The Best Science Fiction And Fantasy Of The Year Part 59

As we reach the shelter, Flayer rouses and bounds out, tail wagging, silver hair s.h.i.+ning in the sunlight, horn still streaked with the blood of his latest kill. The beast pauses as he sees Yves, then bares his teeth in a growl.

And in the slowness and clarity that comes with my powers, I can see my fatal mistake. It took Flayer four days to chew through this chain the last time, and that was Thursday night. It's Sunday afternoon. I've cut it too close. The chain dangles at the unicorn's throat, mangled beyond hope of repair.

I hold fast to Yves's hand as the monster lunges.

"No!"

My sharp tone stops the unicorn short. Yves gasps.

"Sit."

Flayer parks his behind on the earth and looks at me in frustration.

"Wen?" Yves's voice trembles.

"Down," I order. The unicorn grumbles, and lowers himself to the ground, tilting his deadly horn up and away. I grab the broken end of the chain, hold on tight, and turn back to my friend. "This is Flayer."

Yves looks as though he might faint.

"Remember that night at the carnival?" I crouch next the unicorn and rub his stomach. "The unicorn there-Venom-she was pregnant."

"Pregnant," Yves repeats flatly.

"And I went back a few days later and found her giving birth. And... I can't explain it, but it was like she asked me to take care of the baby. So I took it."

Flayer lifts his hind leg in the air and bleats. I intensify my ma.s.sage.

"I've been caring for him ever since." The unicorn's mouth opens, and his bloodstained tongue lolls between fanged jaws. "And, aside from Biscuit-well, and I guess some squirrels and stuff-"

I babble on. I don't know for how long. It feels so good, to confess all this to Yves. I tell him about the goat's milk, and the laundry basket. I tell him about the hamburger and the bicycle chains. I tell him about the moonlight runs through the forest. I tell him about the time with the axe, and the way Flayer can call to me from half a mile away.

Yves listens to everything, and then he says, "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

I nod, staring down at my pet. "Yeah. Broke the law. Endangered our entire neighborhood. Lied to everyone."

He shakes his head. "Wen, you trained trained a killer unicorn. No one can do that. No one can catch one, no one can kill one, no one can tame one! But you did!" a killer unicorn. No one can do that. No one can catch one, no one can kill one, no one can tame one! But you did!"

"I-"

"Even the one at the carnival was covered in chains. They're wild, vicious, but this one..." Yves gestures to Flayer, who wags his tail like Yves is about to throw him a ham hock. "He listens to you! He stays where you want him to. It's a miracle."

I stare down at the unicorn. A miracle A miracle.

I've been praying to G.o.d to deliver me from my unwelcome powers, the curse of my dangerous and unholy magic. I've been praying for Him to direct my hand, to give me strength to destroy the demon unicorn Heplaced in my path. And all this time, I thought He'd refused because of my own sins-my defiance of the law, my disobedience toward my parents. I thought I'd failed Him.

But what if... G.o.d wanted wanted me to care for this unicorn? What if He sent it to me to discover a way to prevent what happened to my cousins from ever occurring again? me to care for this unicorn? What if He sent it to me to discover a way to prevent what happened to my cousins from ever occurring again?

What if my powers aren't a curse at all? What if they're... a gift?

"We have to tell the world," Yves finishes.

I snuggle the unicorn close to my chest. "No way. If I come out of the woods with Flayer by my side, he'll be taken from me, experimented on, destroyed. What chance does this little guy have against helicopters and searchlights? Against napalm?"

Yves says, "There has to be something. Maybe your parents-"

"My parents think unicorns are demons and my powers are witchcraft."

It'll never work. Too many lives have been destroyed by unicorns. Even Yves looks uncertain as I continue to cuddle the killer unicorn in my lap.

If only they could feel what it's like to run through the woods by Flayer's side. If only they knew how much Flayer loves me, and I him. I never feel so free, so right as I do when I'm alone in the forest with the unicorn. If only G.o.d would reveal His plan to them as well.

"Okay," says Yves. "What about those people in Italy? The unicorn hunters? They understand your powers, right?"

Yeah, but even they wanted to use my powers to help them kill kill unicorns. Maybe I could show them how to use our gifts for this instead, but first I'd have to persuade them to spare my unicorn. I scratch the base of Flayer's horn, where the tiny flower marking is barely visible. Protecting Flayer is what matters most. The world can wait. unicorns. Maybe I could show them how to use our gifts for this instead, but first I'd have to persuade them to spare my unicorn. I scratch the base of Flayer's horn, where the tiny flower marking is barely visible. Protecting Flayer is what matters most. The world can wait.

"Stay," I say to the unicorn as I join Yves again. "What if I left?"

"You mean, like, run away?" Yves looks stricken. "Wen, you can't-"

"Flayer and me, we're safe in the forest. And I can keep an eye on him, make sure he eats only wild animals. And me... I used to be a really good camper."

"But what about school? What about food? What about the other unicorns?" Yves shakes his head. "No, there's got to be another way."

"A way where I can save Flayer?" I ask. "What way is that? Everyone in the world wants him dead but me!"

"We could-" Yves casts about desperately for an alternative. "We could ask Summer. She's involved in the Sierra Club, she knows people at the World Wildlife Fund..."

Right. Her.

"Yves." I bite my lip, but it's too late and the words pour out. "I know you and Summer-"

He kisses me then. Full on, noses smas.h.i.+ng. Our arms go around each other, and Flayer bleats in surprise, but I don't care. Last fall may have been a mistake, but this isn't. I just wish I had figured it out before. Before Summer. Before Flayer. Before I feared I'd never see him again.

We're still kissing when Mom and Dad come up over the hill. I feel Flayer's alarm, hear him start to growl, and I pull away from Yves. My parents' faces are dark with fury, dim with shock. Their daughter, their little Wen. Lying. Woods. Magic. Kissing. Kissing.

I move to stand beside my killer unicorn.

THE NIGHT TRAIN.

LAVIE TIDHAR.

Lavie Tidhar grew up on a kibbutz in Israel and has since lived in South Africa, the UK, Vanuatu, and Laos. Heistheauthorof novel The Bookman, The Bookman, linked story collection linked story collection HebrewPunk HebrewPunk, novellas "Cloud Permutations" and "An Occupation of Angels," and the novel The Tel Aviv Dossier The Tel Aviv Dossier (with Nir Yaniv). He also edited anthology (with Nir Yaniv). He also edited anthology The Apex Book of World SF The Apex Book of World SF, and runs the World SF Blog. Forthcoming works include novels Osama Osama and and Martian Sands Martian Sands, and second in the Bookman Chronicles, Camera Obscura Camera Obscura, all due later this year.

Her name wasn't Molly and she didn't wear shades, reflective or otherwise.

She was watching the length of the platform.

Hua Lamphong at dusk: a warm wind blowing through the open platforms where the giant beasts puffed smoke and steam into the humid air, the roof of the train station arching high overhead.

Her name wasn't Noi, either, in case you asked, though it's a common enough name. It wasn't p.o.r.n, or Ping. It wasn't even Friday.

She was watching the platform, scanning pa.s.sengers climbing aboard, porters s.h.i.+fting wares, uniformed police patrolling at leisure. She was there to watch out for the Old Man.

She wasn't even a girl. Not exactly. And as for why the Old Man was called the Old Man...

He was otherwise known as Boss Gui: head and bigfala bos bigfala bos of the Kunming Toads. She got the job when she'd killed Gui's Toad bodyguards-by default, as it were. of the Kunming Toads. She got the job when she'd killed Gui's Toad bodyguards-by default, as it were.

But that had happened back in Kunming. This was Bangkok, Bangkok at dusk-this was Hua Lamphong, greatest of train stations, where the great slugs breathed steam and were rubbed and scrubbed by the slug-boys whose job it was to nurture them before departure. And the Old Man wasn't exactly an old man, either.

Scanning, waiting for the Old Man to arrive: Yankee tourists with in-built cams flas.h.i.+ng as they posed beside the great beasts, these neo-nagas of reconst.i.tuted DNA, primitive nervous system, and prodigious appet.i.te. Scanning: a group of Martian-Chinese from TongYun City walking cautiously-unused to the heavier gravity of this home/planet. Scanning: three Malay businessmen-Earth-Belt Corp. standardized reinforced skeletons-they moved gracefully, like dancers- wired through and through, hooked up twenty-four Earth-hours an Earth-day, seven Earth-days a week to the money-form engines, the great pulsating web of commerce and data, that singing, Sol-system-wide, von Neumann-machine expanded network of networks of networks....

Wired with hidden weaponry, too: she made a note of that.

An a.s.sa.s.sin can take many shapes. It could be the sweet old lady carrying two perfectly balanced baskets of woven bamboo over her shoulders, each basket filled with sweet addictive fried Vietnamese bananas. It could be the dapper K-pop starlet with her entourage, ostensibly here to rough it a bit for the hovering cameras. It could be the couple of French backpackers-he with long, thinning silver hair and a cigarette between his lips, she with a new face courtesy of Soi Cowboy's front-and-back street cosmetic surgeries-baby-doll face, but the hands never lie and the hands showed her true age, in the lines etched there, the drying of the skin, the quick-bitten nails polished a cheap red- An a.s.sa.s.sin could be anyone. A Yankee rich kid on a retro-trip across Asia, reading Air America Air America or or Neuromancer Neuromancer in a genuine reproduction 1984 POD-paperback; it could be the courteous policeman helping a pretty young Lao girl with her luggage; it could be the girl herself-an Issan farmer's daughter exported to Bangkok in a century-long tradition, body augmented with vibratory v.a.g.i.n.al inserts, perfect audio/visual-to-export, always-on record,a carefully tended Louis Wu habit and an as-carefully-tended retirement plan-make enough money,get back home to Issan in a genuine reproduction 1984 POD-paperback; it could be the courteous policeman helping a pretty young Lao girl with her luggage; it could be the girl herself-an Issan farmer's daughter exported to Bangkok in a century-long tradition, body augmented with vibratory v.a.g.i.n.al inserts, perfect audio/visual-to-export, always-on record,a carefully tended Louis Wu habit and an as-carefully-tended retirement plan-make enough money,get back home to Issan wan bigfala mama wan bigfala mama, open up a bar/hotel/bookshop and spend your days on the Mekong,waxing lyrical about the good old days,listening to Thai pop and K-pop and Nuevo Kwasa-Kwasa, growing misty-eyed nostalgic....

Could be anyone. She waited for the Old Man to arrive. The trains in Hua Lamphong never left on time.

Her name before, or after, doesn't matter. They used to call her Mulan Rouge, which was a silly name, but the farangs farangs loved it. Mulan Rouge, when she was still working Soi Cowboy,on the stage, on her knees or hands-and-knees, but seldom on her back-earning the money for the operation that would rescue her from that boy's body and make her what she truly was, which was loved it. Mulan Rouge, when she was still working Soi Cowboy,on the stage, on her knees or hands-and-knees, but seldom on her back-earning the money for the operation that would rescue her from that boy's body and make her what she truly was, which was kathoey kathoey.

They call it the third s.e.x, in Thailand. But she always considered herself, simply, a woman.

She ran a perimeter check. Up front, she was awed as always by the slug. It was tied up to the front of the train, a beast fifty meters long and thirty wide. It glistened and farted as the slug-boys murmured soothing words to it and rubbed its flesh, thirty or forty of them swarming like flies over the corpulent flesh of the slug. She checked out the driver-the woman was short, dark-skinned-a highlander from Laos, maybe. The driver sat in her harness high above the beast, her helmet entirely covering her head-the only thing she wore. Pipes came out of her flesh and into the slug's. They were one-her mind driving the beast forward, a peaceful run, the Bangkok to Nong Khai night ride, and she was the night rider. She was the train.

There were stories about joined minds like this in the Up There. Up There, beyond the atmosphere, where the universe truly began.Where the Exodus s.h.i.+ps lumbered slowly out of the solar system, in search of better futures far away. They said there were s.h.i.+ps driven by minds, human/Other interfaces, holding sleepers inside them like wombs. They told stories of s.h.i.+ps who had gone mad, of sleepers destined never to awake, slow silent s.h.i.+ps drifting forever in galactic s.p.a.ce... or, worse, s.h.i.+ps where the sleepers were were awakened, where the s.h.i.+p-mind became a dark G.o.d, demanding wors.h.i.+p.... Mulan didn't know who awakened, where the s.h.i.+p-mind became a dark G.o.d, demanding wors.h.i.+p.... Mulan didn't know who they they were, or how they knew. These were stories, and stories were a currency in and of itself. Darwin's Choice used to tell her stories.... were, or how they knew. These were stories, and stories were a currency in and of itself. Darwin's Choice used to tell her stories....

She met him/her flesh-riding an older kathoey body, at a club on Soi Cowboy. Darwin's Choice-not the most imaginative name (he told her, laughing)-but he liked it. He had watched her dance and, later, signalled for her to join him.

She thought of him as a he he, though Others had no s.e.x, and most had little interest in flesh-riding. He had evolved in the Breeding Grounds, post-Cohen, billions of generations after that first evolutionary cycle in Jerusalem, and she only thought of him as him him because the bodies he surfed always had a p.e.n.i.s. He used to hold the p.e.n.i.s in his hand and marvel at it. He always chose pre-op bodies, with b.r.e.a.s.t.s but no female genitalia. He always dressed as a woman. Surgery was expensive, and a lot of kathoey worked it off in stages. Taking on a pa.s.senger helped pay the bills-it wasn't just a matter of cutting off c.o.c.k-andb.a.l.l.s and refas.h.i.+oning s.e.x, there was the matter of cheekbones to sand down and an Adam's apple to reduce, b.u.m to pad-if you because the bodies he surfed always had a p.e.n.i.s. He used to hold the p.e.n.i.s in his hand and marvel at it. He always chose pre-op bodies, with b.r.e.a.s.t.s but no female genitalia. He always dressed as a woman. Surgery was expensive, and a lot of kathoey worked it off in stages. Taking on a pa.s.senger helped pay the bills-it wasn't just a matter of cutting off c.o.c.k-andb.a.l.l.s and refas.h.i.+oning s.e.x, there was the matter of cheekbones to sand down and an Adam's apple to reduce, b.u.m to pad-if you really really had the money you got new hands. The hands usually gave it away-that is, if you wanted to pa.s.s for a woman. had the money you got new hands. The hands usually gave it away-that is, if you wanted to pa.s.s for a woman.

Which many kathoey didn't. Darwin's Choice always surfed older kathoey who never had the basic equipment removed. "I am neither male, nor female," he once told her. "I am not even an I I, as such. No more than a human-a network of billions of neurons firing together-is truly an I I. In a.s.suming kathoey, I feel closer to humanity, in many ways. I feel-divided, and yet whole."

Like most of what he said, it didn't make a lot of sense to her. He was one of the few Others who tried to understand humanity. Most Others existed within their networks, using rudimentary robots when they needed to interact with the physical world. But Darwin's Choice liked to body-surf.

With him, she earned enough for the full body package.

And more than that.

Through him, she discovered in herself a taste for controlled violence.

Boss Gui finally came gliding down the platform-fat-boy Gui, the Old Man, olfala bigfala bos olfala bigfala bos in the pidgin of the asteroids. His Toads surrounded him-human/toad hybrids with Qi-engines running through them: able to inflate themselves at will, to jump higher and farther, to kill with the hiss of a poisoned, forked tongue-people moved away from them like water from a hot skillet. in the pidgin of the asteroids. His Toads surrounded him-human/toad hybrids with Qi-engines running through them: able to inflate themselves at will, to jump higher and farther, to kill with the hiss of a poisoned, forked tongue-people moved away from them like water from a hot skillet.

Boss Gui came and stood before her. "Well?" he demanded.

He looked old. Wrinkles covered his hands and face like scars. He looked tired, and cranky-which was understandable, under the circ.u.mstances.

She had recommended delaying the trip. The Old Man had refused to listen. And that was that.

She said, "I cannot identify an obvious perp-"

He smiled in satisfaction- "But that is not to say there isn't one."

"I am Boss Gui!" he said. Toad-like, he inflated as he spoke. "Who dares try to kill me?"

"I did," she said, and he chuckled-and deflated, just a little.

"But you didn't, my little sparrow."

They had reached an understanding, the two of them. She didn't kill him- having to return the client's fee had been a b.i.t.c.h-and he, in turn, gave her a job. It had security attached-a pension plan, full medical, housing, and salary, calculated against inflation. There were even stock options.

She had never regretted her decision-until now.

"It's still too dangerous," she said now. "You're too close-"

"Silence!" he regarded her through rheumy eyes. "I am Boss Gui, boss of the Kunming Toads!"

"We are a long way from Kunming."

His eyes narrowed. "I am seventy-nine years old and still alive. How old are you? you?"

"You know how old," she said, and he laughed. "Sensitive about your age," he said. "How like a woman." He hawked up phlegm and spat on the ground. It hissed, burning a small, localised hole in the concrete.

She shrugged. "Your cabin is ready," she said; then: "Sir."

He nodded. "Very good," he said. "Tell the driver we are ready to depart."

A taste for controlled violence...