Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  The thought of Rigel’s pawing through his possessions gave Ean the creeps. He was unlikely to get anything sent through. He considered demanding time to get his things, but he hadn’t collected much in the ten years he’d been with the cartel, and anything of value was already programmed into his comms, which was in his pocket. Better to save his fights for important things, he decided.

  His new owner had a private cart waiting. Not owner, Ean reminded himself. Employer. This woman might own the contract, but she was still obligated to pay him. And if she didn’t—for who could trust a rich Lancastrian to abide by their contract if they could get out of it—then he could go to the cartel Grand Master for breach of contract. His contract stipulated minimum amounts, plus bonuses, and how frequently he was to be paid. He thought about the contract as they waited for the cart. It wasn’t good pay.

  His new owner—employer—must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Does Rigel pay everyone so badly?”

  Only those desperate enough to indenture themselves into a twenty-year contract. Ean shrugged. A Lancastrian like her wouldn’t understand how badly he’d wanted to become a linesman.

  “You’ve been with him a long time.”

  Ten years two tendays ago. Ean had spent it repairing a military ship, the GU Burnley. He’d only realized the date because the captain of the Burnley had told him the ship was ten years old, too. Ean shrugged again. “You know what it’s like when you’re a kid and desperate to learn the craft.” Not that he’d been as young as most. “Sometimes you’ll do anything.”

  “With age comes wisdom, eh.” His companion laughed. “I can relate to that. I’m Michelle by the way.”

  Which didn’t help identify which Lyan she was, illegitimate or not, because every member of the Lyan household took a form of Michel as one of their given names. Still, it was clever. She had every right to use it although most of them would not have dared. This woman had guts, identifying herself the way she did.

  “Ean Lambert,” Ean said.

  Surprisingly, they made for the docks rather than the hotels, where the private cart avoided the landing hall altogether and went straight to a shuttle out on the edge of the field.

  The name stenciled on the side of the shuttle was LANCASTRIAN PRINCESS—SHUTTLE 1. Ean shook his head at the bare-faced effrontery.

  They took off without having to go through customs.

  In the confined enclosures of the cabin, Michelle leaned back with a sigh and closed her eyes. Ean used the time to study his new employer.

  She was classically beautiful, with the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones typical of the women of the Lancastrian royal family. Rumor said they had paid a fortune to geneticists over the last two hundred years to develop those looks. Her lashes were long and black, curled over clear, unblemished, cream skin. The geneticists had definitely earned their money in this case. Except for the hair, perhaps, which was the royal family black, but Ean could see a slight wave instead of the expected regulation straight. Nor the deeper-than-expected dimples in her cheeks, particularly the right one. The emperor definitely wouldn’t have liked that. Still, if Michelle was illegitimate, the geneticists wouldn’t have been involved this generation, would they. Maybe some imperfections had crept in.

  Ean smiled to himself, but it was a grim smile. Ten years ago, there was no way he could have studied even an illegitimate child of his regent this close. Michelle—and of course he would never have dreamed of calling her Michelle either—might own the contract, but there was no way Ean was going back to what he had been.

  “What’s so amusing?” Michelle had opened her eyes—so very blue—and was watching him.

  Ean met the blue gaze. “Will you on-sell the contract?”

  “I don’t know.” Michelle sat up as the bell chimed for landing. “We do need a ten.”

  So was there a job? And was it at the confluence? Ean hoped it was.

  On-screen they could see their destination. A large freighter. Ean didn’t recognize the model—it looked custom-built—but until six months ago, he had only worked on one- and two-man freighters and second-class company ships. Ships like this one in front of him were for the likes of House of Sandhurst or House of Rickenback.

  The name painted three stories high on the side was LANCASTRIAN PRINCESS. The bay door they headed for had an enormous “1” stenciled on it.

  The door in the freighter ahead irised open to let them in. The shuttle docked. The door closed behind them. This was definitely a private shuttle, and this was its regular docking pad.

  Ean silently followed Michelle out into the ship proper.

  The interior was luxurious. The softly textured walls and carefully placed lighting made the whole thing look like an expensive hotel. Everything was way above Rigel’s standard. Ean couldn’t even begin to calculate the cost of the fittings.

  Even so, the ship had a military feel. It didn’t help that the staff wore gray uniforms piped with black, and that every single one of them walked straight and upright. They all noticed Ean, and he could see that they filed whatever they had noticed for future reference.

  Michelle led the way quickly through the center of the ship to a room that looked like an office on one end but housed a comfortable set of three couches at the other.

  One man was in the room. An older man. He looked up as they entered. “Misha. I found you your ten.”

  Misha was an affectionate form of Michelle, used among close friends generally. So this man—who wore the gray-and-black-piped uniform everyone else did—was a close friend.

  “I found us a ten, too,” Michelle said. “And I bet he didn’t cost as much as yours did.”

  The uniformed man looked at him, and Ean was suddenly aware that he hadn’t showered for more than two days, that his Rigel-cartel greens were sweaty and crumpled, and that he needed a shave.

  “This is Abram,” Michelle said. “He runs security and pretty much everything else.”

  Abram counted the bars on Ean’s chest. “A genuine ten?”

  “I couldn’t kill him.”

  “So you hired him instead?”

  “I didn’t hire him,” Michelle said, and her smile showed the full brilliance of the generations of genetic engineering that had made it, plus a dimple that same genetic engineering had probably tried to wipe out. She placed her card on the reader and brought up the contract. “I bought him.”

  Abram read the contract, then nodded slowly. “That would upset Rigel.”

  Ean thought it time to get back some control. He was a ten, after all. “If it’s all right with you.” He had to stop, because his voice came out thin and thready. He cleared his throat, and was glad the second attempt came out more strongly. “I haven’t had time to clean up. I didn’t get a chance to collect any clothes.”

  Abram looked at Michelle, who shrugged. “Rigel will send his things on.”

  Abram switched to Lancastrian. “We don’t all have personal servants who have things packed in five minutes, Misha. His effects are unlikely to arrive before we leave.”

  “I’ll replace them then.” Michelle spoke Lancastrian, too. “I’d like that. He has a good figure under those stinking clothes.”

  “And so like you to know that already.” Abram sighed and switched back to Standard. “I’ll get someone to show you a cabin and get you some clothes,” he told Ean, pressing a button on the screen as he did so. “Our other ten will be here at 19:00. We leave when she arrives.”

  An orderly in a gray-and-black uniform appeared at the door.

  “Take Linesman”—he looked at the contract—“Lambert down to Apparel and get him a standard kit. I’ll organize a room for him while you do.” He looked at Ean. “We eat at 20:00. I’ll have someone call you.” He half turned away, hesitated. “Your voice. Is that normal?”

  “Just strained.”

  “Take him via the medical center.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ean followed the orderly in silence. Abram was the sort
who’d look up Ean’s record as soon as he could. He—they—owned the contract now. Nothing was private to them. That little slip with the language wouldn’t happen again.

  The orderly—a tall, willowy woman who looked to be a little younger than Ean and whose name above the pocket said RADKO—was polite, but not truly friendly. Even so, she took time out to show Ean various parts of the ship. “Mess hall down there,” she said. “Officers generally eat with the crew. Unless they’re invited upstairs, of course.” She looked sideways at him and for a moment Ean thought she was going to ask what rank he was. “Main lift well. Although most of us use the jumps, of course.”

  It was a well-run ship. The lines were clear and steady, their song bright and joyful in Ean’s mind. Unusually, line one was the strongest. This was a crew who worked well together and looked after each other and their ship.

  Or almost joyful, Ean amended. He could hear a slight off tone in line six. It was only minor, but it jarred because everything else was so perfect.

  “And this is the off-duty area,” the orderly said. Ean thought, from her tone, that it wasn’t the first time she’d said it.

  “Sorry.”

  “Officers have their own bar up on the fourth.”

  The bar on fourth was one bar Ean wasn’t likely to end up in. He wasn’t even sure he would end up in this one. Which left him precisely where? Stuck in his room, probably, given that they weren’t on-selling his contract immediately.

  “Here’s Apparel.” The orderly seemed glad to have arrived.

  Ean stripped and stepped into the cubicle, where a grid of lights started at his feet and moved upward, building a perfect model of him. They didn’t have tailoring modules in the Oldcity slums. The first time he’d ever stepped into a cubicle like this had been ten years ago, when he’d started at House of Rigel. He hadn’t known what to do. Rigel had had to show him.

  When he stepped out, the orderly said, “Your kit will take twenty minutes. I’ll bring them over to your cabin when they’re done.”

  So at least he had somewhere to stay. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  The “sir” was new, and as she led the way back to the newly allocated cabin, Ean thought he knew why. The soldiers’ quarters—and he couldn’t help but think of them as soldiers—were comfortable, but they were a marked contrast to the luxurious quarters that Lady Lyan—whichever lady she was—inhabited. Somehow, Ean had scored himself a cabin on the luxurious side of the cruiser. Some tens would accept that as their right. Rigel’s people might be trained to handle it, but he—Rigel’s only ten—had never experienced it.

  “I’ll get your clothes, sir,” the orderly said, and loped off.

  Ean left the door unlocked and went into the fresher. Michelle was right. He did stink. He soaped up, letting the needles of water wash the stink away. Eyes closed, thinking of nothing but the bliss of the warm water, the song of the ship flooded into his mind, still with that slightly off tone on the sixth line. Ean hummed a countermelody under his breath, trying to coax the line straight, but it was no use. Humming didn’t work. He had to sing it.

  The orderly was waiting when he came out, the freshly woven clothes in a neat pile in front of her. Standard issue included underclothes and shoes, Ean was glad to see. She handed him an outfit.

  “Thank you. You don’t have to wait on me.”

  “Of course not, sir. But there’s still the medic.” She pointed to a uniform placed apart. “That’s the dress uniform. You’ll be wearing that tonight if you’re dining with Lady Lyan and Commodore Galenos.

  Commodore Galenos being the casually introduced Abram, Ean presumed. “Thank you,” and he smiled his appreciation. “I know nothing about uniforms, ranks, and what to wear.”

  The orderly smiled back. “I didn’t think you did, sir.”

  Ean was sure she didn’t mean it as an insult.

  “The medic’s expecting you. To look at your voice and to check you over. He’s already called to see where you are.”

  “Let me put these on first.” Ean took the clothes into the bedroom. He had a separate bedroom, which he was sure wasn’t standard military practice. He dressed quickly. His uniform was gray with the characteristic black piping. The only decoration was a tiny cloth badge woven into the pocket on his left chest and the name—LAMBERT—above it. Ean didn’t count the bars on the badge, but he knew there would be ten. It was a total contrast to the pocket of his companion, which was covered with badges.

  He came out, and the orderly left at a fast walk. Ean followed. “Radko. That is your name?”

  The orderly glanced back. “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Ean wished she wouldn’t keep calling him sir. “Thank you for all this, Radko.”

  “Just doing my job, sir.” But she smiled and somehow the atmosphere seemed lighter as they made their way through the corridors to a well-equipped hospital. It was worrying that a ship this size needed a hospital so equipped. What was this ship?

  The medic was waiting for him. “At least you’ve cleaned up some,” he said, as he made Ean strip his freshly donned clothes and lie down under the analyzer. “I hear you stank when you came on board.” He held up a hand to stop any comment—not that Ean had been going to make one. “Nothing travels faster than shipboard gossip. Not even a ship passing through the void.”

  “Even on a military ship like this?”

  “Especially on a military ship like this.” Which confirmed, once and for all, what type of ship he was on. Ean wished he’d taken more notice of politics suddenly. He didn’t want to end up in the middle of a battle.

  “What happened with the voice?” the medic asked.

  “My own fault. Too much—” It sounded so lame. “I was singing.” He wondered how the other ship was going. It had probably moved on by now. Ships didn’t stay in port any longer than they had to.

  “Hmm. Let me see you breathe.”

  For the next ten minutes, he peered into Ean’s throat, X-rayed it and finally gave him a drink of something warm. It soothed as it went down.

  “The miracles of modern medicine,” the medic said. “We can tailor your genes so that your voice is deep or high, but we still can’t fix a strained larynx. Although,” and he paused, “if it’s truly damaged I can replace it with a synthetic one.”

  Ean shuddered.

  “I thought not. If you continue to sing like that, maybe you should take some lessons on breathing and voice control. Have you been trained?”

  Ean shook his head. Rigel had paid for lessons on how to speak with a faultless Standard accent, but there hadn’t been any voice training with it.

  “So you won’t use your voice so badly that you strain it again, will you.” It was an order.

  “No, sir,” Ean said meekly, and the medic let him go.

  Radko escorted him back to his rooms and left him there.

  He had two hours until dinner. Ean set the alarm on his comms—it wouldn’t do to be late—then kicked off his boots and lay down on the bed.

  He couldn’t sleep. The off tone on line six buzzed into his brain and set his teeth on edge. After ten minutes he sat up, then stood properly—he wasn’t going to be able to do this sitting down—got himself a glass of warm water from the sink in the bathroom, took a deep breath, and started to sing.

  The line responded immediately. This was one beautifully tuned engine. It didn’t take long. When it was done, Ean flopped back across the bed and didn’t hear anything more until the increasingly loud, persistent beep of the alarm dragged him out of heavy sleep a hundred minutes later.

  Jonathan Edelstein

  First Do No Harm(Novelette)

  by Jonathan Edelstein

  Originally published in Strange Horizons, November 16, 2015

  For twenty-seven thousand years—through kingdoms and republics, through prophets and messiahs, through decay and collapse and rebirth—the city and the medical school had grown around each other. The campus stretc
hed across districts and neighborhoods, spanning parks and rivers, but few buildings belonged to it alone: an operating theater might once have been a workshop, a classroom a factory floor. The basement room where Mutende sat in a circle of his fellow basambilila was an ancient one and had been many things: office, boiler room, refrigerator, storage for diagnostic equipment. Remnants of all its uses were in the walls, the fixtures, and most of all, in memory.

  The mukalamba—the professor—stood in the center of the room, on a platform that may once have held an operating table or a cutting-board for meat, and his projectors and anatomical models were arranged amid pipes and hooks. His robe was deep black, without the patterns that another man might wear; his face was a softer black and lined with age; his gray hair just visible under a flat cap. He waited for the circle of students to arrange itself, clapped his hands twice for silence, and made a brief invocation to the god of medicine.

  "Today," he said as the prayer's echoes faded, "we will discuss the ichiyawafu-fever."

  Mutende was amused to see how many other students, high-born though they were, made signs to ward off evil. Less amusing was that he had to stop himself from doing the same. The ichiyawafu was the non-space through which people traveled between stars, but it was also the ancient name for the land of the dead, and the sickness that bore its name was a killer. He knew that now better than he'd ever wanted to know.

  "There are many maladies that have been brought to us from across the ichiyawafu, of course," the professor was saying, "but this one carries its name because it returns from the dead. Years may pass between exposure and the first attack, but after that, it will attack again and again, more and more often, until the victim is wasted away. If you will open your books and give your attention, we will discuss the signs."

  Mutende's book was already open, and he followed as the professor explained how to recognize the fever and how to tell it from other diseases with similar symptoms. The book was still difficult to read even after nineteen months of study. Not only were medical terms a language in their own right, but like all medical texts, the Book of Maladies was written in the language that had been spoken before the Union fell fifteen hundred years before, and in some places the words and grammar were so archaic as to be foreign. It was easier for the other students—most were imwinamulende, minor aristocrats, and had learned the archaisms in school—but Mutende had gone to a mechanics' fostering at fifteen, and for him, medical study had meant learning two languages rather than one.