Best Science Fiction of the Year

by Neil Clarke

  The doors to Thanks for the Memories wouldn’t open. Distracted by the glare of the sun, Irving had missed the red neon sign flashing CLOSED next to the entrance.

  “Exo-memory, why is Thanks for the Memories closed? What day is it?”

  “Thursday,” whispered the implant. “A media release by the parent company, released nine days ago, stated that this franchise was not located in a profitable area, and was consolidating its branches to maximize economic returns for shareholders. However, multiple sources on the freewave have contradicted this, theorizing that the closure is related to several recent high-profile cases of amnesia. Shall I put the most-read article from each perspective up on-retina?”

  “No, no, I don’t care about the details.”

  Irving pursed his lips. This was a nuisance. Just a couple more sales and he would hit the target he’d set himself. Fifteen million and he’d take Ondine out for dinner, reveal his newfound wealth and success. Just a couple more sales were all he needed to win his wife and daughter back.

  “Exo-memory.”

  “Yes, Mister Kupfermann?”

  “Give me directions to the nearest Thanks for the Memories franchise.”

  Xia Jia is associate professor of Chinese literature at Xi’an Jiaotong University. She obtained a PhD at Peking University in 2014, with “Chinese Science Fiction and Its Cultural Politics Since 1990” as the topic of her dissertation. Besides, she has been publishing speculative fiction since college in Science Fiction World and other venues. Several of her stories have been translated into English, Japanese, Polish, Russian, Italian, and French. Her first story written in English, “Let’s have a talk,” was published in Nature in 2015.

  NIGHT JOURNEY OF THE

  DRAGON-HORSE

  Xia Jia

  1.

  The dragon-horse awakens in moonlight.

  Drops of cold dew drip onto his forehead, where they meander down the curve of his steel nose. Plink.

  He struggles to open his eyes, rusted eyelids grinding against eyelashes. A pair of silvery specks reflects from those giant dark red pupils. At first he thinks it’s the moon, but a careful examination reveals it to be a clump of white flowers blooming vibrantly in a crack in the cement, irrigated by the dew dripping from his nose.

  He can’t help but inhale deeply, as though trying to taste the fragrance of the flowers, but he smells nothing—after all, he is not made of flesh and blood and has never smelled anything. The air rushes into his nostrils, whistling loudly in the narrow gaps between mechanical components. He feels a slight buzzing all over his body, as if each one of his hundreds of scales is vibrating at a different frequency, and so he sneezes, two columns of white fog erupting from his nostrils. The white flowers tremble in the fog, drops of dew falling from the tips of the translucent petals.

  Slowly the dragon-horse opens his eyes all the way and lifts his head to survey the world.

  The world has been desolate for a long time and now looks very different from his memory of it. He remembers once having stood in the middle of a brightly lit hall, shaking his head and waving his tail at Chinese and foreign visitors, surrounded by cries of delight and surprised intakes of breath. He remembers nights when, after the lights in the museum had been extinguished, lingering visitors murmuring in strange tongues had disturbed his dreams.

  The hall is now in ruins, the cracked walls askew with vines sprouting from fissures and seams, leaves susurrating in the wind. Vine-shrouded trees have punched holes large and small in the glass skylight overhead. Bathed by moonlight, dewdrops plink-plonk like pearls falling onto a jade platter.

  The dragon-horse glances around the great hall of the museum—now a decayed courtyard—and sees that all the other inhabitants are gone, leaving only him dreaming for untold centuries amongst the rubble. He peers at the night sky through the holes in the skylight: the empyrean is a shade of midnight blue, and the stars twinkle like silver-white flowers. This is also a sight he can’t remember having seen for a long, long time.

  He recalls his birthplace, a small city named Nantes on the shores of the tranquil Loire, where the brilliant pinpricks of the stars reflected in the water resembled an oil painting. But in this metropolis, thousands of miles from Nantes, the sky always hung overhead like a thick, waxy gray membrane by day, varicolored neon lights turning it even more turbid at night.

  Tonight the limpid moon and luminous stars arouse in him an intense nostalgia for his hometown, for the tiny workshop where he was born on an isle in the middle of the river, where the artisans drew the plans for his design using pens with nibs as fine as a single strand of hair, and then cast the components, polished, spray-painted, and assembled them until he was fully formed. His massive body weighed forty-seven tons, composed from tens of thousands of individual components.

  With his reinforced steel frame and wooden scales, he stood erect, a terrifying sight. Then the gears, axles, motors, and cables inside him collaborated seamlessly in a mechanical symphony so that he could come alive: his four hoofed legs extending and flexing as though made of flesh, his neck curving and straightening like a startled wild goose, his spine gyrating like a playful dragon, his head lifting and dipping like a lazy tiger, his steps as light as an immortal dancing across water.

  On top of his horse-like body is a dragon’s neck and head, along with a long beard, deer antlers, and dark red glass eyes. Each of the golden scales covering his body is inscribed with a Chinese character: “dragon,” “horse,” “poem,” “dream.” These characters embody the romantic fantasies his clever artisan-creators harbored about another ancient civilization.

  Long ago, he came here in a Year of the Horse. “Vigorous as dragon and horse” is an auspicious phrase the people of this land loved to say to one another, and it was this phrase that inspired his creators and endowed him with his present mythical form.

  He remembers also parading across a square packed with crowds with his head held high and his legs stretched out. Children greeted him with curious eyes and delighted screams as the mist spewing from his nostrils drenched them. He remembers the lovely music that filled the air, a combination of Western symphonies and Chinese folk tunes—slowly and gracefully he strolled, swaying and stepping to the rhythm of the music. He remembers the streets and buildings spreading before him like a chessboard, stretching endlessly under the hazy gray sky. He remembers his performance partner, a mechanical spider who was almost as large as he was and whose eight legs sliced through the air menacingly. They performed together for three days and three nights, enacting a complete mythical tale.

  Nüwa, the goddess of creation, sent the dragon-horse to survey the mortal world, where he encountered the spider, who had escaped from the heavenly court and was wreaking havoc everywhere. They fought an epic battle until— neither able to overcome the other—they forged a peace based on friendship. Then the four seas undulated in harmonious tranquility, and even the weather became mild and pleasant.

  After the show, the spider returned to its birthplace, leaving the dragon-horse alone as guardian of this strange land.

  Yet isn’t this place another homeland for him? He was created to celebrate the lasting friendship between two nations, and from conception he was of mixed blood. The dreams and myths of this land were his original seed. After eons of being passed from one storyteller to another, the legends— transformed into the languages of strange lands, borne across oceans to new realms—were substantiated by the magic of steel and electricity, like those agile robots and spaceships. Finally, across thousands of miles, he came here to become a new legend to be passed down through the ages. Tradition and modernity, myth and technology, the East and the West—which is his old country, which the new?

  The dragon-horse, unable to puzzle out the question, lowers his heavy head. He has been asleep for too long, and now the whole world has turned into a ruined garden. Are there still places in this garden for people to live? In the cold moonlight, the dragon-horse carefully lifts his legs a
nd, step by step, begins to explore.

  Every joint in his rusty body screeches. In a glass wall filled with spider-web cracks, he sees a reflection of himself. His body has also been decaying. Time flows like a river, halting for no one. His scaled armor is now patchy, incomplete, like an aged veteran returning from the wars. Only his glass eyes continue to glow with that familiar dim light.

  The wide avenue where cars had once streamed like a river of steel is now filled with lush trees dancing in the wind. As soon as there’s a break in the rustling of leaves, birds and insects fill the silence with their chittering music, which only makes everything seem even more desolate. The dragon-horse looks around, uncertain where he should be headed.

  Since it makes no difference, he picks a direction at random and strolls forward.

  The clopping hoofbeats echo against the pavement. The moon stretches his lonely shadow a long way over the ground.

  2.

  The dragon-horse isn’t sure how long he has been walking.

  Silently the stars spin overhead, and the moon wanders across the firmament, but without clocks or watches, time’s passage cannot be felt.

  The avenue he’s on was once this city’s most famous street. Now it is a deep canyon whose craggy walls are formed from an amalgam of bricks, steel, concrete, and trees, the product of mixing the inorganic with the organic, decay with life, reality with dream, the steel-and-glass metropolis with ancient myths.

  He remembers there was once a square nearby where bright lights remained lit throughout the night like a thousand-year dream. But in the end, the lights went out, and the dream ended. There’s nothing in this world that can outlast time itself.

  Coming into the valley that was once that square, he sees an impossible vision: thousands and thousands of steel wrecks heaped and stacked like the skeletal remains of beasts, the looming piles stretching as far as the eye can see. These were once automobiles of various makes and sizes, most of them so corroded by rust that only the frames remain. Twisted branches emerge from the dark, empty windows and stab into the sky as though clawing for some elusive prey. The dragon-horse experiences a nameless sorrow and terror. He lowers his eyes to gaze at his own rusty forelimbs. How is he different from these dead cars? Why should he not fall into a perpetual slumber alongside them?

  No one can answer these questions.

  A scale falls from his chest, rolling among the steel wrecks and echoing dully in the watery moonlight. The insects, near and far, fall silent for a moment before resuming their joyful chorus, as though what fell were nothing more than an insignificant pebble.

  He becomes even more frightened, and picks up his pace as he continues his night journey.

  Squeaks come from a certain spot in the ruins. The sound is thin and dreary, different from birdcall and insect chitter. The dragon-horse follows the sound to its source, searching among the thick grass with his nose. Suddenly, in the shadow of a shallow cave, he finds himself gazing at a pair of tiny, dark eyes.

  “Who are you?” the dragon-horse asks. It has been so long since he has heard his own voice that the thrumming timbre sounds strange to him.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” a thin voice answers.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m a bat.”

  “A bat?”

  “Half-beast, half-bird, I sleep during the day and emerge at night to swoop between dawn and dream.”

  The dragon-horse carefully examines his interlocutor: sharp snout, large ears, a soft body covered by fine gray fur and curled upon itself, and two thin, membranous wings shimmering in the moon.

  “And who are you?” the bat squeaks.

  “Who am I?” the dragon-horse repeats the question.

  “You don’t know who you are?”

  “Maybe I do; maybe I don’t,” replies the dragon-horse. “I’m called Dragon-Horse, meaning I am both dragon and horse. I began as a myth in China, but I was born in France. I don’t know if I’m a machine or a beast, alive or dead—or perhaps I’ve never possessed the animating spark. I also don’t know if my walk through the night is real or only a dream.”

  “Like all poets who make dreams their horses.” The bat sighs.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, you reminded me of a line from a poem from long ago.”

  “A poem?” The word sounds familiar to the dragon-horse, but he’s not certain what it means.

  “Yes. I like poems,” the bat says, and nods. “When the poets are gone, poems are even more precious.”

  “The poets are gone?” the dragon-horse asks carefully. “You are saying no one writes poems anymore?”

  “Can’t you tell? There are no longer any people in this world.”

  The dragon-horse doesn’t bother looking around. He knows she’s right.

  “Then what should we do?” he asks, after being silent for a while.

  “We can do whatever we want,” says the bat. “Humans may be gone, but the world goes on. Look at how lovely the moon is tonight. If you want to sing, sing. If you don’t want to sing, just lie still. When you sing, the world will listen; when you are quiet, you’ll hear the song of all creation.”

  “But I can’t hear it,” admits the dragon-horse. “I can only hear the chitter of insects in the ruins. They frighten me.”

  “Poor baby—your ears aren’t as good as mine,” says the bat compassionately. “But you heard me. That’s odd.”

  “Is it really that strange?”

  “Usually only bats can hear other bats. But the world is so big, anything is possible.” The bat shrugs. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know where I’m headed,” the dragon-horse says. It’s the truth.

  “You don’t even have a destination in mind?”

  “I’m just walking about. Also, I don’t know how to do anything except walk.”

  “I have a destination, but I got held up on the way.” The bat’s voice turns sorrowful. “I’d been flying for three days and three nights, and then an owl came after me. The owl almost tore my wings.”

  “You’re hurt?” asks the dragon-horse solicitously.

  “I said ‘almost.’ Do I look like I’m easy prey?” Her indignant speech is interrupted by a fit of coughing.

  “Do you not feel well?”

  “I’m thirsty. Flying parched my throat, and I want a drink. But the water here is full of the flavor of rust; I can’t stand it.”

  “I have water,” says the dragon-horse. “It’s for my performance.”

  “Would you give me a drink? Just a sip.”

  The dragon-horse lowers his head, and a white mist sprays from his nostrils. The mist soaks the bat’s tiny body, forming droplets on the fine fur. Satisfied, the bat spreads her wings and carefully licks up the droplets.

  “You’re nice,” squeaks the bat. “I feel much better now.”

  “Are you leaving for where you want to go, then?”

  “Yes. I have an important mission tonight. What about you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll just keep on moving forward.”

  “Can you carry me for a while? I’m still tired and need rest, but I don’t want to be late.”

  “But I walk very slowly,” the dragon-horse says, embarrassed. “My body is designed so that I can only walk haltingly, step by step.”

  “I don’t care.” Briskly flapping her light wings, the bat lands next to the dragon-horse’s right ear. The bat’s claws lightly clutch a branch of his long antler, and then she’s dangling upside down.

  “See, now we get to talk as we walk. There’s nothing better than a night journey with conversation.”

  The dragon-horse sighs and carefully shifts his limbs. The bat is so light that he almost can’t feel the creature’s presence. He can only hear that thin, reedy voice whispering poetry in his ear:

  “Faced with the great river, I am consumed by shame. What has my exhaustion accomplished . . . ?”

  3.

  They pass through the
graveyard of cars. The road is now more rugged and uneven, and the moon has hid itself behind wispy clouds so that the road is illuminated in patches.

  The dragon-horse carefully picks his way through, fearful of falling and breaking a limb. With each step, his whole body creaks and groans, and gears and screws fall off him—clink-clank—and disappear in the gaps between rubble and weeds.

  “Are you in pain?” asks the bat curiously.

  “I’ve never known what pain is,” confesses the dragon-horse.

  “Wow, impressive. If it were me, I’d be dead from the pain by now.”

  “I don’t know what death is, either.” The dragon-horse falls silent. The nameless sorrow and terror have returned. If he is considered alive now, is that essence of life scattered among the tens of thousands of components making up his body, or is it concentrated in some special spot? If these components are all scattered along the path he has trodden, will he still be alive? How will he continue to sense all that is around him?

  Time flows like a river, halting for no one. There’s nothing in this world that can outlast time itself.

  “Walking like this is boring,” says the bat. “Why don’t you tell me a story? You were born so long ago that you must know many stories I don’t.”

  “Story? I don’t know what a story is; I certainly can’t tell you one.”

  “It’s easy! Okay, repeat after me: ‘Long, long ago.’”

  “Long, long ago . . . ”

  “What comes to your mind now? Do you see something that doesn’t exist?”

  The dragon-horse does. The wheel of time seems to be reversing before his eyes. Trees shrink into the ground, and giant buildings shoot out of the earth, part to the sides like the sea, and leave a straight, wide avenue down the middle.

  “Long, long ago, there was a bustling metropolis.”

  “Are there people in the city?” asks the bat.

  “Many, many people.”