Best Science Fiction of the Year

by Neil Clarke

  “Can you see them clearly?”

  The image before the dragon-horse’s eyes clarifies like a long, painted scroll: everyone’s expression is vivid and lifelike. He sees the people’s joys and sorrows, partings and meetings, as though seeing the moon waxing and waning.

  “Long, long ago, there was a bustling metropolis. In this city there lived a young woman . . . ”

  He starts to tell the stories of those people.

  A young woman who’d never been in love fell for a stranger she met through the chat program on her phone, but then she discovered that her interlocutor was only a perfect bit of conversation software. Yet, the digital boy loved her back, and they happily spent a lifetime together. After the woman died, a record of her life—her frowns and laughter, her actions and reactions—was uploaded to the cloud, and she became the shared goddess of people and AIs.

  A pious monk went to a factory to pray and bring blessings to the robot workers who were plagued by short-circuits and malfunctions. But the ghosts of the dead robot workers hounded him. Just as the investigation of the strange occurrences was about to end, the monk was found dead in a tiny hotel room, his nude body smeared with the blood of a woman. An autopsy revealed the truth: he was also a robot.

  A famous actress was known for being able to portray a wide variety of roles. So skilled was she, the paparazzi suspected that she was only a software simulation. But by the time they managed to break into her well-secured mansion, all they saw was a cold corpse lying on a magnificent bed. Frighteningly, whether you were looking at her body with the naked eye or through a camera, everyone and every camera saw a different woman. And even years later, the actress continued to show up on the silver screen.

  A blind child prodigy began to play Go against the computer when he was five. As time passed, his skill improved, and his computer opponent also became smarter through competition with him. Many years later, as he lay dying, the blind Go player played one last match against his old opponent. But unbeknownst to him, as they played, others opened his skull and scanned each part of his brain layer by layer, digitizing the results into computer modules that his machine opponent could learn from, until this last Go match became so complicated that no one could follow it.

  Delighted by the stories told by the dragon-horse, the bat dances upside down. In turn, she squeaks other stories into the dragon-horse’s ear:

  A bell that rang only once every hundred years was forgotten in the dark basement of an art museum in the heart of the city. But due to a marvelous resonance phenomenon, whenever the bell did ring, its sound would be echoed and magnified by the entire city until the ringing resounded like an ensemble of pipe organs, and everything stood still in awe.

  An unmanned drone took to the skies every dawn. Each clockwise swoop over the city also served to recharge its solar-powered batteries. Whenever spring turned to summer, a flock of fledgling birds followed the drone to practice flying like a magnificent cloud.

  Piles of paper books which no one ever read filled an ancient library where the temperature was always kept at sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The main computer of the library was capable of reciting every poem in every language. If you were lucky enough to find the way there, you would receive an unimaginably enthusiastic reception.

  A musical fountain was capable of composing new music as soon as you deposited some coins. At dusk, feral cats and dogs often dropped coins they picked out of the ruins into the fountain; and so, as the birds and beasts took turns bathing in the fountain in an orderly manner, they also got to enjoy lovely music that never repeated itself.

  “Is it really true?” they each ask the other, again and again. “And then? What happened then?”

  Shadows dance in the moon. The longer they walk, the longer seems the road.

  Gradually they hear gurgling water, like the babbling of a brook echoing through a deep canyon. Before the founding of the metropolis, creeks and brooks had crisscrossed this spot. Year by year, they were tamed as people multiplied, and turned into lakes, ditches, and dank underground sewers. But now the brooks have been freed, wantonly meandering their way over the rolling terrain, singing, nourishing the life on this patch of land.

  The dragon-horse stops. The road he’s on disappears into a wild lotus pond. The pond stretches as far as the horizon, covered by layer after layer of lotus leaves. A breeze passes, and the lotus leaves ruffle, causing undulating ripples through the dark-green-and-gray-white sea. Red and white lotus flowers peek out of the leaves as though they’re pieces of frozen moonlight, with no trace of the merely terrestrial in their beauty.

  “How lovely.” The bat sighs lightly. “It’s so beautiful that my heart aches.”

  The dragon-horse is startled because he feels the same, though he doesn’t know if he has a heart.

  “Shall we go on?” he asks.

  “I need to fly over this lake,” replies the bat. “But you can’t go on any longer. You’re made of metal; the water will probably cause you to short-circuit.”

  “Maybe.” The dragon-horse hesitates. He has never been in the water.

  “Then let us say farewell here.” The bat’s flapping wings tickle the dragon-horse’s ear.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes, I don’t want to be late.”

  “Bon voyage!”

  “The same to you! Take care of yourself, and thank you for your stories.”

  “Thank you as well.”

  The dragon-horse stands at the shore and watches as the shadow of the bat diminishes until she has disappeared in the night.

  He is alone again. The watery moon gently illuminates all creation.

  4.

  He looks at his reflection in the water. His body seems more skeletal than he remembers from before the start of this journey. The scales covering his body have mostly fallen off, and even one of his antlers is gone. Through the holes in his skin, messy bundles of wires and cables can be seen wrapped around his rusty steel skeleton.

  Where shall I go? Should I go back? Back to where I started?

  Or maybe I should head in the opposite direction. The Earth is round. No matter where I want to go, as long as I keep going, I’ll get there.

  Though he’s pondering turning back, he has already, without realizing it, stepped forward.

  His front hooves disappear underneath the ice-cold waves.

  The lotus leaves scratch gently against his belly. Countless sparkling droplets roll across their surfaces: some return to the starting point after wandering about for a while; others coalesce like beads of mercury and then tumble off the edge of the leaf into the water.

  The world is so lovely. I don’t want to die.

  The thought frightens him. Why am I thinking about death? Am I about to die?

  But the endless lotus pond continues to tempt him. He moves forward, one step after another. He wants to reach the other shore, which he has never seen.

  The water rises and covers his limbs, his belly, his torso, his spine, his neck.

  His legs sink into the mud at the bottom of the pond, and he can’t pull them out. His body sways, and he almost falls. The last scale falls from his body.

  The golden scale splashes into the water like a lotus-shaped floating lantern. Slowly it drifts away, carried by the ripples.

  The dragon-horse is exhausted, but he also feels as though all weight has been lifted from him. He closes his eyes.

  He hears the sound of rushing water, as though he has returned to the place of his birth. Long-forgotten memories replay before his eyes. He seems to be on the ocean at this moment, riding in a giant ship headed for China. Perhaps all that he has seen and heard over the years are but a dream on this long voyage.

  A breeze caresses his beard like a barely audible sigh.

  The dragon-horse opens his eyes. The tiny figure of the bat is flattened against his nose.

  “You’re back!” Joy fills him. “Did you make it on time?”

  “I got lost.” The bat si
ghs. “The pond is too big. I can’t seem to find the other shore.”

  “It’s too bad that I’m stuck in the mud. I can’t help carry you any farther.”

  “I wish we had fire.”

  “Fire?”

  “Wherever there’s fire, there’s light. I want to lead the way for everyone!”

  “For . . . who?”

  “For the gods in darkness, for the lonely ghosts and lost souls, for anyone who doesn’t know where to go—I will lead them all.”

  “You need fire?”

  “Yes, but where would we find fire in all this water?”

  “I have fire,” says the dragon-horse. “I don’t have much, but I hope it’s enough for you.”

  “Where?”

  “Give me a bit of space.”

  The bat flaps over to a lotus leaf nearby. The dragon-horse opens his jaw and sticks out his black tongue. Pure kerosene flows out of a seam under the tongue, and a dark blue electric spark comes to life at the tip of the tongue, lighting the kerosene spray. A golden-scarlet column of fire shoots into the sky.

  “I had no idea you had such hidden talents!” the bat shouts in admiration. “More, more!”

  The dragon-horse opens his mouth, and more flames shoot out. Kerosene burns easily, even after so many years of storage. He can’t remember the last time he performed the fire-breathing trick—it’s possible that he hasn’t done it since the battle with the spider. Fire is so warm and beautiful, like a god whose shape is constantly shifting.

  “Millions wish to extinguish the fire, but I alone will lift it high overhead.” The bat’s voice rings out clearly in the ear of the dragon-horse, resonating with each and every one of his components:

  This fantastic fire, a storm of blossoms that blankets the sacred motherland. Like all poets who make dreams their horses, By this fire, I survive the long, dark night.

  He feels like a burning match. But he doesn’t feel any pain.

  All around him, faint lights appear in the distance, gathering like fireflies.

  Oh, what a collection of spirits and demons! They are of every shape and material, sporting every strange color and outline: hand-drawn door gods and buddhas; abstract graffiti on factory walls; tiny robots no bigger than a thumb made out of computer components; mechanical Guan Yu constructed from truck parts; dilapidated, ancient stone guardian lions; teddy bears as tall as a house and capable of telling stories; simple, clumsy robot dogs; strollers capable of singing a baby to sleep . . .

  They are just like him, mixed-blood creations of tradition and modernity, myth and technology, dream and reality. They are made of Art, yet they are Natural.

  “It’s time!” the bat sings joyfully. “Come with us!”

  “Where are we going?” asks the dragon-horse.

  “Anywhere is fine. Tonight you will find eternal life and freedom in poetry and dream.”

  She sticks out a tiny claw and pulls him into the air, where he transforms into a fluttering butterfly with dark red eyes and golden wings full of Chinese characters. He looks down and sees the massive body of the dragon-horse still burning in the endless lotus pound, like a magnificent torch.

  Along with all his companions, he flies higher into the sky. The rolling landscape of ruins diminishes in the distance. Next to his ear, the bat’s voice continues to whisper.

  A thousand years later, if I were to be born again on the riverbank of my motherland,

  A thousand years later, I will again possess China’s rice paddies and the snowcapped mountains of the King of Zhou, where sky-horses roam.

  Farewell, and good-bye. He sighs.

  The flame disappears in darkness.

  They fly for a long time until they reach the end of the world.

  Everywhere they look, gloom greets their eyes. Only a giant, sparkling river lies between heaven and earth.

  The blue water gleams like fire, like mercury, like the stars, like diamonds— twinkling, shimmering, melding into the dark night. No one knows how wide it is, or how long.

  The spirits flap and flutter their wings, heading for the opposite shore. Like mist, like a cloud, like a rainbow, like a bridge, they connect two worlds.

  “Go on,” says the bat. “Hurry.”

  “What about you?”

  “I still have some tasks to finish. When the sun rises, I must return to my nest to sleep and wait for the next night.”

  “So we’re to say farewell again?”

  “Yes. But the world is so grand, I’m sure we’ll meet somewhere else again.”

  They embrace, wrapping their tiny wings about each other. The dragon-horse spirit turns to leave, and the bat recites poetry to send him on his way.

  Riding the five-thousand-year-old phoenix and a dragon whose name is “horse,” I am doomed to fail.

  But Poetry itself, wielding the sun, will surely triumph.

  He heads for the opposite shore, and he isn’t sure how long he has been flying. The starry river flows by.

  Next to the shore is his birthplace, the tiny, tranquil isle of Nantes. The mechanical beasts have been slumbering for an unknown number of years: the twenty-five-meter-tall carousel horse of the ocean world; the fifty-ton giant elephant; the immense, frightening reptile; the heron with the eight-meter wingspan capable of carrying a man; the bizarre mechanical ants, cicadas, and carnivorous plants . . .

  He sees his old partner, the spider, who lies tranquilly in the soft moonlight, his eight legs curled under him. Landing gently on the forehead of the spider, the dragon-horse spirit closes his wings like a dewdrop falling from the heavens.

  When you sing, the world will listen; when you are quiet, you’ll hear the song of all creation.

  The night breeze carries the sounds of collision, percussion, and metal creaking and grinding against metal. He smells the aroma of machine oil, rust, and electrical sparks. His friends have awakened, and to welcome his return, there will surely be a great feast.

  But first, he falls into a deep slumber.

  Aliette de Bodard writes speculative fiction: her short stories have garnered her two Nebula Awards, a Locus Award, and a British Science Fiction Association Award. She is the author of The House of Shattered Wings, a novel set in a turn-of-the-century Paris devastated by a magical war, which won the 2015 British Science Fiction Association Award, and its upcoming sequel The House of Binding Thorns, out in April 2017. She lives in Paris.

  PEARL

  Aliette de Bodard

  In Da Trang’s nightmares, Pearl is always leaving—darting away from him, toward the inexorable maw of the sun’s gravity, going into a tighter and tighter orbit until no trace of it remains—he’s always reaching out, sending a ship, a swarm of bots—calling upon the remoras to move, sleek and deadly and yet too agonizingly slow, to do anything, to save what they can. Too late. Too late.

  It wasn’t always like this, of course.

  In the beginning . . . in the beginning . . . his thoughts fray and scatter away, like cloth held too close to a flame. How long since he’s last slept? The Empress’s courtier was right—but no, no, that’s not it. She doesn’t understand. None of them understand.

  In the beginning, when he was still a raw, naive teenager, there was a noise, in the hangar. He thought it was just one of the countless remoras, dipping in and out of the room—his constant companions as he studied for the imperial examination, hovering over his shoulder to stare at the words; nudging him when one of them needed repairs they couldn’t provide themselves. And once—just after Inner Grandmother’s death, when Mother had been reeling from the loss of her own mother, and when he’d come running to the hangar with a vise around his chest—he’d seen them weaving and dancing in a pattern beautiful beyond words as he stood transfixed, with tears running down his cheeks.

  “Can you wait?” Da Trang asked, not looking away from the text in his field of vision. “I’m trying to work out the meaning of a line.” He was no scholar, no favored to be graced with a tutor or with mem-implants of his ancest
ors: everything he did was like moving through tar, every word a tangle of meanings and connotations he needed to unpack, every clever allusion something he needed to look up.

  A nudge then; and, across his field of vision, lines—remoras didn’t have human names, but it was the one he thought of as Teacher, because it was one of the oldest ones, and because it was always accompanied by a swarm of other remoras with which it appeared to be in deep conversation.

  >Architect. Need to see.<

  Urgent, then, if Teacher was attempting to communicate—remoras could use a little human speech, but it was hard work, tying up their processes— they grew uncannily still as they spoke, and once he’d seen a speaking remora unable to dodge another, more eager one.

  He raised his gaze, and saw . . .

  Teacher and another remora, Slicer, both with that same look of intent sleekness, as if they couldn’t hold still for long without falling apart—and, between them, a third one, looking . . . somehow wrong. Patched up, like all remoras—leftovers from bots and ships that had gone all but feral, low-level intelligences used for menial tasks. And yet . . .

  The hull of the third remora was painted—engraved with what looked like text at first, but turned out to be other characters, long, weaving lines in a strange, distorted alphabet Da Trang couldn’t make out.

  >Is Pearl,< Teacher said, on the screen.> For you.<

  “I don’t understand,” Da Trang said slowly. He dismissed the text, watched the third remora—something almost graceful in the way it floated, like a calligraphy from a master, suggesting in a few strokes the shape of a bird or of a snake. “Pearl?”

  Pearl moved, came to stand close to him—nudging him, like a pet or favorite bot—he’d never felt that or done that, and he felt obscurely embarrassed, as if he’d given away some intimacy that should have been better saved for a parent, a sibling, or a spouse.

  >Architect.< Pearl’s lines were the same characters as on its hull for a brief moment; and then they came into sharp focus as the remora lodged itself on his shoulder, against his neck—he could feel the heat of the ship, the endless vibrations of the motor through the hull, like a secret heartbeat. >