by Ellen Datlow
“Pol Pot’s Beautiful Daughter (Fantasy)” by Geoff Ryman (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Nov06)
“The Fiddler of Bayou Teche” by Delia Sherman (Coyote Road: Trickster Tales, Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Ed., Viking Juvenile, Jul07)
SHORT STORIES
“Unique Chicken Goes in Reverse” by Andy Duncan (Eclipse 1: New Science Fiction and Fantasy, Jonathan Strahan, Ed., Night Shade Books, Oct07)
“Always” by Karen Joy Fowler (Asimov’s Science Fiction, May07 (Apr/May07 issue))
“Titanium Mike Saves the Day” by David D. Levine (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Apr07)
“The Story of Love” by Vera Nazarian (Salt of the Air, Prime Books, Sep06)
“Captive Girl” by Jennifer Pelland (Helix: A Speculative Fiction Quarterly, WS & LWE, Ed., Oct06 (Fall06 issue—#2))
“Pride” by Mary Turzillo (Fast Forward 1, Pyr, Feb07)
SCRIPTS
Children of Men by Alfonso Cuaron, Timothy J. Sexton, David Arata, Mark Fergus, and Hawk Ostby (Universal Studios, Dec06)
Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro (Time/Warner, Jan07)
Blink by Steven Moffat (Doctor Who, BBC/The Sci-Fi Channel, Sep07 (Aired on SciFi Channel 14 Sep07))
The Prestige by Christopher Nolan and Jonathan Nolan (New-market Films, Oct06 (Oct 20, 2006—based on the novel by Christopher Priest))
V for Vendetta by Larry Wachowski and Andy Wachowski (Warner Films, Mar06 (released 3/17/2006—Written by the Wachowski Brothers, based on the graphic novel illustrated by David Lloyd and published by Vertigo/DC Comics))
World Enough and Time by Marc Scott Zicree and Michael Reaves (Star Trek: New Voyages, http://www.startreknew-voyages.com, Aug07 (Aired 8/23/07))
ANDRE NORTON AWARD
Vintage: A Ghost Story by Steve Berman (Haworth Positronic Press, Mar07)
Into the Wild by Sarah Beth Durst (Penguin Razorbill, Jun07)
The Shadow Speaker by Nnedi Okorafor-Mbachu (Jump at the Sun, Sep07)
The True Meaning of Smek Day by Adam Rex (Hyperion, Oct07)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J. K. Rowling (Scholastic Press, Jul07)
Flora Segunda: Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), a House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog by Ysabeau S. Wilce (Harcourt, Jan07)
The Lion Hunter by Elizabeth Wein (Viking Juvenile, Jun07 (The Mark of Solomon, Book 1))
NEBULA AWARD, BEST NOVELETTE
THE MERCHANT AND THE ALCHEMIST’S GATE
TED CHIANG
Ted Chiang lives outside of Seattle, Washington. He holds a degree in computer science and makes his living as a technical writer.
O Mighty Caliph and Commander of the Faithful, I am humbled to be in the splendor of your presence; a man can hope for no greater blessing as long as he lives. The story I have to tell is truly a strange one, and were the entirety to be tattooed at the corner of one’s eye, the marvel of its presentation would not exceed that of the events recounted, for it is a warning to those who would be warned and a lesson to those who would learn.
My name is Fuwaad ibn Abbas, and I was born here in Baghdad, City of Peace. My father was a grain merchant, but for much of my life I have worked as a purveyor of fine fabrics, trading in silk from Damascus and linen from Egypt and scarves from Morocco that are embroidered with gold. I was prosperous, but my heart was troubled, and neither the purchase of luxuries nor the giving of alms was able to soothe it. Now I stand before you without a single dirham in my purse, but I am at peace.
Allah is the beginning of all things, but with Your Majesty’s permission, I begin my story with the day I took a walk through the district of metalsmiths. I needed to purchase a gift for a man I had to do business with, and had been told he might appreciate a tray made of silver. After browsing for half an hour, I noticed that one of the largest shops in the market had been taken over by a new merchant. It was a prized location that must have been expensive to acquire, so I entered to peruse its wares.
Never before had I seen such a marvelous assortment of goods. Near the entrance there was an astrolabe equipped with seven plates inlaid with silver, a water-clock that chimed on the hour, and a nightingale made of brass that sang when the wind blew. Farther inside there were even more ingenious mechanisms, and I stared at them the way a child watches a juggler, when an old man stepped out from a doorway in the back.
“Welcome to my humble shop, my lord,” he said. “My name is Bashaarat. How may I assist you?”
“These are remarkable items that you have for sale. I deal with traders from every corner of the world, and yet I have never seen their like. From where, may I ask, did you acquire your merchandise?”
“I am grateful to you for your kind words,” he said. “Everything you see here was made in my workshop, by myself or by my assistants under my direction.”
I was impressed that this man could be so well versed in so many arts. I asked him about the various instruments in his shop, and listened to him discourse learnedly about astrology, mathematics, geomancy, and medicine. We spoke for over an hour, and my fascination and respect bloomed like a flower warmed by the dawn, until he mentioned his experiments in alchemy.
“Alchemy?” I said. This surprised me, for he did not seem the type to make such a sharper’s claim. “You mean you can turn base metal into gold?”
“I can, my lord, but that is not in fact what most seek from alchemy.”
“What do most seek, then?”
“They seek a source of gold that is cheaper than mining ore from the ground. Alchemy does describe a means to make gold, but the procedure is so arduous that, by comparison, digging beneath a mountain is as easy as plucking peaches from a tree.”
I smiled. “A clever reply. No one could dispute that you are a learned man, but I know better than to credit alchemy.”
Bashaarat looked at me and considered. “I have recently built something that may change your opinion. You would be the first person I have shown it to. Would you care to see it?”
“It would be a great pleasure.”
“Please follow me.” He led me through the doorway in the rear of his shop. The next room was a workshop, arrayed with devices whose functions I could not guess—bars of metal wrapped with enough copper thread to reach the horizon, mirrors mounted on a circular slab of granite floating in quicksilver—but Bashaarat walked past these without a glance.
Instead he led me to a sturdy pedestal, chest high, on which a stout metal hoop was mounted upright. The hoop’s opening was as wide as two outstretched hands, and its rim so thick that it would tax the strongest man to carry. The metal was black as night, but polished to such smoothness that, had it been a different color, it could have served as a mirror. Bashaarat bade me stand so that I looked upon the hoop edgewise, while he stood next to its opening.
“Please observe,” he said.
Bashaarat thrust his arm through the hoop from the right side, but it did not extend out from the left. Instead, it was as if his arm were severed at the elbow, and he waved the stump up and down, and then pulled his arm out intact.
I had not expected to see such a learned man perform a conjuror’s trick, but it was well done, and I applauded politely.
“Now wait a moment,” he said as he took a step back.
I waited, and behold, an arm reached out of the hoop from its left side, without a body to hold it up. The sleeve it wore matched Bashaarat’s robe. The arm waved up and down, and then retreated through the hoop until it was gone.
The first trick I had thought a clever mime, but this one seemed far superior, because the pedestal and hoop were clearly too slender to conceal a person. “Very clever!” I exclaimed.
“Thank you, but this is not mere sleight of hand. The right side of the hoop precedes the left by several seconds. To pass through the hoop is to cross that duration instantly.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
<
br /> “Let me repeat the demonstration.” Again he thrust his arm through the hoop, and his arm disappeared. He smiled, and pulled back and forth as if playing tug-a-rope. Then he pulled his arm out again, and presented his hand to me with the palm open. On it lay a ring I recognized.
“That is my ring!” I checked my hand, and saw that my ring still lay on my finger. “You have conjured up a duplicate.”
“No, this is truly your ring. Wait.”
Again, an arm reached out from the left side. Wishing to discover the mechanism of the trick, I rushed over to grab it by the hand. It was not a false hand, but one fully warm and alive as mine. I pulled on it, and it pulled back. Then, as deft as a pickpocket, the hand slipped the ring from my finger and the arm withdrew into the hoop, vanishing completely.
“My ring is gone!” I exclaimed.
“No, my lord,” he said. “Your ring is here.” And he gave me the ring he held. “Forgive me for my game.”
I replaced it on my finger. “You had the ring before it was taken from me.”
At that moment an arm reached out, this time from the right side of the hoop. “What is this?” I exclaimed. Again I recognized it as his by the sleeve before it withdrew, but I had not seen him reach in.
“Recall,” he said, “the right side of the hoop precedes the left.” And he walked over to the left side of the hoop, and thrust his arm through from that side, and again it disappeared.
Your Majesty has undoubtedly already grasped this, but it was only then that I understood: whatever happened on the right side of the hoop was complemented, a few seconds later, by an event on the left side. “Is this sorcery?” I asked.
“No, my lord, I have never met a djinni, and if I did, I would not trust it to do my bidding. This is a form of alchemy.”
He offered an explanation, speaking of his search for tiny pores in the skin of reality, like the holes that worms bore into wood, and how upon finding one he was able to expand and stretch it the way a glassblower turns a dollop of molten glass into a long-necked pipe, and how he then allowed time to flow like water at one mouth while causing it to thicken like syrup at the other. I confess I did not really understand his words, and cannot testify to their truth. All I could say in response was, “You have created something truly astonishing.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but this is merely a prelude to what I intended to show you.” He bade me follow him into another room, farther in the back. There stood a circular doorway whose massive frame was made of the same polished black metal, mounted in the middle of the room.
“What I showed you before was a Gate of Seconds,” he said. “This is a Gate of Years. The two sides of the doorway are separated by a span of twenty years.”
I confess I did not understand his remark immediately. I imagined him reaching his arm in from the right side and waiting twenty years before it emerged from the left side, and it seemed a very obscure magic trick. I said as much, and he laughed. “That is one use for it,” he said, “but consider what would happen if you were to step through.” Standing on the right side, he gestured for me to come closer, and then pointed through the doorway. “Look.”
I looked, and saw that there appeared to be different rugs and pillows on the other side of the room than I had seen when I had entered. I moved my head from side to side, and realized that when I peered through the doorway, I was looking at a different room from the one I stood in.
“You are seeing the room twenty years from now,” said Bashaarat.
I blinked, as one might at an illusion of water in the desert, but what I saw did not change. “And you say I could step through?” I asked.
“You could. And with that step, you would visit the Baghdad of twenty years hence. You could seek out your older self and have a conversation with him. Afterwards, you could step back through the Gate of Years and return to the present day.”
Hearing Bashaarat’s words, I felt as if I were reeling. “You have done this?” I asked him. “You have stepped through?”
“I have, and so have numerous customers of mine.”
“Earlier you said I was the first to whom you showed this.”
“This Gate, yes. But for many years I owned a shop in Cairo, and it was there that I first built a Gate of Years. There were many to whom I showed that Gate, and who made use of it.”
“What did they learn when talking to their older selves?”
“Each person learns something different. If you wish, I can tell you the story of one such person.” Bashaarat proceeded to tell me such a story, and if it pleases Your Majesty, I will recount it here.
THE TALE OF THE FORTUNATE ROPE-MAKER
There once was a young man named Hassan who was a maker of rope. He stepped through the Gate of Years to see the Cairo of twenty years later, and upon arriving he marveled at how the city had grown. He felt as if he had stepped into a scene embroidered on a tapestry, and even though the city was no more and no less than Cairo, he looked upon the most common sights as objects of wonder.
He was wandering by the Zuweyla Gate, where the sword dancers and snake charmers perform, when an astrologer called to him. “Young man! Do you wish to know the future?”
Hassan laughed. “I know it already,” he said.
“Surely you want to know if wealth awaits you, do you not?”
“I am a rope-maker. I know that it does not.”
“Can you be so sure? What about the renowned merchant Hassan al-Hubbaul, who began as a rope-maker?”
His curiosity aroused, Hassan asked around the market for others who knew of this wealthy merchant, and found that the name was well known. It was said he lived in the wealthy Habbaniya quarter of the city, so Hassan walked there and asked people to point out his house, which turned out to be the largest one on its street.
He knocked at the door, and a servant led him to a spacious and well-appointed hall with a fountain in the center. Hassan waited while the servant went to fetch his master, but as he looked at the polished ebony and marble around him, he felt that he did not belong in such surroundings, and was about to leave when his older self appeared.
“At last you are here!” the man said. “I have been expecting you!”
“You have?” said Hassan, astounded.
“Of course, because I visited my older self just as you are visiting me. It has been so long that I had forgotten the exact day. Come, dine with me.”
The two went to a dining room, where servants brought chicken stuffed with pistachio nuts, fritters soaked in honey, and roast lamb with spiced pomegranates. The older Hassan gave few details of his life: he mentioned business interests of many varieties, but did not say how he had become a merchant; he mentioned a wife, but said it was not time for the younger man to meet her. Instead, he asked young Hassan to remind him of the pranks he had played as a child, and he laughed to hear stories that had faded from his own memory.
At last the younger Hassan asked the older, “How did you make such great changes in your fortune?”
“All I will tell you right now is this: when you go to buy hemp from the market, and you are walking along the Street of Black Dogs, do not walk along the south side as you usually do. Walk along the north.”
“And that will enable me to raise my station?”
“Just do as I say. Go back home now; you have rope to make. You will know when to visit me again.”
Young Hassan returned to his day and did as he was instructed, keeping to the north side of the street even when there was no shade there. It was a few days later that he witnessed a maddened horse run amok on the south side of the street directly opposite him, kicking several people, injuring another by knocking a heavy jug of palm oil onto him, and even trampling one person under its hooves. After the commotion had subsided, Hassan prayed to Allah for the injured to be healed and the dead to be at peace, and thanked Allah for sparing him.
The next day Hassan stepped through the Gate of Years and sought out his older self. “Were you i
njured by the horse when you walked by?” he asked him.
“No, because I heeded my older self’s warning. Do not forget, you and I are one; every circumstance that befalls you once befell me.”
And so the elder Hassan gave the younger instructions, and the younger obeyed them. He refrained from buying eggs from his usual grocer, and thus avoided the illness that struck customers who bought eggs from a spoiled basket. He bought extra hemp, and thus had material to work with when others suffered a shortage due to a delayed caravan. Following his older self’s instructions spared Hassan many troubles, but he wondered why his older self would not tell him more. Who would he marry? How would he become wealthy?