Jim: There are many paths to greatness. (Uh-oh, I'm starting to sound like a fortune cookie!) And we would be foolish to say that being nominated for a Nebula or even winning one was the only honor that counted in this or any other year. It is instructive to note that two of the awards given at the Nebula ceremony, the Bradbury and the Norton, are named for great writers who, while celebrated as SFWA Grandmasters, have never made the short list for the award, let alone won. That's right: Ray Bradbury and Andre Norton have never appeared on the final ballot. Ever. And in their distinguished company are some of the most talented writers ever to grace our genre. For example: Iain Banks, Elizabeth Bear, Jonathan Carroll, Greg Egan, M. John Harrison, Alexander Jablokov, Jay Lake, Kit Reed, Rudy Rucker, and Sherri Tepper—to name but ten.
What does this tell us? Only that proximity to the stories of any given year distorts our vision. In our opinion, these are some of the very best stories of 2011, but it is up to future generations of readers to decide—fifty or a hundred years from now—which ones speak to the ages.
Until then, we are very proud to present this year's Nebula Awards Showcase.
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
Children are not all monsters, but many little girls are. In my small town elementary school, I was informally seeded 22nd in my class of 24. I played with numbers 23 and 24 because they were the ones willing to play with me, and I like to think that I would not have thrown them under the bus if that had been the price for improving my position—but it never came up, and I'm grateful, now.
“Ponies” is about that, and the maiming so many little girls subject themselves to, just to survive childhood. My first published short stories were horror, the literature of effect. Later I moved into fantasy and other things, but last year I returned to horror with the science fiction story “Spar,” and found that I had more to learn about how fiction gets under the skin. “Ponies” is another exploration of that.
NEBULA AWARD, SHORT STORY (TIE)
The invitation card has a Western theme. Along its margins, cartoon girls in cowboy hats chase a herd of wild Ponies. The Ponies are no taller than the girls, bright as butterflies, fat, with short round-tipped unicorn horns and small fluffy wings. At the bottom of the card, newly caught Ponies mill about in a corral. The girls have lassoed a pink-and-white Pony. Its eyes and mouth are surprised round Os. There is an exclamation mark over its head.
The little girls are cutting off its horn with curved knives. Its wings are already removed, part of a pile beside the corral.
You and your Pony___[and Sunny's name is handwritten here, in puffy letters]___are invited to a cutting-out party with TheOtherGirls! If we like you, and if your Pony does okay, we'll let you hang out with us.
Sunny says, “I can't wait to have friends!” She reads over Barbara's shoulder, rose-scented breath woofling through Barbara's hair. They are in the backyard next to Sunny's pink stable.
Barbara says, “Do you know what you want to keep?”
Sunny's tiny wings are a blur as she hops into the air, loops and then hovers, legs curled under her. “Oh, being able to talk, absolutely! Flying is great, but talking is way better!” She drops to the grass. “I don't know why any Pony would keep her horn! It's not like it does anything!”
This is the way it's always been, as long as there have been Ponies. All ponies have wings. All Ponies have horns. All Ponies can talk. Then all Ponies go to a cutting-out party, and they give up two of the three, because that's what has to happen if a girl is going to fit in with TheOtherGirls. Barbara's never seen a Pony that still had her horn or wings after her cutting-out party.
Barbara sees TheOtherGirls’ Ponies peeking in the classroom windows just before recess or clustered at the bus stop after school. They're baby pink and lavender and daffodil-yellow, with flossy manes in ringlets, and tails that curl to the ground. When not at school and cello lessons and ballet class and soccer practice and play group and the orthodontist's, TheOtherGirls spend their days with their Ponies.
* * *
The party is at TopGirl's house, which has a mother who's a pediatrician and a father who's a cardiologist and a small barn and giant trees shading the grass where the Ponies are playing games. Sunny walks out to them nervously. They silently touch her horn and wings with their velvet noses, and then the Ponies all trot out to the lilac barn at the bottom of the pasture, where a bale of hay has been broken open.
TopGirl meets Barbara at the fence. “That's your Pony?” she says without greeting. “She's not as pretty as Starblossom.”
Barbara is defensive. “She's beautiful!” This is a misstep so she adds, “Yours is so pretty!” And TopGirl's Pony is pretty: her tail is every shade of purple and glitters with stars. But Sunny's tail is creamy white and shines with honey-colored light, and Barbara knows that Sunny's the most beautiful Pony ever.
TopGirl walks away, saying over her shoulder, “There's RockBand in the family room and a bunch of TheOtherGirls are hanging out on the deck and Mom bought some cookies and there's CokeZero and DietRedBull and diet lemonade.”
“Where are you?” Barbara asks.
“I'm outside,” TopGirl says, so Barbara gets a CrystalLight and three frosted raisin-oatmeal cookies and follows her. TheOtherGirls outside are listening to an iPod plugged into speakers and playing Wii tennis and watching the Ponies play HideAndSeek and Who'sPrettiest and ThisIsTheBestGame. They are all there, SecondGirl and SuckUpGirl and EveryoneLikesHerGirl and the rest. Barbara only speaks when she thinks she'll get it right.
And then it's time. TheOtherGirls and their silent Ponies collect in a ring around Barbara and Sunny. Barbara feels sick.
TopGirl says to Barbara, “What did she pick?”
Sunny looks scared but answers her directly. “I would rather talk than fly or stab things with my horn.”
TopGirl says to Barbara, “That's what Ponies always say.” She gives Barbara a curved knife with a blade as long as a woman's hand.
“Me?” Barbara says. “I thought someone else did it. A grownup.”
TopGirl says, “Everyone does it for their own Pony. I did it for Starblossom.”
In silence Sunny stretches out a wing.
It's not the way it would be, cutting a real pony. The wing comes off easily, smooth as plastic, and the blood smells like cotton candy at the fair. There's a shiny trembling oval where the wing was, as if Barbara is cutting rose-flavored Turkish Delight in half and sees the pink under the powdered sugar. She thinks, It's sort of pretty, and throws up.
Sunny shivers, her eyes shut tight. Barbara cuts off the second wing and lays it beside the first.
The horn is harder, like paring a real pony's hooves. Barbara's hand slips and she cuts Sunny, and there's more cotton-candy blood. And then the horn lies in the grass beside the wings.
Sunny drops to her knees. Barbara throws the knife down and falls beside her, sobbing and hiccuping. She scrubs her face with the back of her hand and looks up at the circle.
Starblossom touches the knife with her nose, pushes it toward Barbara with one lilac hoof. TopGirl says, “Now the voice. You have to take away her voice.”
“But I already cut off her wings and her horn!” Barbara throws her arms around Sunny's neck, protecting it. “Two of the three, you said!”
“That's the cutting-out, yeah,” TopGirl says. “That's what you do to be OneOfUs. But the Ponies pick their own friends. And that costs, too.” Starblossom tosses her violet mane. For the first time, Barbara sees that there is a scar shaped like a smile on her throat. All the Ponies have one.
“I won't!” Barbara tells them all, but even as she cries until her face is caked with snot and tears, she knows she will, and when she's done crying, she picks up the knife and pulls herself upright.
Sunny stands up beside her on trembling legs. She looks very small without her horn, her wings. Barbara's hands are slippery but she tightens her grip.
“No,” Sunny says suddenly. “Not even for this.”
Su
nny spins and runs, runs for the fence in a gallop as fast and beautiful as a real pony's; but there are more of the others, and they are bigger, and Sunny doesn't have her wings to fly or her horn to fight. They pull her down before she can jump the fence into the woods beyond. Sunny cries out and then there is nothing, only the sound of pounding hooves from the tight circle of Ponies.
TheOtherGirls stand, frozen. Their blind faces are turned toward the Ponies.
The Ponies break their circle, trot away. There is no sign of Sunny, beyond a spray of cotton-candy blood and a coil of her glowing mane torn free and fading as it falls to the grass.
Into the silence TopGirl says, “Cookies?” She sounds fragile and false. TheOtherGirls crowd into the house, chattering in equally artificial voices. They start up a game, drink more DietCoke.
Barbara stumbles after them into the family room. “What are you playing?” she says, uncertainly.
“Why are you here?” FirstGirl says, as if noticing her for the first time. “You're not OneOfUs.”
TheOtherGirls nod. “You don't have a pony.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kij Johnson is a novelist and short-story writer who has also won the World Fantasy and Theodore Sturgeon Awards. Currently she lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, and is at work on a novel and a collection of short stories.
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
Although I'm a science fiction writer in my spare time, in my “day job” I work on real science and spaceflight, including both working on existing missions (such as the Mars Rovers—still roving after all these years!) and developing concepts and technologies for future missions. Although much of my work is on Mars, I've long been interested in the planet Venus, very much the neglected planet in both science and science fiction. I've been struck by the fact that, although the surface of Venus is a good analogue of hell, when you get about 50 kilometers up on the atmosphere, the environment is in many ways the most Earthlike place in the solar system (other than Earth, of course), with temperature and pressure at values close to what humans like to live at. And in the carbon dioxide atmosphere of Venus, breathable air is a lifting gas. So I've been fascinated with the possibility of habitats that float in the atmosphere of Venus. Another fascination I've had is with terraforming, an idea that the late astronomer Carl Sagan proposed for Venus and Mars. It turns out that terraforming Venus would be incredibly difficult; a lot more difficult than Sagan thought it would be, back in 1962. In an earlier story (“Ecopoiesis”), my characters Leah Hamakawa and David Tinkerman looked at the (not very successful) attempt at partial terraforming of Mars. In “The Sultan of the Clouds,” I brought them to Venus.
When Leah Hamakawa and I arrived at Riemann orbital, there was a surprise waiting for Leah: a message. Not an electronic message on a link-pad, but an actual physical envelope, with Doctor Leah Hamakawa lettered on the outside in flowing handwriting.
Leah slid the note from the envelope. The message was etched on a stiff sheet of some hard crystal that gleamed a brilliant translucent crimson. She looked at it, flexed it, ran a fingernail over it, and then held it to the light, turning it slightly. The edges caught the light and scattered it across the room in droplets of fire. “Diamond,” she said. “Chromium impurities give it the red color; probably nitrogen for the blue. Charming.” She handed it to me. “Careful of the edges, Tinkerman; I don't doubt it might cut.”
I ran a finger carefully over one edge, but found that Leah's warning was unnecessary; some sort of passivation treatment had been done to blunt the edge to keep it from cutting. The letters were limned in blue, so sharply chiseled on the sheet that they seemed to rise from the card. The title read, “Invitation from Carlos Fernando Delacroix Ortega de la Jolla y Nordwald-Gruenbaum.” In smaller letters, it continued, “We find your researches on the ecology of Mars to be of some interest. We would like to invite you to visit our residences at Hypatia at your convenience and talk.”
I didn't know the name Carlos Fernando, but the family Nordwald-Gruenbaum needed no introduction. The invitation had come from someone within the intimate family of the Satrap of Venus.
Transportation, the letter continued, would be provided.
The Satrap of Venus. One of the twenty old men, the lords and owners of the solar system. A man so rich that human standards of wealth no longer had any meaning. What could he want with Leah?
I tried to remember what I knew about the sultan of the clouds, satrap of the fabled floating cities. It seemed very far away from everything I knew. The society, I thought I remembered, was said to be decadent and perverse, but I knew little more. The inhabitants of Venus kept to themselves.
Riemann station was ugly and functional, the interior made of a dark anodized aluminum with a pebbled surface finish. There was a viewport in the lounge, and Leah had walked over to look out. She stood with her back to me, framed in darkness. Even in her rumpled ship's suit, she was beautiful, and I wondered if I would ever find the clue to understanding her.
As the orbital station rotated, the blue bubble of Earth slowly rose in front of her, a fragile and intricate sculpture of snow and cobalt, outlining her in a sapphire light. “There's nothing for me down there,” she said.
I stood in silence, not sure if she even remembered I was there.
In a voice barely louder than the silence, she said, “I have no past.”
The silence was uncomfortable. I knew I should say something, but I was not sure what. “I've never been to Venus,” I said at last.
“I don't know anybody who has.” Leah turned. “I suppose the letter doesn't specifically say that I should come alone.” Her tone was matter of fact, neither discouraging nor inviting.
It was hardly enthusiastic, but it was better than no. I wondered if she actually liked me, or just tolerated my presence. I decided it might be best not to ask. No use pressing on my luck.
The transportation provided turned out to be the Sulieman, a fusion yacht.
Sulieman was more than merely first-class, it was excessively extravagant. It was larger than many ore transports, huge enough that any ordinary yacht could have easily fit within the most capacious of its recreation spheres. Each of its private cabins—and it had seven—was larger than an ordinary habitat module. Big ships commonly were slow ships, but Sulieman was an exception, equipped with an impressive amount of delta-V, and the transfer orbit to Venus was scheduled for a transit time well under that of any commercial transport ship.
We were the only passengers.
Despite its size, the ship had a crew of just three: captain, and first and second pilot. The captain, with the shaven head and saffron robe of a Buddhist novice, greeted us on entry, and politely but firmly informed us that the crew were not answerable to orders of the passengers. We were to keep to the passenger section, and we would be delivered to Venus. Crew accommodations were separate from the passenger accommodations, and we should expect not to see or hear from the crew during the voyage.
“Fine,” was the only comment Leah had.
When the ship had received us and boosted into a fast Venus transfer orbit, Leah found the smallest of the private cabins and locked herself in it.
Leah Hamakawa had been with the Pleiades Institute for twenty years. She had joined young, when she was still a teenager—long before I'd ever met her—and I knew little of her life before then, other than that she had been an orphan. The institute was the only family that she had.
It seems to me sometimes that there are two Leahs. One Leah is shy and childlike, begging to be loved. The other Leah is cool and professional, who can hardly bear being touched, who hates—or perhaps disdains—people.
Sometimes I wonder if she had been terribly hurt as a child. She never talks about growing up, never mentions her parents. I had asked her, once, and the only thing she said was that that is all behind her, long ago and far away.
I never knew my position with her. Sometimes I almost think that she must love me, but cannot bring herself to say anything
. Other times she is so casually thoughtless that I believe she never thinks of me as more than a technical assistant, indistinguishable from any other tech. Sometimes I wonder why she even bothers to allow me to hang around.
I damn myself silently for being too cowardly to ask.
While Leah had locked herself away, I explored the ship. Each cabin was spherical, with a single double-glassed octagonal viewport on the outer cabin wall. The cabins had every luxury imaginable, even hygiene facilities set in smaller adjoining spheres, with booths that sprayed actual water through nozzles onto the occupant's body.
Ten hours after boost, Leah had still not come out. I found another cabin and went to sleep.
In two days I was bored. I had taken apart everything that could be taken apart, examined how it worked, and put it back together. Everything was in perfect condition; there was nothing for me to fix.
But, although I had not brought much with me, I'd brought a portable office. I called up a librarian agent, and asked for history.
In the beginning of the human expansion outward, transport into space had been ruinously expensive, and only governments and obscenely rich corporations could afford to do business in space. When the governments dropped out, a handful of rich men bought their assets. Most of them sold out again, or went bankrupt. A few of them didn't. Some stayed on due to sheer stubbornness, some with the fervor of an ideological belief in human expansion, and some out of a cold-hearted calculation that there would be uncountable wealth in space, if only it could be tapped. When the technology was finally ready, the twenty families owned it all.
Slowly, the frontier opened, and then the exodus began. First by the thousands: Baha'i, fleeing religious persecution; deposed dictators and their sycophants, looking to escape with looted treasuries; drug lords and their retinues, looking to take their profits beyond the reach of governments or rivals. Then, the exodus began by the millions, all colors of humanity scattering from the Earth to start a new life in space. Splinter groups from the Church of John the Avenger left the unforgiving mother church seeking their prophesied destiny; dissidents from the People's Republic of Malawi, seeking freedom; vegetarian communes from Alaska, seeking a new frontier; Mayans, seeking to reestablish a Maya homeland; libertarians, seeking their free-market paradise; communists, seeking a place outside of history to mold the new communist man. Some of them died quickly, some slowly, but always there were more, a never-ending flood of dissidents, malcontents and rebels, people willing to sign away anything for the promise of a new start. A few of them survived. A few of them thrived. A few of them grew.
Nebula Awards Showcase 2012 Page 2
