Nebula Awards Showcase 2012

by James Patrick Kelly

  *First Sight means that you can see what really is there, and Second Thoughts mean thinking about what you are thinking. And in Tiffany's case, there were sometimes Third Thoughts and Fourth Thoughts, although these were quite difficult to manage and sometimes led her to walk into doors.

  *The forget-me-lots is a pretty red-and-white flower usually given by young ladies to signal to their young men that they never want to see them again ever, or at least until they've learned to wash properly and gotten a job.

  *If you do not yet know who the Nac Mac Feegles are: 1) Be grateful for your uneventful life; and 2) Be prepared to beat a retreat if you hear anyone about as high as your ankle shout “Crivens!” They are, strictly speaking, one of the faerie folk, but it is probably not a good idea to tell them this if you are looking forward to a future in which you still have your teeth.

  INTRODUCTION

  Here's this year's Rhysling Award winner in the short poem category.

  Theia, a hypothetical protoplanet, is central to the Great Impact Theory of the Moon's origin.

  That you were our meant earth, & not this other

  flawed marble we crawl over, cling to, dream

  in fits of leaving—surely this suspicion

  once wove Atlantis through us, carved out Eden

  between our ribs.

  That we are shattered creatures,

  our sacred texts assure us, but not why

  the iron that marks our blood is restless, seeking

  some heart beyond our hearts.

  No second impact

  remains to reunite our cores: Lagrange

  holds only pebbled mercies, shooting stars

  not worth the wishing on.

  Come summer midnights

  when song dogs serenade your final shard,

  we cannot help but raise our faces also

  to that remotest of reflected blessings

  & howl you, Theia, as the home we lost.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ann K. Schwader's most recent collection of dark SF poems, Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam's Dot Publishing, 2010), was a Bram Stoker Award finalist. A comprehensive collection of her weird verse, Twisted In Dream (edited by S. T. Joshi), is forthcoming from Hippocampus Press. Her poems have appeared in Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Dreams & Nightmares, Weird Tales, Dark Wisdom, Tales of the Unanticipated, Weird Fiction Review, and elsewhere in the small and pro press. She is an active member of SFWA, HWA, and SFPA. A Wyoming native, Schwader lives and writes in suburban Colorado. Her author's website is http://home.earthlink.net/~schwader/

  AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

  I would love to say something mysterious about myself, but I'm afraid my life is rather mundane. I live in Bakersfield, California, home of the Fighting Drillers, with my husband (1), pet cats (3), and backyard full of strays (innumerable).

  When I started writing “The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath the Queen's Window,” I was wondering whether it would be possible to tell a coherent story from the perspective of a summoned creature. Since the creature would generally only be called in crises, it would be a story that flashed between moments of intense conflict, with much of the plot missing or happening behind the scenes.

  At the time, I was also wondering how one might create an anthropologically believable matriarchy. Some sociobiologists claim that the kinds of male and female sex roles we see recurring in various cultures are based on inherent differences in male and female physiology—primarily the vulnerability that comes with being pregnant and nursing small children. That seems like a pretty valid thesis as these things go, so I tried to create a society that would eliminate that effect.

  It was interesting writing the perspective of a character like Naeva, who would rather hurt people than admit her black-and-white views are wrong. I tried to find the places where I related with her, too: she's scared; she's manipulated; she's very powerful but often has no control. She's not a good person, but she is a human person, or at least I wanted her to be.

  NEBULA AWARD, NOVELLA

  My story should have ended on the day I died. Instead, it began there.

  Sun pounded on my back as I rode through the Mountains where the Sun Rests. My horse's hooves beat in syncopation with those of the donkey that trotted in our shadow. The queen's midget Kyan turned his head toward me, sweat dripping down the red-and-blue protections painted across his malformed brow.

  “Shouldn't…we…stop?” he panted.

  Sunlight shone red across the craggy limestone cliffs. A bold eastern wind carried the scent of mountain blossoms. I pointed to a place where two large stones leaned across a narrow outcropping.

  “There,” I said, prodding my horse to go faster before Kyan could answer. He grunted and cursed at his donkey for falling behind.

  I hated Kyan, and he hated me. But Queen Rayneh had ordered us to ride reconnaissance together, and we obeyed, out of love for her and for the Land of Flowered Hills.

  We dismounted at the place I had indicated. There, between the mountain peaks, we could watch the enemy's forces in the valley below without being observed. The raiders spread out across the meadow below like ants on a rich meal. Their women's camp lay behind the main troops, a small dark blur. Even the smoke rising from their women's fires seemed timid. I scowled.

  “Go out between the rocks,” I directed Kyan. “Move as close to the edge as you can.”

  Kyan made a mocking gesture of deference. “As you wish, Great Lady,” he sneered, swinging his twisted legs off the donkey. Shamans’ bundles of stones and seeds, tied with twine, rattled at his ankles.

  I refused to let his pretensions ignite my temper. “Watch the valley,” I instructed. “I will take the vision of their camp from your mind and send it to the Queen's scrying pool. Be sure to keep still.”

  The midget edged toward the rocks, his eyes shifting back and forth as if he expected to encounter raiders up here in the mountains, in the Queen's dominion. I found myself amused and disgusted by how little provocation it took to reveal the midget's true, craven nature. At home in the Queen's castle, he strutted about, pompous and patronizing. He was like many birth-twisted men, arrogant in the limited magic to which his deformities gave him access. Rumors suggested that he imagined himself worthy enough to be in love with the Queen. I wondered what he thought of the men below. Did he daydream about them conquering the Land? Did he think they'd make him powerful, that they'd put weapons in his twisted hands and let him strut among their ranks?

  “Is your view clear?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  I closed my eyes and saw, as he saw, the panorama of the valley below. I held his sight in my mind, and turned toward the eastern wind which carries the perfect expression of magic—flight—on its invisible eddies. I envisioned the battlefield unfurling before me like a scroll rolling out across a marble floor. With low, dissonant notes, I showed the image how to transform itself for my purposes. I taught it how to be length and width without depth, and how to be strokes of color and light reflected in water. When it knew these things, I sang the image into the water of the Queen's scrying pool.

  Suddenly—too soon—the vision vanished from my inner eye. Something whistled through the air. I turned. Pain struck my chest like thunder.

  I cried out. Kyan's bundles of seeds and stones rattled above me. My vision blurred red. Why was the midget near me? He should have been on the outcropping.

  “You traitor!” I shouted. “How did the raiders find us?”

  I writhed blindly on the ground, struggling to grab Kyan's legs. The midget caught my wrists. Weak with pain, I could not break free.

  “Hold still,” he said. “You're driving the arrow deeper.”

  “Let me go, you craven dwarf.”

  “I'm no traitor. This is woman's magic. Feel the arrow shaft.”

  Kyan guided my hand upward to touch the arrow buried in my chest. Through the pain, I felt the softness of one of the Queen's roc feathers. It was particularly rare and valuable, t
he length of my arm.

  I let myself fall slack against the rock. “Woman's magic,” I echoed, softly. “The Queen is betrayed. The Land is betrayed.”

  “Someone is betrayed, sure enough,” said Kyan, his tone gloating.

  “You must return to court and warn the Queen.”

  Kyan leaned closer to me. His breath blew on my neck, heavy with smoke and spices.

  “No, Naeva. You can still help the Queen. She's given me the keystone to a spell—a piece of pure leucite, powerful enough to tug a spirit from its rest. If I blow its power into you, your spirit won't sink into sleep. It will only rest, waiting for her summons.”

  Blood welled in my mouth. “I won't let you bind me…”

  His voice came even closer, his lips on my ear. “The Queen needs you, Naeva. Don't you love her?”

  Love: the word caught me like a thread on a bramble. Oh, yes. I loved the queen. My will weakened, and I tumbled out of my body. Cold crystal drew me in like a great mouth, inhaling.

  I was furious. I wanted to wrap my hands around the first neck I saw and squeeze. But my hands were tiny, half the size of the hands I remembered. My short, fragile fingers shook. Heavy musk seared my nostrils. I felt the heat of scented candles at my feet, heard the snap of flame devouring wick. I rushed forward and was abruptly halted. Red and black knots of string marked boundaries beyond which I could not pass.

  “O, Great Lady Naeva,” a voice intoned. “We seek your wisdom on behalf of Queen Rayneh and the Land of Flowered hills.”

  Murmurs rippled through the room. Through my blurred vision, I caught an impression of vaulted ceilings and frescoed walls. I heard people, but I could only make out woman-sized blurs—they could have been beggars, aristocrats, warriors, even males or broods.

  I tried to roar. My voice fractured into a strangled sound like trapped wind. An old woman's sound.

  “Great Lady Naeva, will you acknowledge me?”

  I turned toward the high, mannered voice. A face came into focus, eyes flashing blue beneath a cowl. Dark stripes stretched from lower lip to chin: the tattoos of a death whisperer.

  Terror cut into my rage for a single, clear instant. “I'm dead?”

  “Let me handle this.” Another voice, familiar this time. Calm, authoritative, quiet: the voice of someone who had never needed to shout in order to be heard. I swung my head back and forth trying to glimpse Queen Rayneh.

  “Hear me, Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath My Window. It is I, your Queen.”

  The formality of that voice! She spoke to me with titles instead of names? I blazed with fury.

  Her voice dropped a register, tender and cajoling. “Listen to me, Naeva. I asked the death whisperers to chant your spirit up from the dead. You're inhabiting the body of an elder member of their order. Look down. See for yourself.”

  I looked down and saw embroidered rabbits leaping across the hem of a turquoise robe. Long, bony feet jutted out from beneath the silk. They were swaddled in the coarse wrappings that doctors prescribed for the elderly when it hurt them to stand.

  They were not my feet. I had not lived long enough to have feet like that.

  “I was shot by an enchanted arrow…” I recalled. “The midget said you might need me again…”

  “And he was right, wasn't he? You've only been dead three years. Already, we need you.”

  The smugness of that voice. Rayneh's impervious assurance that no matter what happened, be it death or disgrace, her people's hearts would always sing with fealty.

  “He enslaved me,” I said bitterly. “He preyed upon my love for you.”

  “Ah, Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath My Window, I always knew you loved me.”

  Oh yes, I had loved her. When she wanted heirs, it was I who placed my hand on her belly and used my magic to draw out her seedlings; I who nurtured the seedlings’ spirits with the fertilizer of her chosen man; I who planted the seedlings in the womb of a fecund brood. Three times, the broods I catalyzed brought forth Rayneh's daughters. I'd not yet chosen to beget my own daughters, but there had always been an understanding between us that Rayneh would be the one to stand with my magic-worker as the seedling was drawn from me, mingled with man, and set into brood.

  I was amazed to find that I loved her no longer. I remembered the emotion, but passion had died with my body.

  “I want to see you,” I said.

  Alarmed, the death whisperer turned toward Rayneh's voice. Her nose jutted beak-like past the edge of her cowl. “It's possible for her to see you if you stand where I am,” she said. “But if the spell goes wrong, I won't be able to—”

  “It's all right, Lakitri. Let her see me.”

  Rustling, footsteps. Rayneh came into view. My blurred vision showed me frustratingly little except for the moon of her face. Her eyes sparkled black against her smooth, sienna skin. Amber and obsidian gems shone from her forehead, magically embedded in the triangular formation that symbolized the Land of Flowered Hills. I wanted to see her graceful belly, the muscular calves I'd loved to stroke—but below her chin, the world faded to grey.

  “What do you want?” I asked. “Are the raiders nipping at your heels again?”

  “We pushed the raiders back in the battle that you died to make happen. It was a rout. Thanks to you.”

  A smile lit on Rayneh's face. It was a smile I remembered. You have served your Land and your Queen, it seemed to say. You may be proud. I'd slept on Rayneh's leaf-patterned silk and eaten at her morning table too often to be deceived by such shallow manipulations.

  Rayneh continued, “A usurper—a woman raised on our own grain and honey—has built an army of automatons to attack us. She's given each one a hummingbird's heart for speed, and a crane's feather for beauty, and a crow's brain for wit. They've marched from the Lake Where Women Wept all the way across the fields to the Valley of Tonha's Memory. They move faster than our most agile warriors. They seduce our farmers out of the fields. We must destroy them.”

  “A usurper?” I said.

  “One who betrays us with our own spells.”

  The Queen directed me a lingering, narrow-lidded look, challenging me with her unspoken implications.

  “The kind of woman who would shoot the Queen's sorceress with a roc feather?” I pressed.

  Her glance darted sideways. “Perhaps.”

  Even with the tantalizing aroma of revenge wafting before me, I considered refusing Rayneh's plea. Why should I forgive her for chaining me to her service? She and her benighted death whisperers might have been able to chant my spirit into wakefulness, but let them try to stir my voice against my will.

  But no—even without love drawing me into dark corners, I couldn't renounce Rayneh. I would help her as I always had from the time when we were girls riding together through my grandmother's fields. When she fell from her mount, it was always I who halted my mare, soothed her wounds, and eased her back into the saddle. Even as a child, I knew that she would never do the same for me.

  “Give me something to kill,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I want to kill. Give me something. Or should I kill your death whisperers?”

  Rayneh turned toward the women. “Bring a sow!” she commanded.

  Murmurs echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, followed by rushing footsteps. Anxious hands entered my range of vision, dragging a fat, black-spotted shape. I looked toward the place where my ears told me the crowd of death whisperers stood, huddled and gossiping. I wasn't sure how vicious I could appear as a dowager with bound feet, but I snarled at them anyway. I was rewarded with the susurration of hems sliding backward over tile.

  I approached the sow. My feet collided with the invisible boundaries of the summoning circle. “Move it closer,” I ordered.

  Hands pushed the sow forward. The creature grunted with surprise and fear. I knelt down and felt its bristly fur and smelled dry mud, but I couldn't see its torpid bulk.

  I wrapped my bony hands around the creature's neck and
twisted. My spirit's strength overcame the body's weakness. The animal's head snapped free in my hands. Blood engulfed the leaping rabbits on my hem.

  I thrust the sow's head at Rayneh. It tumbled out of the summoning circle and thudded across the marble. Rayned doubled over, retching.

  The crowd trembled and exclaimed. Over the din, I dictated the means to defeat the constructs. “Blend mustard seed and honey to slow their deceitful tongues. Add brine to ruin their beauty. Mix in crushed poppies to slow their fast-beating hearts. Release the concoction onto a strong wind and let it blow their destruction. Only a grain need touch them. Less than a grain—only a grain need touch a mosquito that lights on a flower they pass on the march. They will fall.”

  “Regard that! Remember it!” Rayneh shouted to the whisperers. Silk rustled. Rayneh regarded me levelly. “That's all we have to do?”

  “Get Lakitri,” I replied. “I wish to ask her a question.”

  A nervous voice spoke outside my field of vision. “I'm here, Great Lady.”

  “What will happen to this body after my spirit leaves?”

  “Jada will die, Great Lady. Your spirit has chased hers away.”

  I felt the crookedness of Jada's hunched back and the pinch of the strips binding her feet. Such a back, such feet, I would never have. At least someone would die for disturbing my death.

  Next I woke, rage simmered where before it had boiled. I stifled a snarl, and relaxed my clenched fists. My vision was clearer: I discerned the outlines of a tent filled with dark shapes that resembled pillows and furs. I discovered my boundaries close by, marked by wooden stakes painted with bands of cinnamon and white.