come here to study. Animals and peoples, I wish to learn of them both.

  The silence hangs heavy for some minutes.

  Elder: Animals and peoples? Ah, but we are neither!

  Visitor: Perhaps not animals, but you are surely peoples. You think. You speak. You are like me in many ways—I have even learned that you maintain libraries like that of my homeland, recording all that you speak and hear!

  Visitor brandishes columns of steel and rock in the place of legs, showing the typed letters that shine there. A wooden groan escapes from the Orchard as we all shift to see.

  Elder: Yes, our lives are writ upon our leaves, as yours are pressed upon your pages.

  The elder’s branches curve and his bark softens, as he observes the strange guest.

  Elder: Thank you, for this learning experience. What is it you wish to ask?

  Visitor pauses.

  Visitor: I want to know how you Sing.

  The Orchard regards this silently.

  Visitor: The venomous Jholbagh and fiery Rabikhan, you keep them at bay simply by Singing. The floods that threaten to kill this forest, you dam them solely with Music! But you are like me. Where I am made of rock, you are wood. I believed that Song may be inspired by the symphonies of nature, but I’ve been away from my quiet home for more than a turn, and I am still silent! I have been beginning to think that it’s true, that my people are stone and that stone cannot Sing, that they’ll forever be cursed to wallow in dusty tents while the worlds of men rose ever-upwards, but then I saw you. How do you do it? How can a tree make Music?

  The wind rustles our leaves as the visitor breathes heavily.

  Elder: You have already lost hope?

  The guest sinks to his knees.

  Elder: Yet you have no reason to. We can feel it inside of you.

  Our roots grow tender and lick the vibrations from the soil.

  Visitor: What do you feel?

  The Orchard sighs a happy, knowing sigh.

  Elder: The beating Song that pulses with the slow confident rhythm of a mountain range. The Music that streams from your soul.

  The bark creaks as the elder mulls hard truths.

  Elder: It will take hard-fought struggle and strife to truly set it loose—and much sacrifice. The first Singer amongst the Trees lost his heart of Oak to a lightning storm, and the first man to Sing in the southern reaches swam to the top of an enormous waterfall. But perhaps your trials are nearly done?

  We shake consoling leaves upon the boulder guest’s shoulders.

  Elder: Reach deep inside, Scholar Daroun, and brace yourself. You’ll find your Song, somewhere.

  Note: Are you sure you want to read this, Doyen-Générale? It may be distressing to see your grandfather’s death recorded in such a clinical fashion. No one truly has a heart of stone, sir. Think on it.

  —Commissaire de l’Académie, Aveline Duvachelle

  Coroner’s Report 55-D.

  Signed by Docteur Depardieux, Senior Investigator.

  Stamped in Black wax and Knife of l’Hôpital,

  Sent by crow from the field.

  1119th turn, 1st moon.

  On the morning of Duskday on the Second Week, the Hospital had received word from the Palace chambermaids that an investigation would likely be required in the second-last chamber-room on the northwest side of the building. A short time afterwards, the death of the patient had been reported to the Hospital and to the Conservatory of the Academy.

  Location: Chamber-room marked ‘3,’ northwest corner of the Voix Palace.

  Witness Statements: Palace residents Elizabeth Curvoire and Lilian Verve had first seen a team of five strange men dragging a large black sack into the room. They commented that muffled moans had been heard emerging from the bag, before it was taken behind the door. They had also heard speech while outside the chamber and deduced that some sort of violent interrogation had been occurring inside. Mademoiselle Curvoire testifies that a discordant Song was heard as well as a series of terrible screams. Lilian Verve paraphrases the interrogation thusly:

  Q: Why have you left once more? This was no mere stroll past the Banished Gates.

  A: I have seen too much of the world to stay locked away.

  Q: Would you like to suffer more of t
his minuet, instead?

  A: I have suffered dragon’s flames, shadows, sea monsters, and a host of things in the rainforest that would make your skin crawl and your blood curdle. Your torture is nothing.

  Q: What were you doing, hunting in the Royal Forest?

  A: I needed more stretched hides.

  Q: Why?

  A: That my people might be free, even if I will never be able to hear it.

  It was at this point that there was only more screaming, and both ladies sent a crow to bid me to the Palace.

  Scene Description: Guest bathroom number 3 of the Voix Palace. Decedent is lying supine, with head pointing north. A series of chamber pots have been emptied over his head, and their shattered remains lie in piles to the left and right of the body. White scratch marks in the hardwood follow the body from the room’s entrance to the location of death.

  Body Exam: Body is positioned as described above, with several pots’ worth of human waste emptied atop his head and chest. Body shows signs of late rigor mortis, as the limbs and torso are stiff to the touch. Body is cool throughout, and initial measurements show it is already at ambient temperature. Erratic etchings in the hardwood floor at the place of death suggest severe seizures, and when correlated with Mademoiselle Verve’s testimony, indicate use of a Minuet of Pain. Patient is wearing rough-woven black cloth, much weathered and very well used. Most of the robes appear grey due to wear and sun bleaching of the dye. An incision was made with 2″ scalpel to completely remove the cloak, and it was revealed that the body is not quite human. Its segments consist of several boulder-like pieces hewn into the shape of a man, though they now appear cracked and broken by repeated trauma. Some iron is incorporated with the stone body in the lower segments and implanted with a series of sliding block type-letters arranged in various formats. Face is frozen in the expression of a pained shout.

  Evidence: In haste, the offending interrogators had left behind a single desert flute, carved only to hold discordant notes.

  Notification: Academy Conservatory immediately contacted after conclusion of the report. Investigation handed over to Chanteur-Marèchale Corvais.

  Gold-level Resource Request,

  Sent by Runner from the Banished Gates,

  1119th turn, 1st moon.

  PUSH AHEAD WITH ORCHESTRAL MARCH.

  DRUM BEATS HEARD FROM ATOP THE DESERT TABLE.

  EARTHQUAKES WRACKING THE DOLDRUMS.

  WHOLE MESA BEATING LIKE A DRUM.

  STONE MEN ON THE WARPATH.

  Note: Doyen-Générale, the history of the war can be found in the Military Records outside the Academy campus. I’d ask why you bothered to comb our archives when you can simply leaf through the Living Libraries, but I suppose I already know your answer. As you say: we must always see things from another point of view. It is a lesson I’ve learned well, and for that I am grateful.

  As thanks, perhaps you will accept an old, dusty gift from an old, dusty curator. A hand-drum of Naturalist Daroun’s personal make, in the central glass gallery of the Conservatoire. As far as I can recall, it is the very first.

  —Commissaire de l’Académie, Aveline Duvachelle

  Call Girl

  Tang Fei

  Translated by Ken Liu

  1

  Morning climbs in through the window as shadow recedes from Tang Xiaoyi’s body like a green tide imbued with the fragrance of trees. Where the tidewater used to be, now there is just Xiaoyi’s slender body, naked under the thin sunlight.

  She opens her eyes, gets up, dresses, brushes her teeth, wipes away the foam at the corner of her mouth with a towel. Staring at the mirror, all serious, her face eventually breaks into a fifteen-year-old’s smile. Above her, a section of the rose-colored wallpaper applied to the ceiling droops down. This is the fourth place where this has happened.

  My house is full of blooming flowers, Xiaoyi thinks.

  “There must be another leak in the pipes,” her mother says. “There’s a large water stain growing on the wall.”

  They sit down together to have a lavish breakfast: soy milk, eggs, pan-fried baozi, porridge. Xiaoyi eats without speaking.

  When she’s ready to leave the apartment, she takes out a stack of money from her backpack and leaves it on the table. Her mother pretends not to see as she turns to do the dishes. She has turned up the faucet so that the sound of the gushing water is louder than Xiaoyi’s footsteps.

  Xiaoyi walks past her mother and the money on the table and closes the door. She can no longer hear the water. It’s so quiet she doesn’t hear anything at all.

  Her knees shake.

  She reaches up for the silver pendant hanging from her neck, a dog whistle.

  2

  The school is on the other side of the city, and Xiaoyi has to transfer buses three times to get there.

  Li Bingbing once asked Xiaoyi whether she wanted to get a ride with her in Bingbing’s father’s car. Being chauffeured around in a BMW is very comfortable.

  But Xiaoyi had said no because she didn’t think it was a big deal to ride the bus. School was so boring anyway; it was like riding another bus. Since she had to ride the bus, as it were, what did it matter where she got on? Of course, Xiaoyi didn’t say that to Bingbing. As a general rule, she doesn’t like talking, unless it’s to them.

  They would never appear at the school, which makes school even more boring. Xiaoyi sits in the last row, next to the window. All day long, she sits and broods. Whether it’s during class or recess, no one bothers her.

  She has no friends. No one talks to her. No one sees her. The girls like to form cliques: those with bigger boobs in one clique, those with smaller boobs in another. Once in a while a busty girl might be friends with a flat-chested girl, but that never lasts.

  Xiaoyi is different from all of them. She doesn’t wear a bra. Never. Many found this odd. Then, the girls found out about them. So, wherever Xiaoyi went, there would be a sudden circle of silence. But as soon as she had left the area—but not so far that she couldn’t hear them—the buzz of conversation would start again: “Look, that’s Tang Xiaoyi!”

  Yes, that’s Tang Xiaoyi. No one knows what to do with her. If it weren’t for Bingbing, who sometimes got obsessive, Xiaoyi would have a completely peaceful life.

  “Hey, you know that Li Jian and Ding Meng are together now?” says Bingbing.

  It’s the end of Geography, the last morning class. Bingbing sits down next to her and starts babbling. Once in a while, she pauses in her monologue and takes a drag from her cigarette. When she’s finally done with the cigarette, she can’t hold back any longer.

  “Xiaoyi, you know that lots of people are talking about you behind your back. Is it true? Are they all really old and really rich? Are they richer than my dad? How much do they pay you each time?”

  Xiaoyi rests her chin on a palm and stares out the window. The lunch queue outside the cafeteria grows longer and longer, all the way to the wutong tree at the school gate.

  Just then a nondescript little car stops at the gate. The car door opens, but no one gets out. He’s waiting, waiting for Xiaoyi.

  Xiaoyi stands up slowly and strides out of the classroom, her steps lightly echoing against the ground, her hair waving over her shoulder, as though a breeze is blowing in her face.

  There’s no sound around her. Sunlight slices across her shoulders like a knife blade.

  3

  “I did as you said and switched to a different car. Can you tell me why? It’s . . . unusual.”

  The middle-aged man turns to gaze at Xiaoyi. This is the first time they’ve met. The two are squeezed tightly into the backseat of the little Daihatsu Charade: the schoolgirl in her dark blue, short skirt, the man in his elegant hanfu. Once in a while, in a moment of carelessness, their knees bump into each other and separate immediately.

  In the driver’s seat is the chauffeur, his uniform neatly pressed, silver epaulettes on his shoulders, brand-new white gloves on his hands.

  “You brought a ch
auffeur.” Xiaoyi frowns.

  “I haven’t driven in a long time.”

  Xiaoyi turns her eyes to the flow of traffic outside the window—which is not flowing at all. It’s Friday, and the traffic jam started at noon. It doesn’t really matter. They’re not in any hurry. The man takes out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. The Charade’s air conditioning isn’t working—unpleasant for those used to Cadillacs.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “Nowhere.”

  “Okay. Just so long as you’re happy.”

  They are always so good tempered, treating her like a pet, adoration mixed with contempt. Before they really start, they’re all the same.

  Xiaoyi turns to give the middle-aged man a careful look. His eyes are dark, strange but friendly. They seize her and don’t let go.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asks.

  “Like you do with the others.”

  “So you haven’t thought through what you want, yourself.”

  The man laughs. “I just can’t be sure that you can satisfy me.”

  “You’re greedy.” Xiaoyi winks. Her eyelashes are long and dark, fanning seductively.

  The man’s Adam’s apple moves up and down. The way Xiaoyi’s shirt clings to her body tells him that she’s not wearing a bra.

  “Let’s start now,” Xiaoyi says.

  “In the car?”

  Xiaoyi reaches out and closes the man’s eyelids. Her hands are ice cold.

  4

  The man opens his eyes and looks around. Nothing has changed. The Charade is still the Charade. The road is still as congested as a constipated colon.

  But the chauffeur is gone.

  He’s an experienced man. He knows when he must remain calm.

  “They’re right about you. I guess I finally found the right one.”

  “You can straighten out your legs. There’s lots of legroom.”

  The man does as she suggests. He sees his own legs slowly passing through the front seat, as easily as passing through a shadow. He relaxes and leans back. Much more comfortable. He has paid the fee and he should enjoy it; this is part of the transaction.