Nebula Awards Showcase 2013 Read online

  Published 2013 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Nebula Awards Showcase 2013. Copyright © 2013 by Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA, Inc.). All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover illustration © 2013 Julie Dillon

  Cover design by Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger

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  Nebula Awards showcase 2013 / edited by Catherine Asaro.

  ISBN 978–1–61614–783-9 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978–1–61614–784-6 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Eleanor Wood,

  who has given so much to the field of speculative fiction.

  “The Paper Menagerie,” copyright 2011 by Ken Liu, first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, March/April 2011.

  “The Ice Owl,” copyright 2011 by Carolyn Ives Gilman, first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, November/December 2011.

  “Ado,” copyright 1988 by Connie Willis, first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, January 1988.

  “The Migratory Pattern of Dancers,” copyright 2011 by Katherine Sparrow, first published in GigaNotoSaurus, July 2011.

  “Peach-Creamed Honey,” copyright 2010 by Amal El-Mohtar, first published in The Honey Month, Summer 2010. Used by permission of Papaveria Press.

  “The Axiom of Choice,” copyright 2011 by David W. Goldman, first published in The New Haven Review, Winter 2011.

  “Club Story,” copyright 1993–2012 by John Clute, first published in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction: Third Edition (2011–), sf-encyclopedia.com.

  “What We Found,” copyright 2011 by Geoff Ryman, first published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September/October 2011.

  Among Others, copyright 2011 by Jo Walton. Used by permission of Tor Books and Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  “Movement,” copyright 2011 by Nancy Fulda, first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, March 2011.

  “Sauerkraut Station,” copyright 2011 by Ferrett Steinmetz, first published in GigaNotoSaurus, November 2011.

  “The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees,” copyright 2011 by E. Lily Yu, first published in Clarkesworld Magazine, April 2011.

  “Ray of Light,” copyright 2011 by Brad R. Torgersen, first published in Analog Science Fiction and Fact, December 2011.

  The Freedom Maze, copyright 2011 by Delia Sherman. Used by permission of Big Mouth House.

  “The Sea King’s Second Bride,” copyright 2011 by C. S. E. Cooney, first published in Goblin Fruit, Spring 2010.

  “The Man Who Bridged the Mist,” copyright 2011 by Kij Johnson, first published in Asimov’s Science Fiction, October/November 2011.

  Introduction: A Harmony of Thoughts

  Catherine Asaro

  The Paper Menagerie

  Ken Liu

  The Ice Owl

  Carolyn Ives Gilman

  Ado

  Connie Willis

  The Migratory Pattern of Dancers

  Katherine Sparrow

  Peach-Creamed Honey, poetry

  Amal El-Mohtar

  The Axiom of Choice

  David W. Goldman

  Club Story, essay

  John Clute

  What We Found

  Geoff Ryman

  excerpt from Among Others

  Jo Walton

  Movement

  Nancy Fulda

  Sauerkraut Station

  Ferrett Steinmetz

  The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees

  E. Lily Yu

  Ray of Light

  Brad R. Torgersen

  excerpt from The Freedom Maze

  Delia Sherman

  The Sea King’s Second Bride, poetry

  C. S. E. Cooney

  The Man Who Bridged the Mist

  Kij Johnson

  2012 Nebula Awards Winners, Nominees, and Honorees

  Past Nebula Awards Winners

  About the Cover Artist

  About the Editor

  Drawing is not what you see, but what you must make others see.

  —Edgar Degas, The Shop-Talk of Edgar Degas,

  edited by R. H. Ives Gammell

  When I was a child, my parents gave me several framed prints of ballerinas by painter Edgar Degas. To this day, they remain in my old bedroom, on the wall above the ballet barre where I was supposed to practice but almost never did. Although I loved to dance, doing it alone in my room held little appeal when the alternative was to join my friends, the other dancers at the studios where I trained. Those Degas paintings, however, remain a part of the creative landscape in my mind, whether I am writing, dancing, composing music, or solving the partial differential equations of quantum scattering theory.

  The conventional assumption in our culture is that artistic endeavors are distinct from analytic pursuits such as science and math. On one side lies the lush realm of emotion; on the other, we find the straight lines of logic. That separation is reflected in how we view works of speculative fiction. Although the division is most prominent in comparisons between fantasy and hard science fiction, it comes into play for all the speculative subgenres.

  I protest this idea that emotion and logic are two mutually exclusive lands separated by a wall of our perceptions, that these realms must be disparate, one ruled by passion, the other by logic. In my experience, the analytic and artistic threads of human endeavor are so thoroughly entangled, it is impossible to separate them. In reading the stories on the ballot this year, I was struck by how well they illustrate that idea.

  I wish I could have included every nominated story in this anthology. Unfortunately, that would have resulted in a book that cost more than would fit between two covers, while giving the contributors little more than the proverbial penny for their thoughts. However, the full ballot appears in this anthology, and I recommend all the stories.

  Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

  —Maya Angelou, Gather Together in My Name

  David W. Goldman’s short story “The Axiom of Choice” is an ingenious play on a famous (some might say infamous) mathematical axiom. The axiom of choice seems simple at first glance. What it says is essentially this: given any collection of buckets, each holding at least one object, it is possible to choose exactly one object from each bucket. If every bucket contained a pair of shoes, for example, we could specify “the left shoe.” Then we’ve picked out one shoe from each bucket. Easy, right? But what if each bucket contains the same pair of identical socks? How do we specify one sock or the other when every choice is the same? The axiom of choice claims it is always possible to make that choice even if we don’t see how.

  In his story, Goldman has the reader choose the plotline, making the story an interactive experience. As he weaves the tale of a guitarist who suffered a debilitating accident, the reader determines the plot. Or do we? The plot unfolds as a series of choices, forming an allegory for the axiom, which itself is a metaphor for the emotional journey taken by the musician.

  Math and music are inextricably tangled together
. The mathematics of music is one of the most beautiful areas of physics. Goldman’s story, with its structure of branches and numbered sections, is reminiscent of both a musical composition and a mathematical proof. So it seems only appropriate that he uses the axiom as the framing device.

  In math, the axiom of choice is fundamental to the Banach-Tarski paradox, which says we can cut a solid ball into a finite number of pieces, even as few as five, and reassemble those pieces into two solid balls, each the same size and shape as the original; in fact, we could cut up a pea and reassemble it into a ball the size of our sun.1 Say what? Such wild projects don’t work in real life because we would need to cut the balls into such convoluted pieces, they wouldn’t have a physically defined volume. They exist only in theory. And so Goldman plays with the choices made by his protagonist—or those that, in theory, he could have made. The musician’s choices, real or theoretical, become the space he curls into, seeking refuge between the notes he can no longer play. The story is an exquisite blending of mathematics and emotion, tangling the analytical with the human heart.

  Origami, like music, permits both composition and performance as expressions of the art.

  —Robert J. Lang, origami artist and physicist,

  www.langorigami.com

  I wished to fold the laws of nature, the dignity of life, and the expression of affection into my work.

  —Akira Yoshizawa, origami grandmaster,

  Inochi Yutaka na Origami (Origami Full of Life),

  quote translated by Kondo Kanato

  Describe, with proof, what fractions p/q can be obtained as areas of squares folded from a single unit square . . .

  —2006 American Regional Mathematics League,

  The Power of Origami

  Origami is the art of paper folding, where the artist uses an intricate series of folds to transform a flat sheet of paper into a sculpture. Not only is it a visually exquisite art form, it has also defined an entire branch of mathematics and appears in questions on internationally renowned programs such as the American Regional Mathematics League.

  In his story, “The Paper Menagerie,” Ken Liu explores the complex relationship between a young man of mixed heritage born in the United States and his mother, who was a mail-order bride from China, through the medium of her origami creations, which, in his childhood, she magically brought to life for him. The duality of origami—a pursuit that deeply embodies both artistic and analytic properties—becomes an inspired frame for Liu’s tale. The geometrical nature of origami is never described in the story, but for me as a reader, the complexity and multilayered tension felt by the son toward his mother is aptly symbolized by the tension that so many people perceive between art and the math therein, especially the three-dimensional complexity embodied by origami. That both of those aspects simultaneously exist in the same work despite their apparent contradictory nature offers an apt paradigm for love and its denial in this heartbreaking relationship between a son and his mother.

  Dance is the hidden language of the soul.

  —Martha Graham, New York Times, 1985

  In her story, titled “Movement,” Nancy Fulda writes about an autistic prodigy who excels at ballet. Autism is a neural disorder that impacts how the brain interprets information, making it difficult for those affected to communicate with others. A small percentage of autistics are savants, particularly with music, memory, math, and, in this case, dance. Fulda uses the protagonist’s relationship with ballet to explore the ramifications behind a potential treatment for her autism.

  As a former dancer in both ballet and jazz, I was struck by how well Fulda brought to life that sense of timelessness—meditation, even—that comes when you immerse yourself in the movement. It is a fitting device for the story, which centers on a narrator who experiences time differently than most people; it can take her hours, days, or even longer to answer a question. But that answer—when it finally comes—is a brilliantly choreographed piece of writing.

  A work of art is a world in itself, reflecting senses and emotions of the artist’s world.

  —Hans Hoffman, Search for the Real and Other Essays

  As the builders say, the larger stones do not lie well without the lesser.

  —Plato, Laws, Book 10, translated by Benjamin Jowett

  Plato’s words could apply equally well to the construction of a building, a bridge—or a science fiction novella. In “The Man Who Bridged the Mist,” Kij Johnson uses the creation of a bridge to construct the story of the man who raises that remarkable span. The bridge becomes a metaphor for his life and his world.

  We often think of a bridge as an engineering feat, a triumph of physics and math, but the relationship of architects to their creations is much like that of artists to their art. As so aptly described by Plato, every piece of that bridge, whether the largest stone or the smallest cube, is necessary to its creation. It is fitting that Plato’s quote comes from his work Laws, in that laws—whether they are created by our judicial systems or are natural laws that we have discovered—are highly analytical yet achieve results that tangle intricately with the emotional well-being (or lack thereof) of those who live by them.

  “The Man Who Bridged the Mist” reminds me of the lithograph “Hand with a Reflecting Sphere” by M. C. Escher. Just as Escher’s creation is an image of himself holding a sphere that reflects both his image and world, so the process of building a bridge across the mist reflects the architect in the story and his remarkable world. Escher evokes the scene in his lithograph with careful detail, using simple objects to tell us about himself; so the details of how the builder constructs his bridge tell us about his hopes, his history, and the people who impact his life.

  Escher’s image achieves a dramatic effect with no explosion of color and action; it is done in gray and white and is all the more powerful for that choice. Johnson is similarly subtle with “The Man Who Bridged the Mist.” It is a story in colors of fog and stone. We learn of “fish” living within the mist, shadowy creatures considered small at six feet in length. The legendary “Big Ones” hidden in the depths are an ever-present threat. Johnson could have taken the easy path and thrown in an action-adventure scene, where such monsters explode from the gorge and go about canonical havoc-wreaking activities. She chooses a far more nuanced approach that, in the context of her story, is eminently more effective, providing a metaphor for the half-hidden events that shape and so subtly shatter the lives of the characters. She leaves the reader with a question: Are the submerged “Big Ones” hidden beneath our emotional landscape as great as we fear? It is a fascinating novella with new layers that emerge every time I reread the story.

  Art is a staple of mankind . . . urgent, so utterly linked with the pulse of feeling that it becomes the singular sign of life when every other aspect of civilization fails.

  —Jamake Highwater, The Language of Vision:

  Meditations on Myth and Metaphor

  In “The Ice Owl,” Carolyn Ives Gilman tells the story of Thorn, a bright and edgy young woman. She centers the story on the girl’s interactions with her tutor, an elderly collector who repatriates artwork stolen during a war that took place more than a hundred forty years prior. The loss and return of such works offers an effective allegory in the novella for the price exacted by wars on the people who survive them.

  Throughout the novella, Gilman makes explicit connections between art and math or science and, in doing so, creates allegorical gems for the reader. A central aspect of the story derives from an ingenious blending of art and math used by certain artists. If they apply a certain algorithm to their media, each artist can create a work of art that looks dramatically different depending on how a person views the image. It is a clever play on holographic images in our real world that are visible only at certain angles, such as those that appear on many driver’s licenses. That artwork is a fitting theme for Thorn, who must learn to face the ways that “truth” can change depending on how she views her world. In another instance, Gilma
n uses the aromatic chemistry of benzene-based compounds to define a combination lock formed from the ornamentation on a box, itself a piece of art, which may or may not contain yet more secrets. The layering of puzzles on puzzles is an effective metaphor for the layered design of this inspired novella.

  Gilman uses the word Holocide to describe a war that—like a holograph—encompassed every dimension of its world and was viewed from all sides by an interstellar civilization. Its similarity to the word Holocaust is telling. During World War II, the Nazis confiscated hundreds of thousands of artworks, and to this day the repatriation of those stolen pieces continues. In Gilman’s able hands, repatriation becomes a symbol of the impact war has on our humanity. The theme had a particular resonance for me in that I was writing this introduction when I read that Anton Dobrolski, the oldest known survivor of Auschwitz, had died at age 108. As the last survivors from the concentration camps of World War II pass away, their oral histories fade into a few sentences in history texts. If we forget, will that allow the atrocities to happen again? In Gilman’s novella, where relativistic spaceflight allows people to jump into the future every time they travel, the memories of the survivors stretch out for centuries and spread across the stars.

  Crying, whistling, calling, they skimmed the placid sea and left the shore. Make haste, make speed, hurry and begone; yet where, and to what purpose? The restless urge of autumn, unsatisfying, sad, had put a spell upon them and they must flock, and wheel, and cry; they must spill themselves of motion before winter came.