Best Science Fiction of the Year

by Neil Clarke

  “Many,” Merlin replied. “And recordings, video and audio, taken at all stages in her life. I stored quite a few on the tablet—I thought you’d like to see them.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose.”

  “I know this is troubling for you, and I probably shouldn’t have dug into Curtal’s past. But once I’d started . . . ”

  “And after Cupis?”

  “Nearly twelve hundred years of history, Teal—kings and queens and marriages and assassinations, all down the line. Too many portraits for one room. But your genes were in Cupis and if I’ve read the family tree properly they ought to be in every descendant, generation after generation.” He paused, giving her time to take this all in. “I’m not exactly sure what this makes you. Havergal royalty, by blood connection? I’m pretty certain they won’t have run into this situation before. Equally certain Baskin doesn’t have a clue that you’re one of his distant historical ancestors. And I suggest we keep it that way, at least for now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s information,” Merlin said. “And information’s always powerful.”

  He left her with the tablet. They were past the hour for their appointment with Prince Baskin now, but Merlin would go on alone and make excuses for Teal’s lateness.

  Besides, he had something else on his mind.

  Merlin and the Prince were dining, just the two of them for the moment. Baskin had been making half-hearted small-talk since Merlin’s arrival, but it was plain that there was really only one thing on his mind, and he was straining to have an answer.

  “My staff say that you were very busy,” he said. “Making all sorts of use of our facilities. Did you by any chance . . . ”

  Merlin smiled sweetly. “By any chance . . . ?”

  “Arrive at a conclusion. Concerning the matter at hand.”

  Merlin tore into his bread with rude enthusiasm. “The matter?”

  “The syrinx, Merlin. The syrinx. The thing that’s kept you occupied all day.”

  Merlin feigned sudden and belated understanding, touching a hand to his brow and shaking his head at his own forgetfulness. “Of course. Forgive me, Prince Baskin. It always was really just a formality, wasn’t it? I mean, I never seriously doubted your honesty.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” But there was still an edge in Baskin’s voice. “So . . . ”

  “So?”

  “Is it real, or is it not real. That’s what you set out to establish, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, it’s real. Very real.” Merlin looked at his host with a dawning understanding. “Did you actually have doubts of your own, Prince? That had never occurred to me until now, but I suppose it would have made perfect sense. After all, you only ever had the Shrike’s word that the thing was real. How could you ever know, without using it?”

  “We tried, Merlin. For thirteen hundred years, we tried. But it’s settled, then? You’ll accept the syrinx in payment? It really isn’t much that I’m asking of you, all things considered.”

  “If you really think this bag of tricks will make all the difference, then who I am I to stand in your way?”

  Baskin beamed. He stood and recharged their glasses from the bottle that was already half-empty.

  “You do a great thing for us, Merlin. Your name will echo down the centuries of peace to follow.”

  “Let’s just hope the Gaffurians hold it in the same high esteem.”

  “Oh, they will. After a generation or two under our control, they’ll forget there were ever any differences between us. We’ll be generous in victory, Merlin. If there are scores to be settled, it will be with the Gaffurian high command, not the innocent masses. We have no quarrel with those people.”

  “And the brigands—you’ll extend the same magnanimity in their direction?”

  “There’ll be no need. After you’ve taken back the Tactician, they’ll be a spent force, brushed to the margins.”

  Merlin’s smile was tight. “I did a little more reading on them. There was quite a bit in the private and public records, beyond what you showed me on the crossing.”

  “We didn’t care to overwhelm you with irrelevant details,” Baskin said, returning to his seat. “But there was never anything we sought to hide from you. I welcome your curiosity: you can’t be too well prepared in advance of your operation.”

  “The background is complicated, isn’t it? Centuries of dissident or breakaway factions, skulking around the edges of your war, shifting from one ideology to another, sometimes loosely aligned with your side, sometimes with the enemy. At times numerous, at other times pushed almost to extinction. I was interested in their leader, Struxer . . . ”

  “There’s little to say about him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Merlin fingered his glass, knowing he had the edge for now. “He was one of yours, wasn’t he? A military defector. A senior tactician, in his own right. Close to your inner circle—almost a favoured son. But instead of offering his services to the other side, he teamed up with the brigands on Mundar. From what I can gather, there are Gaffurian defectors as well. What do they all want, do you think? What persuades those men and women that they’re better off working together, than against each other?”

  “They stole the Tactician, Merlin—remember that. A military weapon in all but name. Hardly the actions of untainted pacifists.”

  Behind Baskin, the doors opened as Teal came to join them. Baskin twisted around in his seat to greet her, nodding in admiration at the satin Havergal evening wear she had donned for the meal. It suited her well, Merlin thought, but what really mattered was the distraction it offered. While Baskin’s attention was diverted, Merlin quickly swapped their glasses. He had been careful to drink to the same level as Baskin, so that the subterfuge wasn’t obvious.

  “I was just telling Prince Baskin the good news,” Merlin said, lifting the swapped glass and taking a careful sip from it. “I’m satisfied about the authenticity of the syrinx.”

  Teal took her place at the table. Baskin leaned across to pour her a glass. “Merlin said you were feeling a little unwell, so I wasn’t counting on you joining us at all.”

  “It was just a turn, Prince. I’m feeling much better now.”

  “Good . . . good.” He was looking at her intently, a frown buried in his gaze. “You know, Teal, if I didn’t know you’d just come from space, I’d swear you were . . . ” But he smiled at himself, dismissing whatever thought he had been about to voice. “Never mind—it was a foolish notion. I trust you’ll accept our hospitality, while Merlin discharges his side of the arrangement? I know you travel together, but on this occasion at least Merlin has no need of an interpreter. There’ll be no negotiation, simply a demonstration of overwhelming and decisive force. They’ll understand what it is we’d like back.”

  “Where he goes, I go,” Teal said.

  Merlin tensed, his fingers tight on the glass. “It might not be a bad idea, actually. There’ll be a risk—a small one, I grant, but a risk nonetheless. Tyrant isn’t indestructible, and I’ll be restricted in the weapons I can deploy, if the Prince wants his toy back in one piece. I’d really rather handle this one on my own.”

  “I accept the risk,” she said. “And not because I care about the Tactician, or the difference it will make to this system. But I do want to see the Huskers defeated, and for that Merlin needs his syrinx.”

  “I’d have been happy to give it to Merlin now, if I thought your remaining on Havergal would offer a guarantee of his return. But the opposite arrangement suits me just as well. As soon as we have the Tactician, we’ll release the syrinx.”

  “If those are you terms,” Merlin said, with an easy-going shrug. Baskin smiled slightly. “You trust me?”

  “I trust the capability of my ship to enforce a deal. It amounts to the same thing.”

  “A pragmatist. I knew you were the right man for the job, Merlin.” Merlin lifted his glass. “To success, in that case.”

  Baskin followed suit, a
nd Teal raised her own glass in half-hearted sympathy. “To success,” the Prince echoed. “And victory.”

  They left the facility the following morning. Merlin took Tyrant this time, Teal joining him as they followed Renouncer back into space. Once the two craft were clear of Havergal’s atmosphere, Prince Baskin issued a request for docking authorisation. Merlin, who had considered his business with the prince concluded for now, viewed the request with a familiar, nagging trepidation.

  “He wants to come along for the ride,” he murmured to Teal, while the airlock cycled. “Force and wisdom, that’s exactly what it’ll be. Needs to see Struxer’s poor brigands getting their noses bloodied up close and personal, rather than hearing about it from halfway across the system.”

  Teal looked unimpressed. “If he wants to risk his neck, who are you to stop him?”

  “Oh, nobody at all. It’s just that I work best without an audience.”

  “You’ve already got one, Merlin. Start getting used to it.”

  He shrugged aside her point. He was distracted to begin with, thinking of the glass he had smuggled out of the dining room, and whether Prince Baskin had been sharp enough to notice the swap. While they were leaving Havergal he had put the glass into Tyrant’s full-spectrum analyser, but the preliminary results were not quite what he had been expecting.

  “I wasn’t kidding about the risks, you know,” Merlin said.

  “Nor was I about wanting to see you get the syrinx. And not because I care about you all that much, either.”

  He winced. “Don’t feel you need to spare my feelings.”

  “I’m just stating my position. You’re the means to an end. You’re searching for the means to bring about the destruction of the Huskers. The syrinx is necessary for that search, and therefore I’ll help you find it. But if there was a way of not involving you . . . ”

  “And I thought we broke some ice back there, with all that stuff about Tierce and your daughter.”

  “It didn’t matter then, it doesn’t matter now. Not in the slightest.”

  Merlin eyed the lock indicator. “It isn’t as clear-cut as I thought, did you know? I swiped a gene sample from his lordship. Now, if your blood had been percolating its way down the family tree the way it ought to have been, then I should have seen a very strong correlation . . . ”

  “Wait,” she said, face hardening as she worked through the implications of that statement. “You took a sample from him. What about me, Merlin? How did you get a look at my genes, without . . . ?”

  “I sampled you.”

  Teal slapped him. There had been no warning, and she only hit him the once, and for a moment afterwards it might almost have been possible to pretend that nothing had happened, so exactly had they returned to their earlier stances. But Merlin’s cheek stung like a vacuum burn. He opened his mouth, tried to think of something that would explain away her anger.

  The lock opened. Prince Baskin came aboard Tyrant, wearing his armoured spacesuit with the helmet tucked under one arm.

  “There’ll be no objections, Merlin. My own ship couldn’t keep pace with Tyrant even if I wished to shadow you, so the simplest option is to join you for the operation.” He raised a gently silencing hand before Merlin—still stung—had a chance to interject. “I’ll be along purely as an observer, someone with local knowledge, if it comes to that. You don’t need to lecture me on the dangers. I’ve seen my share of frontline service, as you doubtless know, having made yourself such an expert on royal affairs.” He nodded. “Yes, we tracked your search patterns, while you were supposedly verifying the authenticity of the syrinx.”

  “I wanted to know everything I could about your contact with the Cohort mission.”

  “That and more, I think.” Baskin mouthed a command into his neck ring, and Renouncer detached from the lock. “None of it concerns me, though, Merlin. If it amused you to sift through our many assassinations and constitutional crises, so be it. All that matters to me is the safe return of the Tactician. And I will insist on being witness to that return. Don’t insult me by suggesting that the presence of one more human on this ship will have any bearing on Tyrant’s capabilities.”

  “It’s not a taxi.”

  “But it is spacious enough for our present needs, and that is all that matters.” He nodded at Teal. “Besides, I was enjoying our evening conversations too much to forego the pleasure.”

  “All right,” Merlin said, sighing. “You’re along for the ride, Prince. But I make the decisions. And if I feel like pulling out of this arrangement, for any reason, I’ll do just that.”

  Prince Baskin set his helmet aside and offered his empty palms. “There’ll be no coercion, Merlin—I could hardly force you into doing anything you disliked, could I?”

  “So long as we agree on that.” Merlin gestured to the suite of cabins aft of the lock. “Teal, show him the ropes, will you? I’ve got some navigation to be getting on with. We’ll push to one gee in thirty minutes.”

  Merlin turned his back on Teal and the Prince and returned to Tyrant’s command deck. He watched the dwindling trace of the Renouncer, knowing he could outpace it with ease. There would be a certain attraction in cutting and running right now, hoping that the old syrinx held together long enough for a Waynet transition, and seeing Baskin’s face when he realised he would not be returning to Havergal for centuries, if at all.

  But while Merlin was capable of many regrettable things, spite was not one of his failings.

  His gaze slid to the results from the analyser. He thought of running the sequence again, using the same traces from the wine glass, but the arrival of the Prince rendered that earlier sample of doubtful value. Perhaps it had been contaminated to begin with, by other members of the royal staff. But now that Baskin was aboard, Tyrant could obtain a perfect genetic readout almost without trying.

  The words of Baskin returned to mind, as if they held some significance Merlin could not yet see for himself: If it amused you to sift through our many assassinations and constitutional crises, so be it.

  Assassinations.

  When Merlin was satisfied that Prince Baskin’s bones were up to the strain, he pushed Tyrant to two gees. It was uncomfortable for all of them, but bearable provided they kept to the lounge and avoided moving around too much. “We could go faster,” Merlin said, as if it was no great achievement. “But we’d be putting out a little more exotic radiation than I’d like, and I’d rather not broadcast our intentions too strongly. Besides, two gees will get us to Mundar in plenty of time, and if you find it uncomfortable we can easily dial down the thrust for a little while.”

  “You make light of this capability,” Prince Baskin said, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted a drinking vessel to his lips. “Yet this ship is thousands of years beyond anything possessed by either side in our system.”

  Merlin tried to look sympathetic. “Maybe if you weren’t busy throwing rocks at each other, you could spend a little time on the other niceties of life, such as cooperation and mutual advancement.”

  “We will,” Baskin affirmed. “I’ll bend my life to it. I’m not a zealot for war. If I felt that there was a chance of a negotiated ceasefire, under terms amicable to both sides, I’d have seized it years ago. But our ideological differences are too great, our mutual grievances too ingrained. Sometimes I even think to myself that it wouldn’t matter who wins, just as long as one side prevails over the other. There are reasonable men and women in Gaffurius, it’s just . . . ” But he trailed off, as if even he viewed this line of argument as treasonable.

  “If you thought that way,” Teal said, “the simplest thing would be to let the enemy win. Give them the Iron Tactician, if you think it will make that much difference.”

  “After all our advances . . . ? No. It’s too late for that sort of idealism. Besides, we aren’t dealing with Gaffurius. It’s the brigands who are holding us to ransom.”

  “Face it,” Merlin said. “For all this talk of peace, of victory—you’d mi
ss the war.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not so sure. You used to play at battle, didn’t you? Toy soldiers and tabletop military campaigns, you said. It’s been in your blood from the moment you took your first breath. You were the boy who dreamed of war.”

  “I changed,” Baskin said. “Saw through those old distractions. I spoke of Lurga, didn’t I—the last and greatest of our surface cities? Before the abandonment my home was Lurga’s imperial palace, a building that was itself as grand as some cities. I often walk it in my dreams, Merlin. But that’s where it belongs now: back in my childhood, along with all those toy soldiers.”

  “Lurga must have been something to see,” Merlin said.

  “Oh, it was. We built and rebuilt. They couldn’t bear it, of course, the enemy. That’s why Lurga was always the focus of their attacks, right until the end.”

  “There was a bad one once, wasn’t there?” Merlin asked.

  “Too many to mention.”

  “I mean, a particularly bad one—a direct strike against the palace itself. It’s in your public history—I noticed it while I was going through your open records, on Havergal. You’d have been six or seven at the time, so you’d easily remember it. An assassination attempt, plainly. The Gaffurians were trying to bite the head off the Havergal ruling elite.”

  “It was bad, yes. I was injured, quite seriously, by the collapse of part of the palace. Trapped alone and in the dark for days, until rescue squads broke through. I . . . recovered, obviously. But it’s a painful episode and not one I care to dwell on. Good people died around me, Merlin. No child should have to see that.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Perhaps it was the breaking of me, in the end,” Baskin said. “Until then I’d only known war as a series of distant triumphs. Glorious victories and downplayed defeats. After the attack, I knew what blood looked like up close. I healed well enough, but only after months of recuperation. And when I returned to my studies, and some engagement with public life, I found that I’d begun to lose my taste for war. I look back on that little boy that I once was, so single-mindedly consumed by war and strategy, and almost wonder if I’m the same person.” He set aside his drinking vessel, rubbing at the sore muscles in his arm. “You’ll forgive me, both of you. I feel in need of rest. Our ships can only sustain this sort of acceleration for a few tens of minutes, not hour after hour.”