The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy Novellas 2016 Read online

  THE YEAR’S BEST

  SCIENCE FICTION

  AND FANTASY NOVELLAS

  2016 EDITION

  PAULA GURAN

  Copyright © 2016 by Paula Guran.

  Cover art by Julie Dillon.

  Cover design by Sherin Nicole.

  Ebook design by Neil Clarke.

  All stories are copyrighted to their respective authors, and used here with their permission.

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-480-5 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-60701-472-0 (trade paperback)

  PRIME BOOKS

  Germantown, MD, USA

  www.prime-books.com

  No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

  For more information, contact Prime Books at [email protected].

  CONTENTS

  Introduction by Paula Guran

  Binti by Nnedi Okorafor

  The Citadel of Weeping Pearls by Aliette de Bodard

  Gypsy by Carter Scholz

  The Pauper Prince and the Eucalyptus Jinn by Usman T. Malik

  What Has Passed Shall in Kinder Light Appear by Bao Shu (translated by Ken Liu)

  The Last Witness by K. J. Parker

  Inhuman Garbage by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The Bone Swans of Amandale by C. S. E. Cooney

  Johnny Rev by Rachel Pollack

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Acknowledgements

  Appendix: Some Notable Speculative Fiction Novellas 1843-1980

  INTRODUCTION

  Paula Guran

  The novella is not destined to be stuck inelegantly between a short story and a novel, with none of the strengths of either. Indeed, the opposite is true: an expert novella combines the best of a short story with the best of a novel, the dynamic thighs of a sprinter with the long-distance lungs of a mountaineer.

  —William Giraldi, “The Novella’s Long Life”

  Here we are at the beginning of the second volume of The Year’s Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Novellas. In the introduction to the first volume we tackled the definition of “novella” beyond “a work of fiction longer than a short story but shorter than a novel.” Ultimately, for that edition and this, the definition boiled down to “fiction between 17,500 words and 40,000 words.” And we’ve stuck with that this year. The shortest novella herein is about 19,000 words in length; the longest is a smidgen over 34,000.

  Not long after our 2015 edition was released, Tor.com began publishing what they called “stories at their right length”—mostly novellas. When the imprint was first announced earlier last year, associate publisher Irene Gallo stated, “The novella is a foundational format for the speculative fiction genre. Novellas provide the perfect blend between the stylistic concision of the short story and the engagement of the novel.” She noted that although such longer stories/short novels were common during an earlier era, the market for such works contracted, without necessarily reducing demand for them.

  (Gallo is probably correct, but as far as I know no one has been keeping count. The print periodical market has certainly dwindled, but online, digital, limited edition, and anthology publishing provide new novella markets.)

  Carl Engle-Laird, a Tor.com editor, said at the time, that “ . . . novellas aren’t just the future of genre, they’re also our past. Science fiction and fantasy were born in penny dreadfuls, came of age in magazines, and novellas have been essential to their development, from The War of the Worlds [H. G. Wells] to The Shadow Over Innsmouth [H. P. Lovecraft] to Empire Star [Samuel R. Delany].”

  [Just how foundational, essential, and/or influential have novellas been? Glad you asked! An appendix of such from 1883-1980, an admittedly arbitrary time period, is included on page 527.]

  Tor.com is not the only publishing entity to be touting a bright future—assisted in one way or another by digital publication—for the novella. Much of the optimism is found in genre publishing, but there have been ventures to make the form commercially viable elsewhere as well.

  This cheery outlook is based, at least in part, on the assumption that modern readers have less time to read, and what time they do have is temporally fragmented. (Thanks for that phrase, Carl.) Novellas are supposed to be particularly attractive to those who read on mobile devices.

  The “comeback” of the novella has been being proclaimed by literati since at least 2010. Not coincidentally, that is about the same time ebooks became firmly established as a reading and publishing reality rather than a passing phenomenon.

  However, short novels are evidently not appealing on all screens. Despite the fact that the pioneering Omni Online (1995-1998) and Sci Fiction (2000-2005)—both edited by Ellen Datlow—published excellent novellas, of the more current established online magazines, only Subterranean regularly published novellas, and it is now (sadly) dead. (Beneath Ceaseless Skies occasionally publishes novellas as two-part serials.)

  Some web-based periodicals will consider up to 10,000 words—Clarkesworld upped its guidelines to 16,000 in June 2015—but, overall, they tend to prefer stories of 5,000 or less.

  Convenient length is not the only reason the novella supposedly appeals. In a New Yorker essay a few years back, Ian McEwan pointed out another attraction for the modern reader:

  To sit with a novella is analogous to watching a play or a longish movie. In fact, there’s a strong resemblance between the screenplay (twenty odd thousand words) and the novella, both operating within the same useful constraints of economy—space for a subplot (two at a stretch), characters to be established with quick strokes but allowed enough room to live and breathe, and the central idea, even if it is just below the horizon, always exerting its gravitational pull. The analogy with film or theatre is a reminder that there is an element of performance in the novella. We are more strongly aware of the curtain and the stage, of the author as illusionist. The smoke and mirrors, rabbits and hats are more self-consciously applied than in the full-length novel.

  Although McEwan’s analogy includes live theatre—an experience that is probably not as influential—that twenty-first century concepts of story and entertainment are shaped by film can go without saying.

  So, does this add up to a renaissance of the form that can be financially successful enough to support itself?

  One can view the world as divided into those who read, those who don’t, and those who will occasionally read a cultural phenomena. Within the two groups of readers, at least as far as we are concerned, you are still dealing with a subset of sf/f readers who have so many new titles available that no one can keep up with them all. They also have a wealth of classics—more than ever, thanks to ebooks and print-on-demand—at their digital or paper page-turning fingertips. Does length really matter to them?

  What may matter is quality and availability. Tor.com’s classy entrance to the field provides both. A program like Tor.com’s—and digital books as a whole—may truly make a difference.

  The use of the novella as a form of promotion—again, aided by digital publication—may also make a difference. Novellas set in the same universe as a series or offering a sample of the author’s work in general allow easy and relatively inexpensive access to readers who would like to dip a toe into the fiction before committing to a full plunge.

  And, of course, novellas can also be used to expand on an established fictional universe or fill in details for loyal fans who already can’t get enough of it.

  As thick as this tome is, it cannot contain all of “the best” novellas published in 2015
. Realize, too, that although novellas may not be all that “commercially viable,” they often have enough viability for authors and/or publishers keep exclusive digital and/or print rights. This means they are not available for republication in an anthology like this.

  One problem with arbitrary word counts is that it limits what one otherwise might term “novella.” I don’t even try to keep count of stories in the ten thousand-to-seventeen thousand four hundred and ninety-nine word range that might be considered in the category.

  From 2015, two that exceeded (not by much) 40,000 words must be noted: The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps, Kai Ashante Wilson’s inimitable take on sword and sorcery (that may actually be sf), and Elizabeth Hand’s Wylding Hall, a haunting evocation of a certain era and vanished dreams. Neither is to be missed no matter what you want to call them.

  Here are some other recommended works from last year:

  • The Harlequin by Nina Allan (Sandstone Press): Physically unharmed but mentally altered by what he has witnessed in WWI, a young man hopes to re-establish a normal life—but his world only grows darker. Cross-genre, metafictional, and brilliant.

  • Invisible Filth by Nathan Ballingrud (This Is Horror): Unsettling photos and video on a lost cell phone lead to unimaginable horrors. Strong characterization, great atmosphere, and not for the faint of heart.

  • X’s for Eyes by Laird Barron (JournalStone): You can seldom go wrong reading anything by Barron. Ross Lockhart’s description of this novella—a “cosmic horror Hardy Boys adventure”—is apt.

  • Penric’s Demon by Lois McMaster Bujold (Spectrum Literary Agency): A pleasant visit to Bujold’s beloved Chalion/World of the Five Gods.

  • The Two Paupers by C. S. E. Cooney (Fairchild Books): The second installment of her Dark Breakers series and another look at her fascinating world of Seafall. Reprinted in our sister anthology The Year’s Best Science Fiction & Fantasy: 2016.

  • The Vital Abyss by James S.A. Corey (Hachette): Another entertaining novella set in the Expanse universe. May not stand alone quite as well as previous novella The Churn that we included in last year’s edition, but still recommended.

  • Witches of Lychford by Paul Cornell (Tor.com): Modern civilization threatens the magical borders of Lychford; borders which, if breached, will become gateways to Very Bad Things. Charming, creepy, and masterfully crafted.

  • “The Four Thousand, the Eight Hundred” by Greg Egan (Asimov’s): Solid characterization in hard sf mixed with the sociopolitical.

  • “The New Mother” by Eugene Fischer (Asimov’s): How would society react if women suddenly began reproducing asexually?

  • “In Negative Space” by Brian Hodge (Dark City: A Novella Collection, Necro Publications): Post-apocalypse mystery; a plot that flows like a river—a very dark river with many twists, turns, and churning rapids.

  • The Box Jumper by Lisa Mannetti (Smart Rhino): Layers of intrigue, madness, mystery, and Houdini. What more could you want?

  • Slow Bullets by Alastair Reynolds (Tachyon). Superlative space opera and a compelling read. Would have been here if we’d been able to reprint.

  • Waters of Versailles by Kelly Robson (Tor.com): Delightful story of court intrigue set in Louis XV’s Versailles involving water, toilets, and magic.

  • All That Outer Space Allows by Ian Sales (Whippleshield Books): The wife of an astronaut is a science fiction author in an alternate reality in which sf is a “women’s genre” offering escape for the far-from-liberated housewives of the 1960s. The last of the alternate-history Apollo Quartet.

  • Perfect State by Brandon Sanderson (Dragonsteel Entertainment): Solid science fiction with a splash of fantasy; little more can be said without being a spoiler.

  • “Ripper” by Angela Slatter (Horrorology, ed. Stephen Jones): Set in the Whitechapel of Jack the Ripper, the novella features a most unusual constable and a touch of the supernatural. Included in The Year’s Best Dark Fantsasy & Horror: 2016.

  • Of Sorrow and Such by Angela Slatter (Tor.com): A witchy journey into Slatter’s Bitterwood/Sourdough world that can be enjoyed even if you have no idea of what the Bitterwood/Sourdough world is.

  • Speak Easy by Catherynne M. Valente (Subterranean Press): Ostensibly a re-telling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” set in an alternate Jazz Age, it is really much, much more.

  New Golden Age of the Novella or not, these works—and the nine included here—are proof of high quality sf and fantasy longer than a short story but not as long as a novel to enjoy!

  Paula Guran

  20 April 2016

  [One hundred seventy-five years ago on this date, Edgar Allan Poe’s

  “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” (about 14,000 words in length)

  first appeared in Graham’s Lady’s and Gentleman’s Magazine.]

  BINTI

  Nnedi Okorafor

  I powered up the transporter and said a silent prayer. I had no idea what I was going to do if it didn’t work. My transporter was cheap, so even a droplet of moisture, or more likely, a grain of sand, would cause it to short. It was faulty and most of the time I had to restart it over and over before it worked. Please not now, please not now, I thought.

  The transporter shivered in the sand and I held my breath. Tiny, flat, and black as a prayer stone, it buzzed softly and then slowly rose from the sand. Finally, it produced the baggage-lifting force. I grinned. Now I could make it to the shuttle. I swiped otjize from my forehead with my index finger and knelt down. Then I touched the finger to the sand, grounding the sweet smelling red clay into it. “Thank you,” I whispered. It was a half-mile walk along the dark desert road. With the transporter working, I would make it there on time.

  Straightening up, I paused and shut my eyes. Now the weight of my entire life was pressing on my shoulders. I was defying the most traditional part of myself for the first time in my entire life. I was leaving in the dead of night and they had no clue. My nine siblings, all older than me except for my younger sister and brother, would never see this coming. My parents would never imagine I’d do such a thing in a million years. By the time they all realized what I’d done and where I was going, I’d have left the planet. In my absence, my parents would growl to each other that I was to never set foot in their home again. My four aunties and two uncles who lived down the road would shout and gossip among themselves about how I’d scandalized our entire bloodline. I was going to be a pariah.

  “Go,” I softly whispered to the transporter, stamping my foot. The thin metal rings I wore around each ankle jingled noisily, but I stamped my foot again. Once on, the transporter worked best when I didn’t touch it. “Go,” I said again, sweat forming on my brow. When nothing moved, I chanced giving the two large suitcases sitting atop the force field a shove. They moved smoothly and I breathed another sigh of relief. At least some luck was on my side.

  Fifteen minutes later I purchased a ticket and boarded the shuttle. The sun was barely beginning to peak over the horizon. As I moved past seated passengers far too aware of the bushy ends of my plaited hair softly slapping people in the face, I cast my eyes to the floor. Our hair is thick and mine has always been very thick. My old auntie liked to call it “ododo” because it grew wild and dense like ododo grass. Just before leaving, I’d rolled my plaited hair with fresh sweet-smelling otjize I’d made specifically for this trip. Who knew what I looked like to these people who didn’t know my people so well.

  A woman leaned away from me as I passed, her face pinched as if she smelled something foul. “Sorry,” I whispered, watching my feet and trying to ignore the stares of almost everyone in the shuttle. Still, I couldn’t help glancing around. Two girls who might have been a few years older than me, covered their mouths with hands so pale that they looked untouched by the sun. Everyone looked as if the sun was his or her enemy. I was the only Himba on the shuttle. I quickly found and moved to a seat.

  The shuttle was one of the new sleek models that looked like the bullets my teachers
used to calculate ballistic coefficients during my A-levels when I was growing up. These ones glided fast over land using a combination of air current, magnetic fields, and exponential energy—an easy craft to build if you had the equipment and the time. It was also a nice vehicle for hot desert terrain where the roads leading out of town were terribly maintained. My people didn’t like to leave the homeland. I sat in the back so I could look out the large window.

  I could see the lights from my father’s astrolabe shop and the sand storm analyzer my brother had built at the top of the Root—that’s what we called my parents’ big, big house. Six generations of my family had lived there. It was the oldest house in my village, maybe the oldest in the city. It was made of stone and concrete, cool in the night, hot in the day. And it was patched with solar planes and covered with bioluminescent plants that liked to stop glowing just before sunrise. My bedroom was at the top of the house. The shuttle began to move and I stared until I couldn’t see it anymore. “What am I doing?” I whispered.

  An hour and a half later, the shuttle arrived at the launch port. I was the last off, which was good because the sight of the launch port overwhelmed me so much that all I could do for several moments was stand there. I was wearing a long red skirt, one that was silky like water, a light orange wind-top that was stiff and durable, thin leather sandals, and my anklets. No one around me wore such an outfit. All I saw were light flowing garments and veils; not one woman’s ankles were exposed, let alone jingling with steel anklets. I breathed through my mouth and felt my face grow hot.

  “Stupid stupid stupid,” I whispered. We Himba don’t travel. We stay put. Our ancestral land is life; move away from it and you diminish. We even cover our bodies with it. Otjize is red land. Here in the launch port, most were Khoush and a few other non-Himba. Here, I was an outsider; I was outside. “What was I thinking?” I whispered.

  I was sixteen years old and had never been beyond my city, let alone near a launch station. I was by myself and I had just left my family. My prospects of marriage had been one hundred percent and now they would be zero. No man wanted a woman who’d run away. However, beyond my prospects of normal life being ruined, I had scored so high on the planetary exams in mathematics that the Oomza University had not only admitted me, but promised to pay for whatever I needed in order to attend. No matter what choice I made, I was never going to have a normal life, really.