The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Her heresy is both disturbing and intriguing. “What do you believe, then?”

  “That’s what I’m going to show you.”

  “Why me?”

  “There’s a group of us named. We seek out others who harbor the same doubts and resentments we do, and we liberate them.”

  “I don’t want to be liberated.”

  “Don’t you? Haven’t you wanted to be free of the daily selection routine? Or chafed against the mask, wishing the hour of unmasking came sooner? Don’t you hover in indecision some mornings, not because the choosing is so hard, but because none of them appeal? Don’t you wonder who you could be if you were left to decide for yourself?”

  I am saved from having to answer by the appearance of something new when the next lights activate: a door.

  7. Red Is for Revelation

  “Where are we?”

  “Beneath the palace at the Mask Makers guild.”

  She passes her mask over the door. Like the hut’s, it opens.

  I balk. “No. Absolutely not. It’s prohibited.”

  She studies me. “I can make you, but I won’t. It’s your decision.”

  I open my mouth to repeat myself.

  “But first, hear me out.”

  I exhale. “If I must. But it won’t change my mind.”

  “You know I’ve been keeping by you as you’ve switched masks. I was also with you when you wore the saffron mask at the leather harvesters.”

  The memory is still raw. “So?”

  “Do you know who I was?”

  “One of the skinners, I presume.”

  “I was your neighbor in the adjoining cage.”

  Despite everything, I’m dismayed. “Didn’t you know what they were going to do to you, to us?”

  “I knew.”

  “And still you let them, willingly even. Why, in the name of the First Queen?”

  “Because, to be with you, I could either hurt you or be hurt, and I chose not to hurt you.”

  “Am I someone to you? Have we been lovers or spouses or friends?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I know who I am, and my actions are a reflection of me. I don’t skin people alive.”

  Her last sentence carries a conviction, a certainty that makes me envious.

  “What would you do if you had to choose,” she says, “if your decisions extended beyond what mask to wear any given day? Would you willingly inflict such suffering upon another?”

  “I would . . . I-I don’t know.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  And I find I do.

  The door opens upon a storage room jammed with row upon row of shelves. Bolts of multihued fabric, rolls of ribbon and lace, and jars of washes, dyes, and lacquers are piled together without any semblance of order. More rolls of textiles spill out of cubby holes and closets lining the room.

  “This is their overflow storage, where they keep their excess,” Pena says. “We raid it for our mask-making supplies. Named artisans can create near-perfect replicas of guild masks, but without the oversouls, of course.”

  “With added features that can unlock doors.”

  She displays her teeth again. Some part of me has learned to equate that facial configuration with positive emotion, even before I breathe the perfume of her approval.

  “You noticed. Very good.”

  “How do they do it?”

  She leads me through the jumble. “It’s complicated to explain. All of our mask functions, including the scaffold you’re wearing, are based on the Mask Makers’ constructs. There’s bits and pieces appliquéd, sewn, glued, or imbedded in all masks which stimulate thoughts, trigger emotions, assign personality traits, and so on. Named artisans have taken apart and put back together these pieces, realigning and modifying them until they’ve gained an understanding of their workings. In the process, they’ve discovered that the components can do much more than imprint oversouls, like lock and unlock doors. And there’s still so much we haven’t figured out yet.”

  The supply room exits upon a dark corridor that illuminates red at our approach. But unlike the one from the hut, the circle of light shows a cluster of turnings that fork in different directions.

  “You make it sound like you named have been at this for a while,” I say.

  “We have.” She sets off down one of the twisting tunnels. “Sometimes the gendarmes get wind of our activities, so we work exclusively in pairs – one mentor, one recruit. That way, the most named any of us knows is two, your mentor when you’re recruited, and your recruit once you’re ready to bring someone in. We disseminate information and requests through codes and drop-off points. It’s slow but safer.”

  I’ve lost track of the bends and turns we’ve taken. “You must recruit pretty selectively, if each mentor can only take one.”

  “Mentors can take another recruit if theirs is apprehended by the gendarmes.” The lighting casts deep shadows over the planes of her face, and for a moment, it seems that she’s wearing a crimson mask. She brushes her fingers over her eyes, and they come away wet.

  “What happens when the gendarmes catch you?”

  “They kill us.”

  I shrug. “That’s all? So you lose the day. In the morning—”

  “No. They kill us. It’s not like the petty murders citizens inflict upon each other. There’s no waking up from the death the gendarmes deliver.”

  I stumble, shocked. “That’s – that’s monstrous. How is that possible? How can our laws permit it?”

  “You said it yourself; without the masks, we’re nothing. When the gendarmes execute one of us, they reassign all of that named’s personas to the population at large. The oversouls continue, and there is no disruption among the citizenry. I think the gendarmes grieve more when they have to destroy a mask that has been ‘murdered’ than when they kill one of us.”

  Pena rounds a corner, and there is a wall. It’s creamy smooth, as though stone workers spent hours painstakingly sanding it to perfect flatness.

  “Did you make a wrong turn?” I ask.

  “Afraid of getting lost?” Her tone is teasing. “Don’t worry. Even if I had made a wrong turn, my mask contains the labyrinth’s secrets. But I didn’t.”

  I half expect her to wave the mask at the wall and a door to miraculously appear. She doesn’t. Instead, Pena lifts a hand to her mouth and tears at it with her teeth. Dark blood oozes, and she smears this droplet on the wall.

  Soundlessly, the wall glides up and disappears into the ceiling. White, not red, light comes on, blinding after the dimness.

  Pena tugs me forward while I’m still blinking. I squint, eyes tearing and blurry, at the small room we have entered. The walls are polished metal, and they encircle us, curving outward so it feels like we’re inside a cylinder. A closed one. While my eyes adjust, the door shuts itself.

  In the room’s center is an ornate chair of silver and gold. Resting upon its seat is a mask.

  I recognize it, for it is the stuff of legend. Carved from a single diamond with a million-million facets, each representing a mask-to-be, the First Queen’s Mask, the one She created with her own hands to bring enlightenment to us all.

  8. Diamonds Are for Death

  Pena touches my face, and the scaffold slips away. The anxiety of being barefaced is forgotten in the wonder of the First Mask.

  “The truth, your answers, they’re all in the oversoul of that mask,” she says. “All you have to do is put it on.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then we go back, and tomorrow morning you choose a mask to wear, like every other morning, and you never see me again.”

  “I might turn you over to the gendarmes.”

  Her lips part and flash teeth. “What will you tell them? That a citizen kidnapped you and filled your head with truth? How will you find me? And how do you know the gendarmes won’t kill you simply for knowing this much?”

  She’s right, o
f course. “But I don’t have to put on the First Mask?”

  “What you do is up to you. Now and forever.”

  I hesitate for a heartbeat before striding to the chair and seizing the First Mask. It’s so light. I’d expected it to be heavier. Holding it aloft, I realize the eyeholes are encased in nearly transparent lenses like my consort mask, except diamond instead of glass.

  “You might want to sit before you put it on,” Pena says. “I didn’t and ended flat on my back.”

  I perch on the gold and silver chair, and set the mask over my face. There are segmented strands of diamond to wrap around my head that fasten with glittering diamond locks. The lenses warp my vision, disorienting me. But only for a moment.

  Crowing exultation.

  The war is finished! My last rival and her progeny are dead, and I reign in exclusive sovereignty.

  My children, I am so proud of you. This is the dawn of a new age, a glorious and splendid age.

  My scientists have conquered our only remaining enemy: time. They have found the key to unlocking the shackles of age and injury, and conquered the last disease. I am no longer chained by the dictates of perpetual reproduction. The years of my empire will be like a magnificent river, rippling past eon after eon, powerful and endless.

  I do worry, however, that my soldiers will decline. They are the simplest of my children and only understand rigid procedures and physical contests. Perhaps I should manufacture a new corps of soldiers, an elite one. They can vie with each other in mock battles for the honor of being counted among my gendarmes.

  The river of years is murky and deep, and I cannot see where it will take us.

  I am stymied at an unanticipated quarter: my consorts. The noblest of my children, nearly my equals – clever and curious, independent and imaginative – I should have known they would feel neglected and adrift when I ceased summoning them to mate. They are creatures of great passion, as I am, and now they squabble, forming factions and carrying out vendettas.

  I have started opening my body to them again, but I will ask the scientists to develop a synthetic pheromone so they may copulate amongst themselves.

  I am despair.

  A citizen killed another today, beyond what my scientists were able to restore. I must accept the truth; we are an aggressive people, not destined for peace, and all I have tried to build is in ruins.

  If only there was a way for my consorts to expend their passions harmlessly.

  I must confer with my scientists.

  At last! I have devised an end to the chaos which blights my citizenry.

  My scientists have developed a means of imprinting memories and eliciting emotions that may be interchanged, swapped out, and added upon with seemingly infinite variety. My consorts may oppose each other and mate with promiscuity, all without garnering rivals or blood feuds.

  I have set my scientists to generate these oversoul masks in copious quantity and in wondrous variety.

  This must work.

  All is well. The activities of my children are once more in accord with my desiring, and eternity’s river holds no more uncertainties.

  There was a minor dilemma, but I have solved even that. It seems that I am not immune to the effect of the masks. I thought my royal will would safeguard my identity, but it is becoming a strain, sorting reality from fabrication.

  I have had an oversoul commissioned. It will be a lasting record of all the tribulations I have confronted and my efforts to remedy them. This mask shall be sealed beneath my palace in a chamber secured by steel, and my blood shall be the only key that unlocks it.

  I take off the mask of diamonds. Pena watches me, her lips parted.

  I tumble out of the chair and fall to my knees. “I am your servant, First Queen.”

  Pena’s eyes widen, and she laughs. “Oh, no, no.” She is at my side and hauls me up. “I’m not the First Queen.”

  “But your blood opened the door.”

  “Don’t you get it? We’re all of her blood, each of us descended from the First Queen. Some joke on her, huh?”

  I stay silent.

  “Come,” she says. “We need to get back before the hour of unmasking. If we’re seen on the streets after, the gendarmes will take us.”

  I straggle after her, lost in my thoughts. I don’t try to keep track of the red-lit corridors and notice only when we are among the fabrics and dyes of the storage room.

  “Hsst.” Pena gestures.

  “What is it?”

  Without warning, she shoves me, and I tumble into a closeted hole. Bolts of velvet and felt topple upon me. She flings an oversized bottle of jasmine oil after, engulfing me in cloying sweetness.

  Then there is confusion. The red light extinguishes, and white beams flash in the darkness. They catch and glint off white metal – glittering eyes, gleaming brows – the silver masks of the gendarmes.

  Hidden in my cubby, my scent as obscured as my body, they do not detect me. They converge on a single spot, Pena, huddled between shelves.

  “By order of the queen, you are hereby accused and convicted of treason,” one gendarme says.

  I cannot smell anything over the sickening jasmine, but I can see the terror on her face. She glances at me, and there is a beseeching in her eyes, and a question, but she looks away before I can understand it.

  “The penalty for treason is death, citizen,” a gendarme, perhaps the same one, says. “Do you wish to repent? Identify your co-conspirators, and we will allow you to return to the way of the mask.”

  Pena lifts her head. “Never.”

  They don’t ask again. They activate their loops, and I’m reminded of the day of the saffron mask. I’m ashamed of the gladness I felt then.

  They don’t skin her, but this is as gruesome, if swifter. A gendarme kneels over her as she is pinioned on her back by bands of blue. Bracing himself, he staves in her face with his fist. I want to look away. It is an obscene violation, a perverse defilement to damage a citizen there – to do any violence which might cause harm to a mask. But Pena isn’t wearing a mask, and I don’t look away.

  He strikes again and again until there is nothing left of the front of her head but a wreckage of bone and pulped wetness.

  9. The Last Mask

  The gendarmes are as efficient in disposing of Pena’s body as they were in dispatching her. When they have gone, the red light comes on, and I dare to creep out. As I untangle myself from a length of burgundy velvet, my hand falls upon an unmistakable shape – Pena’s green and toffee mask. The sight of it, so soon after the atrocity of her execution, unhinges me. I start crying and I cannot stop. But it doesn’t matter, because her mask will hide my tears.

  Somehow, I make it to Center at Corridor and the familiar confines of my quarters. Safe.

  But I am not safe. I cannot forget the First Queen’s memories, which the gendarmes would surely kill me for having, and more, I cannot erase the beseeching question in Pena’s eyes.

  I tear off her mask. It’s not the unmasking hour, but I don’t care. I’m weary of masks, even a blameless one without an oversoul. Pena’s death burdens me with shame and guilt – like being flayed again, but with the pain inside.

  I am surrounded by masks. Each is a player in some fabricated theater – artist, victim, rake, entrepreneur, lover, spouse, friend. None of them is real, but I can put them on and escape these feelings.

  But I won’t.

  One after the other, I destroy my masks. The ones that shatter are the easiest. I hurl them at the floor and shards spill across the tile. The ones that burn, I commit to fire. But the metal ones I must work at, smashing one upon another until they are twisted out of all recognition.

  I save the sable mask for last out of a sense of propriety. Although it is metal, it is oddly malleable, and it crumbles between my hands. The lenses fall out of the eyeholes and tumble among the broken bits of ceramic and glass on my floor.

  I stand amidst the debris that was my life and don the only mask I spared, Pena
’s green and toffee one.

  My lover glances at me in her cerulean-with-voile mask and lets me in. She thinks I am her servant girl.

  “Where did you go?” she demands. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you? And where is my suitor?”

  Her quarters are much like mine, much like every citizen’s. There is a mask room, a kitchen, and a bedchamber. I brush past her and she follows, continuing to scold as we enter her kitchen. I find what I need in one of the drawers: a tenderizer mallet, heavy and solid. Even when I turn with it upraised, she doesn’t relent.

  “Are you ignoring me, you slut?” she shouts. “How dare you!”

  Only when I yank off her mask does she become afraid, and by then, it’s too late.

  I smash the mallet into her face. She stumbles, and I ride her as she goes down, hammering the metal tool into her face over and over. Bones and flesh mash together into pulp, and still I persist. I must be thorough.

  Pena did not have time to teach me the secrets of her league of named. But through her, I have learned enough. I have seen how the gendarmes kill. I do not have their loops or their strength, but I know how to murder so that my victims will not wake.

  Pena also taught me to know who I am.

  I am chaos in this ordered society, the flaw in a carefully wrought plan. I am turbulence in the queen’s eternal river.

  Eugie Foster calls home a mildly haunted, fey-infested house in metro Atlanta that she shares with her husband, Matthew. After receiving her master’s degree in psychology, she retired from academia to pen flights of fancy. She also edits legislation for the Georgia General Assembly, which from time to time she suspects is another venture into flights of fancy.

  In addition to receiving the Nebula Award for Best Novelette, she was named the 2009 Author of the Year by Bards and Sages. Her fiction has also received the 2002 Phobos Award; been translated into seven languages; and been a finalist for the Hugo, Black Quill, Bram Stoker, and BSFA Awards. Her publication credits number over one hundred and include stories in Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, Cricket, Orson Scott Card’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, and Fantasy Magazine; podcasts Escape Pod, Pseudopod, and PodCastle; and anthologies Best New Fantasy and Best New Romantic Fantasy 2. Her short story collection, Returning My Sister’s Face: And Other Far Eastern Tales of Whimsy and Malice, is available from Norilana Books. Visit her online at EugieFoster.com.