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  PRAISE FOR THE EDITORS

  Anthologies edited by Peter S. Beagle

  The Secret History of Fantasy

  “All 17 stories eschew all or most of the conventions of commercial fantasy. . . . Start reading and expect to enjoy.”

  —Booklist

  “Set[s] out to rewrite our concept of fantasy, and with the help of some of the world’s best writers, succeeds admirably.”

  —The Agony Column

  The Urban Fantasy Anthology (with Joe R. Lansdale)

  “An essential book not only for longtime followers of such intriguing stories but those who thought fantasy only took place in the completely imagined worlds of J. R. R. Tolkien.”

  —Bookgasm

  “An excellent collection of stories that showcases the best of urban fantasy (however you define it). Definitely a must-read!”

  —Interzone

  “This is one of the best reprint anthologies of the year in terms of literary value, and you certainly get more than your money’s worth of good fiction.”

  —Locus

  Anthologies edited by Jacob Weisman

  Invaders: 22 Tales from the Outer Limits of Literature

  “This volume is a treasure trove of stories that draw equally from SF and literary fiction, and they are superlative in either context.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Playful and imaginative.”

  —AV Club

  “A superb batch of stories by literary authors who have invaded science fiction—and left distinct footprints behind.”

  —Black Gate

  The Sword & Sorcery Anthology (with David G. Hartwell)

  “This is an unbeatable selection from classic to modern, and each story brings its A game.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Superbly presented . . . reignited this reader’s interest.”

  —SF Site

  “Hard and fast-paced fantasy that’s strong from the first piece right through to the last.”

  —Shades of Sentience

  The Treasury of the Fantastic (with David Sandner)

  “A marvelous mix of classics and rarely seen works, bibliophile’s finds and old favorites . . . a treasury in every sense and a treasure!”

  —Connie Willis, author of Doomsday Book and To Say Nothing of the Dog

  “This is an important collection for all lovers of fantasy and literature.”

  —Library Journal

  “An exquisitely curated collection.”

  —The Arched Doorway

  The Unicorn Anthology

  Copyright © 2017 by Peter S. Beagle and Jacob Weisman

  This is a collected work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

  Cover art and design copyright © 2017 by Thomas Canty

  Interior design by James DeMaiolo

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  (415) 285-5615

  www.tachyonpublications.com

  [email protected]

  Series Editor: Jacob Weisman

  Project Editor: James DeMaiolo

  ISBN: 978-1-61696-283-8

  First E-book Edition: 2017

  “The Magical Properties of Unicorn Ivory” copyright © 2016 by Carlos Hernandez. First appeared in The Assimilated Cuban’s Guide to Quantum Santeria (Rosarium Publishing: Greenbelt, Maryland).

  “The Brew” copyright © 1995 by Karen Joy Fowler. First appeared in Peter S. Beagle’s Immortal Unicorn, edited by Peter S. Beagle and Janet Berliner (HarperPrism: New York).

  “Falling Off the Unicorn” copyright © 2008 by David D. Levine and Sara A. Mueller. First appeared in Space Magic, edited by David D. Levine (Wheatland Press: Wilsonville, Oregon).

  “A Hunter’s Ode to His Bait” copyright © 2003 by Carrie Vaughn. First appeared in Realms of Fantasy, February 2003.

  “Ghost Town” copyright © 1992 by Jack C. Haldeman II. First appeared in Unicorns II, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois (Ace Books: New York City).

  “A Thousand Flowers” copyright © 2010 by Margo Lanagan. First appeared in Zombies vs. Unicorns, edited by Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier (Margaret K. McElderry Books: New York).

  “The Maltese Unicorn” copyright © 2011 by Caitlín R. Kiernan. First appeared in Supernatural Noir, edited by Ellen Datlow (Dark Horse Books: Milwaukie, Oregon).

  “Stampede of Light” copyright © 1995 by Marina Fitch. First appeared in Peter S. Beagle’s Immortal Unicorn, edited by Peter S. Beagle and Janet Berliner (HarperPrism: New York).

  “The Highest Justice” copyright © 2010 by Garth Nix. First appeared in Zombies vs. Unicorns, edited by Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier (Margaret K. McElderry Books: New York).

  “The Lion and the Unicorn” copyright © 2015 by A. C. Wise. First appeared in Lackington’s, Winter 2015.

  “Survivor” copyright © 1995 by Dave Smeds. First appeared in Peter S. Beagle’s Immortal Unicorn, edited by Peter S. Beagle and Janet Berliner (HarperPrism: New York).

  “Unicorn Series” copyright © 1993 by Nancy Springer. First appeared in Stardark Songs (W. Paul Ganley: Buffalo: New York).

  Table of Contents

  “The Magical Properties of Unicorn Ivory”

  Carlos Hernandez

  “The Brew”

  Karen Joy Fowler

  “Falling Off the Unicorn”

  David D. Levine and Sara A. Mueller

  “A Hunter’s Ode to His Bait”

  Carrie Vaughn

  “Ghost Town”

  Jack C. Haldeman II

  “A Thousand Flowers”

  Margo Lanagan

  “The Maltese Unicorn”

  Caitlín R. Kiernan

  “Stampede of Light”

  Marina Fitch

  “The Highest Justice”

  Garth Nix

  “The Lion and the Unicorn”

  A. C. Wise

  “Survivor”

  Dave Smeds

  “Unicorn Series”

  Nancy Springer

  About the Editors

  The Magical Properties of

  Unicorn Ivory

  Carlos Hernandez

  VOCATIONS don’t grant vacations. I’m supposedly on holiday in London when I get an offer no reporter could refuse: to see a unicorn in the wild.

  I’m with my friend Samantha, hanging out at her dad’s pub after a long night’s clubbing, still wearing our dance-rumpled party dresses, dying to get out of our heels. Sam’s father, Will, is tending bar tonight, so it’s the perfect spot for late-night chips and hair-of-the-dog nightcaps. Plus, most of the clientele is over 50. We wouldn’t have to spend all evening judo-throwing chirpsers. (And yes, this Latina’s been in London a full eight days and has decided to adopt every bloody Britishism she hears. Deal.)

  Or so we thought. Sam flicks her head toward a guy sitting alone, staring at us over his drink. He could be my dad, if my dad had forgotten to bring a condom to his junior prom. Short, stout, but really fit; looks like a cooper built his torso. The man’s never heard of moisturizer. He’s wearing a black pinstripe shirt with a skinny leather tie, black pleated pants and black ankle-boots. I am sure some cute sales girl had dressed him—because nobody who cared about him would’ve let him leave the house looking like dog’s dinner.

  And now—shit—I scrutinized him too long. He comes over, beer in hand.

  “Ladies,” he says.

  “We’re not hookers,�
� says Sam. “I know these dresses might give a gentleman the wrong impression.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I add, big smile.

  “Right,” he says, and turns on his heel.

  “Hold on, Gavin,” says Will, who’s just pulled up with my Moscow Mule. “Don’t let these two termagants scare you off. Make a little room for Gavin, Sam, will you?”

  Gavin considers us a moment, then pulls up the stool next to Samantha and offers his hand. “Gavin Howard.”

  “Oh!” says Sam. She’s suddenly unironically warm—a rare demeanor for her. “You’re the forest ranger. Dad’s told me about you. I’m Sam.”

  I put out my hand. “And I’m Gabi Reál.”

  “A pleasure,” he says, then proceeds to purée my knucklebones—one of those insecure guys who has to try to destroy the other person’s hand. Charming.

  “This man’s a national hero,” Will says to me. “He’s keeping our unicorns safe.”

  Now that is interesting. Back in the States, we’ve heard reports of unicorns appearing in forests throughout Great Britain. But in this age of photo manipulation it’s hard to get anyone to believe anything anymore.

  So I sayas much: “Plenty of Americans don’t think unicorns are real, you know.”

  “Oh, they’re real, Ms. Reál,” says Gavin, pleased with his wit. As if I hadn’t heard that one 20 billion times.

  “Americans,” says Samantha. “You never think anything interesting could possibly be happening anywhere else in the world, do you?”

  The Brits share a chuckle. I don’t join in.

  “We shouldn’t insult our visitor,” says Will. “I mean, if she were to tell us snaggletoothed pookahs started appearing in California, I suppose I’d want better proof than a picture.” He leans to Gavin and adds, “Gabi’s a reporter for the San Francisco Squint. Her column’s called ‘Let’s Get Reál.’ Two million read it every week, don’t you know.”

  Gavin sizes me up like a squinting jeweler. “I’m all for reality. I have no patience for falsehood. I wish more people would ‘get reál.’” His voice gets weirdly sincere.

  I lean toward him and say, “Me too. My column’s subtitle is ‘Truth or Death.’” I smile and sip my Mule.

  It’s not the first time I’ve chirpsed to land an interview. Gavin drinks the rest of his beer but never takes his eyes off me. Neither do Will or the slightly-disgusted Sam, who sees exactly what’s happening.

  But screw her; a story’s a story. Gavin sets down his glass and says the words I am longing to hear: “You know, I’m working the New Forest this weekend. If you’d like, it would be my pleasure to take you with me. You might just see a unicorn for yourself.”

  I thought this would make a nice fluffy piece for my column. I mean, unicorns!

  Gavin—who is completely professional and hands-off, thank God—and I are having a delightful Sunday-morning hike through some less-traveled parts of the New Forest. It’s everything an American could want of an English woods: fields of heath; majestic oaks and alders; rivers that run as slow as wisdom itself; and ponies! Thousands of ponies roaming feral and free like a reenactment of my girlhood fantasies.

  Of course, that sets my Spidey-sense tingling. Wouldn’t it be easy enough for rumors of unicorns to sprout up in a place with so many darling ponies ambling about?

  This is what I am thinking when we come across a thick, almost unbroken trail of blood.

  “Hornstalkers,” Gavin says. And when he sees I’m not following: “Unicorn poachers. Of all the luck.”

  He calls it in on some last-century transceiver. HQ wants more information. They tell him to send me home and to follow the blood trail with extreme caution. “Do not attempt to apprehend them on your own,” says HQ.

  “Understood.”

  “I mean it, Gavin. Don’t go showing off in front of your lady-friend.”

  “I said, ‘Understood.’” He stows the transceiver and adds: “Wanker.” And then to me he says, “Well Gabi, it’s poachers. Dangerous people. HQ says I’m supposed to send you home.”

  “Just try,” I reply.

  “Atta girl.”

  We hustle through the wilderness, following a grim trail of blood, snapped branches, hoofprints and bootprints. Gavin jogs ahead, while I do my best to keep up. He’s a totally different person out here, absolutely in tune with the forest. He’s half hound, loping with canine abandon through this forest, then stopping suddenly to cock his head to listen, sniff the air.

  It’s also clear he’s used to running with a high-powered rifle in hand. He told me, as he strapped on its back-holster before we left his truck, that he was bringing it “just in case.” So here we are.

  He stops suddenly and crouches. I do too. From one of his cargo-pants pockets he pulls a Fey Spy, a top-of-its-class RC flying drone that looks like a green-gold robot hummingbird.

  He tosses it into the air and it hovers, awaiting orders; using a controller/display-screen the size of a credit card, he sends the little drone bulleting into the forest.

  I peer over Gavin’s shoulder at the display and am treated to a fast-forward version of the terrain that awaits us. Gavin’s a great pilot. The drone zooms and caroms through the woods with all the finesse of a real hummingbird.

  And then we see them: the poachers, two of them. They wear balaclavas and camouflage jumpsuits, the kind sporting-goods stores love to sell to amateurs.

  Between them walks a girl. A girl on a dog leash.

  I’d judge her to be eight or nine. She’s dressed for summer, tank-top and shorts and flip-flops; she’s muddy to her ankles. Her head hangs, and her hair, the colors of late autumn, curtains her face. The collar around her neck is lined with fleece. (To prevent chafing, I presume? How considerate.) The leash seems mostly a formality, however, as it has so much slack that its middle almost dips to the ground.

  “What the hell?” I whisper. “What’s with the girl?”

  Gavin, slowly and evenly, says, “Some hornstalkers believe that unicorns are attracted to virgin girls. So they kidnap one to help them in their hunt.”

  “What? You can’t be serious.”

  Gavin shrugs. “One too many fairy tales when they were kids.”

  I can only imagine what is going through that poor girl’s head. Kidnapping alone is already more evil than anyone deserves. But as a girl I loved horses, ponies, and especially unicorns. If unicorns had existed in our timeline when I was young, they would have dominated my every daydream. I can’t imagine how scarred I would have been if I’d been forced by poachers to serve as bait. To watch them murder one right in front of me. Dig the horn out of its skull.

  Gavin gives my wrist a fortifying squeeze. Then he hands me the RC controller, takes out his walkie-talkie and, as quietly as he can, reports what he’s seen to HQ. I use the Fey Spy to keep an eye on the poachers. The group is moving forward cautiously. The girl’s stooped, defeated gait fills me with dread.

  Gavin has a conversation with the dispatcher that I can’t quite make out. When he’s done, he pockets the transceiver and looks at me. Then he holds out his rifle to me with both hands.

  “This,” he says, “is a Justice CAM-61X ‘Apollo’ sniper rifle. It has an effective range of 1,700 meters. It’s loaded with .50 caliber Zeus rounds. They’re less-lethal bullets. Bad guys get hit by these, they lose all muscular control, shit their pants, and take a nap. Then we just mosey up and cuff ’em.”

  I squint. “1,700 meters in a desert, maybe. You’d have to be halfway up their asses to get a clear shot, with all these trees.”

  He pats the rifle. “Not with these bullets, love. They’re more like mini-missiles, with onboard targeting computers and everything. They can dodge around obstacles to reach their target. Especially,” he emphasizes, “if we can create a virtual map of the forest between us and the target.”

  Lightbulb. “Which we can make with the Fey Spy.”

  He nods. “Listen Gabi. That girl’s in great peril. We’re on the clock here. We can�
��t wait for backup.”

  As a journalist, my ethics require me to remain disinterested when covering a story. Fuck you, journalistic ethics. “What you need me to do?”

  He points at RC display/controller in my hand. “You any good flying one of these?”

  “I’m a reporter. I make my living spying on people with drones.”

  Gavin smiles. Then: “I need you to fly the Fey Spy back to us, slowly and from high up in the canopy, so that it can map the forest between us and the poachers. Then fly it back over to them and keep them in the Fey Spy’s field of vision. It’ll automatically transmit the map of the forest to my rifle. Once it’s done, it’s as simple as bang bang bang. Everyone goes down.”

  I nod in agreement at first, before I realize this: “Wait. Bang bang bang? Three bangs? There are only two poachers.”

  His face goes green and guilty. “Well, we can’t have the girl running scared through the forest. She could hurt herself.”

  I wait a second for the punchline, because he can’t be serious. But of course he is. “Oh my God. Are you insane? You are not shooting the girl!”

  “She’ll just take a little nap.”

  “And shit her pants. You said she would shit her pants.”

  “She’s not even wearing pants.”

  “Gavin!”

  Gavin puts his finger to his lips.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Look, if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  “I do,” I say. “You shoot the poachers. I’ll handle the girl.”

  Gavin’s dubious. “That girl’s undergone a severely traumatic sequence of experiences. I’m not sure a team of highly-trained psychologists could handle her right now.”