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

by Anthology

  “I believe our further dealings with the Yxleti are best done more privately,” she said, in a carrying voice. “Your guards may remain, of course, and my attendents, but please disperse the onlookers.”

  The group of Royal Society astronomers protested, as did a few self-important lords. The rest of the crowd began to edge back toward the palace. No one quite turned their backs on the creature, or the strange conveyance in which it had arrived.

  Kate was torn. Part of her wished nothing more than to find her mother and flee the bizarre spectacle. She craved a hot bath, and the opportunity to forget for as long as possible the proceedings of the afternoon.

  Yet a larger part was aquiver with possibility. Their world had changed, of that there could be no question. She had been witness to what could only be the most extraordinary event in human history. She could meekly turn away and return to the path her parents and Society had laid out, or she could seize the opportunity before her. This was her chance.

  Lifting her skirts, Kate strode past the astronomers, taking some small satisfaction from treading upon Viscount Huffton’s foot.

  “Your majesty.” She made the queen another curtsey. “I beg your leave to remain. As discoverer of the vessel that bore this star explorer hither, I will pledge my life to your service, to the Empire, and to forwarding the understanding between humans and Yxleti. Please, let me stay.”

  The queen regarded her a long moment from her cool brown eyes, and Kate fought to keep her legs from trembling. She must be confident and bold in this moment.

  “Miss Kate Danville,” the queen said, “are you betrothed?”

  “No, your majesty.” Despite her mother’s best efforts. “I am wholly committed to this endeavor, if you will accept me.”

  “Your majesty,” Lord Wrottesley approached the queen. “If I may speak?”

  The queen nodded, and the astronomer continued. “I happen to know that this is a young lady of great fortitude and determination. You might do well to take her.”

  Queen Victoria inclined her head. “Very good. We consent to add you to our staff—for the time being. You may remain here.”

  Kate shot a grateful look at Lord Wrottesley. She did not care if he had put in a word for her simply to spite Viscount Huffton, or if he truly believed she had the mettle to be of service. In either case, she vowed to be worthy.

  In moments only a small retinue surrounding the queen remained, including the astronomers and her guardsmen. The Yxleti had stayed silent, impassively floating a few handspans above the ground as the humans reorganized themselves.

  Kate glanced at the flat black eyes and suppressed a shiver at the sight of its tentacle-fringed mouth. It might be a horrible-looking creature, but so far its purposes had not seemed inimical, and it was clearly possessed of an intelligence equal to their own.

  “Are you the only one of your kind who has come?” the queen asked it.

  “More await…in vessel…this emissary.”

  The captain of the guard stirred at this news, and the prince sent him a quelling look. It had been wise of the creatures to send a single ambassador, and Kate was further convinced the Yxleti had arrived with peaceful intentions.

  “You are welcome here at the palace,” Queen Victoria said. “What might we do to further relations between your kind and ours?”

  “Stable rule must first be…many queens.”

  Queen Victoria glanced at her husband, then back to the creature.

  “Do you mean our children?” Her voice was chilly.

  “Not…it is Victoria Regina…reign again.”

  The queen’s brow furrowed, and Kate understood her confusion. How could the queen reign again? She was already the monarch.

  “I think, though it is simply a guess, that they mean to replicate you in some fashion,” Prince Albert said in a low voice.

  Kate blinked at the notion. It seemed unbelievable—but who knew what the Yxleti were capable of? After all, they journeyed between the stars. Perhaps creating a new Queen Victoria was a simple matter for them.

  “Is this true?” the queen asked the Yxleti hovering a few paces before her. “You mean to re-create my very essence? It seems most ungodly.”

  “Each queen sleeps until reign is ended…then wakes and is self…at moment of preserve. Best…for peaceful humans always.”

  Queen Victoria took a step back, her mouth twisting in distaste. “I cannot countenance such a perversion.”

  “Then…Napoleon three will select to rule…if you decline. Humans must have single ruler.”

  “Bloody hell,” the captain of the guard muttered. “The damnable creature’s blackmailing you, your majesty.”

  “Of course it is.” The queen’s eyes narrowed. “But what choice do we have? We cannot let the French rise to ascendency.”

  “I have little doubt Bonaparte’s nephew will leap at the chance,” Prince Albert said. “Much as it might go against the laws of nature, my dear, you must accept the Yxleti’s offer, or the world will end up under the thumb of a petty dictator rather than your beneficent and enlightened reign.”

  The queen drew in a breath through her nose, and Kate leaned forward, her chest tight. Of course her majesty would do what was best for the Empire, but what a difficult choice.

  “Very well,” Queen Victoria said. “We will do this thing—under three conditions.”

  “Tell,” the Yxleti said.

  “The first, that we be allowed to continue to reign as we see fit, without Yxleti intervention.”

  “Is already plan,” the crackling voice said.

  Kate regarded the creature. Of course it would make promises, but who knew if it would actually keep them?

  “The second,” the queen said, “is that our beloved husband also be subject to this process, so that we might have him at our side during every reign.” She threaded her arm through Prince Albert’s and gave him a look filled with emotion. “Will you consent to this, my dear?”

  He covered her hand with his own. “I do. My place is at your side, your majesty. Year after year, to time immemorial.”

  The Yxleti remained motionless, but the still air was interrupted by a brief hum. After a moment, the creature turned its head toward the orb.

  The crackling voice rang out. “Agreed…what is third ask.”

  “That you share with us the means by which you travel and explore the celestial sea. We, too, harbor the desire to set out in search of worlds unknown, and to bring the Empire to every corner of the stars. Will you aid us in doing so?”

  This time there was no hesitation.

  “Is intent,” the Yxleti said. “In starset we come…procure duplicates of queen.”

  It turned and glided back to its vessel, clearly signaling that the meeting was at an end. The queen did not call after it, though her face was still filled with questions. As soon as the Yxleti entered, the oval doorway sealed shut. The now-familiar humming suffused the air, and slowly the dark orb rose.

  The nearby guardsmen scrambled back, and with a whoosh of air and a steady hum, the Yxleti ascended. The orb hurtled away nearly as quickly as it had come. Kate followed its flight until it was swallowed by the searing brightness of the larger sphere.

  Blinking away tears, she dropped her gaze.

  “Oh my,” Queen Victoria said under her breath. “Whatever have we done?”

  “Either saved all of humanity, or doomed it.” Prince Albert slid his arm about the queen’s shoulders. “I prefer to think the former. Steady on, my dear.”

  The queen nodded, then turned to the dozen people gathered on the terrace. Kate glanced about, to see that everyone wore half-stunned looks that no doubt mirrored her own. She still could not quite credit what she had just witnessed.

  “Everyone,” Queen Victoria said, “attend me inside. We must draw up our accounts of this momentous event. On this day, the course of the word has turned.”

  She swept regally toward the French doors leading into the palace. The captain of t
he guard followed close behind, and then the astronomers and queen’s attendants.

  Kate hung back a moment, casting a final look over her shoulder at the sphere that had once been nothing but a bright speck in the sky, and now was the harbinger of an unimaginable future. It cast its silvery reflection over London, offering no answers—only strangeness beyond compare.

  ***

  The London Universal Times, August 1907

  Obituary Notice: On 10 August, Lady Kate Danville, member of the Royal Society and bestowed the title of Baroness of Canticus by Victoria I, passed quietly in her sleep. She is survived by her younger brother, nieces and nephews. A long-time advisor of the prior queen, Lady Danville was one of the few still alive in this century who witnessed the glorious arrival of the Yxleti, and was part of the council which helped usher in the new age of space exploration and global prosperity. Queen Victoria II has commissioned a statue of Lady Danville to be placed in the First Greeting sculpture garden on the landing site at Buckingham Palace.

  Per Lady Danville’s request, her ashes will be scattered between the stars, to float forever at peace beneath the eternal suns of the British Empire.

  Fae Horse(Short story)

  by Anthea Sharp

  Originally published in 'Tales of Feyland & Faerie' by Anthea Sharp, published November 2015.

  If the men caught her, they would tie her to the stake and set the fire.

  Eileen O’Reilly crouched beneath a hawthorn tree, her heartbeat dinning in her ears so loudly it nearly drowned out the sound of her pursuers. Torchlight smeared the night, casting fiendish shadows over the hedgerows. She clenched her hands in her woolen skirt and gasped for air, trying to haul breath into her shaking lungs.

  She had heard there was no worse agony than burning alive.

  The flames would scorch and blister her skin before devouring her, screaming, as her bones charred. Eileen swallowed back bile.

  Shredded clouds passed over the face of the half moon. One moment, sheltering darkness beckoned; the next, the newly-planted fields were washed with silver, her safety snatched away.

  “I see her—there, across the field!”

  Cursing the fickle moon, and her fair hair, which had surely given her away, Eileen leaped to her feet and ran. She crashed through a thicket, heedless of the thorns etching her skin with blood. In the distance she heard the pounding waves below the cliffs of Kilkeel.

  Better a death by water than by flame. There was no other escape.

  Five months ago, when the new vicar came to town with his fierce sermons and piercing gaze, she had not seen the danger. She’d lived in the village most of her life, first as apprentice to her aunt, then later taking on the duties of herb-woman and midwife.

  But Reverend Dyer sowed fear and superstition—an easier harvest to reap than charity and love, to be sure.

  Eileen stumbled, falling to her hands and knees in the soft soil. Get up, keep running. She must not give in, though her side ached as if a hot poker had been driven through it, and the air scraped her laboring lungs.

  “There’s no escape, witch!” The vicar’s voice, deep and booming, resonated over the fields.

  The stars above her blurred, and she tasted the salt of her own desperate tears. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

  If she did not find a hiding place, they would catch her before she reached the cliffs. She veered toward the remains of the ancient stone circle that stood beyond the fields. Only two of the stones remained upright, the rest tumbled and broken. Still, she might find some shelter there.

  She reached the ruin, and a figure loomed before her, large and dark. Lacking the breath to scream, Eileen staggered to a halt. What new enemy was this?

  Four-legged and blacker than the shadows, it let out a soft whicker. A horse, untethered, with a rope halter dangling from its neck.

  Blessing her luck, Eileen caught the rope. It stung her hands, as though woven of nettles, but she did not care. Hope flared up, painfully bright. She might yet live to see the dawn.

  “Easy now,” she whispered, forcing back the panic pounding through her.

  The horse was tall, and lacked any saddle or bridle. She gazed up at it and choked on misery. Her escape was in her hands, but she could not mount it unaided.

  “Quick, lads!” the vicar bellowed.

  Now, she must go now. For a strangled second she considered kicking the horse and holding fast to the rope, letting it drag her to her death.

  A faint glimmer of gray caught her eye—a fallen stone tangled in the tall grasses. She tugged, and the horse followed her to the stone. Fingers trembling, trying to ignore the pounding footsteps of the men of Kilkeel, she scrambled onto the stone and pulled the horse close.

  “Grab the witch!” That was Donal Miller, whose advances she had spurned. “She’s summoned her familiar. Stop her!”

  Torchlight flared orange and red against the horse’s glossy hide. It rolled its eye, the white showing, and whinnied, high and strange.

  The men were almost upon her. With a cry, Eileen tangled her hands in the horse’s mane and heaved herself up.

  “A devil steed! Catch it!”

  As if only waiting for her to mount, the horse leaped forward. Hemmed in by the men, it let out a shrill whinny and rose up, hooves flashing. The coarse mane cut into her palms as she clung there, half falling. She must not slide off.

  The horse stamped and feinted. She heard the thunk of hooves on flesh, and two of the men cried out in pain. Then they were through, bowling past the grasping hands and shouted curses. Eileen held on as the jolting pace smoothed into a gallop and the cries of the men grew distant.

  Slowly, her breath returned, the stark edge of her fear blunted. She had escaped—for now.

  But what of Aidan? His name was a knife through her chest.

  Did her true love still live?

  When Young Sean, the village simpleton, had come to tell her that Aidan had fallen into a fever, she’d gathered her herbs and charms and raced to the cottage he shared with his mother. The widow had grudgingly opened the door, her eyes narrowed in animosity. Eileen had handed the woman the herbs for a soothing tisane. Then, as planned, Young Sean caused a racket, freeing the widow’s chickens and chasing them about the yard.

  The moment Aidan’s mother went to tend her fowl, Eileen darted into the cottage and rushed to Aidan’s side. His dark hair was plastered with sweat to his forehead, and he shivered uncontrollably beneath the blankets. She dropped a kiss on his brow, flinching at the heat rising off him. As she slipped the charm over his neck, his skin scorching her hands, he mumbled. A coughing spasm shook him. When it finished he lay in a stupor, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

  “Peace, mo chroi,” she said, then softly wove the words to send him into a healing sleep.

  ’Twas perilous, to take a person to that between place, but Aidan was gravely ill. Even a few minutes of that enchanted rest would do much to ease the sickness. Her charm would protect him while his body fought for life.

  However, if he slept too long the connection would fray, then break. Aidan’s soul would slip free, and death would bear him away into the West.

  She began singing the song to draw him back.

  “Eileen,” Young Sean whispered at the window. “Reverend Dyer is coming, fetched by the widow. Go!”

  Fear stabbed through her, but she must remain. She must finish the song and draw Aidan back to the waking world.

  “Witch!” The vicar slammed into the cottage and grabbed her by the hair.

  Her scalp burned and tears pricked her eyes from the pain, but she continued to sing. Nearly done. One more phrase…

  Reverend Dyer clapped a hand over her mouth, his skin stinking of onions. To ensure her silence, he pinched her nostrils shut. Eileen clawed at his arm, her cries muffled by his meaty palm.

  “Do not think to ensnare me with your spells,” he said.

  “Cast her out,” the widow cried, her face twisted with hatred. “Keep h
er away from my son.”

  “We will do better than that.” The vicar grasped Eileen’s arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. “We will burn her.”

  Panic gave her the strength to whip her head free. “No! You must let me wake Aidan. The danger—”

  “Aiee!” The widow had gone to Aidan’s side and spied Eileen’s charm. Now it dangled from her wizened fingers, broken.

  “Proof,” she spat. “This evil creature has had dark designs on my boy since the day she set eyes upon him. Look, she has cursed him.”

  Eileen writhed in the vicar’s grasp.

  “He will die,” she gasped. “I must—”

  “Out!” the widow shrieked. “Take her!”

  “I’ll lock her in my cellar until the pyre is built,” Reverend Dyer said, shoving Eileen before him.

  She stumbled over the threshold, then caught her balance. Though she knew it was hopeless, she broke free of his grasp, gathered up her skirt, and ran.

  The vicar would have retaken her, but for Young Sean. He threw a chicken at the vicar’s face, granting her precious time to pelt from the yard. He would likely be whipped for it, poor man.

  Now Aidan’s spirit was in terrible danger, spinning out into the mist. She must turn her mount back toward the village and wake her beloved, before it was too late.

  The black horse galloped madly through the night, avoiding every obstacle with uncanny precision. The ground blurred beneath them with sickening speed.

  “Turn,” she cried, yanking at the coarse mane.

  Once. Twice. Thrice, until her hands stung, her muscles burning with effort.

  The horse did not respond. Eileen might as well be a gnat on its hide for all the notice it paid. For one mad moment, she considered throwing herself off. But the risk was too great. She could not return to save Aidan if she broke her leg, or worse.

  Over the thud of her mount’s hooves come the boom and crash of the surf.

  Oh, no.

  They were racing straight for the cliffs. Ahead, the stars were a veil reaching down past the horizon, disappearing into the dark Irish Sea.

  “Stop! Please, stop.” She pulled back with all her strength.