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(Download PDF) The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2018 1St Edition N K Jemisin Online Ebook All Chapter PDF
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Contents
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Foreword
Introduction
CHARLES PAYSEUR: Rivers Run Free
KATE ALICE MARSHALL: Destroy the City with Me Tonight
KATHLEEN KAYEMBE: You Will Always Have Family: A
Triptych
LETTIE PRELL: Justice Systems in Quantum Parallel
Probabilities
CADWELL TURNBULL: Loneliness Is in Your Blood
SAMUEL R. DELANY: The Hermit of Houston
JAYMEE GOH: The Last Cheng Beng Gift
A. MERC RUSTAD: Brightened Star, Ascending Dawn
CARMEN MARIA MACHADO: The Resident
RACHAEL K. JONES: The Greatest One-Star Restaurant in
the Whole Quadrant
GWENDOLYN CLARE: Tasting Notes on the Varietals of the
Southern Coast
CHARLIE JANE ANDERS: Don’t Press Charges and I Won’t
Sue
MICAH DEAN HICKS: Church of Birds
PETER WATTS: ZeroS
CAROLINE M. YOACHIM: Carnival Nine
E. LILY YU: The Wretched and the Beautiful
MARIA DAHVANA HEADLEY: The Orange Tree
MAUREEN MCHUGH: Cannibal Acts
MARIA DAHVANA HEADLEY: Black Powder
TOBIAS S. BUCKELL: Zen and the Art of Starship
Maintenance
Contributors’ Notes
Notable Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories of 2017
Read More from the Best American Series
About the Editors
Connect with HMH
Copyright © 2018 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Introduction copyright © 2018 by N. K. Jemisin
hmhco.com
v1.0918
“Don’t Press Charges and I Won’t Sue” by Charlie Jane Anders. First published in
Boston Review: Global Dystopias. Copyright © 2017 by Charlie Jane Anders.
Reprinted by permission of Charlie Jane Anders.
“Zen and the Art of Starship Maintenance” by Tobias S. Buckell. First published
in Cosmic Powers by Saga Press, April 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Tobias S.
Buckell. Reprinted by permission of Tobias S. Buckell.
“Tasting Notes on the Varietals of the Southern Coast” by Gwendolyn Clare. First
published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, September/October 2017.
Copyright © 2017 by Gwendolyn Clare Williams. Reprinted by permission of
Gwendolyn Clare Williams.
“The Hermit of Houston” by Samuel R. Delany. First published in The Magazine
of Fantasy & Science Fiction, September/October 2017. Copyright © 2017 by
Samuel R. Delany. Reprinted by permission of Samuel R. Delany and his agents
Henry Morrison, Inc.
“The Last Cheng Beng Gift” by Jaymee Goh. First published in Lightspeed
Magazine, September 2017, Issue 88. Copyright © 2017 by Jaymee Goh.
Reprinted by permission of Jaymee Goh.
“Black Powder” by Maria Dahvana Headley. First published in The Djinn Falls in
Love, March 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Maria Dahvana Headley. Reprinted by
permission of Maria Dahvana Headley.
“The Orange Tree” by Maria Dahvana Headley. First published in The Weight of
Words, December 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Maria Dahvana Headley. Reprinted
by permission of Subterranean Press.
“Church of Birds” by Micah Dean Hicks. First published in Kenyon Review,
March/April 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Kenyon Review. Reprinted by permission
of Micah Dean Hicks.
“The Greatest One-Star Restaurant in the Whole Quadrant” by Rachael K. Jones.
First published in Lightspeed Magazine, December 2017. Copyright © 2017 by
Rachael K. Jones. Reprinted by permission of Rachael K. Jones.
“You Will Always Have Family: A Triptych” by Kathleen Kayembe. First published
in Nightmare Magazine, March 2017, Issue 54. Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen
Kayembe. Reprinted by permission of Kathleen Kayembe.
“The Resident” by Carmen Maria Machado. First published in Her Body and
Other Parties: Stories. Copyright © 2017 by Carmen Maria Machado. Reprinted
with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Graywolf
Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota, www.graywolfpress.org.
“Destroy the City with Me Tonight” by Kate Alice Marshall. First published in
Behind the Mask. Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen Marshall. Reprinted by permission
of the author.
“Cannibal Acts” by Maureen McHugh. First published in Boston Review: Global
Dystopias. Copyright © 2017 by Maureen McHugh. Reprinted by permission of
Maureen McHugh.
“Rivers Run Free” by Charles Payseur. First published in Beneath Ceaseless
Skies, July 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Charles Payseur. Reprinted by permission of
Charles Payseur.
“Justice Systems in Quantum Parallel Probabilities” by Lettie Prell. First published
in Clarkesworld Magazine, January 2017, Issue 124. Copyright © 2017 by Lettie
Prell. Reprinted by permission of Lettie Prell.
“Brightened Star, Ascending Dawn” by A. Merc Rustad. First published in
Humans Wanted. Copyright © 2017 by Merc Rustad. Reprinted by permission of
Merc Rustad.
“Loneliness Is in Your Blood” by Cadwell Turnbull. First published in Nightmare
Magazine, January 2017, Issue 52. Copyright © 2017 by Cadwell Turnbull.
Reprinted by permission of Cadwell Turnbull.
“ZeroS” by Peter Watts. First published in Infinity Wars. Copyright © 2017 by
Peter Watts. Reprinted by permission of Peter Watts.
“Carnival Nine” by Caroline M. Yoachim. First published in Beneath Ceaseless
Skies, May 2017. Copyright © 2017 by Caroline M. Yoachim. Reprinted by
permission of Caroline M. Yoachim.
“The Wretched and the Beautiful” by E. Lily Yu. First published in Terraform,
February 2017. Copyright © 2017 by E. Lily Yu. Reprinted by permission of the
author.
Foreword
Given all the stories I have to consider every year, it’s probably
obvious that I can do this only with a considerable amount of help.
So I’d just like to take a moment to thank and acknowledge my
team of first readers, who helped me evaluate various publications
that I might not have had time to consider otherwise, including Alex
Puncekar, Becky Sasala, Sandra Odell, Robyn Lupo, Karen
Bovenmyer, and Christie Yant. Thanks also to Tim Mudie at Mariner
Books, who all along has kept things running smoothly behind the
scenes at Best American HQ but who has now, sadly, moved on to
other adventures—ad astra, Tim! Thanks accordingly, too, to our
temporary behind-the-scenes maven, Melissa Fisch—who came in
right at the end of the BASFF cycle for this volume but ably
managed to put out some fires at the last minute—and to our new
maven, Jenny Xu.
Editors, writers, and publishers who would like their work considered
for next year’s edition, please visit johnjosephadams.com/best-
american for instructions on how to submit material for
consideration.
A truth about rivers: There’s water nearly everywhere. In the air and
in the ground and in the morning songs of the birds who no longer
fly here. Too small, too diffused to speak on its own, we can still use
it to speak to each other, and to see what humans hope is
concealed.
Another random document with
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This called forth loud protests from Abd er Rahman, who declared
that it was quite impossible for him to work in such heat on such a
meagre supply.
I endeavoured to pacify him by pointing out that I was not asking
him to do anything I was not prepared to do myself, and that, as a
Sudani, he belonged to a race that prided themselves on being able
to endure the hardships to be encountered in a desert journey. But
he only got more excited, saying that he and Ibrahim did more work
than I did, as they had to load and unload the camels and walked all
day, while I occasionally rode. Dahab, he added, was of no use in
the desert, as he was only a cook, and I could do without him, and,
as we were short of water, we had better get rid of him. At the end he
was fairly shouting at me with rage, and, as he was not in a state to
listen to arguments, I walked away from the camp into the desert to
give him time to cool down.
A Sudani at heart is a savage, and if a savage thinks he is
deprived of the necessaries of life he is very apt to fall back upon
primitive methods, and is quite capable of “getting rid” of anyone who
stands between him and his water supply. Visions of the ghastly
scenes that took place among the survivors of the shipwrecked
“Medusa” and “Mignonette,” when they ran short of water, and of the
terrible fate that overtook the survivors of the disastrous Flatters
expedition, during their retreat to Algeria from the central Sahara,
came up before my eyes, and, as I saw Abd er Rahman and Ibrahim
earnestly consulting together, I felt the situation was not one to be
trifled with.
I went back to the camp fully expecting to have to deal with
something like a mutiny. I called Abd er Rahman up and told him he
was never to speak to me again like that, and if he did I should fine
him heavily. I said that we should find plenty of water in the depot at
Jebel el Bayed and there was no need at all for any anxiety, but that,
owing to the leakage from the tanks, we should have to be careful till
we got there. I told him that I should help to load and unload the
baggage, and would walk all day to show that the allowance of water
was sufficient. As to Dahab, I pointed out that he had worked with
him for two seasons in the desert, and that it was very treacherous
for him to turn round and want to “get rid” of him directly there was a
slight deficiency in the water supply.
Much to my surprise, I found him extremely penitent. He said I
could drink all his water supply and Ibrahim’s as well if I wanted it; of
course he could put up with a small water supply better than I could,
he was very strong; and as for Dahab he was an excellent fellow and
a friend of his; he had only been angry because he was thirsty. I told
him that it was very easy for him to talk, but that I should like to see
how much there was at the back of what he said, so I challenged him
to see if he could do on less water than I could. A sporting offer of
this sort generally appeals to a Sudani or an Arab. He accepted my
challenge with a grin.
Ibrahim afterwards apologised for his brother, saying that he had
been behaving like a woman.
The sealing-wax I had put on the leaks effectually closed them;
but towards noon the increasing heat melted the wax and soon they
were leaking as badly as ever; the other tanks, that had held out up
to that point, also opened their seams in the heat, and, by the end of
the day, every single tank that I had was dripping its precious
contents on to the ground. Only the small ones that I had made for
the depots remained waterproof.
As the sealing-wax proved ineffectual, I scraped it off in the
evening, and, since the leaks were all in the seams of the tanks, I
plugged them with some gutta-percha tooth stopping that I had
fortunately brought with me, wedging it into the seams where they
leaked with the blade of a knife. This was apparently unaffected by
the heat, and, though it was liable to be loosened by rough usage,
was a great improvement on the wax. But the leaks were plugged
too late. During the two days while they were open, one tank had
become almost entirely empty, and the others had all lost a
considerable portion of their contents. Fortunately I had allowed an
ample supply of water, most of which was in the depot at Jebel el
Bayed, so with the small tanks to fall back on in case of need, we
could count on being able to get out about twelve days instead of the
fifteen I had arranged for, which I expected would more than take us
to Owanat.
We continued our march, leaving a small depot behind us at each
camp till we reached the main store. This I found had not been
made, as I intended it should be, at the foot of Jebel el Bayed, but a
good half-day’s journey to its north.
I was greatly relieved to see that the depot appeared to be quite in
order; but Abd er Rahman was evidently suspicious, for leaving the
unloading of the camels to Ibrahim and Dahab, he went off to the
depot and began peering about and searching the neighbourhood for
tracks.
Almost at once he returned with a very long face, announcing that
a lot of water had been thrown away. I hurried up to the depot, and
he pointed out two large patches of sand thickly crusted on the
surface, showing that a very large amount of water had been spilt.
We examined the depot itself. The sacks of grain were quite
untouched, but every one of the large iron tanks was practically
empty, with the exception of one which was about half full. The little
tanks intended for the small depots did not appear to have been
tampered with, perhaps because they would have required some
time to empty.
The neighbourhood of the place where the water had been
poured was covered with the great square footprints made by
Qway’s leather sandals, and made it quite clear that it was he who
had emptied the tanks. There was no trace of the more rounded
sandals worn by Abdulla on that side of the depot.
We followed Qway’s footprints for a short distance. About two
hundred yards away from the depot they joined on to Abdulla’s, the
small neat marks of Qway’s camel overlaying the bigger prints of
Abdulla’s hagin—showing clearly that Qway had been the last to
leave. I then returned with Abd er Rahman to the camp to decide
what was best to be done.
The heavy leakage from the tanks we had brought with us,
coupled with the large amount of water thrown away by Qway, made
it abundantly clear that all chance of carrying out the scheme for
which I had been working for two seasons, of getting across the
desert to the Sudan, or of even getting as far as Owanat, was
completely out of the question. It was a nasty jar, but it was of no use
wasting time in grousing about it.
Our own position gave cause for some anxiety. So far as I and the
men with me were concerned we were, of course, in no danger at all.
Mut, with its water supply, could easily have been reached in about a
week—it was only about one hundred and fifty miles away—and we
had sufficient water with us and in the depots to take us back there.
As for Qway, I felt he was quite capable of looking after himself,
and I did not feel much inclined to bother about him. The difficulty
was Abdulla. From his tracks it was clear that he had no hand in
emptying the tanks, and I very much doubted whether he knew
anything at all about it. Abd er Rahman’s explanation of what had
occurred was, I felt sure, the correct one. His view was that Abdulla,
though “very strong in the meat, was rather feeble in the head,” and
that Qway had managed to get rid of him on some excuse and had
stayed behind to empty the tanks, which he had then put back in
their places, hoping perhaps that we should not notice that anything
was wrong.
Abdulla, counting on me to bring him out water and provisions,
had gone off for a six days’ journey, relying on meeting us at the end
of that time. After going as far as he could to the south, he was to cut
across on to Qway’s track and then to ride back along it to meet us.
The man had served me well, and in any case I did not feel at all
inclined to leave him to die of thirst, as he certainly would, if we did
not go out to meet him. Obviously, we should have to follow up
Qway’s track to relieve him—a course which also held out the
alluring prospect of being able to get hold of Qway himself.
But our water was insufficient to enable the whole caravan to go
on together, and it was urgently necessary to send back to Dakhla
for a further supply. The difficulty was to know whom to send. There
was always the risk that Qway might wheel round on us and try to
get at our line of depots; and unfortunately he carried a Martini-Henri
rifle I had lent him. My first idea was to go back with Dahab myself,
as I could have found my way back to Mut without much difficulty,
using my compass if necessary—the road was an easy one to follow
—and to let the two Sudanese go on to relieve their fellow-
tribesman, Abdulla; but this scheme seemed to be rather throwing
the worst of the work on them—besides I wanted to go ahead in
order to make the survey.
Abd er Rahman, of course, could have found his way back quite
easily; but, though he carried a Martini-Henri carbine, he was a vile
shot, even at close range, as he funked the kick; moreover, he stood
in such awe of Qway that I was afraid, if they met, he would come off
second best in the event of a row, even with Dahab to back him up.
Ibrahim, however, cared no more for Qway than he did for an afrit
that threw clods, or for anyone else. With his flint-lock gun—bent
straight by Abdulla—he was a very fair shot; but he was young and
had had little experience of desert travelling, and I was very doubtful
whether he would be able to find his way. When I questioned him on
the subject, however, after a little hesitation and a long consultation
with Abd er Rahman, he declared his willingness to try, and his
brother said he thought he would be able to do it.
The next morning he set out with Dahab and the two worst
camels, carrying all the empty tanks. His instructions were to get
back as fast as possible to Mut, refill the tanks, and come out again
as quickly as he could with a larger caravan, if he could raise one,
and to beg, borrow or steal all the tanks and water-skins he could get
hold of in the oasis, and to bring them all back filled with water. I
gave him a note to the police officer, telling him what had happened
and asking him to help him in any way he could. I gave him my
second revolver and Dahab my gun, in case they should fall foul of
Qway on the way, and then packed them off, though with
considerable misgivings as to the result.
It was curious to see how the discovery that our tanks in the depot
had been emptied, in spite of the difficulties that it created, cheered
up the men. The feeling of suspense was over. We knew pretty well
what we were up against, and everyone, I think, felt braced up by the
crisis. Dahab looked a bit serious, but Ibrahim, with a gun over his
shoulder, and suddenly promoted to the important post of guide to a
caravan, even though it consisted of only two camels and an old
Berberine cook, was in the highest spirits. I had impressed on him
that the safety of his brother, his tribesman Abdulla and myself,
rested entirely on his brawny shoulders, and that he had the chance
of a lifetime of earning the much-coveted reputation among the
bedawin of being a gada (sportsman)—and a gada Ibrahim meant to
be, or die. I had no doubt at all of his intention of seeing the thing
through, if he possibly could. I only hoped that he would not lose his
way.
Having seen him off from the depot on the way back to Mut, I
turned camel driver and, with the remainder of the camels and all the
water we could carry, set out with Abd er Rahman to follow up
Qway’s tracks to relieve Abdulla. Abd er Rahman, too, rose to the
occasion and started off gaily singing in excellent spirits. I had told
him that I wanted to see whether he or Qway was the better man in
the desert, and the little Sudani had quite made up his mind that he
was going to come out top-dog.
CHAPTER XVIII