The Best Science Fiction And Fantasy Of The Year Part 66

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he said. "Well, you know. But that's all."

She went away, to wherever it was she went to. He pulled his clothes on, climbed down from the loft, crossed the yard and tried to wash in the rain-barrel. He felt disgusting (but that was probably just more self-indulgence; weren't there savages who washed by rolling in mud, then waiting till it caked dry and peeling it off, leaving their skins clean? Is that me, he wondered, and decided not to pursue that line of thought.). Then he crossed the yard and went into the kitchen, where the farmer's wife served him salted porridge and green beer with a face you could have sharpened knives on.

I could go home, he thought. I've failed, clearly this untrained is far too strong for me. If I stay here, the most likely outcome is that I'll be killed, the untrained will slaughter the innocent people here, and then they'll have to send someone else to sort out the mess. Somebody competent. Well, they might as well do that now. Out of my league. There'll be a certain amount of humiliation, and it won't do my career a lot of good, but at least I won't be dead. And they'll understand. After all, it really is Lorica. In fact, I'll probably get a mention in a book, as the man who proved Lorica existed.

And what about the girl, he asked himself, but of course he knew the answer to that. The reason why using another human being as a source was illegal was because of the risk of damaging them. In eighty-six cases out of a hundred, there was significant harm to the mind, the memory or both. In seventy-four cases studied by Sthenelaus and Arcadia.n.u.s for their report to the Ninety-First Ec.u.menical, forty-one ex-sources killed themselves within five years of having been used. A further twelve died insane. Only eight were found to have emerged from the experience unscathed, and six of them were found to have latent abilities, which enabled them to repair the damage to some extent. There were further, worse effects when the source was female, as was usually the case, given that s.e.xual intercourse was the simplest and most reliable means of forming the connection. Use of sources had been forbidden by the Sixty-Third Ec.u.menical, and the prohibition had subsequently been restated by the Seventy-Ninth and the Ninety-First, and by a series of orders in enclave; the discretion to ignore the prohibition,vested in an officer of Precentor rank or above,had only been granted by the Hundred and Seventh as an emergency measure during the Pacatian crisis. The intention had been to repeal the discretion as soon as the crisis was over, but presumably the repeal was still tied up in committee somewhere.

I'm not a hero, he told himself. None of us are, we're natural philosophers. Scientists. We shouldn't have to do this sort of thing, except there's n.o.body else to do it.

He went back to the hayloft, took his paper and portable inkwell out of his coat pocket, and wrote a report for the Precentor. As soon as the ink was dry, he burnt it, sending it into the fifth House. Thanks to intercameral distortion, the reply arrived a few minutes later.

Proceed as you think fit. You have full discretion. This matter must be resolved before you leave. Use any means necessary. Regret we cannot send further operatives at this time.

My mistake, he thought. I can't go home after all.

So he spent the day hanging around the village again, not doing anything much, pretending not to notice the overtly hostile stares of the villagers, the few of them who ventured into the street while he was there. He couldn't help being just a little angry at the injustice of it. Fairly soon, he a.s.sumed, he'd be giving his life for these people, and here they were scowling at him.

Giving, wasting; there'd be no point, since the untrained had Lorica and therefore couldn't be beaten.

The point struck him while he was sitting on the front step of some house, after a failed attempt to buy food. Such was the feeling against him that even a whole gold coin hadn't been enough to secure a loaf of bread. He'd been reduced to conjuring half-ripe apples off a tree in a walled orchard, when n.o.body was looking. As he bit into an apple and pulled a face, he remembered something the malignant had said.

You can't hurt me, I can't hurt you, the h.e.l.l with it.

Factually inaccurate; but the malignant believed it-He let the apple fall from his hand, too preoccupied to maintain his grip on it. The untrained malignant believed that, if he could do Lorica, so could everyone else; he a.s.sumed it was perfectly normal, part of every adept's a.r.s.enal.

And why not? Perfectly reasonable a.s.sumption to make, in the circ.u.mstances. Something so fundamentally, incomparably useful-naturally,you'd think that it was basic stuff, the kind of thing you were taught at the same time as joined-up writing and the five times table.

In which case-

It appeared to have worked the last time, so he did it again.

"I AM FRAMEA OF THE STUDIUM!" he roared, to an audience of three dogs, two small boys and an old woman who took absolutely no notice. "SURRENDER OR FIGHT ME! TONIGHT!" Then he scrambled down off the cart, turning his ankle over in the process, and hobbled back to the inn.

The farmer's wife was in the kitchen, cutting up pork for sausages. "What's that stuff all the people round here drink?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Beer," she said.

"Is it fit for human consumption?"

"Well, we drink it."

"That's not an answer. Never mind, the h.e.l.l with it. Get me some. Lots."

You got used to it, after a while. At the Studium, wine was drunk four times a year (Commemoration, Ascension, Long Commons and the Election Dinner); two small gla.s.ses of exquisite ruby-red vintage wine from the best cellar in the City. Framea had never liked the stuff. He thought it tasted of vinegar and dust. The beer tasted of decay and the death of small rodents, but after a while it did things to his perception of the pa.s.sage of time that no form had yet been able to accomplish. He slept through the afternoon and woke up in his chair in the kitchen just as it was starting to get dark. He had a headache, which he quickly disposed of with Salus cortis. He didn't feel hungry, even though he hadn't eaten all day.

He hauled himself to his feet, wincing as his turned-over ankle protested under his weight. An injury like that would be a death sentence if he'd been facing a conventional battle, with swords or fists. He limped across the yard, and the farm workers stared at him as he pa.s.sed them. There were two young men in the barn, cutting hay in the loft with a big knife-blade, like a saw.

"Get out," he said. They left quickly.

He lay down on the hay, his hands linked behind his head. I do this for the people, he told himself. I do this so that there won't be another ma.s.sacre like the last one. Then, because he didn't want what could well be his last meditation to be spoiled by such a flagrant lie, he amended it to: we we do this for the people, for the reason stated. do this for the people, for the reason stated. I I do this because I was told to. I do this because if I refused a direct order from my superior, I'd be demoted from the Studium to a teaching post in the provinces. h.e.l.l of a reason for killing and dying. do this because I was told to. I do this because if I refused a direct order from my superior, I'd be demoted from the Studium to a teaching post in the provinces. h.e.l.l of a reason for killing and dying.

I do this because of Lorica. Simple as that.

He considered the paradox of Lorica; the ultimate, intolerable weapon that hurt n.o.body, the absolute defense that could save the life of every adept whoever walked or strayed into harm's way. He couldn't help smiling at the absurdity of it. Half the cities in the Confederation forbade their citizens to own weapons; it never seemed to make any difference to the murder rate, but you could see a sort of logic to it. But no city anywhere banned the ownership of armor armor. Most of the scholars in the Studium spent at least some of their time developing weapon grade forms, new ways of killing, wounding, forms directly or indirectly ancillary to such activities-all to be used only against the enemies of order and stability, of course, except that somehow the enemy always found out about them, which was why the Studium needed to develop even better weapons. Lorica, on the other hand, was pure anathema. The Studium didn't want to find Lorica and then try and keep it to itself; it was realistic enough to know that that wouldn't be possible. Most of all, they wanted it not to exist. If it did exist, they wanted it destroyed, without trace. Why? Because all government, all authority, no matter how civilized, enlightened, liberal, well-intentioned, ultimately depends on the use of force. If a man exists who is immune to force, even if he's the most blameless anchorite living on top of a column in the middle of the desert, he is beyond government, beyond authority, and cannot be controlled; and that would be intolerable. Imagine a rebel who stood in front of the entire army, invulnerable, untouchable, gently forgiving each spear-cast and arrow-shot while preaching his doctrine of fundamental change. It would mean the end of the world.

And I I, he thought, am here because of Lorica because I'm expendable. Let's not lose sight of that along the way.

She came when it was dark outside. He'd hoped she wouldn't, but he couldn't help feeling a rush of joy when she climbed up the ladder and sat down beside him. It was too dark to see, so he had no way of knowing what, if any, signs of damage she was showing. He put his hand in his pocket, closed his fingers around all the remaining coins, and held it out to her.

"I don't want any more money," she said.

"I don't care what you want," he replied. "Take it, lie down and go to sleep."

She didn't move; didn't reach out her hand for the coins. He grabbed her left arm, prised the fingers apart and tipped the coins into it. "Please," he said. "It'll make me feel better."

(It didn't, though. It wasn't his money.) She withdrew her hand, and he had no way of knowing if she pocketed the coins or dropped them into the hay. "You just want me to go to sleep," she said.

"Yes."

He felt her lie down, making a slight disturbance in the hay. He applied a light Suavi dormiente, and soon her breathing became slow and regular. He closed his eyes and went through the plan, for the hundredth time. The more he thought about it, the more problems, defects, disasters waiting to happen leapt out at him. It wasn't going to work, and any moment now the untrained would be here, and he'd have to fight- He came in light, as before; it occurred to wonder how he did that, but of course he couldn't very well ask. He appeared where he'd been the first time, leaning against the cross-rafter, his face just as impossible to make out.

"I thought we'd been through all this," he said. "There's no point, is there?"

This time, though, his voice was different; accented (a City voice, but overlaid with the local flat vowels and ground-off consonants; so maybe he'd been one of the children evacuated in the War, who hadn't gone back again afterwards); more or less educated, so at least he'd been to school, even if it was just a few terms with a Brother. It wasn't much, but at least he knew something about him now. And he was here here; not a ninth-level translocation, but an appearance in person, unified body and whole mind together in this place. Thank you Thank you, he thought.

"On the contrary," he replied. "We have to settle this."

"Why?"

That was a really good question, and he had no answer. "You might be able to hide," he said, "for a little while. But if you ever use your power again, we'll be able to trace you. We can kill you in your sleep if you'd rather. But I a.s.sumed you'd prefer to do the honorable thing."

The untrained laughed. "Can't say I'm bothered one way or the other," he said.

"Sure, I'd like to join up, be a proper wizard, but you said I can't, so that's that. Don't see why I should want to play by your rules, in that case."

Framea could smell something. It took him back thirty years, to before he came to the City and joined the Studium; to when he'd lived with his mother in a small house, more of a shack, out back of the tannery. He could smell brains, which the tanners used to cure hides.

"You work in a tannery," he said.

"If you're reading my mind you're not very good at it," the man replied. "Six months since I left there. Five months and twenty-seven days since it burned down," he added. "Anyway, what's that got to do with anything?"

"Fight me," Framea said. "If you dare."

"If I think I'm hard enough, you mean?" The man laughed. "That's what they used to say at that place. Regretted it, later. But there's no point. We can't hurt each other. You know that."

Framea took a deep breath. "The defense you're referring to is called Lorica," he said.

"Fascinating."

"Take it down," Framea said. "I'll do the same. Then we can fight and really mean it. It's the way we do it."

He didn't dare breathe until the man replied, "Is that right?"

"Yes. Think about it. How do you suppose anything ever gets sorted out?"

Another pause. Then the man said, "How'll I know you've taken yours down?"

Framea muttered Ignis ex favellis, making his skin glow blue. "I've lit mine up, same as yours. When the lights go out, we'll both know the other one's taken down Lorica. Then we can put an end to this, once and for all." He waited a heartbeat, then added, "I'm taking mine down now. Don't disappoint me. I'm paying you a compliment."

He ended Ignis. Another heartbeat, and the white glow at the far end of the loft went out. With his mind's arm, he reached down into the girl's heart and took everything, at the same time as he ripped every last sc.r.a.p out of himself, and launched it all in Ruans in defectum.

The form went through. The smallest fraction of time that he could perceive pa.s.sed, and no counterstroke came. No backlash. With the last shreds of his strength, he moved into the second House.

As usual, it was light and cool there. Today it was a meadow, with a river in the distance, sheep in the pasture on the far bank. He looked round and saw the man, lying on his face, burned practically to charcoal. He ran across, lifted his head by his charred, crumbling hair and whispered in his ear, "Can you hear me?"

The reply was inside his own head. Yes. Yes.

"This is the second House," he said. "This is another place, not the place where you used to live. In that place, your body has been disintegrated. I used Ruans. There's nothing left for anyone to bury. You're dead."

I understand.

"I'm holding you here by Ensis spiritus. The second House is outside time, but it takes a huge amount of effort just to be here. In a moment I'll have to let you go, and then you'll just disappear, drain away. It won't hurt. Do you understand?"

Yes.

"Show me Lorica."

But you know- "No. I don't know Lorica. n.o.body does." He closed his eyes for a moment. "n.o.body living. Show it to me. You're the only one who ever found it. Show it to me now."

The body was charred embers, it was ash, it was falling apart. Any moment now, the thing inside it would leak out into the air and be gone for good. Framea used Virtus et clementia, which was illegal, but who the h.e.l.l would ever know?

He saw Lorica.

He wanted to laugh. It was absurdly simple, though it would take considerable strength of mind and talent; still, easier and more straightforward than some forms he'd learnt before his voice broke.It was nothing more than a wide dispersal through at least twenty different Houses,combined with a third-level dislocation. The weapon (or the form, or the collapsing wall or the falling tree) killed you in one House, or twelve, or nineteen; but there you were, safe and sound, also in the twentieth House, and a fraction of a second later, back you came, as though nothing had happened. All there was to it. Less skill and technique required than conjuring up a bunch of flowers.

The voice sighed in his head. A gentle breeze blew away the last of the ash. Framea felt the bitter cold that meant he'd stayed out too long and needed to get back. He slipped out of the second House just in time, and as soon as he got back he pa.s.sed out.

Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and grunted, "Are you all right?" The girl was leaning over him, looking worried. "You wouldn't wake up. I was afraid something had happened."

You could say that, he thought. Something did happen. "I'm fine," he said. "I had a bit too much to drink earlier, that's all. I'm going now," he added. "Thanks for everything."

He stood up. His ankle still hurt, and for some reason he couldn't be bothered to fix it with Salus or any of the other simple curative forms.

"Are you a wizard?" she asked.

He turned to face her. She looked all right, as far as he could tell, but in many cases there was a delay before the first symptoms manifested. "Me? G.o.d, no. Whatever gave you that idea?"

He walked away before she could say anything else.

"And was it," the Precentor said delicately, "the problem we discussed?"

Framea looked straight at him, as if taking aim. "No," he said. "I got that completely wrong. It was just an unusually powerful Scutum."

The Precentor's face didn't change. "That's just as well," he said. "I was concerned, when I received your letter."

"Yes. I'm sorry about that."Behind the Precentor's head he could just make out the golden wings of the Invincible Sun, the centrepiece of the elaborate fresco on the far wall. Had the Precentor deliberately arranged the chairs in his study so that, viewed from the visitor's seat, his head was framed by those glorious wings, imparting the subconscious impression of a halo? Wouldn't put it past him, Framea decided. "I guess I panicked, the first time I fought him. I'm new at this sort of thing, after all."

"You did exceedingly well," the Precentor said. "We're all very pleased with how you handled the matter. I myself am particularly gratified, since you were chosen on my personal recommendation."

Not long ago, that particular fragment of information would have filled him with terror and joy. "It was quite easy," he said, "once I'd figured it out. A simple translocation, change the angle, broke his guard." He licked his lips, which had gone dry, and added, "Needless to say, I regret having had to use lethal force. But he was very strong. I didn't want to take chances."

The Precentor smiled. "You did what had to be done. Now, will you join me in a gla.s.s of wine? I believe this qualifies as a special occasion."

Three weeks later, Framea was awarded the White Star, for exceptional diligence in the pursuit of duty, elevated to the Order of Distinguished Merit, and promoted to the vacant chaplaincy of the Clerestory, a valuable sinecure that would allow him plenty of time for his researches. He moved offices, from the third to the fifth floor, with a view over the moat, and was allocated new private chambers, in the Old Building, with his own sitting room and bath.

Nine months later, he wrote a private letter to the Brother of the village. He wrote back to say that the village wh.o.r.e (the Brother's choice of words) had recently given birth. The child was horribly deformed; blind, with stubs for arms and legs, and a monstrously elongated head. It had proved impossible to tell whether it was a boy or a girl. Fortuitously, given its sad condition, it had only lived a matter of hours. After its death, the woman hanged herself, presumably for shame.

Father Framea (as he is now) teaches one cla.s.s a week at the Studium; fifth year, advanced cla.s.s.He occasionally presents papers and monographs,which are universally well received. His most recent paper, in which he proves conclusively that the so-called Lorica form does not and cannot exist, is under consideration for the prestigious Headless Lance award.

THE THINGS.

PETER WATTS.

Peter Watts, author of the well-received "Rifters" sequence of novels, and short story collection Ten Monkeys, Ten Minutes Ten Monkeys, Ten Minutes, is a reformed marine biologist whose latest novel Blindsight Blindsight was nominated for several major awards, winning exactly none of them. It has, however, won awards overseas, been translated into a s.h.i.tload of languages, and has been used as a core text for university courses ranging from "Philosophy of Mind" to "Introductory Neuropsych." Watts has also pioneered the technique of loading real scientific references into the backs of his novels, which both adds a veneer of credibility to his work and acts as a shield against nitpickers. His novelette "The Island" won the 2010 Hugo Award and was nominated for the Sturgeon Award. Upcoming are two novels, was nominated for several major awards, winning exactly none of them. It has, however, won awards overseas, been translated into a s.h.i.tload of languages, and has been used as a core text for university courses ranging from "Philosophy of Mind" to "Introductory Neuropsych." Watts has also pioneered the technique of loading real scientific references into the backs of his novels, which both adds a veneer of credibility to his work and acts as a shield against nitpickers. His novelette "The Island" won the 2010 Hugo Award and was nominated for the Sturgeon Award. Upcoming are two novels, Sunflowers Sunflowers and and State of Grace State of Grace (a "sidequel" about what happened on Earth during (a "sidequel" about what happened on Earth during Blindsight Blindsight).