The Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014 by Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower Page B
Authors: Larry Niven, Nancy Kress, Mercedes Lackey, Ken Liu, Brad R. Torgersen, C. L. Moore, Tina Gower
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made me will have his satisfaction of me before all this is done.
What bitter consolation.
Nothing hurts as much, or will ever hurt as much, as when I tore my bud away. Still, it is not pleasant to feel cook’s cold knife slide into me and gouge out the bruised and rotten parts. Only my best pieces will be saved for Mads.
It is not Mads’ habit to see his meals prepared, but he was the one that took the knife to me to bring me to life, and now he watches with no small satisfaction as that life is taken away. To my chagrin, the knife reveals flesh that is whiter yet than his; I have not made myself poisonous to him. I have failed.
Cook is good with her spices, but Mads stays her hand when she reaches for the shallots.
“As few ingredients as possible,” says Mads, looking into my eyes. “I want to taste Pluto.”
Tuber of Many Roots, I hate him. I wall myself off and think only of the actress in her role as the wild neep; I see the rhythm of her leaves and the roll of her blossoms even as cook adds salt and butter to the pan, even as she dices me into bite-size pieces. She saves my face for last, for she is a kind soul. In my final moments, I bless her.
* * *
I cannot say I remember the oven but for its heat. I am largely numb by then.
And I cannot say I remember the eating, for I am all in pieces; one bite comes in my arm, one in my shoulder, one in my thigh, one in my neck. He does not eat me in order. I have no order left.
In the darkness of his stomach, though, I feel a change. He is warmer than the soil of the earth, and damper, but damp and darkness are my elements. Within him, I begin to come together again.
I am too good to waste a single bite. When Mads retires at last, full to bursting with me—and lies down in his above-ground bed, and pulls the blankets over him in a way that feels familiar to me, although cotton is no comfort like earth is—I wake up. True, I am not myself anymore, but I have grown to this, to changing and to being changed. This is nothing more than another transformation.
Within the world that is Mads Poulson, I roil. I turn sour, just like Sissel promised. And just as Mads promised, I begin to bloom.
I have held back my flowers for so long that calling them forth is no great feat—they burst out of me, stretching and reaching for sunlight, the only part of me that has ever longed for open air. Mads sits up in his bed, clutching at his throat, coughing and choking and clawing at the skin until it bleeds. I want out, and when my yellow blooms force their way up he cannot continue to breathe.
Late next afternoon, cook and Sissel find him. His mouth and nose, his ears and eye sockets, are plugged with yellow blossoms.
Sissel Peals is a very wise turnip. With great effort but no complaint, she drags the bloated remains of Mads to the root cellar and tucks him into my old plot. With the aid of a spare brick, cook knocks a hole in the boards so that the sun can get in. They leave us there to germinate and to find some peace.
From time to time, a little breeze whips in the hole, and the flowers dance as freely as those of a wild neep might. And Mads Poulson feeds me all the while.
Published in Galaxy’s Edge Issue 10
Copyright © 2014 by K. C. Norton. All rights reserved.
Effect and Cause
by Ken Liu
. ssengnihton, neht dnA
Flash white blinding a.
“B race for impact,” says the computer.
The superheated air cools. Out of the white light, things emerge: the instrument panels; myself in the chair, clutching the handholds; the jagged edges of the cockpit wall knit themselves into a pristine whole.
“T minus one. Shields breached.”
Through the porthole, I see a silvery fishlike shape depart. Already, it’s kilometers away.
“T minus ten.”
The silver light winks out at the edge of visibility like a dying star.
* * *
Dashing about the cockpit, I frantically punch lit up buttons to make them go dim. The anxiety subsides.
I run backwards out of the cockpit until I
What bitter consolation.
Nothing hurts as much, or will ever hurt as much, as when I tore my bud away. Still, it is not pleasant to feel cook’s cold knife slide into me and gouge out the bruised and rotten parts. Only my best pieces will be saved for Mads.
It is not Mads’ habit to see his meals prepared, but he was the one that took the knife to me to bring me to life, and now he watches with no small satisfaction as that life is taken away. To my chagrin, the knife reveals flesh that is whiter yet than his; I have not made myself poisonous to him. I have failed.
Cook is good with her spices, but Mads stays her hand when she reaches for the shallots.
“As few ingredients as possible,” says Mads, looking into my eyes. “I want to taste Pluto.”
Tuber of Many Roots, I hate him. I wall myself off and think only of the actress in her role as the wild neep; I see the rhythm of her leaves and the roll of her blossoms even as cook adds salt and butter to the pan, even as she dices me into bite-size pieces. She saves my face for last, for she is a kind soul. In my final moments, I bless her.
* * *
I cannot say I remember the oven but for its heat. I am largely numb by then.
And I cannot say I remember the eating, for I am all in pieces; one bite comes in my arm, one in my shoulder, one in my thigh, one in my neck. He does not eat me in order. I have no order left.
In the darkness of his stomach, though, I feel a change. He is warmer than the soil of the earth, and damper, but damp and darkness are my elements. Within him, I begin to come together again.
I am too good to waste a single bite. When Mads retires at last, full to bursting with me—and lies down in his above-ground bed, and pulls the blankets over him in a way that feels familiar to me, although cotton is no comfort like earth is—I wake up. True, I am not myself anymore, but I have grown to this, to changing and to being changed. This is nothing more than another transformation.
Within the world that is Mads Poulson, I roil. I turn sour, just like Sissel promised. And just as Mads promised, I begin to bloom.
I have held back my flowers for so long that calling them forth is no great feat—they burst out of me, stretching and reaching for sunlight, the only part of me that has ever longed for open air. Mads sits up in his bed, clutching at his throat, coughing and choking and clawing at the skin until it bleeds. I want out, and when my yellow blooms force their way up he cannot continue to breathe.
Late next afternoon, cook and Sissel find him. His mouth and nose, his ears and eye sockets, are plugged with yellow blossoms.
Sissel Peals is a very wise turnip. With great effort but no complaint, she drags the bloated remains of Mads to the root cellar and tucks him into my old plot. With the aid of a spare brick, cook knocks a hole in the boards so that the sun can get in. They leave us there to germinate and to find some peace.
From time to time, a little breeze whips in the hole, and the flowers dance as freely as those of a wild neep might. And Mads Poulson feeds me all the while.
Published in Galaxy’s Edge Issue 10
Copyright © 2014 by K. C. Norton. All rights reserved.
Effect and Cause
by Ken Liu
. ssengnihton, neht dnA
Flash white blinding a.
“B race for impact,” says the computer.
The superheated air cools. Out of the white light, things emerge: the instrument panels; myself in the chair, clutching the handholds; the jagged edges of the cockpit wall knit themselves into a pristine whole.
“T minus one. Shields breached.”
Through the porthole, I see a silvery fishlike shape depart. Already, it’s kilometers away.
“T minus ten.”
The silver light winks out at the edge of visibility like a dying star.
* * *
Dashing about the cockpit, I frantically punch lit up buttons to make them go dim. The anxiety subsides.
I run backwards out of the cockpit until I
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