Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors Page 2
And Always, Murder (AE: The Canadian Science Fiction Review) (Short story)
Sound of Chartreuse (Perihelion Science Fiction Magazine) (Short story)
Thomas M. Waldroon Sinseerly A Friend & Yr. Obed't (Beneath Ceaseless Skies) (Novelette)
Jo Lindsay Walton It's OK To Say If You Went Back In Time And Killed Baby Hitler (Self-Published) (Short story)
Kim Wells The Book of Safkhet: Chronicler of the Journey, Mistress of the House of Books (Windrift Books) (Short story)
Alison Wilgus King Tide (Terraform) (Short story)
Noise Pollution (Strange Horizons) (Short story)
Nicolas Wilson Trials (Windrift Publishing) (Novelette)
Multiply (Windrift Publishing) (Novelette)
Alyssa Wong Hungry Daughters of Starving Mothers (Nightmare Magazine) (Short story)
The Fisher Queen (The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction) (Short story)
Santos de Sampaguitas (Strange Horizons) (Short story)
Eleanor R. Wood Fibonacci (Flash Fiction Online) (Short story)
Pawprints in the Aeolian Dust (Sci Phi Journal) (Short story)
Daddy's Girl (Crossed Genres) (Short story)
Frank Wu Season of the Ants in a Timeless Land (Analog) (Novelette)
Jeff Xilon H (Daily Science Fiction) (Short story)
All of Our Days (Fireside Fiction) (Short story)
JY Yang A House Of Anxious Spiders (The Dark magazine) (Short story)
Temporary Saints (Fireside Fiction) (Short story)
Song Of The Krakenmaid (Lackington's) (Short story)
Isabel Yap Milagroso (Tor.com) (Short story)
The Oiran's Song (Uncanny Magazine) (Novelette)
Good Girls (Shimmer Magazine) (Short story)
Jo Zebedee Inish Carraig (Self published) (Novel excerpt)
Jon F. Zeigler Galen and the Golden-Coat Hare (Uncanny Books) (Short story)
Anna Zumbro The Pixie Game (Daily Science Fiction) (Short story)
The Cur of County Road Six (Grievous Angel) (Short story)
Copyright
Preface copyright © 2016 S.L. Huang and Kurt Hunt
All rights reserved.
Cover by Holly Heisey, http://hollyheiseydesign.com. Title credit Effie Seiberg.
Each work was first published in the publication or by the publisher listed beneath the work’s title. All works have been reprinted with permission of the authors and copyright owners.
The works contained within this anthology may not be reproduced or distributed, in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the authorization of the copyright owner unless such reproduction or distribution is permitted by federal copyright law. The curators of this anthology are not authorized to grant permission for further uses of the works reprinted in this anthology. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners.
As of the date of publication, the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer is sponsored by Dell Magazines, Inc. and awarded by the World Science Fiction Society, an unincorporated literary society. This anthology is not affiliated with or endorsed by Dell Magazines, Inc. or the World Science Fiction Society.
Preface
This anthology includes 120 authors—who contributed 230 works totaling approximately 1.1 million words of fiction. These pieces all originally appeared in 2014, 2015, or 2016 from writers who are new professionals to the SFF field, and they represent a breathtaking range of work from the next generation of speculative storytelling.
All of these authors are eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 2016. We hope you’ll use this anthology as a guide in nominating for that award as well as a way of exploring many vibrant new voices in the genre.
***
Up and Coming was a massive undertaking in a very short time, and we’d like to thank the following people for their help in making it happen:
Bill Katz and David Walton at Writertopia for their incredible support—without them this anthology never could have existed,
Holly Heisey, for the brilliant cover design,
Effie Seiberg, for the smashing title,
Wendy Nikel, Liz Colter, Laura Pearlman, Naru Sundar, Emma Osborne, Effie Seiberg, Sylvia Spruck Wrigley, Stewart C Baker, Nancy SM Waldman, and L.S. Johnson for their assistance, in-depth device compatibility checks, and proofing,
M. David Blake for being the one who originated the tradition of an anthology of Campbell-eligible authors in the first place,
and finally, all the people—far too many to list—who signal-boosted the project or gave us feedback, suggestions, and encouragement along the way.
This anthology was truly a community effort. Many of the above names are Campbell-eligible authors themselves who have work in this anthology—the 2016 group of eligible writers is filled with enthusiastic and generous people.
Lastly, because of the vastness of the project, we’d like to note that the anthology was formatted primarily through automated processes. We’ve made every effort to render every piece correctly and aesthetically, but if you see the odd formatting hiccup, please don’t hold it against the author or the original publisher.
We hope you enjoy wandering the pages of Up and Coming, and if you are so inclined, we encourage you to nominate and vote for the 2016 Campbell Award.
– SL Huang and Kurt Hunt, curators for Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors
Charlotte Ashley
http://once-and-future.com/
La Héron(Short story)
by Charlotte Ashley
“La Héron” originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Mar/Apr 2015.
IN THE GRAYEST HOUR OF the evening of April 16th, 1699, when the sun had just vanished behind the great château that embraced the city of Caen but before her lantern-bearers had taken up the hooks of their trade, a gargantuan woman stooped to fit through the door of the Trois Tours Inn. Her inconvenience did not end at the door. Her steeple-crown hat, two centuries out of fashion, bumped the inn’s rafters and fell askew, causing her to swear and slouch as she made her way toward the crowd clustered at the foot of the stairs. Like the other travelers there, she was road-worn and unkempt, blond hair so filthy that it looked green in the moonlight, spilling like seaweed out of her pointed cap. But so great was the force of her presence that the lesser persons ahead of her moved aside at her approach, clearing the path to the front of the queue where a registrar sat at a table, poised over a long ledger. His pen shook as it hovered over the lists.
“Name?”
“La Héron.”
“Weapon?”
“Rapier.”
“Purse?”
La Héron stepped forward and placed a small stack of coins on the book, which the registrar smartly swept into the lockbox.
“And who will be acting as your second?”
“No one.” La Héron folded her long arms over her chest. “I will negotiate my own bouts.”
“Oh, no,” the registrar said, looking up. “Oh, no no no. You must have a second. The rules clearly stipulate that—”
A distant horn blast interrupted his complaint, a piercing wolf tone that set every brass bowl in the inn ringing. La Héron glanced at the window and frowned.
“A hunt? At this hour?” she asked. “It’s nearly midnight!”
The registrar did not reply. He was frozen in place, only the jelly of his yellowed eyes trembling.
“Monsieur?” La Héron asked him. “Are we finished?”
“Herlechin,” the man whispered. “Damn him.”
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but if you are finished with me, I’d like my sash and token.”
“What?” The registrar’s wide eyes flickered back to her, focusing again. He turned red and looked at the tournament lists again. “Ah, your second?”
La Héron scowled. The registrar drooped and ran a hand over his now-damp face. After a moment’s thought, he w
ithdrew a blank slip of paper from the ledger and started writing.
“Very well. Go and see Monsieur Chuinard at this address. He can escort you to the Abbaye aux Dames. The hour is late, but the gendarme will help you find an assistant.”
“At the convent?”
The registrar held up a tired hand. “Every man-at-arms in town is already enlisted, madame. You are in no position to be particular. I suggest you call on him immediately.”
La Héron snatched the note and left, ducking through the door. She had not passed ten paces when a galloping ruckus preceded a party of costumed riders bearing down the tight streets of Caen at full speed. She stepped into the shadows of a tannery to let them pass, eyeing them suspiciously. The lead rider was a man dressed head to toe in shiny red leather with a sword on either hip and a grotesque black mask like the face of the devil. He tipped his hat at her as he passed, his demon’s face curling into a smile, flashing sharp, dog-like teeth.
Herlechin. There could be no mistaking the creature. La Héron watched as the party pulled up in front of the inn, dismounted, and entered. When the last of the strange riders had crowded through the door, she continued toward her destination with little more than a shrug.
These were the Black Bouts of Caen, after all. Duelists and mercenaries had come from all over Christendom to compete for the glory and the purse that would be awarded to the winner. It did not matter to La Héron what creatures of the otherworld entered the lists as well. Come they from Hell, fairyland, or anywhere else, she planned to best them and to win as she had so many times before. She only needed a second.
The girl on the pallet appeared to be dead. Her face was purpled and bloody, her hair dark and wet, and her body absolutely still. This did not appear to concern old Monsieur Louis-Ange Chuinard, who plunked a lantern on the nightstand next to the girl’s head and gave the body a nudge with his toe.
“Get up!” he called impatiently. “You have a guest.”
La Héron raised her eyebrow at the sleepy canoness who had admitted them. “The nuns keep prisoners?” she asked.
The old gendarme shook his head. “She did this to herself, I assure you,” he replied. “She’s a scrapper, this one. She will serve your needs, though few would credit it.” He scowled. “Sister Louise-Alexandrine! You’ll get up, or else—”
A hand shot out, quick as a snake, and took the gendarme by the belt. With a quick jerk, the girl used the man’s heft to haul herself to a sit, pulling him halfway to his knees in the process. The gendarme yelped in surprise, but the girl grinned like a jackal. One of her front teeth was newly broken and her eyes could not quite open for all the swelling, but aside from a slight swaying, she looked sound of body.
“Sister Louise-Alexandrine,” Chuinard grumbled, pulling himself free of her grip. “We have need of your service. Tonight. Can you walk?”
“Is that you, Chuinard?” the nun said, furrowing her brow. “You just locked me up, and now you’re letting me out?”
“I did not lock you up, Sister. I merely brought you home. Something, I remind you, you were in no condition to do yourself.”
“My thanks, Chuinard, whatever would I do without you,” the girl said flatly. She turned her blurry gaze on La Héron. “What is that?”
“They call me La Héron,” La Héron answered for herself. “You’re a nun.”
“That wasn’t my idea,” the girl said, and spat a red glob between her feet.
“A drunken nun,” La Héron said thoughtfully. “How old are you, girl?”
“Seventeen. Are you really a bird?”
“She’s twenty-three,” the canoness said, sighing. “You’ve said your vows, Sister.”
“Don’t remember that,” the sister muttered. She hauled herself unsteadily to her feet. “I can walk, if you’ll walk me out of here. What is it, then? You want me to plant carrots? Stitch up yer uniform? What’s the bird-woman for?”
“I need a second,” La Héron replied, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “Do you know anything about dueling?”
Sister Louise-Alexandrine stopped swaying and fixed a sober eye on the taller woman. Her gaze darted toward Chuinard.
“Dueling’s illegal,” she replied cautiously.
“I need a second,” La Héron repeated. “For the Black Bouts. Monsieur Chuinard has recommended you to me.”
The nun blinked hard and put a hand to her temple. “Chuinard, you hypocrite. I get into a few scraps and you drag me back here, but a stranger turns up for some back-alley brawling and suddenly the king’s law is by your discretion, is it?”
Chuinard turned red up to the roots of his black hair. “I dragged you back here to protect you from the blackguard with his boot on your face.”
“I don’t need your protection, ’sblood,” said Sister Louise-Alexandrine, throwing her hands in the air. “I can take care of myself better than—”
“I must beg your pardons, friends,” La Héron said, stepping between the two, who looked as if they might come to blows, “but I need a second. Tonight.”
“I’ll attend you,” Sister Louise-Alexandrine answered. She scowled at Chuinard. “You won’t find a better sword in this town. I’d charge you, but what does a nun need with money?” She guffawed at the irony. “Just get me out of here.”
La Héron looked imploringly at the gendarme, who threw up his arms. “I leave you with Madame La Héron until she is eliminated or withdraws from the Bouts.” He raised a warning finger at both women. “But she comes back here when you are done with her, madame.”
La Héron shrugged. “That is not my affair. I am but a stranger here, as you say.”
“How very fortunate for you,” grumbled Sister Louise-Alexandrine.
THOUGH THEY ENJOYED the unofficial sanction of the minor constabulary like Monsieur Louis-Ange Chuinard, the Black Bouts of Caen were still decidedly illicit affairs, and as such maintained a cloak-and-dagger ambiance. Matches were paired and scheduled by secret organizers, the participants informed with barely an hour’s notice by anonymous letter-bearers who appeared and vanished into crepuscular mists.
Having received their first such summons just after a dinner of oysters in parsley butter, La Héron and the nun who insisted on being addressed simply as “Alex” were crouched on the shaded side of a moat under the Porte des Champs, looking up at the great stone fortress that was Le Château de Caen. Soldiers appeared at intervals to march along the bridge over their heads, but the governor was in Paris and the castle’s remaining residents seemed inclined to take the month off. Rousing drinking songs and raucous conversations rang out from within.
“Music!” cried a cloaked stranger, emerging from shadows of his own. “I could not have asked for a more romantic setting.”
As La Héron and Alex stepped into the light, the stranger unwound his long cloak in one deft stroke and heaped it upon his companion, a dwarf in a bright red hat. The taller man was dressed fancifully in gaily colored silks and breeches, his waistcoat and jacket speckled with gemstones and draped with the same golden sash La Héron wore, marking him as a competitor in the Bouts. He had a dagger at each hip, golden buckles on his shoes, and a foxish smile. La Héron took Alex by the elbow when the woman stepped forward to make their addresses.
“Do not give him your true name,” she murmured, watching the man with shrewd eyes.
“Eh? I am known to every gendarme in town, madame. I have nothing to gain by hiding—”
“It is not the law we should be wary of, Sister.” She gestured with her chin. “That’s a fairy lord, or I’m a butter churn.”
Alex returned a skeptical look as La Héron released her arm, yet as she approached their brightly clothed opponents, her gait slowed with apprehension. The man had goat-like eyes and long ears which tapered to points amidst his golden curls. The man’s little second, upon closer inspection, was a toadstool.
“M’lords,” she bowed. “I am…you may call me Chant des Oiseaux. My companion is known as La Héron. May I ask whom w
e have the honor of meeting tonight on this field of battle?”
“Birds!” the man said, looking delighted. “Oh, this will be fun!”
“Mademoiselle Birdsong,” the toadstool said, its face little more than nicks in its stem, “I am Agaric, and this is my master, the Count of Hunter’s Fields. Well met. We hope you will do us the honor of setting the terms for this bout.”
Alex glanced over her shoulder at La Héron, who nodded. “Our thanks. I propose the duel be fought to the third blood—or until either person be unable to continue. Blades only, no blows nor child’s play. In the case of dishonorable conduct, the second shall take up the blade of the participant and conduct herself as she deems appropriate. How does this suit you?”
“Very well,” the toadstool gurgled. “Shall we inspect the blades?” Alex bowed in response. The count’s daggers were ornate but mundane weapons, containing no trickery that the nun could see. The inspection complete, the seconds returned to their masters.
“I don’t like this,” Alex muttered as La Héron removed her own cloak and hat. “These things have come from elfland to compete in honorable bouts? I don’t believe it. There’s bound to be tricks or treachery.”
“I know,” La Héron replied, “so we must be ready for that. They allowed Herlechin and his band to enlist. Whatever they are, we must defeat them if we are to win the purse.”
“Herlechin?” Alex looked startled. “Of the Hunts? I think I know that tale.”
“You should,” La Héron told her. “These are not simply bored wood sprites from the Forêt de Rouvray. Herlechin has led his Hunt through these lands since the time of the Conqueror, seeking souls to take back with him to Hell or fairyland or wherever he goes. Deal with this lot as if your soul depended upon it, Sister Birdsong. Keep your wits, and keep an eye on the little fellow.” La Héron removed her purse last and slapped it into Alex’s hand with a warning look.