The Five Daughters of the Moon

by Leena Likitalo

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  For my husband, Matti

  Acknowledgments

  I have always loved reading acknowledgments. They tell the story of a dream coming true, that of a writer becoming an author.

  Hence, I will start my acknowledgments from the very beginning. I want to thank my family, my mother and father and sister and brother, for reading to me when I was too young to understand letters, but old enough to get lost in the countless stories shared with me during the long Finnish winters.

  I want to thank my friends for listening to the stories I made up in my turn and all my teachers for trying to make me pay attention to grammar and correct spelling. Even though I only learned the importance of accuracy (and may have become slightly obsessed with it since then) once I fell in love with mathematics.

  At this point, I want to thank Patrick Rothfuss for writing The Name of the Wind, the novel that inspired me to start taking my writing seriously. And then, right after this, I really need to thank my husband for not laughing at me when I told him that I wanted to quit my then day job and become a writer. We gave it a go. It didn’t work out, but I’d like to think we learned a lot not only about writing but also about life in general.

  I received my due pile of rejections, hundreds of emails bearing grim news. I was close to giving up on multiple occasions. But there were people who believed in me, who told me to keep on trying. Ann and Jeff VanderMeer, thank you for being there for me, for encouraging the novice writer who had big plans to go for it, even though she didn't yet know how to write properly in English.

  Thanks are also due to my Clarion instructors and fellow classmates. During the six intense weeks, you taught me how to see the flaws in my writing and how to address them. For that, I’m eternally in your debt!

  I want to thank Writers of the Future, the organizers and volunteers, my fellow contestants (especially Randy Henderson and Megan E. O’Keefe), and of course the judges. Very special thanks go to Kevin J. Anderson who connected me with my wonderful editor, Claire Eddy, whom I shall thank in this very same sentence for being the best editor ever. Thank you!

  At this point, I was working on a different novel. When The Five Daughters of the Moon first came to me, I thought it was going to be a short story. The feedback from my dear Clarionites helped me to see that this story was never going to be happy confined in five thousand words. I think I wrote the first full draft in around two months to hit the Codex Novel Contest’s deadline—these thanks are for the Codex writers who helped me to iron out the manuscript! I also want to thank Inka for all the lunch breaks spent talking about twentieth-century building materials and whatnot and being my consultant in everything Rafa and Mufu related.

  Big thanks of massive magnitude go to my agent, Cameron McClure, who tells me what I need to hear instead of what I want to hear, and as a result ensures that my stories reach their full potential. I would also like to thank the hardworking people at Donald Maass Literary Agency, especially Donald Maass and Katie Boutillier, all of you, who have been my companions on this wonderful journey.

  I want to express my gratitude also to the amazing team at Tor.com that has taken such great care of my duology: Carl Engle-Laird, Kristin Temple, Katharine Duckett, and Mordicai Knode. I love the covers the super-talented Balbusso sisters drew and the design by Christine Foltzer! The covers are beyond stunning!

  I’m immensely grateful that I haven’t had to travel this long and winding road alone. There are many more people than I can possibly list without risking tendonitis who have helped and inspired me. Hence, if you’ve ever read or listened to one of my stories, if you’ve ever given me advice or gently prodded me in the right direction, if you’ve been there for me when I’ve struggled to find the right words or chose the wrong ones, if you’ve seen me from close or from afar, but thought of me—this last thank-you is for you.

  Thank you!

  Chapter 1: Alina

  “The Great Thinking Machine can answer every question,” Gagargi Prataslav says as he steps forth from the shadows cast by the huge machine. Everyone in the audience, me included, shrinks back in the wicker chairs, for the gagargi is an intimidating sight in his black robes, with the hood half concealing his heavily bearded face. His dark eyes glow with the secrets from the world beyond this one, and not even Mama, the Crescent Empress, can endure his gaze for long. “It can find an answer to questions that no one has even thought to ask yet.”

  There is something wrong, so very wrong, in the way he speaks, the way Mama, my sisters, the guards, and the assembled nobles all listen to him. I don’t want him to utter a single word more, but I’m two months shy of my sixth birthday. I don’t yet have a name, no right for an opinion, even though my father is the Moon.

  “Being built to do so”—Gagargi Prataslav motions at the machine looming behind him. The horrendous mechanical creature is as tall as three men standing on each other’s shoulders, as wide as an imperial locomotive. With hundreds of pistons akin to sinewy, spindly legs pressed against its sides, it looks like a giant spider poised to strike. I don’t want to see what sort of web the machine might weave—“it can be said that the Great Thinking Machine can, if not tell, then at least estimate the future very accurately indeed.”

  Light fades. The pavilion’s unwashed glass walls and ceiling reveal that thick, gray clouds have gathered in the summer sky. Nurse Nookes would chide me for thinking it an omen, but she’s back at the Summer Palace. Though two dozen guards in the blue and silver of the Moon protect me and my family, I suddenly feel very lonely and vulnerable.

  I shift on my chair to nudge Merile, my favorite sister. She’s only five years older than me and remembers what it felt like to not have a name. But now she perches on her seat, brown fingers curled around the linen of her frilly dress. She nods at every word the gagargi says, and the black ringlets piled atop of her head bob with the movement. Only the beautiful dog on her lap, Rafa, turns to look at me. Her other companion, silver-gray Mufu, sleeps curled against her feet.

  “Future,” Gagargi Prataslav says, stretching the pause between words as if he could control time, too, “can be pieced together from the clues of today.”

  I reach out to pet Rafa’s head. She’s a small, lean dog with chocolate brown eyes and big floppy ears. She meets my gaze with a deep, serious look. In this crowd, she’s the only one who seems to understand my distress. Though gagargis have served the imperial family for a millennium, the way Gagargi Prataslav speaks implies that he wants something more. I have no idea what that might be.

  At last Gagargi Prataslav bows. The hood of his black robes cascades to cover his face, and only the tip of his hawkish nose peeks out. Then he straightens his back with a flourish of his hand. His robes shift as though he were facing a storm, and the hood falls to rest against his back. His oiled black hair is braided tight against his skull. “Please let me present to you Engineer Alanov, the father of the Great Thinking Machine.”

  As the audience’s focus shifts from the gagargi to a mere eng
ineer, the awful spell lifts. Merile hugs Rafa, glaring at me for daring to pet her dog without permission. My older, even sillier sisters, Sibilia and Elise, resume gossiping. They look almost identical in their white dresses and plumes decorating their red-gold hair, but then again, they’re of the same seed. Celestia, the oldest of us, leans to whisper in Mama’s ear. Out of the Five Daughters of the Moon, she resembles Mama the most, and only she can glimpse the world beyond this one. Even now, the faraway look in her blue eyes reveals she’s seeing more. One day, she’ll be the Crescent Empress, the woman married to the Moon, and then she’ll see what he sees, too.

  “Your Highness, I’m greatly honored by this opportunity.” Engineer Alanov’s voice bears a tremble of a man told “no” one too many times. He is gaunt, and his thinning brown hair seems to be running away from his pinkish forehead. He keeps gazing at the mossy floor tiles, and his round glasses hang too low on his narrow nose. Inevitably, he fails to capture the audience’s attention.

  As polite chatter and court gossip fill the pavilion, I can’t help wondering if I just imagined what happened before. For surely Mama would never let Gagargi Prataslav address her if she thought there was even the slightest chance of foul play. No, she wouldn’t. Mama is wise and just. Under her rule, the Crescent Empire has only grown in size and prospered beyond anyone’s wildest dreams—we have won many glorious victories against the kings and queens and other persons with titles I can’t be bothered to remember because none of them are of heavenly descent like us.

  Then I feel Gagargi Prataslav’s stare, searing hot like a bonfire ready to devour witches. My every muscle stiffens, stomach knots tight, and throat shrinks. I manage to keep my attention riveted to the engineer only barely. Nurse Nookes claims that whatever I find so frightening, it really doesn’t exist if I don’t acknowledge it. I bet she’s never met the gagargi up close.

  “I have designed this machine to search for patterns in information and solve computational problems.” Engineer Alanov’s voice comes from far away, as if he were not really present. As if no one else but the gagargi and I existed.

  Pretending to fan my face, I glance at Gagargi Prataslav from over the edge of my palm. There is something disturbingly hungry in the way he studies me. I’m neither foolish nor bold enough to meet his gaze, to find out if it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. Nurse Nookes claims that that happens often enough.

  “And what need would I have for this machine?” Mama’s question comes as a relief to me. Her gaze is bright blue, though this pavilion and everything it contains has fallen into disrepair. I don’t know why she agreed to the gagargi’s invitation in the first place or why I and my sisters were required to be present. Then again, there are many events where we must be seen but not heard.

  Engineer Alanov glances at Gagargi Prataslav as if seeking encouragement or permission. The gagargi pats him on the shoulder, bony fingers coming to rest on the engineer’s simple gray coat. Engineer Alanov nudges his glasses up and continues with a newfound vigor. “Information . . . the machine can comb through and combine information from multiple sources. It can remember up to one thousand numbers at once, and it can perform the four main arithmetic operations: addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. The machine accepts numerical data and instructions as inputs, and it is capable of performing a multiplication of two numbers with up to twenty digits in less than three minutes.”

  Engineer Alanov blushes with pride. Sibilia and Elise burst into giggles. They’re already old enough—Sibilia fifteen and Elise sixteen—that neither of them will ever have to worry about calculating anything. However, based on what they’ve told me about numbers, three minutes sounds like a short time to spend on pondering the possible results. They sure spent much longer agonizing over the tasks assigned to them.

  Mama raises her right hand minutely at Elise and Sibilia, and my sisters manage to stifle their giggles. Mama nods, and for a moment I’m not sure whether she did so because she’s pleased with my sisters or because the engineer has caught her attention. At last she says, “I have plenty enough accountants already. They have the finest calculators and fastest fingers. What need would I have for this machine of yours?”

  Engineer Alanov sways as though Mama had just slapped him. The flush on his cheeks deepens to scarlet as he glances again at the gagargi. Gagargi Prataslav smiles. His teeth are white, but slightly crooked. They remind me of . . . Well, if a wolf’s fangs were filed even . . . But no, this is the sort of description that Nurse Nookes would chastise me for, or worse, force me to swallow another spoonful of her foul potions.

  “For efficiency. People tire and make mistakes.” Gagargi Prataslav produces from inside his robes, from a hidden pocket, a pack of cards—ordinary playing cards? He picks one up and holds it so that the weak light can flow through the neat arrangement of holes. No images or words or numbers tarnish the surface. “These cards contain instructions for the machine, and the machine never disobeys.”

  “It is full of holes,” Mama says in a tone that indicates that not even a blind person could have missed that. Or not even Elise and Sibilia, no matter what they’re gossiping about.

  “Holes, yes!” Engineer Alanov claps, his fingers all knuckles and chipped nails. “The arrangement of these holes forms the language that the Great Thinking Machine can read . . . and write. Every one of these cards is a program, and every one of these programs has been written to solve a specific problem. But, note that one program can be run against unlimited sets of data. For example, I have here a program that simulates intelligent redistribution of resources . . .”

  Mama flicks her forefinger to silence the engineer. Her crescent platinum ring gleams, but the shine is somehow dull. As is Mama’s voice. “Let us discuss more relevant cases. I assume you can write new programs to solve new problems.”

  Gagargi Prataslav’s gaze darkens once more, and when he speaks his voice is veiled by a sweetness that reminds me of the honey Nurse Nookes uses to cover the bitter aftertaste of her potions. I hate honey. “The Great Thinking Machine can accomplish more than a mere human mind can ever even imagine.”

  I can see people around me, Mama included, stiffening once more. It’s as if they were slowly turning into stone. The pavilion’s moss-laced glass panes dampen what remains of the light, and what little reaches us is not enough. Yet no one else seems to notice this.

  I pinch myself. Twice, and hard enough to leave bruises. I must be imagining again. I know I am, and if I speak of this . . . I will only embarrass myself.

  “I have looked into the past and present. But neither of them hold the solution for the problem we face.” Gagargi Prataslav strolls to brush the machine’s side as if it were a steed about to set foot on a racing track. He pats it two times in quick succession. The metallic echo is hollow. “In this changing world, with its more complex problems, to find the right solutions, one must look into the future or perish like the beasts of the olden times.”

  I don’t like this future the gagargi describes. How dare he, how dare he speak as if Mama really needed him and the machine to rule her empire! She should tell him to say no more. But she doesn’t. She listens to him intently.

  I can’t take it anymore. I push myself up from my chair and jump down, as nimbly and silently as only a girl of my age can. Rafa abandons Merile’s lap to accompany me. Only then does my sister stir.

  “Where . . . where are you going?” Merile asks, drowsily as though she’d just woken up from a nap.

  I nod toward the door at the far end of the pavilion. Let Merile think I’m feeling weak again. And maybe I am. That must be it.

  “For the sake of the argument, let me pose a simple question,” the gagargi says, turning to face Mama and Mama alone. “Who fights the hardest: a soldier with his stomach full of rye bread or one starving because promised supplies never arrived? Who works the hardest: an unfed or nourished peasant?”

  Rafa and Mufu trot past me, to the door, nails scratching the
cracked tiles. They halt there and glance over their shoulders. Their eyes, so big and soulful, glint with concern and caring for their mistress and maybe for me, too. They want us to leave this place.

  “Trivial questions, are they not?” From the corner of my eye, I catch the gagargi studying me. He must have heard the dogs moving. “The key to the door that stands between us and the luminous future is the intelligent redistribution of resources.”

  “Fine.” Merile gets up slowly. She brushes her white hem straight, runs a hand over her hair to ensure the pins still hold her ringlets in place. They don’t, but she merely shrugs. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Engineer Alanov, if you will?” Gagargi Prataslav pats the engineer on the shoulder, much like he patted the machine. His pleasant smile bears a hint of cruel amusement, and I know, just know, that that smile is targeted to me. It says: Run, run if you want to, but you can never flee from me.

  The engineer clears his throat, maybe fearing that the rest of his audience might trickle out after Merile and me. Sibilia notices us leaving then. She whispers something to Elise, who then whispers the message onward to Celestia. My oldest sister turns her head so minutely that the ibis-bead tiara resting against her tall forehead doesn’t shift at all. Her gaze radiates the kindness she feels toward her every subject-to-be, including me.

  Merile takes hold of my hand, and together we dash out. A pair of guards joins us at the doors. A Daughter of the Moon is never truly alone. Though, with my sisters to look after me, that’s not something I need to ever fear.

  Merile hums under her breath as we walk along the gravel path circling the pavilion. Nobody else lives on the Gagargi Island apart from Gagargi Prataslav and his flock of apprentices. From this side of the island, with the pavilion blocking the view, I can’t see the Crescent Island or even one of the many towers of the Summer Palace. The view to the ocean is unblocked. The sea breeze carries a hint of things rotting. Farther out in the sea, sheets of rain fall down from coal-black clouds. Seagulls screech as they swoop the skies, but they keep away from the shores of this island. Only a fearless magpie, the bird black and white, dares to prance on the rocks.