The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Novellas 2016

by Paula Guran

  I shut my eyes and prayed to the Seven; I hadn’t done this since arriving on the planet. I prayed to my living parents and ancestors. I opened my eyes. It was time to call home. Soon.

  I peeked out of the washing space. I shared the space with five other human students. One of them just happened to be leaving as I peeked out. As soon as he was gone, I grabbed my wrapper and came out. I wrapped it around my waist and I looked at myself in the large mirror. I looked for a very very long time. Not at my dark brown skin, but where my hair had been. The okuoko were a soft transparent blue with darker blue dots at their tips. They grew out of my head as if they’d been doing that all my life, so natural looking that I couldn’t say they were ugly. They were just a little longer than my hair had been, hanging just past my backside, and they were thick as sizable snakes.

  There were ten of them and I could no longer braid them into my family’s code pattern as I had done with my own hair. I pinched one and felt the pressure. Would they grow like hair? Were they hair? I could ask Okwu, but I wasn’t ready to ask it anything. Not yet. I quickly ran to my room and sat in the sun and let them dry.

  Ten hours later, when dark finally fell, it was time. I’d bought the container at the market; it was made from the shed exoskeleton of students who sold them for spending money. It was clear like one of Okwu’s tentacles and dyed red. I’d packed it with the fresh otjize, which now looked thick and ready.

  I pressed my right index and middle finger together and was about to dig out the first dollop when I hesitated, suddenly incredibly unsure. What if my fingers passed right through it like liquid soap? What if what I’d harvested from the forest wasn’t clay at all? What if it was hard like stone?

  I pulled my hand away and took a deep breath. If I couldn’t make otjize here, then I’d have to . . . change. I touched one of my tentacle-like locks and felt a painful pressure in my chest as my mind tried to take me to a place I wasn’t ready to go to. I plunged my two fingers into my new concoction . . . and scooped it up. I spread it on my flesh. Then I wept.

  I went to see Okwu in its dorm. I was still unsure what to call those who lived in this large gas-filled spherical complex. When you entered, it was just one great space where plants grew on the walls and hung from the ceiling. There were no individual rooms, and people who looked like Okwu in some ways but different in others walked across the expansive floor, up the walls, on the ceiling. Somehow, when I came to the front entrance, Okwu would always come within the next few minutes. It would always emit a large plume of gas as it readjusted to the air outside.

  “You look well,” it said, as we walked down the walkway. We both loved the walkway because of the winds the warm clear seawater created as it rushed by below.

  I smiled. “I feel well.”

  “When did you make it?”

  “Over the last two suns,” I said.

  “I’m glad,” it said. “You were beginning to fade.”

  It held up an okuoko. “I was working with a yellow current to use in one of my classmate’s body tech,” it said.

  “Oh,” I said, looking at its burned flesh.

  We paused, looking down at the rushing waters. The relief I’d felt at the naturalness, the trueness of the otjize immediately started waning. This was the real test. I rubbed some otjize from my arm and them took Okwu’s okuoko in my hand. I applied the otjize and then let the okuoko drop as I held my breath. We walked back to my dorm. My otjize from Earth had healed Okwu and then the chief. It would heal many others. The otjize created by my people, mixed with my homeland. This was the foundation of the Meduse’s respect for me. Now all of it was gone. I was someone else. Not even fully Himba anymore. What would Okwu think of me now?

  When we got to my dorm, we stopped.

  “I know what you are thinking,” Okwu said.

  “I know you Meduse,” I said. “You’re people of honor, but you’re firm and rigid. And traditional.” I felt sorrow wash over and I sobbed, covering my face with my hand. Feeling my otjize smear beneath it. “But you’ve become my friend,” I said. When I brought my hand away, my palm was red with otjize. “You are all I have here. I don’t know how it happened, but you are . . . ”

  “You will call your family and have them,” Okwu said.

  I frowned and stepped away from Okwu. “So callous,” I whispered.

  “Binti,” Okwu said. It plumed out gas, in what I knew was a laugh. “Whether you carry the substance that can heal and bring life back to my people or not, I am your friend. I am honored to know you.” It shook its okuoko, making one of them vibrate. I yelped when I felt the vibration in one of mine.

  “What is that?” I shouted, holding up my hands.

  “It means we are family through battle,” it said. “You are the first to join our family in this way in a long time. We do not like humans.”

  I smiled.

  He held up an okuoko. “Show it to me tomorrow,” I said, doubtfully.

  “Tomorrow will be the same,” it said.

  When I rubbed off the otjize the burn was gone.

  I sat in the silence of my room looking at my edan as I sent out a signal to my family with my astrolabe. Outside was dark and I looked into the sky, at the stars, knowing the pink one was home. The first to answer was my mother.

  THE CITADEL OF WEEPING PEARLS

  Aliette de Bodard

  The Officer

  There was a sound on the edge of sleep: Suu Nuoc wasn’t sure if it was a bell and a drum calling for enlightenment, or the tactics-master sounding the call to arms in that breathless instant—hanging like a bead of blood from a sword’s blade—that marked the boundary between the stylized life of the court and the confused, lawless fury of the battlefield.

  “Book of Heaven, Book of Heaven.”

  The soft, reedy voice echoed under the dome of the ceiling, but the room itself had changed—receding, taking on the shape of the mindship—curved metal corridors with scrolling columns of memorial excerpts, the oily sheen of the Mind’s presence spread over the watercolors of starscapes and the carved longevity character at the head of the bed. For a confused, terrible moment as Suu Nuoc woke up, he wasn’t sure if he was still in his bedroom in the Purple Forbidden City on the First Planet or hanging, weightless, in the void of space.

  It wasn’t a dream. It was the mindship: The Turtle’s Golden Claw, the only one addressing Suu Nuoc with that peculiar form of his title, the one that the empress had conferred on him half out of awe, half out of jest.

  The Turtle’s Golden Claw wasn’t there in his bedroom, of course: she was a Mind, an artificial intelligence encased in the heartroom of a ship, and she was too heavy to leave orbit. But she was good at things; and one of those was hacking his comms and using the communal network to project new surroundings over his bedroom.

  “Ship,” he whispered, the words tasting like grit on his tongue. His eyes felt glued together; his brain still fogged by sleep. “It’s the Bi-Hour of the Tiger.” People plotted or made love or slept the sleep of the just; they didn’t wake up and find themselves dragged into an impossible conversation.

  But then, of course, The Turtle’s Golden Claw was technically part of the Imperial family: before her implantation in the ship that would become her body, the Mind had been borne by Thousand-Heart Ngoc Ha, the empress’s youngest daughter. The Turtle’s Golden Claw was mostly sweet, but sometimes she could act with the same casual arrogance as the empress.

  “What is it this time?” Suu Nuoc asked.

  The Turtle’s Golden Claw’s voice was thin and quivering; nothing like her usual, effortless arrogance. “She’s not answering. I called her again and again, but she’s not answering.”

  Ten thousand words bloomed into Suu Nuoc’s mind; were sorted out as ruthlessly as he’d once sorted out battalions. “Who?” he said.

  “Grandmother.”

  There were two people whom the mindship thought of as Grandmother; but if the Keeper of the Peace Empress had been dead, Suu Nuoc’s quar
ters would have been in effervescence, the night servants barely containing their impatience at their master’s lack of knowledge. “The Grand Master of Design Harmony?”

  The lights flickered around him; the characters oozed like squeezed wounds. “She’s not answering,” the ship said again, sounding more and more like the child she was with every passing moment. “She was here; and then she . . . faded away on the comms.”

  Suu Nuoc put out a command for the system to get in touch with Grand Master of Design Harmony Bach Cuc—wondering if that would work, with the shipmind hacked into his comms. But no; the progress of the call appeared overlaid on the bottom half of his field of vision, same as normal; except, of course, that no one picked up. Bach Cuc’s last known location, according to the communal network, was in her laboratory near the Spire of Literary Eminence—where the radio comms toward The Turtle’s Golden Claw would be clearest and most economical.

  “Did you hack the rest of my comms?” he asked—even as he got up, pulling up clothes from his autumn chest, unfolding and discarding uniforms that seemed too formal until he found his python tunic.

  “You know I didn’t.” The Turtle’s Golden Claw’s voice was stiff.

  “Had to ask,” Suu Nuoc said. He pulled the tunic over his shoulders and stared at himself in the mirror by the four seasons chests: pale and disheveled, his hair hastily pulled back into a topknot—but the tunic was embroidered with pythons, a mark of the empress’s special favor, bestowed on him after the battle at Four Stations: a clear message, for those who affected not to know who he was, that this jumped-up, uncouth soldier wielded authority by special dispensation.

  The call was still ringing in the emptiness; he cut it with a wave of his hands. There was a clear, present problem, and in such situations he knew exactly what to do.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Grand Master Bach Cuc’s laboratory was spread around a courtyard: at this late hour, only the ambient lights were on, throwing shadows on the pavement—bringing to mind the old colonist superstitions of fox shapeshifters and blood-sucking demons.

  It was the dry season in the Forbidden Purple City, and Bach Cuc had set up installations on trestle tables in the courtyard—Suu Nuoc didn’t remember what half the assemblages of wires and metal were and didn’t much care.

  “Where was she when you saw her last?” he asked The Turtle’s Golden Claw.

  The ship couldn’t descend from orbit around the First Planet, of course; she’d simply animated an avatar of herself. Most mindships chose something the size of a child or a Mind; The Turtle’s Golden Claw’s avatar was as small as a clenched fist, but perfect, rendering in exquisite detail the contours of her hull, the protrusions of her thrusters—if Suu Nuoc had been inclined to squint, he was sure he’d have caught a glimpse of the orchids painted near the prow.

  “Inside,” The Turtle’s Golden Claw said. “Tinkering with things.” She sounded like she’d recovered; her voice was cool again, effortlessly taking on the accents and vocabulary of the court. She made Suu Nuoc feel like a fish out of water, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with a panicked, bewildered mindship—he was no mother, no master of wind and water, and would have had no idea what to do in such a situation.

  He followed the ship into one of the largest pavilions: the outside was lacquered wood, painstakingly recreated identical to Old Earth design, with thin metal tiles embossed with longevity symbols. The inside, however, was more modern, a mess of tables with instruments: the communal network a knot of virtual messages with cryptic reminders like put more khi at G4 and redo the connections, please, notes left by researchers to themselves and to each other.

  He kept a wary eye on the room—two tables, loaded with instruments; a terminal, blinking forlornly in a corner; a faint smell he couldn’t quite identify on the air: charred wood, with a tinge of a sharper, sweeter flavor, as if someone had burnt lime or longan fruit. No threat that he could see; but equally, a slow, spreading silence characteristic of a hastily emptied room.

  “Is anyone here?” Suu Nuoc asked—superfluous, really. The network would have told him if there were, but he was too used to battlefields, where one could not afford to rely on its presence or its integrity.

  “She’s not here,” The Turtle’s Golden Claw said, slowly, patiently; an adult to a child. As if he needed another patronizing highborn of the court . . . But she was his charge; and so, technically, was Grand Master Bach Cuc, the Citadel project being under the watchful eye of the military. Even if he understood next to nothing about the science.

  “I can see that.” Suu Nuoc’s eye was caught by the door at the furthest end of the room: the access to the shielded chamber, gaping wide open, the harmonization arch showing up as deactivated on his network access. No one inside, then.

  Except . . . he walked up to it and peered beyond the arch, careful to remain on the right side of the threshold. Harmonization arches decontaminated, making sure the environment on the other side was sterile, and the cleansing of extraneous particles from every pore of his skin was an unpleasant process he would avoid if he needed to. There was nothing and no one, no virtual notes or messages, just helpful prompts from the communal network offering to tell him what the various machines in the chamber did—pointing him to Grand Master Bach Cuc’s progress reports.

  Not what he was interested in, currently.

  He had another look around the room. The Turtle’s Golden Claw had said Grand Master Bach Cuc had vanished mid-call. But there was nothing here that suggested anything beyond a normal night, the laboratory deserted because the researchers had gone to bed.

  Except . . .

  His gaze caught on the table by the harmonization arch. There was an object there, but he couldn’t tell what it was because Grand Master Bach Cuc had laid her seal on it, hiding it from the view of anyone who didn’t have the proper access privileges—a private seal, one that wouldn’t vanish even if the communal network was muted. Suu Nuoc walked toward it, hesitating. So far, he had done Bach Cuc the courtesy of not using his accesses as an Official of the First Rank; hadn’t broken into her private notes or correspondences, as he would have been entitled to. Long Quan would have called him weak—behind his back when he wasn’t listening, of course, his aide wasn’t that foolish—but he knew better than to use his accesses unwisely. There were those at the court that hadn’t forgiven him for rising so high, so quickly; without years of learning the classics to pass the examinations, years of toiling in some less prestigious job in the College of Brushes until the court recognized his merit. They called him the empress’s folly—never mind his successes as a general, the battle of Four Stations, the crushing of the rebel army at He Huong, the successful invasion of the Smoke People’s territory: all they remembered was that he had once slept with the empress and been elevated to a rank far exceeding what was proper for a former (or current) favorite.

  But The Turtle’s Golden Claw wasn’t flighty, or likely to panic over nothing. Suu Nuoc reached out, invoking his privileged access—the seal wavered and disappeared. Beneath it was . . .

  He sucked in a deep breath—clarity filling his mind like a pane of ice, everything in the room sharpened to unbearable focus; the harmonization arch limned with cold, crystalline light as cutting as the edges of a scalpel.

  The seal had hidden five pellets of metal; dropped casually into a porcelain bowl like discarded food, and still smelling, faintly, of anesthetic and disinfectant.

  Mem-Implants. Ancestor implants. The link between the living and the memories of their ancestors: the repository of ghost-personalities who would dispense advice and knowledge on everything from navigating court intrigues to providing suitable responses in discussions replete with literary allusions. Five of them; no wonder Grand Master Bach Cuc had always been so graceful, so effortless at showing the proper levels of address and languages whatever the situation.

  To so casually discard such precious allies—no, you didn’t voluntarily leave those behind,
not for any reason. But why would an abductor leave them behind?

  “She wouldn’t remove—” The Turtle’s Golden Claw said. Suu Nuoc lifted a hand to interrupt the obvious.

  “I need to know where the Grand Master’s research stood. Concisely.” There wasn’t much time, and evidence was vanishing as they spoke. The ship would know that, too.

  The Turtle’s Golden Claw didn’t make the mocking comment he’d expected—about Suu Nuoc being Supervisor of Military Research and with barely enough mathematics to operate an abacus. “You can access the logs of my last journeys into deep spaces,” she said, slowly. “I brought back samples for her.”

  Travel logs. Suu Nuoc asked his own, ordinary implants to compile every note in the room by owner and chronological order.

  “Did Grand Master Bach Cuc know where the Citadel was?” he asked. That was, after all, what those travels were meant to achieve: The Turtle’s Golden Claw, Bach Cuc’s masterpiece, diving into the furthest deep spaces, seeking traces of something that had vanished many years ago, in a time when Suu Nuoc was still a dream in his parents’ minds.

  The Citadel of Weeping Pearls—and, with it, its founder and ruler, the empress’s eldest and favorite daughter, Bright Princess Ngoc Minh.

  The Citadel had been Ngoc Minh’s refuge, her domain away from the court after her last, disastrous quarrel with her mother, and her flight from the First Planet. Until the empress, weary of her daughter’s defiance, had sent the Imperial Armies to destroy it—and the Citadel vanished in a single night with all souls onboard, never to reappear.

  “There were . . . trace elements from orbitals and ships,” The Turtle’s Golden Claw said, slowly, cautiously; he had the feeling she was translating into a language he could understand—was it mindship stuff, or merely scientific language? “Images and memories of dresses; and porcelain dishes. . . . ” The ship paused, hovering before the harmonization arch. “Everything as fresh as if they’d been made yesterday.”