N EBULA
/A /_|r\ WARDS sHowcAsE2001 TheYear'sBestSF and Fantasy Chosenby theScience Fiction and FantasyWritersof America
EDITEDBY
RobertSitverberg
A H A R V E SOTR I G I N A L H A R C O U RI T N,C . SanDiego NewYorkLondon
Compilation copyright @ zoor by Science Fiction and FantasyWriters ofAmerica Inhoduction and headnotcs copyright @ zoor by Agberg, Ltd. Gary K. Wolfe essaycopyright @ zoor by Gary K. Wolfe Harry Harrison cssaycopvright @ zmr bv Harry Harrison Barry N. Malzberg essaycopyright @ zoor by Barry N. Malzberg AII rights reserved. No part ofthis publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, elechonic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storageand retrieval system,withor,rt permission in writing from the publisher. Rcqucsts for permission to make copics ofany part ofthe work should be mailed to the following address:PennissionsDepartment, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 328874777. www.harcourt.com The SFWA Nebula Awards is a trademark of the Science Fiction and Fantasywriters of America, Inc. Thc Library ofCongress has cataloged this serial as follows: The Nebula awards.-No. r9-NewYork [N.y]:Arbor House, cr9g3_v.;zzcm. Annual. Published:San Dicgo, Cali[: Harcourt, Inc., 1984Published for: Science Fiction and Flntasy Writers ofAmerica, r9g3Continues: Nebula award stories (New York, N.y: r98z) ISSN o74r-5567= The Nebula awards r. Scienccfi ction. American- Periodicals. r. Science!-iction and FantasyWritcrs of America.
PS648.S3N38 8z-6+nss 8r3'.o876'o8-dcr9 MCRz
MARC.S
Library of Congrcs [87o9r84]rev ISBN o-r5-rm58i-8 ISBN or5-6o1335-5(pbk) Text set in Electra Designed by Kaelin Chappell Printcd in thc United Statesof America I(JTHGFEDCBA First cdition Permissionsacknowledgments appear on page 253,which constihrtes a contimration of the copyright page.
IN MEMORIAM
A. E. van Vogt Oliver E. Saari A,rtSaha Marion Zimmer Bradley CharlesD. Hornig Eddie|ones FrankBryning Howard Browne WaltWillis famesWhite George"Lan" Laskowski Marjii Ellers Charles"Chuch" Harris Chris Boyce fim Tirrner Terry Hodel RayRussell StanleyKubrick Robert"Buck" Coulson FrankMcConnell )ohn W. Pritchard("Ian Wallace")
CONTENTS
Introduction: Nebulasat Centu4y's End ix RobertSilverberg
Storyof YourLife (bestnovelta) 7 Ted Chiang
Mars Is No Placefor Children (bestnovetette) 49 MaryA. Turzillo
TheCostof DoingBusiness(bestshortstory) 85 LeslieWhat
EpiloguefromParableoftlre Talents (bestnovel) 96 OctaviaE. Butler
Unhidden Agendas,Unfinished ltialogues: 1999 in ScienceFiction 1.07 GaryK.Wolfe The Wedding Atbum 1,?3 David Marusek
Radiant Doors 177 Michael Swanwick
TheGrandMasterAward:Brian W.Atdiss 794 Harry Harrison
JudasDanced 196 BrianW.Aldiss Author Emeritus 2000: Daniel Keyes 21'0 BarryN. Malzberg
Algernon,Charlig and I: A Write/s Journey ?13 Daniel Keyes
RhystingAwardWinners 236 BruceBoston Laurel Winter
Appendixes ?43 About the Nebula Awards PastN ebulaAward Winners AbouttheScienceFiction andFantasyWritersof America
Introduction NEBULAS AT CENTURY'S END ROBERTSILVERBERG
So here we all are in the twenty-first century, we raggle-taggle band of survivingtwentieth-centurysciencefictionists,staringfuthur C. Clarke'sown yearof 2001 in the eyeand looking back in this volume at the NebulaAwardseventof May 2000,wherethe ScienceFiction and FantasyWriters of America, hereafterknown in thesepagesas SFWA, honoredthe bestsciencefictionandfantasystoriesof 1998and 1999:the stateof the art in our field asthe old centurycameto its end. (Why the beststoriesof 1998and ry99,you may ask?Is the Nebula Award not given annually?Yes,it is. Why, then, were someof the nominatedstoriesfirstpublishedtwo yearsbeforethe banquetat which theywerehonored?Because the Nebulaeligibilityrulesareverystrange, kiddo. Now go awayand studyyour non-Aristotelian logic lessons, will you?) The organizationthat givestheseawardswasfoundedin 1965by the writer,critic, and editorDamon Knight. Its purpose,assetforth in the original setof bylaws,was"to inform sciencefiction writerson mattersof professionalinterest,to promotetheir professionalwelfare,and to help them deal effectivelywith publishers,agents,editors,and anthologists."Note that nothing is explicitly mentioned about awardsin that statement. Seventy-twowritersrespondedto Knight'sinitial invitation and became charter membersof SFWA. At least thirty-one of them are still
Introduction later:not a badactuarialdisplay.The very alive,threeand a half decades first name on the list of chartermembersis that of Brian W. Aldiss,who wasnamed to the rosterof SFWA'sGrand Mastersat the z,oooNebula ceremony. The name of Daniel Keyes,the zooo Author Emerifus, shouldhavebeenon that list too-certainly he wason the sceneat the iime-but evidentlyhe didn't bothersigningup. The list of original membersis bespeckledwith the namesof a number of other writers who eventuallyreceivedthe Grand Master award-Poul Anderson,IsaacAsimov,A]fredBester,futhur C. Clarke, Robert A. Heinlein, Damon Knight, Fritz Leiber, Frederik Pohl, fack Vance,A. E. van Vogt,and fack Williamson.That'stwelveGrand Masmembers,including,by a curiouscoincitersout of the firstseventy-two dence,the first four nameson the alphabeticalroster.Anderson,Pohl, and Williamson also went on to becomepresidentsof SFWA, as did suchotherchartermembersasBen Bova,GordonR. Dickson,|amesE. Gunn, AIan E. Nourse,and Norman Spinrad.(l wasa chartermember too, and in an unguardedmomentI allowedmyselfto becomethe second presidentof SFWA,succeedingDamon Knight in fuly 1967.) As those statisticsshow,we were a tight-knit little bunch then. else,and mostof uswerefamiliar Everybodyknewpracticallyeverybody with nearly everythingthat everybodyelse had writien. In that far-off yearof 1965,sciencefiction wasa quaintlittle cornerof the publishing world, cherishedonly by thosefew who cherishedit and generallyignoredor mockedby everybodyelse.Two or threehardcoverpublishers, providedthe a handfulofpaperbackhouses,and sixor sevenmagazines worldwith suchSF aswasavailable.Lessthan a dozen English-speaking of the original seventy-twoSFWA membersearneda full-time living ftom sciencefiction. Nobody made the New YorkTimesbest-sellerlist. Nobody even made the Locus best-sellerlist, becauseLocus hadn't begun publication. Star Trek hadn't happenedyet, either. Stanley Kubrick hadn't even startedtalking to futhur Clarke, probably,about the movie that would be calledzoor. Nor had all the restof the stuffthat makesSF such big businesstoday-the computergames,the fantasy playingcards,the jilliondollar spaceadventuremoviesstarringBruce Willis or SeanConnery or Keanu Reevesor SigourneyWeaver-come into view We wrote our little storiesand our little novels,and we were of faithful readers, paid a little bit of money,and we had a little gagg;le and that wasthat.
Introduction
Damon Knight dreamedup the Nebula Awardsmidway through the organization's first year,not somuch asa promotionaldevice(asthey havesinceinevitablybecome)but asa wayfor professional writersto recognizehigh literaryaccomplishment in the workof their peers.His plan wasto hold a formal banquet each year in New York, then as now the publishingcenterof the counhy, at which hophiesof someappropriately dignified sort would be given out to the writers of the bestnovel, novella,novelette,and short story of the previousyear, nominations beingopen to the entiremembershipand winnerschosenby member vote.Sincetranscontinental travelwasnot then aseasyasit would later become,WestCoastmembersweregiventhe optionof holdinga simultaneousbanquetof their own. The firstNebulabanquetswereheld on March rr, 1966-the New York one at the OverseasPressClub in midtown Manhattan, the West Coastone at McHenry'sThil o'the Cock Restaurantin BeverlyHills. I waspresentat the New Yorkdinner,and I recallthreethingsin particular aboutit: r) The food wasterrible. z) Among thoseat my table were not only the well-knownwriters Anne McCaftey and GordonR. Dickson,but a certainDamon Stetson, then a reporterfor the NewYorkTimes.laskedhim whetherhe wascov"Oh, no," he said."Damon Knight eringthe banquetfor his newspaper. invitedme justbecausemy nameis Damon. He likeshavingother Damonsaround."This was,alas,not my first clue to the existenceof the mile-widestreakof frivolity that wasand is a distinguishingcharacteristic of our organization's esteemed founder. Also seatedat my table wasa writer whosename I remember 3) only too well but will leaveunstatedhere.Throughsomeincomprehensiblemiraclehe had begunhis careerin sciencefiction with the almost impossibletrick of sellinga collectionof his shortstoriesto Doubleday, then the premier publisherof hardcoversciencefiction-stories that, asit happened,had nearlyall beenrejectedby the SF magazines of that day.(lt washis first and lastbook, incidentally.)About an hour through the meal,afterlisteningto the veteranprosMcCaftey, Dickson,and Silverbergengagingin a steadystreamof insiderchat,Mr. X turnedto me pleasantlyand said,"Oh, areyou a writertoo, Ralph?" Annie McCaffrey,blessher,sethim straighton that subjectwith a burstof true Gaelicfervor.And then we went on to the speeches of the
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evening,and then the awards.Tho of the winnerswere with us in New York-RogerZelazny and Brian Aldiss.(Zelaznygot two, tying with Aldissfor bestnovellaand winning solofor bestnovelette.)The other two, Frank Herbert (bestnovel) and Harlan Ellison (bestshort story),wereat the California fiesta. The main reasonDamon Knight gavefor establishingthe Nebulas wasthe hope that they would serveasa correctiveto the iniquities and inequitiesof the Hugo Award system.The Hugos,which date back to rg17,arc chosenby vote of.the readersof sciencefiction, and are given out at the annualWorld ScienceFiction Convention,an eventrun by and primarily for the fansof sciencefiction. The Hugosthus are a reflectionof populartasteratherthan informedprofessional opinion,and it wasDamon'sbeliefthat SFWA,which wasat the outseta smallgroup made up largelyof working professionalwriters,would succeedin conferring its awardon storiesof more significantliterary merit than Hugo winners sometimestended to display.(There wasa generalperception then amongwritersthat Hugosusuallywent to conspicuouslyunliterary though a look at the record showsus |ames Blish'sA crowd-pleasers, a Hugo in 1959,Daniel Keyes's"Flowersfor Caseof Consciencewinning Algernon"in 196o,WalterMiller'sACanticle for Leibowitzin 196r,and Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castlein 1963.) Be that as it may,the Hugo wasthen, and largelystill is, regarded asan awardgiven to the favoritesof the fans,and the Nebula asa reflection of the more sophisticatedtastesof the pros.Whether thingsactually haveworkedout that way is not a topic on which I'd careto provide an opinion.The first yearthere wasa significantcorrelationbetweenthe two awards,but also somesignificantdifferences:Ellison's"'Repent, Harlequin!'Saidthe Ticktockman"took both Hugo and Nebula,asdid Frank Herbeft's Dune. But although Zelazny, after winning a pair of Nebulas,won a Hugo also,it wasfor a different story,one that had not evenmadethe Nebula ballot.And the novellathat broughtAldissa Nebula wasignoredby the Hugo nominators. Over the next few years,the divergencebetweenHugo and Nebula winnersbecameevengreater.In thoseearliestdaysof SFWA,when the whole nominating electorateamounted to some fifteen or twenty members,Nebulasdid indeedgo to somehighly esotericstoriespublishedin highlyesotericplaces,whereasHugosgenerallywentto the sto' That is lessandlesstrue riesmostreadilyavailableto the massof readers.
Introduction xiii today,in partbecausethe membershipof SFWAhasgrownenormously, so that insteadof being made up almostentirelyof hard-bittenpros it now includeshundredsof hobbyistwriterswith justtwo or threesalesto their credii. The admissionof so manywriterswho would not havebeen consideredprofessionals by the harsherstandards of ry65hascreateda much greateroverlapbetweenthe Hugo electorateand the Nebula electorate than therewasat the beginning.Still, there'sno questionthat a consid* erabledisparityexistsbetweeneachyeart Nebulaand Hugo winners;by and large,not only the winnersbut alsothe nominatedfinaliststend to be different,exceptwhen a storyof such overwhelmingsuperiorityappearsthat it sweepsboth awards.Such instanceshavebeen relatively rare.(My own caseis typical.I've won a numberof Hugosand a number of Nebulas,but neverboth awardsfor ihe samestory.) I supposethe chief reasonnowadaysfor the divergencebetween the two setsof awardwinners is the Byzantineeligibility systemof modern SFWA,which permitsstoriesto be nominatedovera spanof several years.(Hugo nomineesmust all be drawn from the prior year'spubhcations.)But somethingelse is going on as well. One cannotdeny that Hugosgenerallygo to storieswhoseprimary virtue is that they areentertaining-that they provide the SF readershipwith the proper sort of diversion.Entertainmentvalue is scarcelyignoredby the Nebula nominators,but other factorsseemto come into play also,factorsof more immediateconcernto professional writers,suchastechnicalor conceptual originality,or the placeof a particularstoryin the patternof a particular writer'scareer.Then, too, more than one Nebulahasbeenawardedon a basisof politicalcorrectness; more than one out of a feelingthat good old so-and-so deserves a Nebula after getting so many raw dealsin previousyears;and sometimes, even,an awardis bestowedfor superiorliterary merit. A comparisonof this year'sNebula ballot with the Hugo ballots for 1999and zoooshowsthe usualpatternofdivergence.fust one ofthe sixnovelson the Nebulaballotwasa Hugo finalistalso-Vernor Vinge's A Deepnessin the Sky.One Nebula-nominatednovella,"The Astronaut from Wyoming"byAdam-TioyCastroand ferry Oltion, madeit to the zoooHugo ballot,and another,Ted Chiang's"Story of your Life," wasa Hugo finalistthe previousyear.BruceSterling'snovelette"Taklamakan" and Michael Swanwick's"RadiantDoors,"both 1998stories,
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were likewiseon this year'sNebula ballot and last year'sHugo ballot. "AncientEngines"wason the zoooNebulaand Hugo lists. Swanwick's just nomineesout of twenty-fivemanagedto makeit also six Nebula So to count two yearsof Hugo balto the Hugo ballot-and it's necessary loting for that.The only categoryin which there'sanysignificantoverlap is the one for movies,whereThelron Ciant,The Matrix, andTheSixth Sensemakeboth setsof ballots-but therewasa much smallergroupof to choosefrom in that categoryihan in the others. potentialcandidates Whateverthesevariancesmay mean,the fact remainsthat boih the Nebulaand the Hugo nominationsaregood indicatorsof the most memorablesciencefiction and fantasystoriesof the year.They arethe top storiesin the estimationof thosewho, whetherasproducersor conTo reachthe final sumersor both, arethe mostknowledgeabledevotees. winning a Nebula although cherished, and, is to be ballot a distinction is indeeda fine thing, the authorsof the runner-upstorieshaveno reasonto regardthemselves aslosers.Out of the overallpool of awardsnominees,not lust the list of winners, come the storiesthat the readersof At the century'send, thesewerethe stotomorrowwill look to asclassics. riesthat the membersof SFWAchoseto honor:
The 1999 Nebula AwardsFinal Batlot F O RN O V E L oParable of theTalents,OctaviaE. Butler (SevenStoriesPress) The CassiniDivision,Ken Macleod (Tot) AClash of Kings,GeorgeR. R. Martin (BantamSpectra) MissionChild, MaureenF. McHugh (AvonEos) Mockingbird,SeanStewart(Ace) ADeepnessin the Sky,VernorVinge (Tor) F O RN O V E L L A Fiction) "RealityCheck,"Michael A. Burstein(AnalogScience "The Astronautfrom Wyoming,"Adam-TfoyCastroand )erryOltion (Analog Science Fiction) *lndicateswinner.
Introduction n, o"Storyof YourLife," Ted Chiang (Starlightz) "Living Tlust," L. Timmel Duchamp (Asimov'sScienceFiction) "The Executioners'Guild,"Andy Duncan (Asimov's ScienceFiction) "The WeddingAlbum," David Marusek(Asimov'sScienceFiction) F O RN O V E L E T T E "The Islandin the Lake,"PhyllisEisenstein(Fantasy6 ScienceFiction) "How to Make Unicorn Pie,"EstherM. Friesner(Fantasy6 Science Fiction) "Five Daysin April," Brian A. Hopkins(ChiaroscurQ "Good Intentions,"StanleySchmidtand JackMcDeviti (Fantasy6 ScienceFiction) o"MarsIs No Placefor Children,"Mary A. Tirrzillo (SF Agu) F O RS H O R T STORY "Flower Kiss,"ConstanceAsh (Realmsof Fantasy) "The Dead Boy atYour Window," Bruce Holland Rogers(North AmericanReview) "Basil the Dog," FrancesSherwood(Atlantic Monthly) 1{ncient Engines,"Michael Swanwick(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "RadiantDoors,"Michael Swanwick(Asimov'sScienceFiction) o"The Cosi of Doing Business," LeslieWhat (AmazingStories) F O RS C R I P T TheDevil'sArithmetic,Robertf. Avrech(ShowtimeTelevision) Thelron Giant, BradBird and Tim McCanlies(WarnerBrothers) The UranusExperiment:Partz, JohnMillerman (PrivateBlackLabel) oTheSixthSense,M. Night Shyamalan(Buena Msta) The Matrix, Larry and Andy Wachowski(WarnerBrothers)
NEBULA AvMARDS SHOWCASE2OOI
N E B U LFAO RB E S N T OVELLA @
Storyof Yourlife T E DC H I A N G
Ied Chiang, whowasbornin PortJefferson, NewYork,andcurrentlylivesnearSeattte,hasachieved the remarkable trick of winningawards with threeof hisfirstfourpublished science fiction stories.Theonewith whichhe madehis debut,the memorable"Towerof Babyton," appearing in lmni, baggeda Nebula in 1990,andwon him furtheracctaimthe fottowingyearwhen he receivedthe John W.Campbell Awardfor BestNewWriter. "Understand," Histhird pubLished story, broughthimthe 1991 Reade/sAwardfrom Isoac Asimov'sScienceFictionMagazine. AndherewehaveChiang's opus4, "Storyof YourLife,"fromthe anthotogy Starlight2, for whichhe received his secondNebuta in NewYorklastyear. Concerning this storyhe says,"It grewout of myinterestin principtes the variationa[ of physics. I'vefoundtheseprinciptes fascinating eversinceI first learnedof them,but I didn'tknow howto usethemin a storyuntil I sawa performance of Time FliesWhenYou're Alive,Pau[Linke'sone-manshowabout his wife'sbatttewith breastcancer.It occurred to methen that I mightbe ableto usevariational principles to te[[ a storyabout a person's response to the inevitable. A fewyearslater,that notion combinedwith a friend'sremarkabouther newbornbaby to formthe nucteus of this storv.
Nebula Awards 2001 Showcase "For those interestedin physics,I shoutdnote that the story'sdiscussion of Fermat's Principte of LeastTimeomitsatl mention of its quantum-mechanicaI underpinnings. Thatformulationis interestingin its own way,but I preferred the metaphoricpossibitities of the classical version."
Your fatheris aboutto askme the question.This is the most importantmomentin our lives,and I wantto payattention,note everydetail.Yourdadand I havejustcomebackfrom an eveningout, dinnerand a show;it's after midnight.We cameout onto the patio to look at the full moon;then I told yourdadI wantedto dance,sohe humorsme and now we'reslow-dancing,a pair of thirtysomethingsswayingbackand forth in the moonlightlike kids.I don't feel the night chill at all. And then your dad says,"Do you want to makea baby?" Right now your dad and I havebeen married for about two years, living on Ellis Avenue;when we moveout you'll still be too youngto remember the house, but we'll show you pictures of it, tell you stories aboutit. I'd love to tell you the storyof this evening,the night you'reconceived,but the right time to do that would be when you'rereadyto have childrenof your own, and we'll nevergetthat chance. Telling it to you any earlierwouldn't do any good;for most of your life you won't sit still to hearsucha romantic- you'd saysappy- story.I rememberthe scenarioof your origin you'll suggest whenyou'retwelve. "The only reasonyou had me wasso you could get a maid you wouldn't have to pay,"you'll saybitterly, draggingthe vacuum cleaner out of the closet. "That's right," I'll say."Thirteen yearsago I knew the carpets would needvacuumingaroundnow, and havinga babyseemedto be the cheapestand easiestway to get the job done. Now kindly get on with it." "lf you weren't my mother, this would be illegal," you'll say, seethingasyou unwind the power cord and plug it into the wall outlet. That will be in the house on Belmont Street.I'll live to see strangers occupyboth houses:the one you'reconceivedin and the one you growup in. Yourdadand I will sellthe firsta coupleyearsafteryour arrival.I'11sell the secondshortlyafteryour departure.By then Nelson
Storyof YourLife and I will have moved into our farmhouse,and your dad will be living with what's-her-name. I know how this storyends;I think aboutit a lot. I alsothink a lot abouthow it began,just a few yearsago,when shipsappearedin orbit and artifactsappearedin meadows.The governmentsaidnext to nothing aboutthem,while the tabloidssaideverypossiblething. And then I gota phone call, a requestfor a meeting. I spotted them waiting in the hallway, outside my office. They made an odd couple; one wore a military uniform and a crew cut, and carriedan aluminumbriefcase.He seemedto be assessing his surroundings with a critical eye.The other one waseasilyidentifiableasan academic: full beardand mustache,wearingcorduroy.He wasbrowsing throughthe overlappingsheetsstapledto a bulletin boardnearby. "Colonel Weber, I presume?"I shook hands with ihe soldier. "LouiseBanks." "Dr. Banks. Thank you for taking the time to speakwith us," he said. "Not at all; any excuseto avoidthe faculty meeting." ColonelWeberindicatedhis companion."This is Dr. Gary Donnelly, the physicistI mentionedwhen we spokeon the phone." "Call me Gary)'he saidaswe shookhands."l'm anxiousto hear what you haveto say." We enteredmy office.I moveda coupleof stacksof booksoffthe secondguestchair,and we all satdown."You saidyou wantedme to listen to a recording.I presumethis hassomethingto do with the aliens?" 'All I can offer is the recording,"saidColonel Weber. "Okay,let'shear it." Colonel Weber took a tape machine out of his briefcaseand pressedpuy. The recordingsoundedvaguelylike that of a wet dog shaking the waterout of its fur. "What do you makeof that?"he asked. I withheld my comparisonto a wet dog. "What wasthe contextin which this recordingwasmade?" "l'm not at libertyto say." "lt would help me interpretthosesounds.Could you seethe alien while it wasspeaking?Wasit doing anything at the time?"
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"The recordingis all I can offer." "You won't be giving anything awayif you tell me that you'veseen the aliens;the public'sassumed you have." ColonelWeberwasn'tbudging."Do you haveany opinion about its linguisticproperties?" he asked. "Well, it's clear that their vocal tract is substantiallydifferentfrom a human vocaltract.I assumethat thesealiensdon'tlook like humans?" The colonelwasaboutto saysomethingnoncommittalwhenGary basedon the tape?" Donnellyasked,"Can you makeanyguesses "Not really. It doesn'tsound like they're using a larynx to make thosesounds,but that doesn'ttell me whattheylook like." "Anything-is thereanythingelseyou can tell us?"askedColonel Weber. I could seehe wasn'taccustomedto consultinga civilian."Only that establishing communicationsis goingto be reallydifficult because of the differencein anatomy.They'realmostcertainlyusingsoundsthat the human vocal tract can't reproduce,and maybe soundsthat the human earcan't distinguish." "You meaninfra-or ulhasonicfrequencies?" askedGary Donnelly. "Not specifically. I justmeanthat the human auditorysystemisn't it's optimizedto recognizethe sounds acoustic instrument; an absolute that a human larynxmakes.With an alienvocalsystem,all betsareoff." I shrugged."Maybewe'll be able to hear the differencebetweenalien phonemes,givenenoughpractice,but it'spossibleour earssimplycan't recognizethe distinctionsthey considermeaningful.In that casewe'd to know whatan alien is saying." needa soundspectrograph Colonel Weber asked,"SupposeI gave you an hour's worth of recordings;how long would it take you to determine if we need this soundspectrogaphor not?" "l couldn't determinethat with iust a recordingno matter how much time I had.I'd needto talk with the aliensdirectly." The colonel shookhis head."Not possible." I hied to breakit to him gently."That'syour call,of course.But the way to learn an unknown languageis to interact with a native only speaker,and by that I mean askingquestions,holding a conversation, that sort of thing. Without that, it'ssimply not possible.So if you want to someonewith trainingin field linguisticslearn the aliens'language,
Storyof YourLife whether it! me or someoneelse-will have to talk with an alien. Recordingsalonearen't sufficient." Colonel Weber frowned."You seemto be implying that no alien could havelearnedhuman languagesby monitoring our broadcasts." "I doubt it. They'd need instructional material specifically designedto teach human languagesto nonhumans.Either that, or interactionwith a human. If they had eitherof those,they could learna lot from TV, but otherwise,they wouldn't havea startingpoint." The colonel clearlyfound this interesting;evidentlyhis philoso. phy was,the lessthe aliens knew, the better. Gary Donnelly read the colonel'sexpression too and rolledhis eyes.I suppressed a smile. Then Colonel Weber asked,"Supposeyou were learninga new languageby talking to its speakers; could you do it without teaching them English?" "That would dependon how cooperativethe nativespeakers were. Theyd almostcertainlypick up bitsand pieceswhile I'm learningtheir language,but it wouldn't haveto be much if they'rewilling to teach.On the other hand, if they'd rather learn English than teach us their language,that would makethingsfar more difficult." The colonel nodded."l'll get back to you on this matter." The requestfor that meeting was perhapsthe secondmost mo. mentousphonecall in my life. The first,of course,will be the one from Mountain Rescue.At that point your dad and I will be speakingto each other maybeonce a year,tops.After I get that phone call, though,the firstthing I'll do will be to call your father. He and I will drive out togetherto perform the identification,a long silentcar ride. I rememberthe morgue,all tile and stainless steel, the hum of refrigerationand smellof antiseptic.An orderlywill pull the sheetback to revealyour face.Your facewill look wrong somehow,but I'll know it's you. "Yes,thatt her," l'll say."She'smine." You'll be twenty-fivethen. The MP checkedmy badge,made a notationon his clipboard, and openedthe gate;I drovethe off-roadvehicle into the encampment, a small village of tents pitched by the fumy in a farmer'ssun-scorched
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pasfure.At the centerof the encampmentwasone of the alien devices, nicknamed"lookingglasses." Accordingto the briefingsI'd attended,therewerenine of thesein the United States,one hundred and twelve in the world. The looking glasses actedastwo-waycommunicationdevices,presumablywith the shipsin orbit.No one knewwhy the alienswouldn'tialk to us in person; fearof cooties,maybe.A team of scientists, includinga physicistand a linguist,wasassignedto eachlookingglass;Gary Donnelly and I were on this one. Garywaswaitingfor me in the parkingarea.Wenavigateda circular mazeof concretebarricades until we reachedthe largetent that coveredthe lookingglassitselflIn front of the tent wasan equipmentcart loadedwith goodiesborrowedfrom the school'sphonologylab; I had sentit aheadfor inspectionby the A.rmy. Also outsidethe tent were three tripod-mountedvideo cameras whoselensespeered,throughwindowsin the fabricwall, into the main room.EverythingGaryand I did wouldbe reviewedby countlessothers, includingmilitaryintelligence.In additionwe would eachsenddailyreports,of which mine had to include estimates on how much EnglishI thoughtthe alienscould understand. Gary held open the tent flap and geshrredfor me to enter."Step "Marvel at creaturesthe likes of right up," he said, circus-barker-style. have which neverbeenseenon Godt greenearth." "And all for one slim dime," I murmured,walking through the At door. the momentthe lookingglasswasinactive,resemblinga semicircularmirror overten feei high and twentyfeetacross.On the brown grassin front of the lookingglass,an arcof whitespraypaini outlinedthe activationarea.Currentlythe areacontainedonly a table,two folding chairs,and a powerstripwith a cord leadingto a generatoroutside.The buzz of fluorescentlamps,hung from polesalongthe edgeof the room, commingledwith the buzz of fliesin the swelteringheat. Gary and I lookedat eachother,and then beganpushingthe cart of equipmentup to the table.As we crossedthe paint line, the looking glassappearedto grow transparent;it wasasif someonervasslowlyraising the illuminationbehind tinted glass.The illusionof depthwasuncanny;I felt I could walkright into it. Once the lookingglasswasfully lit
Storyof YourLife it resembleda life-sizeddioramaof a semicircularroom.The room containeda few largeobjectsthat might havebeenfurniture,but no aliens. There wasa door in the curvedrearwall. We busiedourselves connectingeverythingtbgether:microphone, soundspechograph, portablecomputer,and speaker. As we worked,I frequentlyglancedat the lookingglass,anticipatingthe aliens'arrival. Evenso I jumpedwhen one of them entered. It lookedlike a barrelsuspended at the intersectionof sevenlimbs. It wasradiallysymmetric,and any of its limbs could serveasan arm or a leg.The one in front of me waswalkingaroundon four legs,threenonadjacentarmscurledup at its sides.Gary calledthem "heptapods." I'd beenshownvideotapes, but I still gawked.Its limbs had no distinct joints;anatomistsguessedthey might be supportedby vertebral columns.Whatevertheir underlyingstructure,the heptapod'slimbs conspiredto moveit in a disconcertingly fluid manner.Its "torso"rode atopthe rippling limbs assmoothlyasa hovercraft. Sevenlidlesseyesringedthe top of the heptapod's body.It walked back to the doorwayfrom which it entered,made a brief sputtering sound,and rehrrnedto the centerof the room followedby anotherheptapod;at no poini did it everturn around.Eerie,but logical;with eyeson all sides,any directionmight aswell be "forward." Gary had beenwatchingmy reaction."Ready?"he asked. I tooka deepbreath."Readyenough."I'd doneplentyof fieldwork before,in the Amazon,but it had alwaysbeena bilingualprocedure:either my informantsknewsomePortuguese, which I could use,or I'd previouslygotten an intro to their languagefrom the local missionaries. This would be my first attemptat conductinga true monolingualdiscoveryprocedure.It wasstraighforwardenoughin theory,though. I walkedup to the lookingglassand a heptapodon the otherside did the same.The imagewassorealthatmy skincrawled.I could seethe textureof its grayskin,like corduroyridgesarrangedin whorlsand loops. There wasno smell at all from the looking glass,which somehowmade the situationstranger. I pointedto myselfand saidslowly,"Human." Then I pointedto Gary."Human." Then I pointedat eachheptapodand said,"What are you?"
2001 NebulaAwardsShowcase
No reaction.I tried again,and then again. One of the heptapodspointed to itself with one limb, the four tertogether.That waslucky.In someculturesa person minal digitspressed pointedwith his chin; if the heptapodhadn't usedone of its limbs, I wouldn't haveknown what gestureto look for. I hearda brief futtering sound, and sawa puckeredorifice at the top of its body vibrate;it was talking. Then it pointed to its companionand fluttered again. I went back to my computer;on its screenweretwo virtually idenrepresentingthe fluttering sounds.I markeda sample tical spectrographs for playback.I pointedto myselfand said"Human" again,and did the samewith Gary. Then I pointed to the heptapod,and playedback the futter on the speaker. The heptapodfuttered somemore.The secondhalf of the spectrographfor this utterancelookedlike a repetition:call the previousutterances[flutterr],then this one was[flutterzflutterr]. I pointed at somethingthat might have been a heptapod chair. "What is that?" The heptapodpaused,and then pointed at the "chair" and talked somemore.The spechographfor this differeddistinctlyfrom that of the earliersounds:[fluttery].Once again,l pointedto the "chair"while playing back [fluttery]. it lookedlike The heptapodreplied;iudgingby the spectrograph, [flutteryfutterz].Optimisticinterpretation:the heptapodwasconfirmascorrect,which impliedcompatibilitybetweenheping my utterances it had interpretation: Pessimistic tapodand humanpatternsof discourse. a naggingcough. At my computer I delimited certain sectionsof the spectrogaph and typed in a tentativeglossfor each:"heptapod"for [flutten], "yes"for [flutterz], and "chair" for [fluttery]. Then I typed "Language:Heptapod A" asa headingfor all the utterances. Gary watchedwhat I wastyping. "What's the A' for?" "lt iust distinguishes this languagefrom any other onesthe heptapodsmight use,"I said,He nodded. "Now let'stry something,iustfor laughs."I pointedat eachheptapod and tried to mimic the soundof [flutterr],"heptapod."After a long pause,the first heptapodsaidsomethingand then the secondone said resembledanything said somethingelse,neither of whosespectrographs
Storyof YourLife before.I couldn'ttell if theywerespeakingto eachotheror to me since they had no facesto turn. I tried pronouncing[flutterr]again,but there wasno reaction. "Not evenclose,"I grumbled. "l'm impressedyou can makesoundslike that at all," saidGary. "Youshouldhearmy moosecall. Sendsthem running." I tried againa few more times, but neither heptapodresponded with anythingI could recognize.Only when I replayedthe recordingof the heptapod'spronunciationdid I get a confirmation;the heptapod repliedwith [flutterzJ,"yes." "So we'restuckwith usingrecordings?" askedGary. 'At I nodded. leasttemporarily." "So now what?" "Now we makesureit hasn'tactuallybeensaying'aren'ttheycute' 'look or what theyre doing now.' Then we seeif we can identify anyof thesewordswhen that otherheptapodpronouncesthem."I gesturedfor him to havea seat."Get comfortable;this'll takea while." ln r77o,Captain Cook's shipEndeavourran agroundon the coast of Queensland,Australia.While someof his men made repairs,Cook led an explorationpartyand met the aboriginalpeople.One of the sailors pointedto the animalsthat hoppedaroundwith their young riding in pouches,and askedan aboriginewhat they werecalled.The aborigine replied,"Kanguru."From then on Cook and his sailorsreferredto the animalsby this word. It wasn'tuntil later that they learnedit meant "What did you say?" I tell that storyin my inhoductory courseeveryyear.Itt almostcertainlyuntrue,and I explainthatafterwards, but it'sa classicanecdote.Of course,the anecdotesmy undergraduates will really want to hear are onesfeaturingthe heptapods; for the restof my teachingcareer,that'll be the reasonmany of them signup for my courses.So I'll showthem the old videotapesof my sessions at the lookingglass,and the sessions that the other linguistsconducted;the tapesare instructive,and they'll be useful if we're ever visited by aliens again, but they don't generate manygoodanecdotes. When it comesto language-learning anecdotes, my favoritesource is child languageacquisition.I rememberone afternoonwhen you are
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five yearsold, after you have come home from kindergarten.You'll be coloringwith your crayonswhile I gradepapers. "Mom," you'll say,using the carefullycasualtone reservedfor requestinga favor,"can I askyou something?" "Sure,sweetie.Go ahead." "Can I be. um. honored?" I'll look up from the paperI'm grading."What do you mean?" 'At schoolSharonsaidshegot to be honored." "Really?Did shetell you whatfor?" "lt waswhen her big sistergot married.Shesaidonly one person could be, um, honored,and shewasit." "Ah, I see.You mean Sharonwasmaid of honor?" "Yeah,that'sit. Can I be madeof honor?" Gary and I enteredthe prefabbuilding containingthe centerof site.Insideit lookedlike theywereplanoperationsfor the looking-glass ning an invasion,or perhapsan evacuation:crew{ut soldiersworked around a large map of the area,or sat in front of burly elechonic gear while speakinginto headsets.We were shown into Colonel Weber'soffice, a room in the backthat wascool from air-conditioning. We briefedthe colonelon our firstdayt results."Doesn'tsoundlike you got veryfarl'he said. "l havean ideaasto how we can makefasterprogress,"I said."But you'll haveto approvethe useof more equipment." "What more do you need?" 'A digital camera,and a big video screen."I showedhim a drawing of the sehrpI imagined."l want to try conducting the discoveryprocedure usingwriting; I'd displaywordson the screen,and usethe camera to recordthe wordsthey write. I'm hoping the heptapodswill do the same." Weber looked at the drawing dubiously."What would be the advantageofthat?" "So far I've been proceedingthe way I would with speakersof an unwritten language.Then it occurred to me that the heptapodsmust havewriting too." "So?" "lf the heptapodshave a mechanicalway of producingwriting, then their writing ought to be very regular,very consistent.That would
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makeit easierfor us to identify graphemesinsteadof phonemes.It's like picking out the lettersin a printed sentenceinsteadof trying to hear them when the sentenceis spokenaloud." "I take your point," he admitted."And how would you respondto them?Showthem the wordsthey displayedto you?" "Basically.And if they put spacesbetweenwords,any sentences we write would be a lot more intelligiblethan any spokensentencewe might splicetogetherfrom recordings." He leanedbackin his chair."Youknowwe wantto showaslittle of our technoloryaspossible." "l understand,but we'reusingmachinesasintermediariesalready. If we can get them to usewriting, I believeprogresswill go much faster than if we're restrictedto the soundspectrographs." The colonelturnedto Gary."Youropinion?" "lt soundslike a good idea to me. I'm curiouswhetherthe heptapodsmight havedifficultyreadingour monitors.Their lookingglasses are basedon a completelydifferenttechnolorythan our videoscreens. fu far aswe can tell, they don't usepixelsor scanlines,and they don't refreshon a frame-by-frame basis." "You think the scanlines on our video screensmight renderthem unreadableto the heptapods?" 'We'll just "lt's possible," saidGary. haveto hy it and see." Weberconsideredit. Forme it wasn'tevena question,but from his point of view it was a difficult one; like a soldier,though, he made it quickly."Requestgranted.Thlk to the sergeantoutsideaboutbringing in what you need.Have it readyfor tomorrow." I rememberone dayduring the summerwhen you'resixteen.For once,the personwaitingfor her dateto arriveis me. Of course,you'll be waitingaroundtoo,curiousto seewhathe lookslike.You'llhavea friend of yours,a blond girl with the unlikelynameof Roxie,hangingout with you, giggling. "You may feel the urge to make commentsabout him,,' I'll say, checkingmyselfin the hallwaymirror. "fust reshainyourselvesuntil we leave." "Don't worry,Mom," you'll say."We'll do it sothat he won'tknow. Roxie,you askme what I think ihe weatherwill be like tonieht.Then I'll saywhat I think of Mom's date."
Awards Showcase 2001 Nebuta "Right," Roxiewill say. "No, you mostdefinitelywill not," I'll say. "Relax,Mom. He'll neverknow;we do this all the time." "What a comfortthat is." A little lateron, Nelsonwill arriveto pick me up. I'll do the introductions,and we'll all engagein a little small talk on the front porch. Nelson is ruggedlyhandsome,to your evidentapproval.fust as we're aboutto leave,Roxiewill sayto you casually,"So whatdo you think the weatherwill be like tonight?" "l think it'sgoingto be reallyhot,"you'll answer. Roxiewill nod in agreement.Nelsonwill say,"Really?I thought they saidit wasgoingto be cool." "l havea sixthsenseaboutthesethings,"you'll say.Yourfacewill give nothing away."l get the feeling it's going to be a scorcher.Good for it, Mom." thing you'redressed I'll glareat you, and saygoodnight. As I leadNelsontowardhis car,he'll askme, amused,"l'm missing somethinghere,aren'tI?" 'A privatefoke,"I'll mutter."Don't askme to explainit." at the lookingglass,we repeatedthe procedure At our nextsession before, this time displayinga printed word on our we had performed while saycomputerscreenat the sametime we spoke:showingHUMAN what understood "Human," heptapods the Eventually, so forth. and ing we wanted, and set up a flat circular screenmounted on a small pedestal.One heptapodspoke,and then inserteda limb inio a large socketin the pedestal;a doodleofscript, vaguelycursive,poppedonto the screen.We soonsettledinto a routine,and I compiledtwo parallel Basedon first one of writing samples. corpora:one of spokenutterances, their writing appearedto be logographic,which wasdisapimpressions, pointing;I'd beenhopingfor an alphabeticscriptto help us learntheir might includesomephoneticinformation,but speech.Their logograms finding it would be a lot harderthan with an alphabeticscript. By gettingup closeto the lookingglass,I wasableto point to variousheptapodbodyparts,suchaslimbs,digits,and eyes,and elicit terms for each.It turnedout that they had an orificeon the undersideof their body,lined with articulatedbony ridges:probablyusedfor eating,while the one at the top wasfor respirationand speech.There were no other
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conspicuousorifices;perhapstheir mouth was their anus too. Those sortsof questionswould haveto wait. I alsotried askingour two informantsfor termsfor addressing each individually;personalnames,if they had such things.Their answers were of courseunpronounceable,so for Gary'sand my purposes,I dubbed them Flapper and Raspberry.I hoped I'd be able to tell them apart. The next dayI conferredwith Gary beforewe enteredthe lookingglasstent."I'll needyour help with this session," I told him. "Sure.What do you want me to do?" "We need to elicit someverbs,and it's easiestwith third-person forms.Would you act out a few verbswhile I type the written form on the computer?If we're lucky, the heptapodswill figure out what we're doing and do the same.I've broughta bunch of propsfor you to use." "No problem," said Gary, crackinghis knuckles."Readywhen you are." We beganwith somesimple intransitiveverbs:walking, jumping, speaking,writing. Gary demonshatedeach one with a charminglack of self-consciousness; the presenceof the videocamerasdidn't inhibit him at all. For the first few actionshe performed,I askedthe heptapods, "What do you call that?"Beforelong,the heptapodscaughton to what we weretrying to do; RaspberrybeganmimickingGary,or at leastperforming the equivalentheptapodaction, while Flapperworked their computer,displayinga written descriptionand pronouncingit aloud. In the spectrographs oftheir spokenutterances, I could recognize their word I had glossedas "heptapod."The restof eachutterancewas presumablythe verbphrase;it lookedlike they had analogsof nounsand verbs,thank goodness.In their writing, however,thingsweren'tasclearcut. For eachaction,they had displayeda singlelogograminsteadoftwo separateones.At first I thought they had written somethinglike "walks," with the subjectimplied. But why would Flappersay"the heptapod walks"while writing "walks,"insteadof maintainingparallelism? Then I noticedthat someof the logogramslookedlike the logogramfor "heptapod" with someextrastrokesaddedto one sideor another.Perhaps their verbscould be written asaffixesto a noun. If so,why wasFlapperwriting the noun in someinstancesbut not in others? I decidedto hy a transitiveverb;substitutingobjectwordsmight
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clarifythings.Amongthe propsI'd broughtwerean appleand a sliceof bread."Okay,"I saidto Gary,"showthem the food,and then eatsome. Firstthe apple,then the bread." Gary pointedat the Golden Deliciousand then he took a bite out Then we of it, while I displayedthe "whatdo you call that?"expression. repeatedit with the sliceof wholewheat. Raspberry left the room and returnedwith somekind of giantnut pointedat the gourdwhile ellipsoid.Raspberry or gourdand a gelatinous Flappersaida word and displayeda logogram.Then Raspberrybrought the gourd down betweenits legs,a crunchingsoundresulted,and the gourd reemergedminusa bite; therewerecornlikekernelsbeneaththe shell. Flappertalked and displayeda large logogramon their screen. for "gourd" changedwhen it wasusedin the The soundspectrograph sentence;possiblya casemarker.The logogramwas odd: after some study,I could identify graphicelementsthat resembledthe individual logogramsfor "heptapod"and "gourd."They lookedasif theyhad been melted together,with severalextrastrokesin the mix that presumably meant"eat."Wasit a multiwordligature? Next we got spokenand written namesfor the gelatin egg,and de'Ihe for "heptapod soundspectrograph scriptionsof the act of eatingit. "gelatinegg"borea casemarker,asexeatsgelatinegg"wasanalyzable; word order differedfrom lasttime. The pected,though the sentence's written form, anotherlargelogogram,wasanothermatter.This time it took much longerfor me to recognizeanythingin it; not only werethe individuallogogramsmeltedtogetheragain,it lookedas if the one for "heptapod"was laid on its back, while on top of it the logogramfor "gelatinegg"wasstandingon its head. "Uh-oh." I took another look at the writing for the simple nounverb examples,the onesthat had seemedinconsistentbefore.Now I realized all of them actuallydid contain the logogramfor "heptapod"; somewere rotatedand distortedby being combinedwith the various verbs,so I hadn'trecognizedthem at first."You guyshavegot to be kidding,"I muttered. "What'swrong?"askedGary. "Their script isn't word-divided;a sentenceis written by ioining the logogramsfor the constituentwords.They ioin the logogramsby rotating and modifying them. Thke a look." I showedhim how the logogramswere rotated.
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"So they can read a word with equal easeno matter how it's rotated,"Garysaid.He turnedto look at the heptapods, "l wonimpressed. der if it's a consequence of their bodies'radialsymmetry:their bodies haveno'forward'direction,somaybetheirwritingdoesn'teither.Highly neat." I couldn't believeit; I wasworkingwith someonewho modified the word "neat"with "highly.""lt certainlyis interesting,"I said,"but it alsomeansthere'sno easywayfor us to write our own sentences in their language. We can'tsimplycut their sentences into individualwordsand recombinethem; we'll haveto learn the rulesof their scriptbeforewe can write anythinglegible.Itt the samecontinuityproblemwe'd have had splicingtogetherspeechfragments,exceptappliedto writing." I lookedat Flapperand Raspberryin the lookingglass,who were waitingfor us to continue,and sighed."You aren'tgoing to makethis easyfor us,areyou?" To be fair,the heptapodswerecompletelycooperative. In the days that followed,they readilytaught us their languagewithout requiring us to teach them any more English. Colonel Weber and his cohortsponderedthe implicationsof that,while I and the linguistsat the otherlooking glassesmet via videoconferencing to sharewhat we had learned aboutthe heptapodlanguage.The videoconferencing madefor an incongruousworkingenvironment:our videoscreens wereprimitivecomparedto the heptapods'looking glasses, so that my colleaguesseemed more remotethan the aliens.The familiar wasfar away,while the bizarre wascloseat hand. It would be a while beforewe'd be readyto askthe heptapodswhy theyhad come,or to discuss physicswell enoughto askthem abouttheir technology.For the time being,we workedon the basics:phonemics/ graphemics,vocabulary,syntax.The heptapodsat everylooking glass wereusingthe samelanguage,sowe wereableto pool our dataand co. ordinateour efforts. Our biggestsourceof confusionwasthe heptapods'"writing." It didn't appearto be writing at all; it lookedmorelike a bunch of intricate graphicdesigns.The logogramsweren'tarrangedin rows,or a spiral,or any linear fashion.Instead,Flapper or Raspberrywould write a sentence by stickingtogetheras many logogramsas neededinto a giant conglomeration.
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This form of writing was reminiscentof primitive sign systems, which requireda readerto know a messagetcontextin orderto underrecordstandit. Suchsystems wereconsidered too limitedfor systematic heptapods developed their ing of information.Yetit wasunlikelythatthe level of technolory with only an oral hadition.That implied one of three possibilities:the first wasthat the heptapodshad a true writing system, but theydidn't want to useit in front of us;ColonelWeberwould identify with that one.The secondwasthat the heptapodshadn'toriginated the technologytheywereusing;theywereilliteratesusingsomeoneelse's technology.The third, and most interestingto me, wasthat the heptapodswere using a nonlinear systemof orthographythat qualified as true writing. we'll havewhen you'rein your junior I remembera conversation yearof high school.It'll be Sundaymorning,and I'll be scramblingsome eggswhile you setthe tablefor brunch.You'll laughasyou tell me about the party you went to lastnight. "Oh man," you'll say,"they'renot kidding when they saythat body weightmakesa difference.I didn't drink any more than the guysdid, but I got so much drunfter." I'll really try. I'll try to maintain a neutral,pleasantexpression. Then you'll say,"Oh, comeon, Mom." "What?" "You know you did the exactsamethingswhen you were my age." I did nothing of the sort, but I know that if I were to admit that, you'd lose respectfor me completely."You know never to drive, or get into a car if-" "God, of courseI know that.Do you think I'm an idiot?" "No, of coursenot." What I'll think is that you are clearly,maddeninglynot me. It will remind me, again,that you won't be a clone of me; you can be wonderful, a daily delight, but you won't be someoneI could have createdby myself. The militaryhad setup a trailercontainingour officesat the lookingglasssite.I sawGary walkingtowardthe trailer,and ran to catch up with writing system,"I saidwhen I reachedhim. him. "It's a semasiographic
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"Excuseme?"saidGary. "Here,let me showyou." I directedGary into my office.Once we were inside,I went to the chalkboardand drew a circle with a diagonal line bisectingit. "What doesthis mean?" "'Not allowed'?" "Right." Next I printed the words Nor ALLowEoon the chalkboard."And sodoesthis.But only one is a representation of speech." "Okay." Gary nodded. "Linguists describewriting like this"-I indicatedthe printed 'glottographic,' words-"as becauseit represents speech.Everyhuman written languageis in this category. However,this symbol"- I indicated 'semasiographic' the circle and diagonalline-"is writing, becauseit conveysmeaning without referenceto speech.There's no correspondencebetweenits componentsand any particularsounds." "Andyou think all of heptapodwriting is like this?" "From what I've seensofar,yes.It'snot picturewriting, it'sfar more complex.It hasits own systemof rulesfor constructingsentences, like a visualsyntaxthat'sunrelatedto the syntaxfor their spokenlanguage." 'A visualsyntax?Can you showme an example?" "Coming right up." I satdownat my deskand,usingthe computer, pulled up a framefrom the recordingof yesterday's conversation with Raspberry. I turnedthe monitorsohe could seeit. "ln their spokenlanguage,a noun hasa casemarkerindicatingwhetherit'sa subjector object. In their written language,however,a noun is identifiedassubject or object basedon the orientation of its logogramrelativeto that of the verb.Here,takea look." I pointedat one of the figures."For instance, 'heptapod' when is integratedwith 'hears'thisway,with thesestrokes parallel,it meansthat the heptapodis doingthe hearing."I showedhim a differentone. "When they'recombined this way,with the shokesperpendicular,it meansthatthe heptapodis beingheard.This morphology appliesto severalverbs. "Anotherexampleis the inflection system."I called up another frame from the recording."ln their written language,this logogram meansroughly'heareasily'or'hearclearly.'Seethe elementsit hasin common with the logogramfor'hear'? You can still combine it with 'heptapod'in the samewaysasbefore,to indicatethat the heptapodcan hearsomethingclearlyor that the heptapodis clearlyheard.But what's
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'hear' reallyinteresiingis thatthe modulationof into'hearclearly'isn'ta specialcase;you seethe transformationthey applied?" 'clearly'by Garynodded,pointing."lt'slike theyexpress the ideaof changingthe curveof thosestrokesin the middle." "Right. That modulation is applicableto lots of verbs. The 'see' 'see logogramfor can be modulatedin the sameway to form clearly,'andsocan the logogramfor'read'andothers.And changingthe curve of thosestrokeshas no parallel in their speech;with the spoken versionof theseverbs,they add a prefix to the verb to expresseaseof manner,andthe prefixes for'see'and'hear'are different. "There are other examples, a but you get the idea.It's essentially grammarin two dimensions." He began pacing though6:lly. "Is there anything like this in human writing systems?" "Mathematicalequations,notationsfor music and dance. But using we couldn'trecordthis conversation thoseareall veryspecialized; if we knewitwell enough,we could recordthisconthem.But I suspect, versationin the heptapodwriting system.I think it's a full-fedged, general-purpose graphicallanguage." a completelyseparate Gary frowned."So their writing constitutes languagefrom their speech,right?" "Right. In fact, it'd be more accurateto refer to the writing system 'Heptapod 'Heptapod A strictlyfor referringto the spoken B,' and use as language." "Hold on a second.Why usetwo languages when one would sufhardto learn." fice?That seemsunnecessarily "Like Englishspelling?"I said."Easeof learningisn'tthe primary writing and speechmay forcein languageevolution.For the heptapods, play such different cultural or cognitive roles that using separatelanguagesmakesmore sensethan usingdifferentformsof the sameone." He consideredit. "l seewhat you mean. Maybe they think our form of writing is redundant,like we'rewastinga secondcommunicationschannel." "That's entirely possible.Finding out why they use a secondlanguagefor writing will tell us a lot about them." "So I takeit thismeanswe won'tbe ableto usetheirwriting to help us learntheir spokenlanguage." I sighed."Yeah,that'sthe mostimmediateimplication.But I don't
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think we shouldignoreeitherHeptapodA or B; we needa two-pronged approach."I pointedat the screen."l'll bet you that learningtheir twodimensionalgrammarwill help you when it comestime to learn their mathematicalnotation." "You've got a point there. So are we readyto start askingabout their mathematics?" "Not yet. We need a better graspon this writing systembeforewe begin anythingelse,"I said,and then smiledwhen he mimed frushation. "Patience,goodsir.Patienceis a virtue." You'll be six when your father has a conferenceto attend in Hawaii, and we'll accompanyhim. You'll be so excitedthat you'll make preparationsfor weeksbeforehand.You'll ask me about coconutsand volcanoesand surfing,and practicehula dancingin the mirror.You'll packa suitcasewith the clothesand toysyou want to bring, and you'll dragit aroundthe houseto seehow long you can carryit. You'll askme if I can carryyour Etch-a-Sketch in my bag,sincethere won't be any more room for ii in yoursand you simply can't leavewiihout it. "You won't need all of these,"I'll say."There'll be so many fun thingsto do there,you won't havetime to playwith so manytoys." You'll considerthat; dimples will appearaboveyour eyebrows when you think hard. Eventuallyyou'll agreeto pack fewer toys,but your expectations will, if anything,increase. "l wannabe in Hawaiinow,"you'll whine. "Sometimesit's good to wait," I'll say."The anticipation makesit morefun when you getthere." You'll justpout. In the next reportI submitted,I suggested that the term "logogram" wasa misnomerbecauseit implied that eachgraphrepresented a spoken word, when in fact the graphsdidn't correspondto our notion of spoken wordsat all. I didn't want to use the term "ideogram"either becauseof how it hadbeenusedin the past;I suggested the term "semagram"instead. It appearedthata semagramcorresponded roughlyto a written word in human languages:it wasmeaningfulon its own, and in combination with other semagrams could form endlessstatements. We couldn't define it precisely, but then no one had eversatisfactorily defined"word" for human languageseither.When it cameto sentencesin HeptapodB,
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though, things becamemuch more confusing.The languagehad no written punctuation:its syntaxwasindicatedin the way the semagrams were combined,and there was no need to indicate the cadenceof speech.There wascertainlyno way to sliceout subject-predicate pairings neatly to make sentences.A "sentence"seemedto be whatever number of semagramsa hepiapodwantedto join together;the only differencebetweena sentenceand a paragraph, or a page,wassize. When a HeptapodB sentencegrewfairlysizable,its visualimpact wasremarkable.If I wasn'ttrying to decipherit, the writing lookedlike fanciful prayingmantidsdrawn in a cursivestyle,all clinging to each otherto form an Escheresque lattice,eachslightlydifferentin its stance. And the biggestsentenceshad an effect similar to that of psychedelic posters: sometimes eye-watering, hypnotic. sometimes I remembera pictureof you takenat your collegegraduation.In the photo you'restrikinga posefor the camera,mortarboardstylishly tilted on your head,one hand touchingyour sunglasses, the otherhand your hip, reveal on holding open your gown to the tank top and shorts you'rewearingunderneath. I rememberyour graduation.There will be the distractionof having Nelsonand your fatherand what's-her-name there all at the same time, but that will be minor. That entireweekend,while you'reintroI'll be ducingme to your classmates and huggingeveryoneincessantly, all but mute with amazement.I can't believethat you, a grownwoman taller than me and beautiful enoughto makemy heartache,will be the samegirl I usedto lift off the ground so you could reach the drinking fountain,the samegirl who usedto trundle out of my bedroomdraped from my closet. in a dressand hat and four scarves And aftergraduation,you'll be headingfor a job asa financialanalyst.I won't understandwhat you do there,I won't even understand your fascinationwith money,the preeminenceyou gaveto salarywhen negotiatingjob offers.I would prefer it if you'd pursuesomethingwithout regardfor its monetaryrewards,but I'11haveno complaints.My own mothercould neverunderstandwhy I couldn'tjustbe a high schoolEnglish teacher.You'll do what makesyou happy,and that'll be all I askfor. As time went on, the teamsat eachlookingglassbeganworkingin earneston learningheptapodterminologyfor elementarymathematics
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and physics.We workedtogetheron presentations, with the linguistsfo. procedure and the physicists focusing on subjectmatter.The cusingon for communicatingwith physicists showeduspreviouslydevisedsystems aliens,basedon mathematics,but thosewere intendedfor use over a radiotelescope. We reworkedthem for face-to-face communication. Our teamswere successfulwith basic arithmetic,but we hit a roadblockwith geometryand algebra.We tried usinga sphericalcoordinatesysteminsteadof a rectangularone, thinking it might be more natural to the heptapodsgiven their anatomy,but that approachwasn't any more fruitful. The heptapodsdidn't seemto understandwhat we weregettingat. Likewise,the physicsdiscussions weni poorly.Only with the most concreteterms,like the namesof the elements,did we haveanysuccess; afterseveralattemptsat representing the periodictable,the heptapods gotthe idea.Foranythingremotelyabstract, we might aswell havebeen gibbering.We tried to demonstrate basicphysicalattributeslike mass and accelerationso we could elicit their termsfor them, but the heptapodssimply respondedwith requestsfor clarification. To avoid perceptualproblemsthat might be associated with any particular medium, we tried physicaldemonstrationsas well as line drawings,photos,and animations;none were effective.Dayswith no progressbecameweeks, and the physicists werebecomingdisillusioned. By contrast,the linguistswere having much more success. We made steadyprogressdecodingthe grammarof the spokenlanguage, HeptapodA. It didn't follow the pattern of human languages, as expected,but it wascomprehensible sofar:freewordorder,evento the extent that there was no preferredorder for the clausesin a conditional statement, in defianceof a humanlanguage"universal." It alsoappeared thatthe heptapods had no objectionto manylevelsof center-embedding of clauses,somethingthat quickly defeatedhumans.Peculiar,but not impenetrable. Much more interestingwerethe newlydiscovered morphological and grammaticalprocesses in HeptapodB that were uniquely twodimensional.Dependingon a semagramtdeclension,inflectionscould be indicatedby varyinga certainstroke's curvature,or itsthickness, or its mannerof undulation;or by varyingthe relativesizesof two radicals,or their relativedistanceto anotherradical,or their orientations; or various other means.Thesewere nonsegmentalgraphemes; they couldn't be
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isolatedfrom the restof a semagram.And despitehow such traitsbehavedin humanwriting,thesehad nothingto do with calligraphicstyle; theirmeaningsweredefinedaccordingto a consistent and unambiguous grarTlmar. We regularlyaskedthe heptapodswhy they had come.Eachtime, they answered"to see,"or "to observe."Indeed,sometimesthey preferredto watchus silentlyratherthan answerour questions.Perhapsthey were scientists,perhapsthey were tourists.The State Department instructed us to reveal as little as possibleabout humanity, in casethat informationcould be usedasa bargainingchip in subsequent negotiations.We obliged,though it didn't requiremuch effort:the heptapods never askedquestionsabout anything.Whether scientistsor tourists, theywerean ar,vfully incuriousbunch. I remember once when we'll be driving to the mall to buy somenew clothesfor you. You'll be thirteen. One moment you'll be sprawledin your seat,completelyunself-conscious, all child; the next, you'll tossyour hair with a practicedcasualness, like a fashionmodel in training. You'll give me some instructionsas I'm parking the car. "Okay, Mom, giveme one of the creditcards,and we can meetbackat the entranceherein two hours." I'll laugh."Not a chance.All the creditcardsstaywith me." "You'rekidding."You'll becomethe embodimentof exasperation. We'll getout of the carand I will startwalkingto the mall entrance.After seeingthat I won't budgeon the matter,you'll quicklyreformulateyour plans. "Okay Mom, okay.You can come with me, just walk a little ways behind me, so it doesn'tlook like we'retogether.If I seeany friendsof mine, I'm gonnastopand talk to them,but you justkeepwalking,okay? I'll comefind you later." I'll stopin my tracks."Excuseme?I am not the hired help,nor am I somemutant relativefor you to be ashamedof." "But Mom, I can't let anyoneseeyou with me." "What areyou talking about?I've alreadymet your friends;they've beento the house." "That was different,"you'll say,incredulousthat you have to explain it. "This is shopping."
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"Too bad." Then the explosion:"You won't do the leastthing to make me happylYou don't careaboutme at all!" It won't havebeen that long sinceyou enioyedgoing shopping with me; it will foreverastonishme how quickly you grow out of one phaseand enter another.Living with you will be like aiming for a moving target;you'll alwaysbe further alongthan I expect. I lookedat the sentencein HeptapodB that I had iust written, I generatedmyself, usingsimplepen and paper.Like all the sentences sentencethat had this one lookedmisshapen,like a heptapod-written been smashedwith a hammer and then inexpertlytapedback together. coveringmy desk,fluttering I had sheetsof such inelegantsemagrams occasionally when the oscillatingfan swungpast. It wasstrangetrying to learn a languagethat had no spokenform. Insteadof practicingmy pronunciation,I had taken to squeezingmy on the insidesof my eyelids. eyesshutand tryingto paintsemagrams There wasa knock at the door and beforeI could answerGary camein lookingjubilant."lllinois got a repetitionin physics." "Really?That'sgreat;when did it happen?" "lt happeneda few hoursago;we just had the videoconference. Let me showyou what ii is."He startederasingmy blackboard. "Don't worry,I didn't needany of that." "Good." He picked up a nub of chalk and drew a diagram:
OB "Okay,heret the path a rayof light takeswhen crossingfrom air to water.The light ray havelsin a straightline until it hits the water;the
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waterhasa differentindex of refraction,so the light changesdirection. You'veheardof thisbefore,right?" I nodded."Sure." "Now here'san interestingpropertyaboutthe paththe light takes. The path is the fastestpossibleroute betweenthesetwo points." "Come again?" "Imagine,just for grins,that the ray of light traveledalong this path."He addeda dottedline to his diagram:
"This hypotheticalpath is shorterthan the path the light achrally takes.But light travelsmore slowlyin waterthan it doesin air, and a greaterpercentage of thispathis underwater.So it would takelongerfor light to travelalong ihis path than it doesalong the real path." "Okay,I get it." "Now imagineif light were to travelalong this other He drewa seconddottedpath:
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"This path reducesthe percentagethat'sunderwater,but the total length is larger.It would alsotakelongerfor light to travelalongthis path than alongthe actualone." Garyput downthe chalkand gesturedat the diagramon the chalk'Any hypotheticalpath would require board with white-tippedfingers. taken. In other words,the the one actually time to traverse than more route that the light raytakesis alwaysthe fastestpossibleone.That'sFermat'sPrinciple of LeastTime." to?" "Hmm, interesting. And this is whatthe heptapodsresponded "Exactly. Moorehead gavean animatedpresentationof Fermat's Principle at the Illinois looking glass,and the heptapodsrepeatedit back.Now he'strying to geta symbolicdescription."He grinned."Now is that highly neat,or what?" "lt's neat all right, but how come I haven'theardof Fermat'sPrinciple before?"I pickedup a binderand wavedit at him; it wasa primer for usein communicationwith the hepon the physicstopicssuggested and the spintapods."This thing goeson foreveraboutPlanckmasses fip of atomic hydrogen,and not a word about the refractionof light." "We guessedwrong about what'dbe mostusefulfor you to know," "ln fact,it'scuriousthat Fermat'sPrinGary saidwithout embarrassment. even though it's easyto explain, you first breakthrough; ciple was the And not ordinarycalculus; needcalculusto describeit mathematically. that somesimpletheoWe thought you need the calculusof variations. rem of geometryor algebrawould be the breakthrough." "Curious indeed.You think the heptapods'idea of what'ssimple doesn'tmatchours?" "Exactly,which is why l'm dying to seewhat their mathematical descriptionof Fermatt Principlelookslike." He pacedashe talked."lf their versionof the calculusof variationsis simplerto them than their equivalentof algebra,that might explainwhy we'vehad somuch trouble talking about physics;their entire systemof mathematicsmay be topsyturly comparedto ours."He pointed to the physicsprimer. "You can be surethat we'regoingto revisethat." "So can you build from Fermatt Principle to other areasof physics?" "Probably.There arelots of physicalprinciplesiustlike Rrmat's." "What, like Louise'sprinciple of leastclosetspace?When did physicsbecomesominimalist?"
26
NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 'Well,
the word'least'ismisleading. Yousee,Fermat'sprincipleof LeastTime is incomplete;in certainsituationslight followsa path that rakesmoretime than any of the otherpossibilities. It's more accurateto saythat light alwaysfollowsan extremepath, either one that minimizes the time takenor one that maximizesit. A minimum and a maximum sharecertain mathematicalproperties,so both situationscan be describedwith one equation.So to be precise,Fermat'sPrincipleisn't a minimal principle;insteadit'swhat'sknown asa 'variational'principle." "Andtherearemore of thesevariationalprinciples?" He nodded."ln all branchesof physics.Almosteveryphysicallaw can be restatedasa variationalprinciple.The only differencebetween theseprinciplesis in which attributeis minimizedor maximized."He gesturedas if the differentbranchesof physicswere arrayedbeforehim on a table."ln optics,where Fermat'sPrincipleapplies,time is the attribute that hasto be an extreme.In mechanics,it's a differentattribute. In electromagnetism, it's somethingelseagain.But all theseprinciples aresimilarmathematically." "So onceyou get their mathematicaldescriptionof FermattPrinciple,you shouldbe ableto decodethe otherones." "God, I hopeso.I think this is the wedgethat we'vebeenlooking for, the one thatcracksopentheir formulationof physics.This callsfor a celebration."He stoppedhis pacing and turned to me. "Hey Louise, want to go out for dinner?My treat." I wasmildly surprised."Sure,"I said. It'll be when you first learn to walk that I get daily demonstrations of the asymmetryin our relationship.You'll be incessantly running off somewhere, and eachtime you walk into a door frame or scrapeyour knee,the pain feelslike it'smy own. It'll be like growingan errantlimb, 'myself an extensionof whosesensorynervesreportpain just fine, but whosemotor nervesdon't conveymy commandsat all. It's sounfair: I'm goingto givebirth to an animatedvoodoodoll of myself.I didn't seethis in the contractwhen I signedup. Wasthis part of the deal? And then therewill be the timeswhen I seeyou laughing.Like the time you'll be playingwith the neighbor'spuppy,poking your hands through the chainlink fence separatingour backyards, and you'll be laughingso hard you'll starthiccuping.The puppy will run insidethe
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neighbor'shouse,and your laughterwill graduallysubside,letting you catchyour breath.Then the puppywill comebackto the fenceto lick your fingersagain,and you'll shriekand startlaughingagain.It will be the mostwonderfulsoundI could everimagine,a soundthat makesme feellike a fountain,or a wellspring. Now if only I can rememberthat sound the next time your blithe givesme a heart attack. disregardfor self-preservation of sciAfter the breakthroughwith Fermat'sPrinciple,discussions if heptapod entific conceptsbecamemore fruiful. It wasn'tas all of physicswassuddenlyrenderedtransparent,but progresswassteady.Acof physicswasindeedtopsycordingto Gary,the heptapods'formulation turvy relative to ours. Physicalattributes that humans defined using As an exintegralcalculuswereseenasfundamentalby the heptapods. ample, Gary describedan athibute that, in physicsiargon,bore the "the differencebesimplename"action,"which represented deceptively tween kinetic and potential energy,integratedovertime," whateverthat meant.Calculusfor us;elementaryto them. Conversely,to define attributesthat humansthought of asfundamental, like velocity,the heptapodsemployedmathematicsthat were, wereultimatelyableto Gary assuredme, "highly weird."The physicists provethe equivalenceof heptapodmathematicsand human mathematwere almostthe reverseof one anics; even though their approaches of describingthe samephysicaluniverse. other,both weresystems I tried following some of the equationsthat the physicistswere comingup with, but it wasno use.I couldn'treallygraspthe significance of physicalattributeslike "action";I couldn't,with anyconfidence,ponder the significanceof treatingsuch an attribute asfundamental.Still, I tried to ponderquestions formulatedin termsmorefamiliarto me: what kind of worldviewdid the heptapodshave,thattheywould considerFermat'sPrinciple the simplestexplanationof light refraction?Whatkind of perceptionmade a minimum or maximum readilyapparentto them? Your eyeswill be blue like your dad's,not mud brown like mine. Boyswill stareinto thoseeyesthe wayI did, and do, into your dad's,surprisedand enchanted,as I wasand am, to find them in combination with black hair.You will havemany suitors.
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I rememberwhenyou arefifteen,cominghomeaftera weekendat yourdad's,incredulousoverthe interrogation he'll haveput you through regardingthe boy you'recurrentlydating.You'll sprawlon the sofa,recountingyour dad'slatestbreachof commonsense:"Youknow whathe 'l said?He said, know what teenageboysarelike.'" Roll of the eyes."Like I don't?" "Don't hold it againsthim," I'll say."He'sa father;he can'thelp it." Havingseenyou interactwith your friends,I won't worrymuch abouta boy taking advantageof you; if anything,the oppositewill be more likely.I'll worryaboutthat. "He wishesI were still a kid. He hasn'tknown how to act toward me sinceI grewbreasts." "Well, that developmentwasa shockfor him. Give him time to recover." "lt's beenyears,Mom.How long is it gonnatake?" "I'll let you know when my fatherhascometo termswith mine." During one of the videoconferences for the linguists,Cisneros from the Massachusetts looking glasshad raisedan interestingquestion: Wastherea particularorderin which semagrams werewritten in a Heptapod B sentence? It wasclearthat word order meantnext to nothing when speakingin HeptapodA; when askedto repeatwhat it had just said,a heptapodwould likelyasnot usea differentword orderunlesswe specificallyaskedit not to. Wasword ordersimilarlyunimportantwhen writing in HeptapodB? Previously,we had only focusedour attention on how a sentence in HeptapodB lookedonceit wascomplete.As far asanyonecould tell, therewasno preferredorderwhen readingthe semagrams in a sentence; you could startalmostanywherein the nest,then follow the branching clausesuntil you'd readihe whole thing. But that wasreading;wasthe sametrue aboutwriting? During my mostrecentsession with Flapperand RaspberryI had askedthem if, insteadof displayinga semagramonly after it wascompleted,they could show it to us while it wasbeing written. They had agreed.I insertedthe videotapeof the session into the VCR, and on my computerI consultedthe session transcript.
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What I picked one of the longer utterancesfrom the conversation. sighad two moons, one had was that the heptapods'planet Flapper said nificantly larger than the other; the three primary constihrentsof the werenitrogen,argon,and oxygen;and fifteentwentyplanet'satrnosphere eighthsof the planet'ssurfacewascoveredby water.The first words of the spoken utterance translatedliterally as "inequality-of-sizerockyorbiter rocky-orbitersrelated-as-primary-to.secondary." Then I rewoundthe videotapeuntil the time signaturematched the one in the transcription.I startedplayingthe tape,and watchedthe beingspun out of inky spider'ssilk. I rewoundit and web of semagrams playedit severaltimes.Finally I frozethe videoright afterthe firststroke wascompletedandbeforethe secondone wasbegun;all thatwasvisible on-screen wasa singlesinuousline. Comparingthat initial strokewith the completedsentence,I realized that the strokeparticipaiedin severaldifferentclausesof the message.It beganin the semagramfor "oxygen,"as the determinantthat distinguishedit from certain other elements;then it slid down to become the morpheme of comparisonin the descriptionof the two moons'sizes; and lastlyit fared out asthe archedbackboneof the semagramfor "ocean."Yetthis strokewasa singlecontinuousline, and it was the firstone that Flapperwrote.That meantthe heptapodhad to know how ihe entiresentencewould be laid out beforeit could write the very first stroke. The other strokesin the sentencealsotraversedseveralclauses, makingthem sointerconnected that nonecouldbe removedwithoutredesigningthe entire sentence.The heptapodsdidn't write a sentence one semagramat a time; they built it out of strokesirrespective of indiI had seena similarlyhigh degreeof integrationbevidual semagrams. fore in calligraphicdesigns,particularlythoseemployingthe Arabic alphabet.But thosedesignshad requiredcarefulplanningby expertcalligraphers.No one could lay out such an intricatedesignat the speed neededfor holdinga conversation. At least,no human could. There'sa jokethat I oncehearda comediennetell. It goeslike this: "I'm not sureif I'm readyto havechildren.I askeda friend of mine who 'Suppose haschildren, I do havekids.What if when they growup, they
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blameme for everythingthat'swrongwith their lives?'Shelaughedand 'What said, do you mean,if?"' That'smy favoritejoke. Gary and I were at a little Chineserestaurant,one of the local placeswe had takento patronizingto get awayfrom the encampment. We sateatingthe appetizers: potstickers, redolentof porkand sesame oil. My favorite. I dippedone in soysauceand vinegar."So how areyou doingwith your HeptapodB practice?"I asked. Gary lookedobliquelyat the ceiling.I tried to meet his gaze,but he keptshiftingit. "You'vegiven up, haven'tyou?" I said."You'renot even trying anymore." "l'm just no goodat lanHe did a wonderfulhangdogexpression. "l thoughtlearningHeptapodB might be more guages,"he confessed. like learningmathematics than tryingto speakanotherlanguage,but it's not. It's too foreignfor me." "lt would help you discussphysicswith them." "Probably,but sincewe had our breakthrough,I can get by with justa few phrases." I sighed."l supposethat'sfair;I haveto admit,I've givenup on trying to learnthe mathematics." "So we'reeven?" "We're even."I sippedmy tea. "Though I did want to askyou aboutFermattPrinciple.Somethingaboutit {eelsodd to me, but I can't put my fingeron it. It justdoesn'tsoundlike a law of physics." A twinkle appearedin Gary'seyes."l'11bet I knowwhatyou'retalking about."He snippeda potstickerin half with his chopsticks."You'reused to thinking of refractionin termsof causeand effect:reachingthe water's surfaceisthe cause,andthe changein direciionisthe effect.But Fermat's Principle soundsweird becauseit describeslight's behaviorin goal'Thorr orientedterms.It soundslike a commandmentto a light beam: shaltminimize or maximizethe time takento reachthy destination."' I consideredit. "Go on." "ltt an old questionin the philosophyofphysics.Peoplehavebeen
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talking about it since Fermatfirst formulatedit in the r6oos;Planck wrotevolumesaboutit. The thing is, while the commonformulationof physicallawsis causal,a variationalprinciplelike Fermat'sis purposive, almostteleological." "Hmm, that'san interestingwayto put it. Let me think aboutthat for a minute."I pulled out a felt-tippen and,on my papernapkin,drew a copyof the diagramthat Gary had drawn on my blackboard."Okay,"I said,thinking aloud,"so let'ssaythe goal of a ruy of light is to takethe fastestpath. How doesthe light go about doing that?" "Well, if I canspeakanihropomorphic-proiectionally, the light has to examinethe possiblepathsand computehow long eachone would take."He pluckedthe lastpotstickerfrom the servingdish. 'And to do that," I continued,"the ray of light has to know iust where its destinationis. If the destinationwere somewhereelse.the fastestpath would be different." 'fastest path' is Gary noddedagain."Thatt right; the notion of a meaningless unlessthere'sa destinationspecified.And computinghow long a givenpath takesalsorequiresinformaiionaboutwhat lies along that path, like wherethe water'ssurfaceis." I kept staringat the diagramon the napkin. "And the light ray has to know all that aheadof time, beforeit startsmoving,right?" "So to speak,"saidGary."The light can't starttravelingin any old directionand makecoursecorrectionslateron, becausethe paih resulting from such behaviorwouldn't be the fastestpossibleone. The light hasto do all its computationsai the verybeginning." I thought to myself,The ray of light has to knowwhereit will ultimately end up beforeit can choosethe directionto begin moving in. I knew what that reminded me of. I looked up at Gary. "That's what was buggingme." I rememberwhen you'refourteen.You'll come out of your bedroom, a graffiti-covered notebookcomputerin hand, workingon a report for school. "Mom, whatdo you call it when both sidescan win?" I'll look up from my computer and the paper I'll be writing. "What, you meana win-win situation?"
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"There'ssometechnicalnamefor it, somemath word.Rememoer that time Dad washere,and he wastalking about the stockmarket?He usedit then." "Hmm, thatsoundsfamiliar,but I can'trememberwhathe calledit." "l needto know.I want to usethat phrasein my socialstudiesreport. I can't even searchfor informationon it unlessI know what it's called." "l'm sorry,I don't know it either.Why don't you call your dad?" that will be more effort than you |udging from your expression, want to make.At this point,you and your fatherwon't be gettingalong well. "Can you call Dad and askhim? But don't tell him it'sfor me." "l think you can call him yourself." You'llfume,"fesus,Mom, I can nevergethelp with my homework sinceyou and Dad splitup." It's amazingthe diversesituationsin which you can bring up the divorce."l've helpedyou with your homework." "Like a million yearsago,Mom." I'll let that pass."l'd help you with this if I could, but I don't rememberwhat it'scalled." You'll headbackto your bedroomin a huff I practicedHeptapodB at everyopportunity,both with the other linguistsand by myself.The noveltyof readinga semasiographic languagemade it compelling in a waythat HeptapodA wasn't,and my improvementin writing it excitedme. Over time, the sentencesI wrote grewshapelier,more cohesive.I had reachedihe point whereit worked betterwhen I didn't ihink aboutit too much. Insteadof carefullytrying to designa sentencebeforewriting, I could simplybeginputting down strokesimmediately;my initial strokesalmost alwaysturned out to be compatiblewith an elegantrenditionof what I wastrying to say.I wasdevelopinga facultylike that of the heptapods. More interestingwasthe fact ihat HeptapodB was changingthe way I thought.For me, thinking typicallymeantspeakingin an internal voice;aswe sayin the trade,my thoughtswerephonologicallycoded.My intemal voicenormally spokein English,but that wasn'ta requirement. The summeraftermy senioryearin high school,I attendeda total immersionprogramfor learningRussian;by the end of the summer,I was
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thinking and evendreamingin Russian.But it wasalwaysspokenRussian. samemode:a voicespeakingsilentlyaloud. Differentlanguage, mode alThe ideaof thinking in a linguisticyet nonphonological waysintriguedme. I had a friendborn of Deafparents;hegrewup using AmericanSignLanguage,and he told me that he oftenthoughtin ASL insteadof English. I used to wonder what it was like to have one's thoughtsbe manuallycoded,to reasonusingan inner pair of handsinsteadofan innervoice. With HeptapodB, I wasexperiencingsomethingjust asforeign: my thoughtswerebecominggraphicallycoded.There weretrancelike with my momentsduring the daywhen my thoughtsweren'texpressed my mind's eye, with sprouting internalvoice;instead,I sawsemagrams like froston a windowpane. As I grew more fluent, semagraphicdesignswould appearfully formed,articulatingeven complexideasall at once. My thought processes weren'tmoving any fasteras a result,though.Insteadof racing forward, my mind hung balancedon the symmetryunderlying the The semagrams seemedto be somethingmore than lansemagrams. guage;they were almost like mandalas.I found myself in a meditative state,contemplatingthe way in which premisesand conclusionswere interchangeable. There wasno directioninherentin the way propositions were connected,no "train of thought" movingalonga particular route;all the componentsin an act of reasoning wereequallypowerful, all havingidenticalprecedence. A representative from the StateDepartmentnamedHossnerhad job the of briefingthe U.S.scientists on our agendawith the heptapods. We satin the videoconference room, listeningto him lecfure.Our microphonewasfurnedoff,soGaryand I could exchangecommentswithout interruptingHossner.As we listened,I worried that Gary might harm his vision,rolling his eyessooften. "They must havehad somereasonfor coming all this way,"said "lt doesnot look like the diplomat,his voicetinny throughthe speakers. their reasonwasconquest,thank God. But if that'snot the reason,what is?fue theyprospectors? Anthropologists? Missionaries? Whatevertheir motives,theremustbe somethingwe can offerthem.Maybeit'smineral rightsto our solarsystem.Maybeit's informationaboutourselves. Maybe
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itt the right to deliversermonsto our populations.But we can be sure thai theret something. "My point is this: their motive might not to be to trade,bui that doesn'tmean that we cannotconducttrade.We simply need to know why they'rehere,and whatwe havethat they want.Once we havethat information,we can begintradenegotiations. "l shouldemphasize thatour relationshipwith the heptapodsneed not be adversarial. This is not a situationwhereeverygain on their part is a losson ours,or vice versa.If we handleourselves correctly,both we and the heptapodscan comeout winners." "You mean it's a non-zero-sumgame?"Gary said mock "Oh my gosh." credulity. 'A
non-zero-sum game." "What?"You'll reversecourse,headingbackfrom your bedroom. "When both sidescan win: I iust remembered,it's calleda nonzero-sumgame." "That'sit!" you'll say,writing it down on your notebook."Thanks, Mom!" "l guessI knewit afterall," I'll say.'All thoseyearswith your father, someof it must haverubbedoff." "l knew you'd know it," you'll say.You'll give me a sudden,brief hug, and your hair will smellof apples."You'rethe best." "Louise?" "Hmm? Sorry,I wasdistracted. What did you say?" "l said,whatdo you think aboutour Mr. Hossnerhere?" "l prefernot to." "l've tried that myself:ignoringthe government,seeingif it would go away.Ithasn't." As evidenceof Gary'sassertion,Hossnerkept blathering:"Your immediatetaskis to think back on what you'velearned.Look for anything that might help us.Hastherebeenany indicationof whatthe heptapodswant?Of whattheyvalue?" "Gee, it neveroccurredto us to look for thingslike that," I "We'11get right on it, sir." "The sadthing is,that'siustwhatwe'll haveto do," saidGary.
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"Arethereany questions?" askedHossner. Burghart,the linguist at the Ft. Worth looking glass,spokeup. "We'vebeenthroughthis with the heptapodsmany times.They maintain that they'rehere to observe,and they maintainthat informationis not tradable." "So theywould haveusbelieve,"saidHossner."But consider:how stopped could that be true?I know that the heptapodshaveoccasionally maneuver on their talkingto us for brief periods.That maybe a tactical part.If we wereto stoptalkingto them tomorrow " "Wakeme up if he sayssomethinginteresting," saidGary. "I wasjustgoingto askyou to do the samefor me," That day when Gary first explainedFermat'sPrincipleto me, he had mentionedthat almosteveryphysicallaw could be statedasa variational principle.Yet when humansthought about physicallaws,they preferredto work with them in their causalformulation. I could understandthat: the physicalattributesthat humans found intuitive, like kinetic energyor acceleration, wereall propertiesof an objectat a given moment in time. And thesewereconduciveto a chronological,causal interpretationof events:one moment growingout of another,causes and effectscreateda chain reactionthat grewfrom pastto future. In contrast,the physicalattributesthat the heptapodsfound intuitive,like "action"or thoseotherthingsdefinedby integrals,weremeaningful only over a period of time. And these were conduciveto a teleologicalinterpretationof events:by viewingeventsovera period of time, one recognizedthat therewasa requirementthat had to be satisfied,a goalof minimizing or maximizing.And one had to know the initial and final statesto meet that goal; one neededknowledgeof the effectsbeforethe causescould be initiated. I wasgrowingto understandthat too. "Why?" you'll askagain.You'll be three. "Becauseit'syour bedtime,"I'll sayagain.We'll havegottenasfar asgettingyou bathedand into your jammies,but no further than that. "But I'm not sleepy,"you'll whine.You'll be standingat the bookshelf,pulling down a video to watch:your latestdiversionary tactic to keepawayfrom your bedroom.
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Nebula Awards 2001 Showcase "It doesn'tmatter:you still haveto go to bed." "But why?"
"BecauseI'm the mom and I saidso." I'm actuallygoing to saythat, aren't I? God, somebodyplease shootme. I'11pick you up and carryyou under my arm to your bed,you wailing piteouslyall the while, but my soleconcernwill be my own distress. All thosevowsmade in childhood that I would give reasonableanswers when I becamea parent,that I would treatmy own child asan intelligent, thinking individual,all for naught: I'm going to turn into my mother. I can fight it asmuch asI want, but there'll be no stoppingmy slidedown that long, dreadfulslope. Wasit ach:allypossibleto know the future?Not simplyto guessat it; wasit possibleto knowwhat wasgoingto happen,with absolutecertainty and in specificdetail?Gary once told me that the fundamental laws of physicswere time-symmehic,that there was no physicaldifferencebetweenpastand future. Given that, somemight say,"yes,theoretically."But speakingmoreconcretely,mostwould answer"no," because of freewill. fabulation:consider I likedto imaginethe objectionasa Borgesian a person standingbefore the Book of Ages,the chronicle that records every event, past and future. Even though the text has been photoreducedfrom the full-sizededition,the volume is enormous.With magnifier in hand, she flips through the tissue-thinleavesuntil she locates that describesher flipping the storyof her life. She finds the passage through the Booftof Ages,and sheskipsto the next column, where it details what she'll be doing later in the day: acting on informationshe's Devil readin the Book,she'llbet one hundreddollarson the racehorse much. and win twenty times that May Care The thoughtof doing just that had crossedher mind, but beinga conhary sort, she now resolvesto refrain from betting on the ponies altogether. Theret the rub. The Bookof '\gescannotbe wrong;this scenario is basedon the premisethat a personis givenknowledgeof the actualfuture, not of somepossiblefuture. If this wereGreekmyth, circumstances would conspireto make her enact her fate despiteher bestefforts,but propheciesin myth are notoriouslyvague;the Bookof '\ges is quite spe-
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in the cific, and there'sno way shecan be forcedto bet on a racehorse The resultis a contradiction: the Bookof Agesmustbe mannerspecified. right, by definition;yet no matterwhat the Boo&saysshe'lldo, shecan chooseto do otherwise.How can thesetwo factsbe reconciled? They can'tbe,wasthe commonanswer.A volumelike the Bookof Agesis a logical impossibility,for the precisereasonthat its existence would resultin the abovecontradiction.Or, to be generous,somemight saythat the Booftof Agescould exist,as long as it wasn'taccessibleto readers:that volume is housedin a specialcollection,and no one has viewingprivileges. The existence of freewill meantthat we couldn'tknow the future. And we knewfreewill existedbecausewe had directexperienceof it. Volition wasan intrinsicpart of consciousness. Or wasit?What if the experienceof knowingthe futurechangeda person?What if it evokeda senseof urgency,a senseof obligationto act preciselyassheknewshewould? I stoppedby Gary'soffice beforeleavingfor the day."l'm calling it quits.Did you want to grabsomethingto eat?" "Sure,justwaita second,"he said.He shutdownhis computerand gatheredsomepaperstogeiher.Then he lookedup at me. "Hey,want to cometo my placefor dinnertonight?I'll cook." I lookedat him dubiously."You can cook?" "fust one dish,"he admitted."But it'sa goodone." "Sure,"I said."l'm game." "Great.We just needto go shoppingfor the ingredients." "Don't go to anytrouble- " "There'sa marketon the wayto my house.It won't takea minute." We took separate cars,me followinghim. I almostlosthim when he abruptlyturned into a parkinglot. It wasa gourmetmarket,not large, but fancy;tall glassjarsstuffedwith imported foodssatnext to specialty utensilson the store'sstainless-steel shelves. I accompaniedGary ashe collectedfreshbasil,tomatoes,garlic, linguini. "There'sa fish marketnextdoor;we cangetfreshclamsthere," he said. "Soundsgood."We walkedpastthe sectionof kitchen utensils. My gazewanderedoverthe shelves-peppermills,garlicpresses, salad tongs-and stoppedon a woodensaladbowl.
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NebutaAwardsShowcase 2001
When you arethree,you'll pull a dishtoweloffthe kitchencounter and bring that saladbowl down on top of you. I'11makea grabfor it, but I'll miss.The edgeof the bowl will leaveyou with a cut, on the upper edgeof your forehead,that will require a singlestitch.Your father and I will hold you, sobbingand stainedwith Caesardressing,aswe wait in the emergencyroom for hours. I reachedout and took the bowl from the shelf.The motion didn't feel like somethingI wasforcedto do. Insteadit seemedjust asurgentas my rushing to catch the bowl when it falls on you: an instinct that I felt right in following. "l could usea saladbowl like this." "See,wasn'tit a Gary lookedat the bowl and noddedapprovingly. goodthing that I had to stopat the market?" "Yesit was,"We got in line to payfor our purchases. Considerthe sentence"The rabbitis readyto eat."Interpret"rabbit" to be the object of "eat," and the sentencewas an announcement that dinnerwould be servedshortly.Inteqpret"rabbit"to be the subiect of "eatl'and it wasa hint, suchasa younggirl might giveher motherso she'llopena bagof PurinaBunny Chow.Two verydifferentutterances; in fact,theywereprobablymutuallyexclusive within a singlehousehold. Yeteitherwasa valid interpretation;only contextcould determinewhat the sentencemeant. Considerthe phenomenonof light hitting waterat one angle,and travelingthrough it at a differentangle.Explain it by sayingthat a differencein the indexof refractioncausedthe light to changedirection,and one sawthe world ashumanssawit. Explainit by sayingthat light minimized the time neededto havel to its destination,and one sawthe world asthe heptapodssawit. Tho very differentinteqpretations. The physicaluniversewasa languagewith a perfectlyambiguous grammar.Everyphysicaleventwasan utterancethat could be parsed in two entirely differentways,one causaland the other teleological, no matterhow much contextwas both valid,neitherone disqualifiable available. When the ancestorsof humans and heptapodsfirst acquiredthe theyboth perceivedthe samephysicalworld,but sparkof consciousness, they parsedtheir perceptionsdifferently;the worldviewsthat ultimately Httmanshad developeda arosewerethe end resultof that divergence.
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while heptapodshad developeda simulsequentialmode of awareness, eventsin an order,andperWe experienced taneousmodeof awareness. all events ceivedtheirrelationshipascauseandeffect.They experienced at once,and perceiveda purposeunderlyingthem all. A minimizing, maximizingpurpose. I havea recurringdreamaboutyour death.In the dream,I'm the one who'srock climbing-me, can you imagineit?-and you'rethree yearsold, riding in somekind of backpackI'm wearing.We'reiusta few feet below a ledge where we can rest, and you won't wait until I've climbedup to it. Youstartpulling yourselfout of the pack;I orderyou to stop,but of courseyou ignore me. I feel your weight alternatingfrom one sideof the packto the otherasyou climb out; then I feel your left foot on my shoulder,and then your right. I'm screamingat you, but I can't get a hand freeto grabyou. I can seethe wavydesignon the soles of yoursneakers asyou climb, and fien I seea fake of stonegivewaybeneathone of them.Youslideright pastme, and I can'tmovea muscle.I look down and seeyou shrinkinto the distancebelowme. Then, all of a sudden,I'm at the morgue.An orderlylifts the sheet from your face,and I seethat you'retwenty-five. "You okay?" I wassitting upright in bed; I'd woken Gary with my movements. "l'm fine. I was just startled;I didn't recognizewhere I was for a moment." Sleepily,he said,"We can stayat your placenexttime." I kissedhim. "Don't worry;your placeis fine." We curled up, my backagainsthis chest,and wentbackto sleep. When you're three.and we're climbing a steep,spiral flight of stairs,I'll hold your hand exha tightly. You'll pull your hand awayfrom me. "l can do it by myself,"you'll insist,and then moveawayfrom me to proveit, and I'll rememberthat dream.we'll repeatthat scenecountless timesduring your childhood.I can almostbelievethat,givenyour contrary nature,my attemptsto protectyou will be what createyour love of climbing: first the jungle gym at the playground,then treesout in the greenbeltaroundour neighborhood, the rockwallsat the climbingclub, and ultimatelyclifffacesin nationalparks.
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I finishedthe lastradicalin the sentence,put down the chalk, and satdown in my deskchair.I leanedbackand surveyedthe giant Heptapod B sentenceI'd written that coveredthe entire blackboardin mi office.It includedseveralcomplexclauses, and I had managedto integrate all of them rathernicely. Looking at a sentencelike this one, I understoodwhy the heptapodshad evolveda semasiographic writing systemlike HeptapodB; it wasbettersuitedfor a specieswith a simultaneous mode of consciousness.For them, speechwasa bottleneckbecauseit requiredthat one word follow anothersequentially.With writing, on the other hand, every mark on a pagewasvisiblesimultaneously.Why constrainwriting with a glottographicshaitjacket,demandingthat it be just as sequentialas speech?It would neveroccurto them. Semasiographic writing naturally took advantageof the page'stwo-dimensionality;insteadof doling out moqphemes oneat a time, it offeredan entirepagefull of them all at once. And now that HeptapodB had introducedme to a simultarieous I understoodthe rationalebehind HeptapodA's modeof consciousness, congrammar:whatmy sequeniialmind hadperceivedasunnecessarily voluted,I now recognizedasan attemptto provideflexibilitywithin the confinesof sequentialspeech.I could useHeptapodA more easilyasa result,thoughit wasstill a poor substitutefor HeptapodB. There wasa knock at the door and then Gary pokedhis headin. "ColonelWeber'llbe hereany minute." I grimaced."Right."Weberwascomingto participatein a session with Flapperand Raspberry;I was to act as hanslator,a iob I wasn't hainedfor and that I detested. Gary steppedinsideand closedthe door.He pulled me out of my chairand kissedme. I smiled."You tryingto cheerme uP beforehe getshere?" "No, I'm tryingto cheerme uP." "You weren't interestedin talking to the heptapodsat all, were you?You workedon this proiect iust to get me into bed." 'Ah, you seeright throughme." I looked into his eves."You better believeit," I said. I rememberwhen you'll be a month old, and I'll stumbleout of bed to giveyou your z:ooe.u. feeding.Your nurserywill haveihat "baby
Storyof YourLife
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smell"of diaperrashcreamand talcum powder,with a faint ammoniac whiffcoming from the diaperpail in the corner.I'll lean overyour crib, lift your squallingform out, and sit in the rockingchairto nurseyou. The word "infant" is derivedfrom the Latin word for "unableto speak,"but you'll be perfectlycapableof sayingone thing: "l suffer,"and you'll do it tirelesslyand without hesitation.I haveto admireyour utter commitment to that statement;when you cry, you'll becomeoutrageincarnate,everyfiber of your body employedin expressingthat emotion. Itt funny: when you're tranquil, you will seemto radiatelight, and if someonewereto paint a portraitof you like that, I'd insistthat they include the halo. But when you'reunhappy,you will becomea Klaxon, built for radiatingsound;a portrait of you then could simply be a firealarmbell. At that stageof your life, there'llbe no pastor fuhrrefor you; until I give you my breast,you'll haveno memory of contentmentin the past nor expectationof relief in the future. Once you begin nursing, everything will reverse, and all will be right with the world.NOW is the only momentyou'll perceive;you'll live in the presenttense.In many ways, it's an enyiablestate. The heptapodsareneitherfreenor boundaswe understandthose concepts;theydon't act accordingto their will, nor aretheyhelplessautomatons.What distinguishesthe heptapods'mode of awareness is not just that their actionscoincidewith history'sevents;it is alsothat their motivescoincidewith history'spurposes.They act to createthe future, to enactchronologr. Freedomisn't an illusion; it's perfectlyreal in the contextof sequentialconsciousness. Within the contextof simultaneousconsciousness,freedom is not meaningful, but neither is coercion; it's simply a different context,no more or lessvalid than the other. It's like that famous optical illusion,the drawingof either an elegantyoung woman, face turned awayfrom the viewer, or a wart-nosedcrone, chin tucked down on her chest.Theret no "correct" interpretation;both are equally valid.But you can't seeboth at the sametime. Similarly,knowledgeof the futurewasincompatiblewith freewill. What madeit possiblefor me to exercisefreedomof choicealsomade it impossiblefor me to know the future. Conversely,now that I know ihe
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future,I would neveract contraryto that future,includingtellingothers what I know: those who know the future don't talk about it. Those who'vereadthe Bookof Agesneveradmit to it. I turnedon the VCR and slotteda cassette from the Ft. of a session Worth looking glass.A diplomatic negotiatorwas having a discussron with the heptapodsthere,with Burghartactingastranslator. The negotiatorwasdescribinghumans'moralbeliefs,tryingto lay somegroundworkfor the conceptof altruism.I knew the heptapods eventualoutcome,but they still were familiar with the conversation's participatedenthusiastically. If I could havedescribedthisto someonewho didn't alreadyknow, shemight ask,If the heptapodsalreadykneweverythingthattheywould eversayor hear,whatwasthe point of their usinglanguageat all?A reasonablequestion.But languagewasn'tonly for communication:it was also a form of action.Accordingto speech-act theory,statementslike "You'reunderarrest,""l christenthisvessel," or "l promise"wereall performative: a speakercould perform ihe action only by uttering the words.For such acts,knowingwhat would be saiddidn't changeanything. Everyoneat a weddinganticipatedthe words"l now pronounce you husbandand wife," but until the ministeractuallysaidthem, the ceremony didn't count. With performativelanguage,saying equaled doing. For the heptapods, Insteadof using all languagewasperformative. allanguageto inform,theyusedlanguageto achralize.Sure,heptapods readyknewwhatwouldbe saidin anyconversation; but in orderfor their would haveto takeplace. knowledgeto be true,the conversation "First Goldilockstried the papabear'sbowl of porridge,but it was full of brussels sprouts,which shehated." You'lllaugh."No, that'swrong!"We'll be sittingsideby sideon the the sofa, skinny,overpricedhardcoverspreadopenon our laps. I'll keepreading."Then Goldilockstried the mamabear'sbowl of porridge,but it wasfull of spinach,which shealsohated." You'll putyour hand on the pageof the bookto stopme. "You have to readit the right way!" "l'm readingjustwhat it sayshere,"I'll say,all innocence.
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"No you'renot. That'snot how the storygoes." "Well if you alreadyknow how the storygoes,why do you needme to readit to you?" "CauseI wannahearit!" The air-conditioningin Weber'soffice almost compensatedfor havingto talk to the man. "They're willing to engagein a type of exchange,"I explained, "but itt not trade. We simply give them something,and they give us somethingin return. Neither party tells the other what they'regiving beforehand." Colonel Weber'sbrow furrowed just slightly. "You mean they're willing to exchangegifts?" I knew what I had to say."We shouldn'tthink of it as'gift-giving.' We don't know if this hansactionhasthe sameassociations for the heptapodsthat gift-givinghasfor us." "Can we"-he searchedfor the right wording-"drop hintsabout the kind of gift we want?" "They don't do that ihemselvesfor this tlpe of transaction.I asked them if we could makea request,and they saidwe could, but it won't make them tell us what they'regiving."I suddenlyrememberedthat a morphological relative of "performative"was "performance,"which could describethe sensation of conversingwhen you knew what would be said:it waslike performingin a play. "But would it make them more likely to give us what we asked for?"ColonelWeberasked.He wasperfectlyobliviousof the script,yet his responses matchedhis assigned linesexactly. "No wayof knowing,"I said."l doubtit, giventhat it'snot a custom they engagein." "lf we give our gift first, will the value of our gift influencethe valueof theirs?"He wasimprovising,while I had carefullyrehearsed for this one and only show. "No," I said.'As far aswe cantell, the valueof the exchanged items is irrelevant." "lf only my relativesfelt that way,"murmuredGary wryly. I watchedColonel Weberfurn to Gary."Haveyou discoveredanything new in the physicsdiscussions?" he asked,right on cue.
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"If you mean, any information new to mankind, no," said Gary. "The heptapodshaven'tvaried from the routine. If we demonstrate somethingto them,they'Ilshowustheirformulationof it, but theywon't aboutwhatthey volunteeranythingand theywon't answerour questions know." An utterancethat was spontaneousand communicativein the becamea ritual recitationwhen viewedby contextof human discourse the light of HeptapodB. 'All right then, we'll seehow the StateDepartWeber scowled. ment feels about this. Maybe we can arrangesomekind of giffgiving ceremony." Like physicalevents,with their causaland teleologicalinterpretaasa transtions,everylinguisticeventhad two possibleinterpretations: missionof informationand asthe realizationof a plan. "l think that'sa goodidea,Colonel,"I said. It wasan ambiguityinvisibleto most.A privatejoke;don't askme to explainit. EventhoughI'm proficientwith HeptapodB, I know I don't experiencerealitythe waya heptapoddoes.My mind wascastin the mold of and no amountof immersionin an alien human,sequentiallanguages, languagecan completelyreshapeit. My worldviewis an amalgamof human and heptapod. BeforeI learnedhow to think in HeptapodB, my memoriesgrew like a column of cigaretteash,laid down by the infinitesimalsliverof markingthe sequentialpresent. combustionthat wasmy consciousness, After I learnedHeptapodB, new memoriesfell into placelike gigantic blocks,eachone measuringyearsin duration,and thoughtheydidn'tara periodof five they sooncomPosed rive in orderor land contiguously, It is the periodduring which I know HeptapodB well enough decades. to think in it, startingduring my interviewswith Flapperand Raspberry and endingwith my death. Usually,HeptapodB affectsiust my memory:my consciousness crawlsalongasit did before,a glowingslivercrawlingforwardin time, the differencebeingthatthe ashof memoryliesaheadaswell asbehind: I haveglimpseswhen Hepthereis no realcombustion.But occasionally tapod B huly reigns,and I experiencepastand future all at once;my
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consciousness becomesa half-centuryJong emberburningoutsidetime. I perceive-during thoseglimpses-that entireepochasa simultaneity. It's a period encompassingthe restof my life, and the entirety of yours. I wroteout the semagrams for "processcreate-endpoint inclusivewe," meaning"let'sstart."Raspberryrepliedin the affirmative,and the slide showsbegan.The seconddisplayscreenthat the heptapodshad providedbeganpresentinga seriesof images,composedof semagrams and equations, while one of our videoscreensdid the same. This was the second"gift exchange"I had been presentfor, the eighthone overall,and I knew it would be the last.The looking-glass tent wascrowdedwith people;Burghartfrom Ft. Worth washere,as were Gary and a nuclearphysicist,assortedbiologists,anthropologists, military brass,and diplomats.Thankfully they had setup an air-conditioner to cool the place off. We would reviewthe tapesof the imageslater to figureout justwhatthe heptapods'"gift" was.Our own "gift" wasa presentationon the Lascauxcavepaintings. We all crowdedaround the heptapods'second screen,trying to gleansomeideaof the images'contentastheywentby."Preliminaryassessments?" askedColonelWeber. "lt's not a return,"saidBurghart.In a previousexchange, the heptapodshad givenus informationaboutourselves thai we had previously told them.This had infuriatedthe StateDepartment,but we had no reasonto think of it asan insult: it probablyindicatedthat tradevaluereally didn't playa role in theseexchanges. It didn't excludethe possibilitythat the heptapodsmight yet offer us a spacedrive,or cold fusion,or some otherwish-fulfilling miracle. "That lookslike inorganicchemistry,"saidthe nuclear pointing at an equationbeforethe imagewasreplaced. Gary nodded."lt could be materialstechnology," he said. "Maybewe'refinallygettingsomewhere," saidColonelWeber. "l wannaseemore animal pictures,"I whispered,quietly so that only Gary could hearme, and poutedlike a child. He smiledand poked me. Tiuthfully, I wished the heptapodshad given anotherxenobiolog, lecture,astheyhad on two previousexchanges; iudgingfrom those,humansweremore similarto the heptapodsthan any otherspeciesthey'd everencountered.Or anotherlectureon heptapodhistory;thosehad
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been filled with apparentnon sequiturs,but were interestingnonetheless.I didn't want the heptapodsto give us new technology,becauseI might do with it. didn't wantto seewhatour governments while the informationwasbeingexchanged, I watchedRaspberry lookingfor any anomalousbehavior.It stoodbarelymoving asusual;I sawno indicationsof whatwould happenshorily. After a minute, the heptapod'sscreenwent blank, and a minute afterthat, ours did too. Gary and most of the other scientistsclustered arounda tiny video screenthat wasreplayingthe heptapods'presentaphysition. I could hearthem talk aboutthe needto call in a solid-state cist.ColonelWeberturned."Youtwo,"he said,pointingto me and then to Burghart,"schedulethe time and locationfor the next exchange." Then he followedthe othersto the playbackscreen. "Coming right up," I said.To Burghart,I asked,"Would you care to do the honors,or shallI?" I knewBurgharthadgaineda proficiencyin HeptapodB similarto mine. "lt's your lookingglass,"he said."You drive." I satdown againat the transmittingcomputer."Bet you neverfigured you'd wind up working asan fumy translatorback when you were a gradsfudent." "That'sfor goddamnsure,"he said."Evennow I canhardlybelieve it." Everythingwe saidto each other felt like the carefullybland exchangesof spieswho meetin public,but neverbreakcover. confor "locus exchange-hansaction I wrote out the semagrams with the projectiveaspectmodulation. verseinclusive-we" Raspberrywrote its reply. That was my cue to frown, and for Burghartto ask,"What doesit meanby that?"His deliverywasperfect. replywasthe sameas I wrotea requestfor clarification;Raspberry's before.Then I watchedit glide out of the room.The curtainwasabout to fall on this act of our performance. Colonel Weber steppedforward. "What's going on? Where did iI go?" "lt saidthat the heptapodsareleavingnow,"I said."Not fustitself; all of them." "Call it backherenow.Ask it what it means." "IJm, I don't think Raspberry's wearinga pager,"I said. The image of the room in the looking glassdisappearedso abruptly that it took a moment for my eyesto registerwhat I wasseeing
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instead:it wasthe other sideof the looking-glass tent. The looking glass had becomecompletelytransparent.The conversationaround the playbackscreenfell silent. "What the hell is goingon here?"saidColonelWeber. Gary walked up to the looking glass,and then around it to the other side.He touched the rear surfacewith one hand; I could seethe pale ovalswhere his fingertipsmade contact with the looking glass. "I think," he said, "we just sawa demonstrationof transmutationat a distance." I heardthe soundsof heavyfoofalls on dry grass.A soldiercamein through the tent door, short of breath from sprinting, holding an over"Colonel,message sizewalkie-talkie. from-" Webergrabbedthe walkietalkiefrom him. I rememberwhat it'll be like watchingyou when you area day old. Your fatherwill havegone for a quick visit to the hospitalcafeteria,and you'll be lying in your bassinet, and I'll be leaningoveryou. So soon after the delivery,I will still be feeling like a wrung-out towel.You will seemincongruouslytiny, given how enormousI felt during the pregnancy;I could swearthere was room for someonemuch largerand more robustthan you in there.Your handsand feet will be long and thin, not chubbyyet.Yourfacewill still be all red and pinched, puffy eyelids squeezedshut, the gnomelike phase that precedesthe cherubic. I'll run a fingeroveryour belly,marvelingat the uncannysoftness of yourskin,wonderingif silkwould abradeyourbodylike burlap.Then you'll writhe, twistingyour body while poking out your legsone at a time, and I'll recognizethe gestureas one I had felt you do inside me, manytimes.So thafb whatit lookslike. I'll feel elatedat this evidenceof a uniquemother-childbond,this certitudethat you'rethe one I carried.Even if I had neverlaid eyeson you before,I'd be ableto pick you out from a seaof babies:Not thatone. No, not her either.Wait, that one overthere. Yes,that'sher. She'smine. That final "gift exchange"was the last we ever saw of the hep tapods.All at once,all overthe world, their lookingglasses becametransparent and their ships left orbit. Subsequentanalysisof the looking
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glassesrevealedthem to be nothing more than sheetsof fused silica, completelyinert. The informationfrom the final exchangesessiondescribeda new classof superconducting materials,but it laterprovedto duplicatethe resultsof researchjust completedin Japan:nothing that humansdidn't alreadyknow.We neverdid learnwhy the heptapodsleft, any more than we learnedwhat brought them here, or why they acted the way they did. My own new awarenessdidn't provide that type of knowledge;the heptapods'behavior waspresumablyexplicablefrom a sequentialpoint of view,but we neverfound that explanation. I would haveliked to experiencemore of the heptapods'worldview,to feel the way they feel. Then, perhapsI could immersemyself fully in the necessityof events,asthey must,insteadof merelywadingin its surf for the restof my life. But that will nevercometo pass.I will continue to practicethe heptapodlanguages, aswill the other linguistson the looking-glass teams,but none of us will everprogressany further than we did when the heptapodswerehere. Working with the heptapodschangedmy life. I met your father and learnedHeptapodB, both of which makeit possiblefor me to know you no% here on the patio in the moonlight. Eventually,many years from now,I'll be without your father,and without you.All I will haveIeft from this moment is the heptapodlanguage.So I pay closeattention, and note everydetail. From the beginningI knew my destination,and I chosemy route accordingly.But am I working towardan extremeof joy, or of pain?Will I achievea minimum, or a maximum? Thesequestionsare in my mind when your fatherasksme, "Do you want to make ababy?"And I smile and answer,"Yes,"and I unwrap his armsfrom aroundme, and we hold handsaswe walk insideto make love.to makevou.
N E B U LFAO RB E s TN O V E L E T T E @
MarsIs NoPtace for Ghitdren MARYA. TURZILLO
In herhighschootyearbook MaryTurzitlosaidshewantedto go to the Moon.Thatdidn'tworkout, so shesettledfor a careerin sciencefiction, and hasbeena futt-timewriterfor the pastseveral years.Her storieshaveappearedin magazines and anthologiesin the UnitedStates,GreatBritain,Germany, Japan, andItaly.Shelivesin Berea,0hio,andis married to science fiction writerGeoffrey Landis,whowona Nebulahimsetfin 1989. (NancyKressandChartes Sheffietd arethe only otherhusbandand-wifeteamof Nebutawinners.) AboutherNebula-winning storyshesays,"Twothreadsfrom 'Mars mytife cometogetherin Is NoPtacefor Chil.drenj Myhusbandhadan experiment on the Sojoumer rover,whichwaspart of the Pathfindermissionto Mars.Thefirst time I sawpictures of the proposedrover,I knew it would captureeverybody's imagination. Sojoumer cameacrossasa vatiantlittle robot,an extensionof ourselves as exptorersof other wortds.July 4, 7997,I stoodwith otherspaceenthusiasts at Ptanetfest 97 in Pasadena to celebratethe landing of Pathfinderon the red ptanet.Exhitanted by the picturesthatPoffindersentdownto us, I chosea missionof my own:to speakfor the peoptewho wi[[ someday live on that planet.A yearlater,at the Founding
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NebulaAwards 2001 Showcase Conventionof the MarsSociety,I alsorealizedthat tife wasn't goingto be easyfor Martiancolonists.Theywould bravea thousanddangers, includingDNA-damaging radiation.I also cameto believethat peoplewitl colonizeotherptanetsnot for gain (thoughof coursetraderesources economic mustbe present) but for their ideals,as cotonistsin the past havedone. KaperaSmythe'sparentsaresuchideatists. "Theotherthreadis knowingseveralchitdren,inctudingmy ownson,whofight life-threatening i[[ness.Kidsshoutdbetieve that they wi[[ neverdie. Whenthat beliefis destroyed, I can only admirehowthey keeptheir strengthto dream.Fortheir sakeI put atl.myskitl.andatl my soulinto 'MarsIs No Placefor ChitdreniKapera Smytheis, to me,a realgirl who witLlive on Marsandwitl carryhumanity's in herheart." dreams
KaperaSmythe,her diary, SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Vastitas Borealis,Summer-lanuary3r,z2o2: Mother and Dad askedme what I wantedfor my sixthbirthsol,and I saidthe antiquewrist computerwe sawin Borealopolisa couplesols ago,at the flea market.So they sentfor it and here it is! I deliberately pickedout onesoold it won'tnetworkto the housecomputers,and I can havesomePRIVACYat last. A diary.So this is my diary.It doesn'thavedirect retinal imaging, and it's broken so I haveto do text only. But it's mine, and only mine! I used to keep a diary on the housenet, but now I need to keep my thoughtsto myself.This will stayalwayson my wrist or under my pillow, and they'll neverreadwhat I reallythink, or what I plan. They'regoingto sendme "home." To them,homeis a little starI canseein the morningand evening sky.They sayit's blue; to me it's just a white starwith a smallerwhite star alwaysnearit. A doubleplanet.The biggerof the twin planetsis the one I guess,since thatt they call home, which, to be fair, is reasonable, wheretheywereboth born. Home is also where my preciousolder brother went, the one Mother alwaystalksaboutwhen she says,"Oh, Sekoulearnedto read when he wasn't even two," or, "Remember how Sekou was so good aboutdoinghis chores?"
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 51 When I waslessthan a mearold, theysentSekoubackto Earthbecausehe had somediseasethat the hospitalshere can't treat.They have with one pictureof Sekouand me. I had my hair in cornrows,decorated little redbeads.Sekou,abouttwo mearsold, had reallyshorthair,almost none at all. He wasdarkerthan I am, reallycute,if a little bit skinny. My mother is the worstwith the Saint Sekoustuff.Dad is more sympathetic. I get jealousof Sekousometimes,but I think about him and wonder what it would be like to havea big brotherto play with. Itt not worth leavingMars,of course,but it would still be reallygreat. MaybeI shouldkeepthis diaryso Sekoucan readit. Dear Sekou: Our parentssaythey came here for their freedom, becausethe streetsof everycity on Earth were unsafefor Kiafricans.BecauseKiafricansafter four centuriesof legal freedom were still treatedlike citizens,sometimesevenlynched.But if theywantedfreesecond-class dom, why did they haveto buy it with so many mearsof slavery(oops! they don't call it that term) indenture-lo the Martian megacorp?And, as it turns out, why am I not safehere on Mars?On Earth,the danger wasviolence.Here, it's anotherkind of deathhangingoverour heads. If theyboughttheirfreedomwith nine mearseach,eighteenmears together,of labor, if this is what they had to pay for freedom,why am I not free to stayon the planet I love? 2,2202: Summer-February SmytheFarmand Laboratories, Dear Sekou, It'sharderthan I expectedgettingtime to recordin here.I haveto pretendto recordin my diaryon the housecomputer,or Mother will get (Dad'sthe hustingtype). suspicious I think I'll recorda little bit aboutwhy I lovemy home,becauseif I getsentbackto Earth I'll want morethan picturesto rememberMars. Let'ssee. Our home. My bedroom,with its skylightso I can checkon the full wind and sun and starsanytime,evenin the night. The greenhouses of Mother and Dad'sexperiments.The frostfowers we growin the lowantifreezeplants, The patchof oxygen-conserving, pressure greenhouse. amazing blades of green in the sun from Summer-Februaryuntil
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Summer-November.Antifreezeplants grow outsideon the naked soil, but unfortunatelythey don't flower. We have to propagatethem from root cuttings.But they impressPolaricorp,which is the corporation which runsthis part of Mars. The sky.The Winter-fune sky,so full of stars.We live near the pole,and for threehundredglorioussolseachmear,the skyis full of jewelssothick I just haveto makeup storiesaboutthe King of the Universe, who spilledthem into our Martian sky. The slowsummersunsetand sunrise,sucha delicateblue against the pink sky.The solsin Summedune when the sun doesn'tbotherto set,just floatson the horizon like a glowing silvermedallion on a string of invisiblestars.The moons,bright like silvercoins.Lastmeartherewas an eclipse,and we waiteduntil Deimosalmostglidedoverthe sun,then stolea peekwhile one bright bead(becauseDeimosisn'tvery round,it hasvalleysand humps)sparkledfor a moment. Sekou,you know Earth doesn'tevenhavemoons.Well, yes,it has the otherplanet,which peoplefrom Earth insiston callingThe Moon. (Do you call it that?) Can't they see it's way big? It's a planet, called Luna, for heavensake! The hugevalley,VallesMarinaris.Oh, wouldn't I love to explore the bottom of that one.Maybethat'swherethey'll find fossils,littlestony piecesof bacteriaor (here'sa word I learnedlastweek) diatoms.Maybe I'll go there when I grow up. Maybe I'll be on a team that discovers fossils. The greathigh mountains,biggerthan the oneson Earth. No one will everwalk all the wayto the top of OlympusMons, Mother says.But maybeshe'swrong.Shedoesn'tknow me. But of courseI'm not going to grow up on Mars.They're sending me back,unlessI can stopthem. Mother askedme where "the little wrist computer"is. Meaning this computer,my diary.She'snot stupid.Sheprobablyfigured I'm keep ing a diary.So I told her it waslost, I couldn't find it. Ha. fu if anything could getlostin this biome.Everyeverysolarcell, everydrainagepipe, everypane of glass,everyfork, everywrench, is in its place,almostlike we worshipedthem. Becausethey were either manufacturedby Martiansin Valleston,or else(hard to imagine)broughtfrom Earth. Like this, my old-fashioned,antique,fea-marketwrist computer.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 53 Our housecomputeris sortof an antique,too.We'renot like some city peoplethat havecontactlenschipsor headplantsso we can watch the newsor listento musictwenty-fourpoint five hoursa sol.Or Earth peoplewho have Mars*nows-whatnanotechjunk, which is dangerous anywayafterwhat happenedto tlrat town in Scotlandon Earth. It's in my pocket. I alwayshide it when I take a bath or change cloihes. But maybeI betternot recordiustyet what my plan is. Summer-February SmytheFarmand Laboratories, \,2202: Dear Sekou, I didn't feel very good for a couple solsthere. That stupid doctor from Earth gaveme somekind of pep-pill, supposedto kill the bad cells and pump up the goodones.At leastthatt what they said.It made me feel worseratherthan better. But let's talk more about Earth and why I'd rather die than go there,evenif it'swhereyou live, Sekou. First, I wouldn't mind it so much, despitethe awful things my Mother and Dad alreadytold me about how they mistreatus Kiafricans. The gravityis bad, I know, but you spendsometime in a stationwhere you exerciseeverysol with big elasticbandsand get strongso you can survive,plus they give you calcium-magnesiumvitamin D pills, and anywayI'm not quite through puberty,so maybewhen my hormones kick in (yeech,it feelsicky to talk aboutthis stuff),they'll growme bigger musclesand bonesso I won't feel the gravityso much. It would be an adventure.Plantsgrow outdoorsall the time there. I've readtheyevenkill plantstheydon'twant-weeds.Weeds?Imagine. I would feedthem to the iguana,who would love them and get all fat and juicy. Although they don't have high mountains,apparentlythey do have huge thick cloudsand weatherwith lots of liquid H,O coming down out of the sky,which soundsweird but fun. And I'd love to seea live river or ocean,sinceoursare all dead.Animals.They haveanimals running all overfree.Peoplekeepsomeof them for pets. One of the girlsin my onJine math classclaimsshehasa pet cat. Obviouslyshet lying, just trying to impressus. Everybodyknowscatseat meat,and her familyisn'tgoingto keepsomethingaroundthatlivesthat
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high on the food chain without payingits way.I sawa cat in the zoo in Polarisa mearago.It wasall hairy,just like the holograms.They also havedogs,and ferretsand squirrels,and an alligator,but nothing really huge,nothingthat eatsa lot, like whalesor elephantsor dinosaurs. However,somebodywasplanning to bring a baby cow to Mars while it was still small enough to transport.They have hundredsof other different kindsof animalson Earth. Yes,I would love to go to Earth for a while. To seeyou, to find out how you grew up. But I could nevercomeback.That is, unlessI wasableto sellmyselfto one of the megacorps,like Mother and Dad did. But you haveto have specialskills and training, like bioengineering,to get yourself boughtand your passage paidbackto Mars. Dad and Mother sayI'm gifted.They meandifferentthingsby it, of course.Mother saysI'm intellectuallygifted,I havea high IQ, meaning I do well in the online school.Dad saysI havehoodoo.I candivine. Dowse for water, that means,in the form of undergroundpermafrost deposits. You might wonder why anybodywould need to dowsefor H,O here in the arctic circle,wherethe permafrostis only inchesfrom the surface.Of course,the Smythefamilywould haveall the bad luckt The homesteadMother and Dad were sold has a really thick crust over the permafrost,someplacesas much as three meters,and before I was born, they really neededsomebodywho could find placeswhere the coveringlayerwasthinner.Somebodywho could dowse. Well, I can. Mother saysthat'sbecauseI havesomesort of undiscoveredorgan,like birds,which helpsme locateminute disturbancesin the electrical field, which might result from the action of heating and coolingwater. So I'm "gifted." I don't think thatt going to get me passageback hometo Mars. So,no thankyou. I'll stayhere. Ifl can figureout how. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February Jr 22oz: Dear Sekou, My name,Kapera,meanssomething,and I nevereven realizedit until I got sick.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 55 you had,but gettingsick I don't know if I havethe samesickness causedme to find out the meaningof my name. on Mom and Dad, who werein the low-pressure I eavesdropped of their environmentsuitstogetherto puttingthe faceplates greenhouse, talk.They thoughtI couldn'thear,but I havereallygoodhearing.If I listen closely,I can hearpeopletalkingin their suits,evenwhen we'reout in the Mars sky. Dad thoughtit wasgrowingpains.Mother saidI'd be all right iustas as soon I gotmy firstperiod.Shedidn't knowwhen thatwould be,because there weren't enoughMartian-borngirls to collect statisticson what the Martian environmentwould do to makeus growup fasteror slower. I thought it might be the flu. Flu usuallycomesto the homesteads through Polaris,from new immigrants,and I thought maybethat wasit. Finally,theytookme to the hospitalin Polaris. The doctorlookedpretty young,for a doctor.He wasKiafrican, He had a funny accent-must haveiustcome like us,but light-skinned. to Mars.But I bet it wasn'tgoingto takehim nine mears,like my parents, to pay for his passage and homestead.Doctorsmakea lot of money,becausewe need them so much, and the membersof the megacorpgive and everything. them a big discounton passage "You'rehow old?" Six,l told him. He kind of gawked,then rememberedthat we countedMartian mears,not Earth years."You haveleukemia,"he said."Do you know what that means?" I felt like throwing up. "lt's a diseaseMars children get becauseof is sothin it doesn'tprotectus. the cosmicrays.Becausethe atmosphere It'sbecauseI go out in the environmentsuitall the time and stayupstairs isn'tit? If I'd beenmore careful-" in the greenhouses, "No," he said. I justlookedat him. "No, Kapera.I've been here almosta whole Mars year,and I've seenchildhood cancer,leukemia,and Hodgkint diseasein children who lived entirelyunderground." Cosmicrays.Radiation.We studiedthat on-line,of course.It was one of the reasonsscientists think life might havearisenon Mars even beforeEarth, becauseit makesmoleculeschangerapidly.But it also bonksDNA in cells,soit causescancer.Especiallychildren'scancer.
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The doctorgot up and gesturedfor me to go sit in the waitingroom. I did, but I could still hearwhat they were saying."The companyinsurancewill payfor chemotherapy,supportivenuhition, and of coursepsychiatriccounselingfor the wholefamily.I'd recommenda hospicein-" "How goodis the chemotherapy and supportivenuhition?"asked Dad. "What do you mean,how good?" Mother spokeup, "Our son had Hodgkin'sdisease. They recommendedmuch the samefor him." The doctor paused,waiting for her to go on. When she didn't he said,"I see.Well, it's the bestwe haveto offer,and it doeswork for over half the childrenwith this particularleukemia.You do understandthat strictcompliancewith the chemoand dietregime,plusaffirmationsand uh, if you arereligious,prayer,can reallyup your chances-" Dad said,"Doctor,areyou a companyman?" 'A company- Youmean,doesa memberof the syndicate own my conhact at present?Yes.But the syndicatestill extendshealth insurance to Martianswho are freemen,you know.You'redefinitelyeligible." Dad smiled kind of sadly."If this were your daughter,and you had-extensiveresources-whatwould you recommend?" "Oh, I'm not allowed- " Then I heardhischairscrapeon the floor, like he'd movedcloserto them.I had to strainto hearhim. "l'd sendher to one of the middle Earth orbit hospitals. The nanotechreengineering they do there is still experimental,but I'm satisfiedthat it works." "How many-" "Ninety-fivepercentcure rate.But theret no use breakingyour heart.That'sway beyondyour means,or mine, for that matter." "How much?" "Well, it's the passage to Earth that'sreallyunaffordable.The treatment is, uh, well, maybea year'ssalary,if you'rea freeman.If you have that much savedup." I listenedashardasI could,but nobodysaidanythingfor a while. It waswhattheycall an embarrassed silence.I remembereverything,so clearly.Maybe if I put it in text,then I can forgetit. "Kapera,"said the doctor, as he usheredthem out. "That name, Kapera,meansThis Will Be the Last One, doesn'tit?" "Yes,"saidMother. Her voice washard. He turnedaway."Marsis no placefor children,"he said.
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That'swhat my name means. I'm sotired,Sekou. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 5, 2202: Dear Sekou, Rereadingwhat I wrote about that doctor,I'm angryat him. He made our parentsfeel helpless.He shamedthem becausethey didn't havethe moneyto sendme to Earth and back. 6, zzoz: SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February Dear Sekou, Dad keepstrying to make me eatsomething.He killed one of the chickensand cookedit in jalapeflosauce.Mother madeice creamout of the soyslurryand flavoredit with banana.It all seemedlike a good idea,but I just didn't feel like eatingmore than a few bites.I saidfor them to freezeit; maybetomorrowor in a couplesols. Mother said the shot the doctor gaveme must be ruining my appetite. ro,2202: SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February Dear Sekou, We wentbackto the doctor.His nameis Pinkerton,I found out. A realCompanyname.Dr. Pinkertongaveme anothershot,but this time therewasa tonic of somekind, too. I told him how awful the chemotherapymakesme feel. And he doesn'teven guaranteeit will work. Obsolete,like most Martian stuff, chemotherapy,that makesyour hair fall out and you barf all the time. He didn't mention the neotenizingnanotechthey do in the big expensive Earth orbital hospitals."Frontierremediesfor frontierheroes,"he said. Big deal.Thatt not the kind of hero I want to be. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February to, 2202: Dear Sekou, On Earth,theyclaim peopledreamin blackandwhite mostof the time. Maybe that'show you dream, but I dream in color, and I have dreamsof being an explorer.Dreamsin red. I got thinking aboutheroesand aboutthe historyof Mars.About all the Earth peoplethat were so dedicatedto gettingto Mars that modern
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peoplecall them "the first Martians,"eventhough it wasa whole century beforefeftey Allan setthe flag of PolymetMining on the faceof the planet,and anotherfifty yearsbeforeSaganCity wasfounded. I got thinkingaboutSojournerTiuth. Not Sojournerthe firstindependentroverto land on Mars; Sojournerthe woman.We don't study much Earth history,but I searchedthe free networkto find Earth-based historiesof the African American race(the old-fashionedEarth term for Kiafricans).What happenedwas that the North America government declaredslaveryillegal,but thisone woman'smasterrefusedto obeythe law.Sosheran away.Shechangedher nameto SojournerTiuth.Shebecamea famouslecturer,travelingall overin the nameof truth. You probablywonderwhat all this hasto do with SaganCity and PolymetMining, but when they were first exploringMars-not with people,but justwith robotsand stuff-they sentthis roverthat lookedat rocksand stuffandtold whatour atmosphere and soilwaslike.The very firsthuman thing on Marsthatwastruly independent.They had a lot of ideasto nameit, includingan Amerindscout'sname,Sacagawea. But in the end, they had a contest,and the name that won was-Sojourner Tfuth. There were dozensof other exploringroversto follow, of course: Rocky7 and rr and r3, and Athena,and Robbit,and-you must know aboutthose. I thoughtthat wasreallycool. I madea little model out of broken solarpanelsand your toy cars.(Well-you didn't takeihem with you.) I keepit undermy skylightsoit can look out at skyall mearlong.Somesol I'll get aroundto hookingit up to somegoodsolarcellsso it will really run. In Borealopolis, the PolymetMining Museumhaswhatthey claim is a pieceof a solarcell from the original Sojourner.I'm not surehow they got it, since the original rover has never actually been found. It's probablya piece from a prototype,donatedfrom Earth. Aty*ry, rich peoplecollect Mars memorabilia.Like, gunsusedin theAntihustWarof zr39arein museumsin Polaris,and probablyin a lot of other big cities,but sometimesrich guyshavecollections-replicas and eventhe realthing. I can understandthis. I havea homemadereplicaof Sojourner.I bet somerich executivein Polaristech would pay millionsand millions for the real Sojournerrover. But nobody would ever be able to find it. It wasprogrammedto
MarsIs NoPtacefor Children 59 wanderaround and samplerocksafter it lost contactwith Earth. It's buried in the sandby now. Millions and millions.Enoueh to travelto Earth and back,with lots left over. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February il, 2202: Dear Sekou, Well, my hair hasalmostall fallen out. BeforeI went to the doctor, I had it all done in dreads.It looked really sophisticated.Now I look hideous.Mother says,"Cheer up, it'll growback." When we realizedmy hair wasgoing,Dad took a holo. I wascutting backsomemorning-gloryvinesand saying,"Farmingis hardwork." I'm sogladDad understands. Mother justhasa cold heart. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February n, zzoz,Idter: Dearbig brother, Why are our Mother and Dad so nice to eachother thesesols? SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 14,2202: Dear Sekou, I guessthis diseasemakesyou paranoid.I've neveractuallyknown anybodywho wasparanoid,but it is mentioneda lot in historybooks, particularlyof the twentieth and twentieth-firstcentury.I think I'm paranoid. They brokeit to me (big surprise)that I'm goingbackto Earth.Or anryay,they'regoing to fry to sendme back to Earth. But there'ssomething else.Dad tradeda packetof our bestbeanseedstockfor a bunch of uselesssquashblossomshe got from the Watsonfamily. He made this bouquetof them. Put them in a jar on the table. Mother cried when shesawthem. I hopesheappreciatedthem; Dad'sso generous. She left them there two whole solsbefore we stuffedthem with beansand bakedthem for dinner. What'sgoing on? Dad wasneverthe type for romantic gestures.Is Mother going to get pregnant again?I told you before"Kapera"means "the lastone,"but maybenow theychangedtheirmind. It makesme feel kind of shuddery.Like theywereplanningto replaceme.
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Smythe Farm and Laboratories,Summer-February14, 2202, later in the sol: But that'sokay,I decided.They need somebodyto go on. Dad is a good parent, and I guessMother's heart is in the right place, even if they'rewrongabout sendingme away.And maybelwill go to Earth, and survive,and grow up. Then when I come backto Mars (becausehell or high winds I'm goingto, no matter how much studyingand work I have to do to be ableto sellmy servicesto the Companies),maybeI'll havea little brotheror sister. I'm beginningto feel a little better.But Dr. PinkertonsaysI have to feel rotten to get at the cancerouscells and makethem feel evenrottener.So I supposeI'll be goingin for anotherround. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 17,2202: Dear Sekou, They cameout with it. They're sendingme to an Earth orbit hospital that takesMartian patients.I'll be treatedIherc,cured.And then rehabilitated to go to Earth to live. My grandmother (whom I've seen picturesand tapesof) will takecareof me asI acclimatizeto Earth gravity, although I'll neverbe very strong,accordingto Mother. Being preadolescent will be an advantage. They want to do this soon.They showedme the letter from Dr. Pinkerton,and he saysit has to be done before Summer-May.He says otherwiseI won't survivethe six-monthtrip, and anywaythat'sthe travel window. We'releavingthe time of long shadows, the low barometersols.By Summer-May,the shadows will be growingshorter,and sowill my time home world, on our Sekou,on the only home world I ever wanted. Good-byepolar capsand long starrywinters,good-byepink-ambersummers when the sun drawsa platinum ring all the way round the sky. Good-byemy chancesof searchingfor fossilsin VallesMarinaris,of seeing the top of the biggestvolcanoin the solarsystem,of finding the Sojourner Rover that won Earth's heart to make Mars a human place. Good-byeto my few shortsolsof happiness;hello to endless"ddys"asan eternalexile. I'm soashamedto be weakand cry like this.This wristcomputeris so old it'll probablyget tearsin it and stop.I hope you, and I, can still readthis-when I getto Earth.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 61 SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 2r, 2202: Dear Sekou, Mother and Dad havebeen fighting. It's probablyMothert fault. She'sso bossyabouteverything.It had somethingto do with money.I hied to listen,but theyshutup all of a suddenandwentout to the greenhouse.They're out there now I listenedto them a little while-but though I could hear their words,I couldn't understandwhat they were talking about.They know a little bit of someother languages-English and fapanese and Baduma.I finallygot too tired and went to bed. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 22,2202: Dear Sekou, I found this creepyletter addressedto Mother and Dad from somethingcalledthe PersonalityPreservation SoftwareCorporation.I shouldn'tbe spying,you would probablysay,but I bet you'd do the same if you werestill on Mars,and Mother and Dad wereactingsoweird. The letter saysthat for umpteenthousandfranksthey can makea record of a persont voice,thinking patterns,knowledge,training, their whole personality,in other words, and then download it into an autonomousroverto exploreMars.They called this an Etemal Memorial ReconstructionRover. Sekou,I havethis horriblefeelingthis hassomethingto do with me. SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February 23,zzoz: Dear Sekou, How I wishyou werehere,big brother,to tell me whatI shoulddo! I admit it. I've been eavesdroppingagain. I stayedin the greenhouseafter teatimeyestersol, and sureenough,they came in, arguing just like last night. At first, I couldn't figure out what the disagreement was. Then Mother said, "It's settled, foseph, I'm going with her and you'recashingin. We can get the mostmoney for you." Cashingin can only mean one thing, Sekou.Maybeyou didn't learnthis beforeyou left Mars,but peoplesellthemselves to one or anotherof the companiesto comehere,and then earntheir freedomand their homestead,if they chooseto live outsidethe cities,by working it off. Mother and Dad earnedtheir freedomwhen I waslessthan a mear old; then they startedsavingto buy our homesteadfrom the company. Dad's voice was so low I almost didn't hear what he said next.
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"There has to be anothersolution,Miriam. I can't bear thinking I'll neverseeyou or her again." "ln the nameof heaven,tell me what it is!" Dad didn't sayanything. I'd somuch ratherit washim thatwascorningwith me. No, big brother,that'swrong.I can't bearthat I'm goingat all. A familyshouldbe together.There hasto be anothersolution. Meantime,I havea fever.I had a headacheall sol, so I took my And I lookedin the mirror.I look grayand skinny.Maybe temperature. it'sthe springlight. 24,2202: SmytheFarm and Laboratories,Summer-February Dear Sekou, I sleptall sol and they didn't even wake me up, iust left some greensand frostwheatgroatsby -y bed. I usedto like greens. Then when night came,I couldn't sleep,so I went and snooped somemore.I found what I wasafraidof. In the computerareticket numbersfor my mother and me to go to EquatorialCity, and then to Earth Orbital, a hospitalstation.There arealsoopen-endticket numbersto go to Earth surface.No date. Mother and Dad will neverseeeachotheragain.I will neversee my belovedfatheragain. How can theydo this to me?How can theydo it to us? Brother,help me! 27,2202: SmytheFarmand Laboratoiles,Summer-February Dear Sekou, I'm going to do this. I won't record it until it's done, because She'sso snoopy,shehasno respectat all Mother might get suspicious. for my privacy. But if I'm goingto do it, it will haveto be beforewe go to seethat stupiddoctoragain.And I will eatmy greensand eventhoseyickyyams the wayMother cooksthem,andthe verrede terresouffi6and the works. I surewill needmy strength. in the upperahnosphereof the Northem Hemisphere,SummetSomewhere March Jt 2202:
Dear Sekou, I madeit! I madeit! I'm on a rocketplane.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 63 The lastweekhasbeen excitingenoughto keepme from feeling sick very much. I wrote down ihe numbersfor the travel ticketsmy motherreservedfor us and put them in my schoolbag.I took my books out of the bagand hid them in the bottom of my closet.Then I packed someclothesand seedsfor tradein the bag. Do theyteachyou aboutMartianhistorylike we learnaboutEarth history?I feel awful that you know so little about your home planet. We'll haveto discuss thiswhen I becomerich and payyourwayto Mars. I'm goingto do that, you know. The biggestdifficulty wasnot the tickets,or evenID. My passport wasin the databanksjust like Mother's.So, sinceI wasusing my own ticket, I could travelwithout Mother. It was almostlike Dad knew what I was planning.Mother has stoppedinvolvingme in the sol-to-sol operationof the greenhouse or the nakedenvironmentplants,or evenconsultingme in the careof my owrr little plots.Dad is,of course,moreconsiderate; he keepsup the pretense that I havea future on Mars.But yestersol he took Moiher into the old middle-pressure greenhouse (the little one theybuilt when they firstarrived here) and got her involved in a long discussion.I tiptoed away, grabbedthe bagI had packed,and offl went. No, I didn't go hiking off in an environmentsuit like somecrash victim. I stolethe roverand droveit to Polaris,to the launchstation. I programmedit to comebackto the homestead, of course.And I left a nice note,sotheywon't think I waskidnapped. Mother will neverbe ableto traceme. I didn't go to EquatorialCi$. I'm on the rocketplaneto SaganCity. The launch areawas pretty exciting.I was so surprisedat how adult they heatedme, as if I knew all the safetyprocedures, which of courseI do-in theory.I mean, I study thesethings in school.The rocketplaneis launchedon a precisearcto land at its destination. When it getsthere,it deploysparachutesto brake,and then the wingsextendto guideit to the landingfield. I'm excitedaboutthe landing.It'll be nightwhenwe getthere,and I'll be able to seeall the city lights.The launch wasimpressive; lots of noiseand acceleration, but not much view becausewe gainedaltitr:de too fastfor much of a view of Borealopolis., Ares Vallis will look different from how it would have looked to Pathfinder(if Pathfinder's camerashad beendeployed).The areais still
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a flood plain, of course,with a varietyof rocksfrom all over.Beforethe landing, accordingto a site I looked at when I got interestedin Sojourner, there was a major disagreement over whether it was a flood plain, or whether the fluvial pattern wasfrom a volcanic eruption. Of course they leamed almost immediately that it was from flooding. Which made Mars much more interestingto thoseold Earthlingswho neverconsideredanythinginterestingunlessit waslike Earth-wet. I'm on my way. And evenif Mother decidesto follow me, she'llhavea hard time, becauseI gaveher electronicticket numbersto a new immigrant in Polaris. SaganCity, Summer-March6, zzoz: Dear Sekou: I had somewindowplantseedI usedas cowrie to get a bed last his net, night.The hostelerdidn't knowwhattheywere,but he accessed he found out how unusualthey were,and wasglad to takethem. The hotel wascheap,but a little scary.There weretwo immigrants there that got to Mars and wanted to renege on their contracts to Manifeast-FrostlineCompany.At first they were very quiet, but somebody in the bar recognizedthem and called the city police, who of coursewouldn't enforcea companycontract,but did tip off the ManiThere wasalmosta shootout. feastenforcers. Breakfastwaslettuce,onions,and squashsimmeredin soymilk. They usea lot of Earth plantshere;quiteexotic. I'm into my environmentsuitand offto the Pathfindersite.It'sless than a kilometerfrom the city biome. PathfinderSite,Summer-March6, 22oz,Iaterin the sol Sekou, This isn't working out as I expected.A kilometer is a long way to walk in an environmentsuit.When I gothere,therewasiustthe plaque, which said oN oRARoUND THIS sITE, THE HISToRIC PATHFINDERMISSIoN LANDED, IULY 4,1997."rP'B LANDER HAS BEEN MOVED TO THE SAGANMUROVERHASNEVERBEEN FOUND. SEUM ON FIRSTSTREET;THE SOJOURNER
That'sall I'm goingto recordtosol.My stomachhurts and I think I betterheadbackto the dome.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 65 SaganCity, PathfinderTrustMuseum,Summer-March7, zzoz: Sekou,my dearbrother, Elder Adelia hasfinally gone to her room and I feel safeto bring out my diary.Oh, boyl If I wasafraidof Mother gettingahold of it-if theseholy guyshereeversawwhat I've got planned,I'd be freezedried, fried, and hung out to flap in the dust. I just rereadwhat I wrote on Summer-March6. "My stomach hurts"-what an understatement. I realizedmy leukemiawasmaking me feel bad, so I figured maybetosolwasn'tthe sol to go diggingin the minesfor Soiourner.I thought I'd go backto the hotel and usethe lastof my cowrie to get anotherroom for the night. On the way,though, I noticed people staringat me. I had heard that Kiafricanswereuncommonin someMartiancities,but someof the peoplestaringand pointingwerealsoKiafrican. Then it hit me. I neededto hit a newsequiosk,fast.I didn't dare usemy account,that is,the Smythefamily'saccount,to payfor the jack, so I lookedfor a public library.I don't know how it is on Earth, big brother,or for that matter Luna or the orbital colonies,but on Mars most of the public librariesare run by Mormonitefesuits.In fact, the SaganMemorial Museum is run by Mormonitefesuits.I forgot-you probablydon't know about ancieni religions.To make a long story short,the Mormonsand the Jesuitswere both reallyvery sexist,meaning they didn't let women do much of the leadershipstuff.If you studied historyin the Earth school,they taughtyou that sectslike that had a lot of computertroublein the middle twenty-firstcentury.something called IRS wastappingtheir money files.I think IRS wasa computer virus.Anywaythe peoplein thosereligionsgot a badcaseof IRS and the law wantedto arrestthem and put them in quarantine.Sothe leadersof the Mormons and the |esuits decidedto come to Mars and set up coloniesfor religiousfreedom.Neither group had enough money to launch a large-scale emigrationand settlementmission,so theypooled their resources. The funny thing is that oncetheygot to Mars,theywereseparated from their home offices so much that they got to electing their own padresand cEos, and now thereare more madresrunning their show than padres.Which provessomething,I forgetwhat. There are privatelibraries,but they run by subscription,and you
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can't jack in unlessyou havean account.And the privatelibrariesdon't like the public libraries;they sayit's unfair competition. So I couldn'tfind a public libraryat the hotel,or in the biomethe hotel was in, and I had to spendmore preciouscowrie (the seeds)to chuteinto the cavernsectionof town,which iswhereI ran in the library, ignoringthe human attendant,grabbedfree goggles,and got the daily news.Therewasmy picture,onemy Dad hadtaken.I waspruningsome viles, and I turnedto the cameraand saidsomethingstupidlike, "Farmon Mars."I don't remembereversayinganythingthat ing is big business shrpid,but I musthave,becausetherewasthe video.And a big headline, IF YOU SEE THIS CHILD.
in a public postOh, no! This is the absolutefirsttime I'd appeared ing, and it wasbecauseI had done somethingwrong!I wantedmy first to be therebecausemy experimentswith bloodplantshad appearance Award, or becauseI had locateda major new won a Westinghouse aquifer. I had been reportedmissing,of course.My mother wasvideoed holding back tears(insinceretears,no doubt),sayingI had been kidnappedandthe houserobbedtoo.The kidnapperhadtakenundisclosed equipmentand usedan openticketto Soochow. Sekou,if I evermeetyou, I'm sureyou'll laugh and laugh at how stupidI had been not to realizethey would reportme missing.It's nice ihat theymissedme, of course.But of coursetheywerelegallyboundto report me to the company;though I was a born freewoman,still the companyhasfirstrightsshouldI decideto becomeindenhrred.And the companywould spreadit on the newsnet,evenif theyhadn't. all the maiorsin the posting,and nowherewasit menI crossreffed tionedthat I had leukemia.I don't know why theyleft that out. Sekou,I haveto tell you the mostawful thing I did. When I left home, I stoleMother'senvironmentsuit. She wasgoing to get me a new one,becauseI had outgrownmy five-mearsuit.Still, shewould be caughtshortwithout this one,and it will takeall summerto orderup a new one. I wassharingthis one with her, which wasawkward,because when you come in, you know,you haveto throw it in the deduster,and it takesjust hoursto getmostof the dustout, and if you don't, it wearsout very quickly at the sealsand seams. On Luna, they are developingonesthat have their own onboard
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 67 dedusters, somekind of nanotechthing. But you know Martianbureaucrats,no nanotechfrills for "our people"! Geez,l mustbe better,or I wouldn'tbe gabbingawaylike this. I went out to the Pathfindersite in Mothert environmentsuit. I surewasglad I had obeyedher and put it in the dedusterright after the last time I wore it. That was the night they were in the high-pressure greenhouse talkingaboutme. It fit fine, workedfine, but keptreporting problemswith my vitals. It wasn'ttelling me anything I didn't know. I startedback to the hamway (there'sa little rail car that takesyou to and from the site)and the nextthing I knewYouknow,itt hardto sit down in an environmentsuit,and a good thing,too,becauseyou'relikelyto run out of solarenergyand justfreeze to the ground. I kept telling myself,"Kapera,get upl Make your daddyproud of youlYoucando it!" But I couldn't get up. The suit waskind of heavyand of course hard to bend aroundthe knees.I startedcrying,and my noseran and I couldn't wipe it, and my faceplategot all smeary. Pretty soontwo peoplecameup, squattedbesideme, and pressed their faceplatesto mine. The one with the woman'svoice saidthat the parksitewasclosingfor the sol,would opentomorrowat nine. I tried to getup, thoughI didn'thaveanyideawhereI'd go.The womanaskedme if I wasokay.Well, did I /ooftokay?I mean really! This gaveme the energyto get up again,becauseI thought they would surelyconnectme with that girl who wasmissingfrom Smyihe Homesteadin Borealopolis, and turn me in. I didn't sayanything,but gotup. I wasstanding,andthen I fell overagain.This time,I justcouldn't getmy legsunder me. The womansaid,"Oh! Careful!You'llrip your suit." Which wassilly.Who everheardof a SearsRoebuckenvironment suit ripping?Cheap ones,maybe,but my parentsbuy qualitywhen it comesto equipment. The woman pulled me to my feet and let me lean againsther. "What'syour name?" I didn't know what to do, soI very carefullyusedmy toe to drawin the dust:SEKoU. I figuredshecouldn'tseethroughmy faceplate,and anywaywith
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my hair all gone she'dthink I wasa boy. SorryI usedyour name,big brother,but I had to think fast.I wantedthem to leaveme alone,but I wasafraidif they did, I wouldn't havethe strengthto makeit backto the plat'orm from which the tramwayran. "Walter,this poor child is hurt!" That waswhen I noticedthe bloodon the insideof my faceplate.I Darn it! musthavegottena nosebleed. They musthavehad somethingto I focusedon their nameplates. do with the museumbecausethey had namesovertheir hearts,ELDER ADELIAand peonswALTER. Oh, great.I had fallen into the handsof a bunch of missionaries. By somemiracle,they weren'tthe sort that had head computers tuned sol and night, so they hadn't seenthe "missingor kidnapped child" appeal. I supposethat'sthe religion thing, or maybethey'reiust poor. Atty*"y, they took me back to the museum,which was inside its own small biome, and the padre made me somekind of home-brewed liquor with herbsin it. Calledit HyperK. "The original shroomwasfrom Earth, but Mars gravityand mutations have changedit. I call it'Papa Mars WelcomeWagon gift to humanity."'He had a little nip himself,and seemedmuch happierafterthat. It tastedsweet,but with a bubbly bite to it. I felt like sleepingafter I drankthe HyperK, and when I wokeup, this is what I heard: She:"He can'tbe.The kidnappedchild wasa girl." 'Are you surehet a boy?Sekouis a boy'sname,but you know He: how thoseuplandersare.They got somegritty weirdcustoms." "Sekouis a boy'sname.Look it up in your database." "Yo,r'reright. And the missingchild'snamewasKaperaSmythe. Still, maybehe, she,whatever,is afraidto tell us the real name.Maybe Sekouis afraidthe kidnapperwill comeback.Or maybeSekouwasn't reallykidnapp.d- " the newsnet.FiThere wasa pausewhile they both reaccessed nally,Elder Adelia said,"They seempretty sureit wasa kidnapping.I and passon the informationabout still think we shouldcall Solaranics this child." "l guess.Still-the kid wasbleeding.Maybethe parents-or owners-were cruel and the child hasrun awayfor a reason."He took an-
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 69 other swig of the Hyper K. I knew it wasthe Hyper K, becauseI could smell the sweet-bitingsmell all the way down the hall. "That sh-rffismakingyou paranoid!Let'slet the poor boy sleepand hear his storyat breakfast." Sekou,I'm sitting here scaredto death.What kind of a storycan I feedthem that they won't sendme back home? MaybeI shouldgo backhome. I havetime to sleep,though.My stomachhurts. My nosewon't stopbleeding.Whydo I haveto be sick? I can'tgo home.They will be soangryat me.And Mother and Dad will be split up foreverand I'll haveto go to a stinkingorbital hospital, and then live on Earth the restof my life. My lifeSaganMemorial StationMuseum,March 7, 2202,I think: Dear Sekou, I don't know how you expectme to recorda diarywhen I'm sosick and confused. Oh, all right, I guessit wasmy idea in the first place. I fell asleepfor a little while, but my stomachhurt so much I woke up early.I heardthem talking again. She:"Sekouis a boy'snameall right! Sekouis the nameof Kapera Smythe'sbrother." 'All He: righg all right. So we call Celltechnio,who ownedthe parent'scontract.Or shouldwe call our own company?" She:"l saytalk to Madre Naomi. We'vealreadytakentoo much into our own handsby keepingthisfrom the Mission.Youand I maynot seeeyeto eyeon doctrine,but we havea responsibility to the Mission. And we can'tkeephim - or her- in the museumdormitorywithoutletting somebodyin authorityknow." He: "lJm, why don't you call. I'm not sureI can face up to this." I heardenough,Sekou.I figuredin a minute,they weregoingto come in and pull down my drawersto find out if I wasKaperaor Sekou. I got out of the hammock, stuffedmy environmentsuit into the backpack,and peekedout the door. They were standingin a low hallway.It looked like we were in a part of the building that had a soil roof,thoughthe museumitselfis an
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attachedto biome with its own greenhouse, independentaboveground the city biomewith a long inflatedtube.I hatethosethings;the pressure is alwayswaytoo low and it hurts my ears.And they'recold! She was saying,"Padre,I know you'recrazy about kids, but ihis isn't a strayiguanasomefarmerlost that you can makeinto a pet." "I just worry about why they want him back,Adelia. What if that wasn'treallyhis father?Supposehe'sa companychild?" "Don't believeeverythingyou accesson the yellowsites,Padre." I tiptoedbackinto the little cell whereI'd slept.The nap had made me feel a lot better.I noticeda backpackhung on a hookon the backof the door.While I could still hearvoices,I veryquietlytookthe backpack down and went throughit. Oh, Sekou!Pleasedon't be too ashamedof me, goingthrough a too,who helpedme when I wasin stranger's things,and a goodperson's houble.I know I condemnedMother for trying to violatemy privacyby accessingmy diary.But I had to figure out a way so they wouldn't turn me in, soI had to find out asmuch asI could aboutthesepeople.I was desperate! The backpackbelongedto ElderAdelia.In an outerpocketwasan old-fashionedplasticsmartplate,and I waspretty sureit would havethe key codesto all the roomsin the museum. I hung the backpackback up and thought fast.The way to leave wasblocked;Elder Adeliaand PadreWalterwere standingin the hallway.Elder Adeliawassaying,"Well, then let'sjust talk to him. If he'sa runaway,surelyhe'll tell us why,and we can checkout his story."And I shuffing down the hall. heardtheir footsteps I shovedthe smartplatein my iumpsuitpocketandlay backon the bed,trying to look asif I had iustwakedup. Shespokefirst: "Sekou,areyou restedup from your nap?Youwant somemore soup?We wantedto askyou a few questions." I didn't sayanything. He said,"ElderAdeliaand I wonderedifyou weremaybelost.Can we help you get back to your parents?" I still didn't sayanything.I had an idea. 'A boyyour agealone,ofcoursewe wonderedifyou had got separatedfrom your family," Elder Adelia continuedsoothingly. But I wasn'tsoothed.I saidnothing.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 7t "Maybe he speaksAmhav," said PadreWalter. "Sorquel !'wey a habin tey?" I staredat them. He hied severalother languages, including English,which I do know pretty well. He apparentlyhad one of those quick-studychips, or maybe he had done a lot of deep learning.He certainly knew a lot of waysto ask that werenone of his business. questions Finally Elder Adelia chippedin. Betweenthe two of them, I bet theytried twentydifferentlanguages. I juststaredai them. "Do you understandus at all, honey?"sheasked. I staredat them, then noddedyes. "Oh my stars!Can you talk, SekouT" I slowlyshookmy head:No. I tried noi to giggleat their expressions. "What do we do now,Walt?" "I think we haveto takehim to the Madre Generale.Sekou,gather your things.We're goingto takeyou to a lady who can help you get back with your parents." 'Ask him aboutwhy he ran away." "You askhim." I lookedat them with the biggesteyesI could manage. Shesaid,"Sekou,wereyou kidnapped,or did you run away?" I lookedat her and shrugged. "Youran away?Why? Wereyou afraidof someoneor something?" I noddedemphatically. Well, Sekou,it wastrue. I wasafraidof leukemia,and afraidI'd be sentto Earth Orbital Hospital. I knewI wasin troubleif I evergotto seeMadreNaomi.Shedidn't soundlike the typewith the warmthof solarkindnessin her heart. So I followedthem down the hallway,and into the tube. Once we got to the city, I waiteduntil we were at a busy intersection:peopleand miniroversall going every which way. I chose the darkestcorridor I could seeand ran like Phobos. They were old people,and althoughI wassick,I wasyoung and small.When I thoughtI had lost them, I put on my environmentsuit and slippedout an airlock.
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Where am I now?you wonder,big brother. Well, I'm right backat the museum.I waiteduntil dark-there's beena local stormthat blocksmoststarlight,and neitherof the moons were up, I told you I wasgoodat divining. Dad saysI havethis magnetic sixthsense.I found the doorto the museumin the twilight by following the edgeof the main biome,then the connectingtubes.I figuredthey'd neverlook for me outside.I huddled in the shadowof a model of the Face,hopingmy powerwouldn'tgiveout beforedark. It didnt. I'm insidethe museum. SaganMemorial Museum,Summer-April3, zzoz: Dear Sekou: I'm in the museum,but I'm alsoin serioustrouble. To start with, I'll have to leaveand find somewhereelseto go in aboutsevenhours,when the museumopensto tourists. But worse,theyhrrn offthe air handlersat night,which is not a huge threat; I've spenttime in our medium-pressure greenhouseand got no moreproblemsthan nosebleeds. But therearetwo otherproblems:One, the outer dome,the flydome,sort of collapsesin on itself;during the sol it'slike a big fat balloonagainstthe low outsideambientpressure. At night, itt still inflated,but itt not blown up asbig. It kind of drapesagainstthe front entry and I can't get out. If I shouldwant to. Second,there is no heat!I'm shiveringalready,despitemakinga tent out of everyblanketI could find in their dormitory.I supposeit won't getdown to Marsambient beforemorning,but it will surelybe cold enoughto freezeHrO. And it will surelyfreezeme. SaganMemorial Museum,Summer-April3, zzoz: Dear Sekou, I wrappedsomeof the blanketsaroundme-even the hammocks, which I tookdown from their hooks-and searchedthe whole museum for someway to keep from freezing.l wasa little worried about low air pressure, too, but I figuredthe museumcouldn'tbe that leaky. My teeth were chattering,and to tell the truth, I didn't feel very good,either.This leukemiathing comesand goes.SometimesI get hot and cold.hot and cold
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Like now. So anyway,I went exploring. I madea discovery. As I emergedfrom the preparationroom, which is wherethe hammockswereshung,the first thing I sawwasa giant picture of Carl Sagan and a bronze inscription explainingwhy the city wasnamed after him. In caseyou havenot heardof him, apparentlyhe wasan Earthmanwho pressedfor explorationof the solar systemback before the spaceage. Then you comeinto a centralhall, and my heartalmostjumpedout of my chest.TherewasSojourner,right nextto itslander.I thought:There goesmy plan for discovering the historicrover. I wishedlike heckthat the docentsweren'tturnedofffor the night so I could hearwhattheyhad to say, But I had more importantproblems,so I prowledaroundin the dark.You'dthink they'dleaveenoughheaton so the waterpipesin the preparationroom wouldn'tfreezeup, but I'd looked,and theykepttheir water supply in insulatedcontainers.They must truck the wasteback into the city to be recycled. Then I got a funny idea. Maybe some of the batteriesin the rover were still and I could get enough juice from them to staywarm somehow. That waswhen I discoveredthat the roverwasjust a model. It must havebeenbuilt from photoimages and blueprintssentfrom Earth.Not the realthing. I kind of wonderedhow dim thesepeoplewere.Couldn't they do somekind of computermodelingfrom orbit to find dust patternsthat might be coveringthe two crafts? But I figuredthis wasn'tthe time to give up. I went to the gift shop and found a souvenirposterthey soldto tourists.I had to find a skylight to read it by; fortunatelyPhoboswassailingalong overheadright then. The postersaidthe lander actuallyhad been located;in 2o88,a photographer from So/ar Geographichad noticed the camera and antenna stickingout; the restwasso coveredwith dust it lookedlike just another funny-shapedrock,but the roverhad wanderedaroundsomuch that nobody knew whereexactlyit might be. The landersitewasmarkedwith a bronzetablet, but they didn't want to spoil the siteby excavatingfor Sojourner.I tried not to smile:theywould neverfind it. I would.
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Well, if the landerwasreal,maybeit had somepowerin it. But it didn't.It wasold; it wasfor historyand educationonly. I wasthinking of putting my environmentsuitbackon and trying to staywarm that way,althoughthe batterieswould be drainedlong beforesolbreak.Or I could go backthe wayI came,try to getbackinto the city domebeforelfroze or my batteriesran down. I wasfeelinglike I wantedto throw up, and thosehot-coldspells were coming again.The whole museumsmelledlike ozonedust and cold,and then I caughta whiffof somethingelse,something-organic. It wasPadreWalter'sHyper K. MaybeI shouldhaveanotherswig of that.I hadn'teatenanythingfor hours- hadn'tbeenhungry,with the nausea.But maybethe HyperK would help me think. I didn't evenneedthe light of Phobosthroughthe skylight.I just followedmy nose. One of the officeshad a hugeglassjug, almosta metertall, with a spoutat the bottom. It lookedlike it would hold about fifty litres,and somebodyhad painted soI- rEA in funny old-fashionedletters on it. I went through the deskdrawersand found a cup, then drew myselfa mug of the yicky stuff. I wasaboutto raiseit to my lips when somethingmademe stop. Why wasit still liquid? Surelyit didn't havethat much alcoholin it. Dad usedto giveme phoboshinefor toothachewhen I waslittle, and that wasreallystrong. Eventhat might havefrozenon a cold night in a museum. I sniffed,then tasted. It waswarm. Of course!It wasfermenting! I chuggedthe whole cup down, then held my hands over my mouth to keepfrom upchucking it. Gradually,the heatof it warmedmy belly and handsand evenmy toes. I didn't needany more clues.I went backto the preparationroom and gotall the blanketsI could find, then madea nice little tent by draping them overthe HyperK jug. It took a long time for the tent to warm up, but I had a few more glasses of the Hyper K, and fell reallydeepasleep.Then I got up and raidedthe foodvendingmachinesin the lobby.I had to usethe Smythe familycreditnumber,but ii'll be a while beforemy parentsthink to look at that.and bv that time-ta DAH!
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 75 Did I mentionthat your little sisteris a brilliant dowser? And now I've got to go. I heartheir computerhasturned on the air handlers. PathfinderSite,Summer-April4, zzoz,earlymorning: Dear Big Brother, Well, theywereright. Sojournerisn'there. I walkedall overthe site,using my dowsingsense.This wasmy wholeplan: if Sojournerhad evena little bit of juice left in its batteries, I might be ableto senseit justasI sensethe presenceof waterin the soil aroundour homestead. But I felt nothing.Nothing. Where did you go, little Rover? I'm tired.Tosolis the beginningof the week,and touristswill start pouring in from all over Mars and maybeevenvery rich peoplefrom Earth.If I wait herein the open,I'll be spotted. Or I could mingle with the touristsand hope thosetwo religious numbersdon't come out here to the site everysol. I guessI haveto wait until night, then go back to the museum.Maybe tosol. SaganMemorialMuseum,Summer-April4, zzoz: Dear Sekou, It'snight now.I'm in big troublewith ElderAdeliaand PadreWalter, but that'sthe leastof my griefs. AfterI finishedmy previousdiaryentrytosol,I figuredI'd justwander aroundand pretendto be a tourist.If Elder Adeliaor PadreWalter turnedup, well, I'd just hide behind a rock or takea long hike. My suit waschargingin the sun; it wasdusty,but noi actuallyleaking,and I could wait until the end of the business sol.Foodand waterwasa worse problem;the suitis prettygoodat recyclingfluids,but I wasgettinghungry, despitethe queasyfeeling in my stomach. I kept hying to get a feelingaboutwhat wasunder my feet-you know, like a little buzz from the battery of Sojourner.But all I felt was that the placewasempty,hollow. I knew it wasa bad idea to sit down- you can tear your suit, and the insulationgetscompressed and robsyour body of heat-but I just had to rest.I closedmy eyesfor a few minutes,and when I openedthem, I saw- Soiourner!
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No. I sawfwo Soiourners.No, three. Five. Oh, no, bunchesof them. And they were the wrong size.They were little teeny ones,small enoughfor me to pick up in two hands.And the solarpanelslooked wrong,too. They werevery modern high-efficiencysolarpanels,like the ones Mother and I sawat the Polariscommercialfest.and said we couldn't afford. I staggered to my feetand chasedone down. It put itsAPXSon me, then backedaway,asifstartled.I grabbedit and lookedit over. It hada nameand numberengraved on the frame:Hamm Munnix Herzberg,ztgo-zrg6. I let it go and chaseddown another.This one backedawayfrom me, and if it had beenan iguana,it would havebeenhissing.But it was much the same,exceptthis one wasAnna Li Markham, ztTg-2r84. I probablywould havelookedat everysingleminiatureSojourner on the site,and there were probablythirty of them, exceptthat a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I wasspun around and nearly droppedthe miniahrre rover I was lookingat justthen.Tho familiarvoicescameovermy radio,"What are yot:-doinghere?"and "Poorkid; he looksconfused." They babbledtogethersomuch I couldn't makeout half they were saying. "Why did you run away?"Elder Adelia askedstemly. "Let him be," saidPadreWalter. "Can't you seehe'stotally disoriented?Probablydehydrated, and halffrozen,not to speakofdazzledby too much sun." "Yeah,andby a couplequartsofyour hoochhe snitchedlastnight, too. Walt, we'vegot to get him back to the Madre beforeyou turn him into an alcoholic." PadreWalter starteddusting my suit off with his hands,as if that would do a bit of good."Tell us whereyou camefrom, big guy." I wasn'tanybodyt big guy,and I wasn'tgiving awayany secrets,or admittingI could talk. I justshookmy head,which isn'teasyin an environmentsuit. "Come on with us," said Elder Adelia. She grabbedmy hand firmly. "You can't bring that inside;it's looking for its big sister."
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How could I be sodumb?Of coursetheywould be lookingfor the Sojournerrover.They must be using thesesmall units for that. The touristswould love that. I had a lot of questions,but I still thought I wasbetter offpretending to be mute. The minute they got me back inside the museum,they dragged me backinto the office.ElderAdeliaundid my faceplateandyankedmy environmentsuit off so hard I wasafraidit would tear.She undid her own faceplate,and said,"There! You'll havea hard time running away againwithout this!" And beforeI could react,she and PadreWalter sweptout and slammedthe doorshut.In fact,lockedit. I've been in here all sol.Trying to worl
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I believedwhattheytold me. They saidtheysentyou to Earth. I wascuriousaboutthe little Sojourners, see,aboutwhattheyhad found and why they couldn'tfind the realSojourner.So I innocentlyoh boy,so innocently-startedscrollingthroughthosefiles. It's called the PersonalityPreservationSoftwareCorporation.The roversare Eternal Memorial ReconstructionRovers. Youknow whata euphemismis? I think they meantto downloadmy personalityinto one of these rovers. No, I didn't find you amongthe forty Sojournerminiah-rre rovers. You'reon a Rocky13,rolling aroundthe SouthPole,countinglayersof ice and dust,trying to datethe polarcap. Only it isn'tyou. It can't be. Eventhe orbitalAI scientists haven't got to the point wherethey actuallycan reconstructa person'smind and personality.They just used your voice and some of your personality quirks.I found out, for example,that you werequick to jump to conclusions,and that you lovedtilapiawith spiceberrysauce. So the Rockyr3 that hasyour name on it-oh, give me a break! You,my brother,my realbrother,diedin 2197.On the wayto Earth. By yourself.Mother didn't volunteerto go with you asshehaswith me. And now I'm goingto die,too.Alone. Someone's comingto getme. SaganMemorial Museum, April 4, zzoz,Iate night: But I might aswell keeprecording.My thoughtsare importantto me, if to nobodyelse. They found me, of course.Mother and Dad, I mean.There'sa duststormstarting,and the receptionwaspoor,but theyscoldedme and saidthey'recomingfor me. Mother reallyground it in that they would haveto leavethe experimentalwindowplantsand maybelosethe whole from WatsonFarmwould haveto comein andfeed crop,and somebody the fish. And if they can't get through the global storm by sol after tomorrow (becauseall sky traffic is grounded,and most rovers,too), I'll missthe window to Earth.And on top of that, I squanderedtwo perfectly good, very expensivetickets that were supposedto take us to Hellas Spaceport.Dad didn't saymuch. He justshookhis head. I felt somiserable.
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 79 "Why?" Mother asked. I didn'tsayanything. Elder Adeliahad been skulkingaroundthe room, and shepiped up and said,"You can't expectthe poor mute dear- " "She'snot mute!"Mother barked. For the first time, Dad saidsomething,"Girl, what kind of nonsensehave you been feedingthesepoor people?First you tell them you'reyour older brother who'sgone to Earth, then you pretendyou can'ttalk." It wastoo much. I felt my chestheave,my throat knot up. "He didn't go to Earth! Stoplying!" Dad lookeddirectlyat the camera.At me. Very sad."Kapera,believeme, het goneto Earth." Everybodywasvery quiet for a while, and the pichrre startedto breakup. Global dust.Elder Adeliaskulkedbackto her chair and pretendedto be interestedin a button computeron the desk. "Kapera,we'recoming for you. Both of us.I know you loveyour father more than you do me, and sohe'scomingto seeus off. We'lI bring your thingsto SaganCity and proceedfrom thereto HellasSpaceport." I got up and hit the monitorwith my fist."l'm not goingto Earth! This is my life." Mother lookedverystern."Kapera,you area minor in the eyesof the Polariscorporationand under pan-Martianlaw. Your fatherand I what is bestfor you, and you are going to Earth to be have discussed You will live either in Earth orbit or in North treatedfor your disease. America after that." "l want to stayon Mars!Mars is my home!" "If you had been meant to live on Mars, you wouldn't be sick, Kapera." Dad had walkedawayfrom the camera,probablytrying not to get all excited.Now he cameback."The signalis breakingup.Thy to keep yourchin up." Mother wascalm and grim. "We'recomingto getyou, justassoon they openthe rocketplaneterminalin Borealopolis." as The light flickered,and theyweregone. PadreWaltercameand put his armsaroundme, and I tried not to cry. Elder Adelia justkind of sniffed,and said,"Well, we can't takeher
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back to the monastery.I'll stayhere with her overnightand hope they can geta rocketplanein the morning." "No, please!" I said."l canstayalone!" She smiled sadly."You little rascal.You had us convinced.But we'reon to you now." "l'll staywith her," saidPadreWalter.Which wasokay,becauseI liked him better."Overridethe vitalscyclesoshecan nap in the office." "That costsmoney,Padre.But-okay." And shevoicedsomecommands.I heardthe air handlersspeedup. Elder Adeliastayedtoo, and I thoughtshe'dstayall night,glaring at me. But shestartedyawningabout midnight-and-a-half. The dust was swirlingoutside;you could seeit through the skylight,becausethere were lights on the roof. It wasbeautiful.Mars is beautiful,evenwhen he'sangry. "Okay,you stay.I'll go back and talk to Madre again." "Please,"I said."Would you leavemy thumblight?" Shelookedat me suspiciously. "What for?It'snot like the electricity will go off. We'vegot powerbackupfor sols." "If.PadreWalter hrrnsout the light, and I wakeup in the night, I'll be scared." Sheplunkedit down on the desk,and left. I snuggledinto the hammock they had strungin the corner of the office. "May I havea little more of the Hyper K?" I askedpolitely. Padrewasproppedup uncomfortablyon a chair.He lookedat me from under heavybrows."Sure.I'll ioin you in a drop." And sowe did. "Please,justone more?"I wasfeelingit, but I figuredI could stand a little more. He wasmuch lessgenerousthis time, but he took anothermug himself.After a while, he excusedhimselfto go to the lavatory.I looked aroundthe officeand locatedthe closetwheretheyhad dumpedmy environmentsuit. Padretmug wasalmostempty,and mine wasstill almostfull, so I switchedthem. He camebackand finishedthat. "|ustone more?"I begged,thoughI wasalmostcross-eyed with the stuff.
MarsIs No Placefor Children
He lookedat me. "You'rea hard drinker for a tiny gaveme a finger'sworth,and had morehimself. And now he'sdozedoff.
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SaganMemorial Museum,April 5, earlymorning: I'm outside. SaganMemorial Museum,April 6, aftemoon: So theyfound me. By the time they found me, though, I wasn'toutside.My environment suit wasgettingreallygritty,and I wasgettingcold, and my suit batterieswerealmostdeadand soThey found me huddled in the little porticowheretheykept the micro-Sojourners. "Oh my stars,"Mother said."You look like a mother hen with a bunch of mechanicalchicks!" I meanhow Dad justcameoverand tried to pick me up. I resisted, evenif he is my dad.But he carriedme into the museum embarrassing, public room. A whole bunch of people were following us. PadreWalter and ElderAdeliawerein theirkhakiclericaljumpsuits,and therewasan old womanin a darkred jumpsuitwith a blackveil overher head,and some otherpeoplein clericalkhaki. Mother and Dad looked really dirty and tired. I unfastenedmy faceplateand said,"You lied to me. Sekouis dead." Mother said,"There wasno reasonto makeyou pessimistic about the future. Your brothers " "Brothers?"I exploded."You mean there was more than just Sekou?" "Kapera,sweetheart,"Mother whined. I hate it when sheusesthat tone of voice. "You achrally had three older brothers,"she said,in that reasonable tone she gets."Did you think it waseasyfor us to conceal that from you?Did you think we did it for someselfishreason? I mean,I destroyed all the holos,wipedthem right offour net.The only imagesI haveof my first two children are on your grandmother's computerin New Jersey. Wb keptthe one of Sekouand you together.I couldn'tbear to destroyit."
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Shemadekind of chokingnoisesand then wasquiet. After a while, Dad said,"Yourmotherand I thoughtyou shouldn't alwaysbe thinking about depressingthings,shouldn'tworry it might happento you." "Itdid happento me!" "Not yet,"saidMother coldly."We havefound a wayto sendyou to Earth Orbital Hospital,the bestin the solarsystem." "But I can'tcomeback!" "That is a small sacrificewe haveto make.Get your things.Oh, look at that suit!I'll nevergei ii dusted." "l'm not going to Earth," I said."l have other plans."I wasstill amazedat how diabolicshecould be. Dad said,"Kapera,why areyou smirkinglike that?" "ls there enough chargein that suit to go outside?We'll need shovels." Mother had to borrowa suitfrom one of the madres.Sheand Dad followedme, alongwith a wholeparadeof clericsfrom the museum. The stormwasstill raging,but therewasa little sunlight,and we wouldn't needit for long. I just prayedthat the dusthadn'tcoveredthe little roverI had placedto markthe spot. I almostmissedit. It hadn't moved,of course,becauseI'd heaped a pile of dustoverits solarcells. "You needto dig here,"I said. At first they didn't believe me. And I thought, what if I made a mistake? But it had to be. I felt it, under my shoes. fuesValliswasindeedin thatpathof a giantflood in ancienttimes, aseverybodynow knows.But the old Earthlingswho thoughtit wasthe siteof a volcaniceruptionwerealsoright.There is a lavatube,justone, underthe site. I knew Sojournercould not havetraveledthat far. So wheredid it go?Aliensdidn't snatchit. It wasn'teatenby mutantiguanas. It had to be underground. Dad and Mother wereboth wrongaboutmy dowsingability,too. I can't feel electricalor magneticfields.What I haveis extremelygood hearing-or maybeitt not evensoundI hear,just vibrations.Heck, I
MarsIs NoPlacefor Children 83 can hearpeopletalkingoutsidein environmentsuits.So of courseI can feel vibrationsas I walk that indicatethe densityof the soil through my boots. And I felt a hollowplaceunderthis spoton the landingsite.Right here. They'restill digging.Elder Adelia insistedI wascrazy,but Padre Walterconvincedthe Madreto let them keepdigging.Mother and Dad aredigging,too. Mother saidI lookedsick.Shemademe go backin the museum. So here I am, sippingHyper K and hying to spyon what'shappening. They camebackto sendto the city for pickaxes.It's gettingdark. I surehope they breakthrough beforenight'all. SaganMemorial Museum,April 6, evening: I wasright. I wasright! Of courseI wasright. It wasalmost nighfall, and I had nodded off. SuddenlyI knew I better get out there. Somethingtold me. It wasas if I heard a different rhythm to the digging,which is silly,becausehow could evenI hearanything outsidein the Martian sky? I put that dustyold suit on as fastas I could, hoping it wouldn't suddenlyspringa leakfrom all that grit. It waschargedfrom its sol in the sun, thank heaven.I slippedout the lock and ran over to whereI saw sevenor eightpeoplein suitspitchingdustin the air.The stormhad died down;springstormsareneverasbad assummer. I pushedmy wayamongthe diggersandgottherejustassomebody said,"Hey,what'sthis?" A long, straightpole. Good little rover:it wasstill right sideup. The long straightpole wasthe antenna. ElderAdeliasaid,"Oh my golly.We bettercall in a teamof experts to excavatethis, beforewe ruin the whole siteand destroythe relic." PadreWalter said,"The siteis alreadymessedup. But, whoa,thatt pari of the story,isn't it?" They could only seethe antenna,but something-my auditory hoodoo-made me feel I wasseeingthe whole thing, not corrodedby
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time and dustand wind, but whole and asnew aswhen it rolled down the rampand firstsniffedMartian rocks.The firstindependentthing on Mars. The Sojournerrover isn't mine, I realize.It belongsto the museum.It belongsto all of Mars.But there'sa storythere.I could write a book.Hey,I alreadystarteda book,right?Sekou,big brother,wherever you are? I haveto stoprecordingnow.Somereportersarecomingto seeme. And PadreWalter saysI shouldn't talk to anybodywithout getting a conhact. The minute he saidthat, the ICNN guy e-phonedhis ofificeand cameup with an offer. I tried to be verynonchalantaboutit, but it wasmore moneythan Mother and Dad saidI'd needto getto Earthand back,plussometo pay for our stayin Earth Orbital Hospital. Still, PadreWalter saidmaybeI shouldtalk to a lawyeror an agent or somebodythat knowsabout thesethings. Mother told the reportersthat I wasvery tired and they must respect my privacy and to come back in the morning with proper offers drawnup, and then we'dsee. I wasso amazedto hear her saythosewords-respect my PRIVACY-that I gaveher a big hug. I'm beginningto think she'sa pretty good mother after all. PolarisCorp alsosenta representative. They'd hearda lot about me, and wantedto buy my contract.I'd get an educationat the A"reological Instihrtein GranicusValles,then when I graduatedI'd havemy own homestead,completelyequippedwith three interconnectedbiomes, livestock,fora, the works. But I'll haveto think aboutthat,too. Independence hasits attractions.
N E B U LFAo RB E S S T H o RS TT o R Y @
TheCostof DoingBusiness L E S L I EW H A T
LeslieWhathassotdsomefifty shortstoriessincemakingher debutin a 7992issueof -lsoocAsimov'sScienceFictionltlagazine. Shealsowritesnonfictionand poetry,and did the scriptfor a videoshownon pubtictelevision.0therwise, shesays,"Usedto be nurse,performance artist,maskmaker, etc.; nowhousewife/ writer/mother,etc. (ImagineGeorgeSand/Martha Stewart/ ErnieKovacs, with attitude.)"Herunusuat is a pseudosurname nym,for whichsheoffersthe exptanation, "I wastwenty-one. A friend had changedher nameto 'K. Somebodyl I wanted something likethat, maybewith fewersy[[abtes." Her Nebula-winning short story,"The Costof DoingBusiness,"is the first of severa[piecesexptoringretributionand guilt, personal responsibi[ity, the [imitsof forgiveness, andhow peoplecontinuelivingwithoutanyhopefor reconciliation.
The big man sitsacrossfrom Zlta,brow furrowed,black eyesfixed upon the desk.He strokesthe mahoganyfinish while he'stalking, touching it ratherabsently,as if hying to smooththingsout. Every now and againhe glancesup to makecertainZita is still payingattentionto his story.There are two thugsoutside,waitingfor him in the parkinglot.
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Can he hire her to takehis place,dealwith the thugs,so he won't have to? There isn't much time to decide, and certainly,from his view, no choice. Zita scribblesa few notes.Sheis gratefulhe doesn'tstareat her like a lot of customers,who give her an l-can't-believe-I'm-really-here look and expecther to find their naiVet6charming.When customersstareat her long legsor dresscut low to exposeskinsmoothasa white chocolate shell,it isn'treallvZlta Iheyareseeing.Her perfectionis only skin-deep, skin-deepbeingall anyonecan afford,eventhe big man. Shenoticeshis gold Rolexand his suit sewnfrom fine wool. Like her, the big man wearshis richeson the outside. "This is the worstthing that'severhappenedto me," the big man 'At blathers. firstI didn'i knowwhatto do, but then I lookedup, sawyour billboard.Thatb why I'm here." Driving to work this morning, he was carjacked."l'm a lucky man,"he says,reallylucky.The thugswerecurioustypes;they agreedto let him hire a surrogatevictim in exchangefor an exha couple of bills and a contractpromisingimmunity. That'sthe waythingsaredone these days,when peopleact reasonably. Fortunatelyfor the big man, the thugs arereasonable men. Zita listensashe prattlesoff twenty reasonswhy he needsto hire her insteadof facingthingson his own. She'stemptedto correcthim, but doesn't.The excusesare all part of the game.She knowswhy he wantsto hire her, hasknown from the moment he walkedinto her office.It hasnothingto do with his suspicious wife,or a job he can'tafford to taketime offfrom, or evenhis heartcondition.Sure,the big man is afraidof pain- who isrr't?- but there'smoreto it thanthat.The big man hassoughtZita'sservicesfor the samereasonas everyonewho hiresa surrogate victim. He'd ratherseesomeoneelsesuffer. Someihingterrible hashappenedto him; he can't hrrn back the clock,sohe might aswell makethe bestof it. He won't admitthatthere's a reasonhe'll pay a premium to hire her insteadof ihat balding Mr. Tompkins on the secondfoor: hiring a young woman insteadof a middle-agedman makesthe deal a little sweeter. The transactionis completelylegal,but the big man feelsenough shameabout his cowardicethat he workshimself into a sweat;he pauses to dab his foreheadwith a handkerchief.When he brings it away,his
TheCostof DoingBusiness 87 brow is still furrowed.The wrinkles on his face are set,like a shirt that hasbeen abandoned,doomed,doomedfor the ragbin. He looksaround tle room, payingattentionto his surroundingsfor the first time. She'sdecoratedwell out front.Out here,wheresheshowsher public face,it's perfect.The walls are painteda feshy tone called"Peach Fizz." Her costumesare one-of-a-kindand are displayedin a glasscase. The overstuffedchairsarefrom Ethan Allen, with top-of-thelinefabrics that the salesassociate promisedcould takea lot of abuse.Her deskis an Eighteenth-CenhrryFrench copy,and there are severalabstractoils she bought at an uptown gallery,all by the sameartist,someonekind of famous (thoughnot so much asto be overpriced)whosenameshecan't everremember.Shedoesn'tunderstandabstractpainting;itt justthatrealism bothersher. Her officeis nothinglike the backroomwhereshelives.There,the foors are scratchedand bare,savefor the ripped mattresswhere she sleeps.Paintpeelsfrom the wallslike skinfrom an old sunburn.On the small table where she takesher mealssits a shrine dedicatedto her daughter.There'sa gold-rimmedsnapshot, surroundedby dried wreaths and flowers,plasticbeads,a favoritebook.A showertakesup a quarterof the room; a small refrigeratorcovers what would otherwise be the counterspaceand that'sokay.She doesn'tneed much room and she doesn'twant much counter space.Anything thai can't be eatencold right out of the containerisn'tworth eating. fust then the telephonerings, and the big man says,"A,ren'tyou goingto get that?" Itt probablysomeidiot callingto askif she'llhaveher pantspulled down in front of a minister,or if she'lllet someguy'sbosschewher out in front of all his coworkers."Popcorn"is what surrogatescall the little jobs.Thingsthatfill up spacewithouthavingmuch substance. Shetakes on popcorn occasionally, when she'sin the right mood, but usually referslittle jobsto a girl shemet one time when shewasin the hospital. That girl is in a badwayand needsall the help shecan get.Besides, Zita findsthe big iobsmuch moresatisfying. "Well," the big man prompts.The phone annoyshim; he'sthe type who would be annoyedby interruptions.Eventually,the machine picksup, justassheknew it would. 'A true emergencywould walk right in withoutmakingan appoinhnent.The wayyou did," sheexplains.
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He nods and she can tell he likes being thought of as a true emergency. "Anythingelseyou want to tell me?"shesays. "Yeah.Theseguysarearmed.One hasa metalpipe and a gun,the othera long knife," "Soundsdoable." "So, how much do you charge?"he asks,somewhattimidly. Sheexpectshim to say,"l've neverdone this before."They often saythat, evenwhen sheknowsit isn't true. The big man doesn'tsayit, but sheknowsthat'swhat he'sthinking. Shetakesher time beforequotinga price.The only reasonto ask for more than sheneedsis to impressupon customersthe valueof her service.Shedoesn'treallycareaboutthe money;she'snot in business for that.There are a hundredLicensedSurrogates in her state.Shedoubts if one of them caresaboutmoney.No amountcould makeup for what shegoesthrougheveryday,whattheyall go through.Shestatesher fee. "My standardrate,"shesays."Plusexpenses." "You'll take it all? Everythingthey dish out?" he asks. She nods.That'swhat shedoes.Shetakesit all, everybit of it, so that importantpeoplelike the big man can avoidsuffering. He reachesinto his coatpocketfor his walletand his creditcard. "Thoseguyslookedprettymean.There might be scarring." "Thosearethe expenses." They both laugh,but his is more like a grunt.The whole experiencemustbe quitea strainon his heart:his breathingquickens,his lips fadeto a powderyblue.When the cardchangeshands,his fingersleave a cold residuethat makesher want more than anythingto duck into the backroomfor a shower.Stop it, she tells herself.Disgustis not professional. "What would you like me to wear?"sheasks. He standsand facesthe glasscase.Her sequinedgown hasa rip and is beingrepaired,but otherwiseeverythingis there. "The white leathercoveralls,"he saysaftera while. "Nothing underneath.And don't zip it up all the way.Leavea little cleavage.Not too much, just a shadow.Ladylike,not slutty." His faceturnsruddyand sheknowshe would like her to disrobein front of him. Not my job, shethinks.Not my job.
TheCostof DoingBusiness 89 "lf you'll excuseme."Sheopensthe displaycaseand holdsthe coverallsagainsther, givinghim a momentto reconsiderhis choice. "That will be fine,"he says. Zita smilesa professionalsmile, then stepsinto the backroomto change. Shetakesthe big man'sarm and leadshim throughthe hallwayto the rearstaircase.They walk down to the first floor. "Were there protestors out today?"she asks,gesturingover her shouldertowardthe front. "l didn't seeanywhen I pulled into the lot," he says."l hopethere isn'ttrouble.I don't wanttrouble.Or publicity." "Listen,"shesays,"if theyweren'tout front,theycertainlywon'tbe out back.There'sno point in protestingunlesssomeoneseesyou.These guysdon't careabout morality-they only want it to look like they do." "Okay,"he says,not soundingconvinced. They openthe fire doorand steponto the parkinglot. The sunhides behindthin clouds,yet the dayis muggyand bright.If the sun wereout it would be blinding,one of thosedayswhen you can't evenlook at the gound without squinting.Zita seesthe perpsinsidewhatsheguesses must be ftiscar.BlackBeemer-sunroof-leather interior.They walk closer. The big man realizesthat the seatshavebeenslashed.He groans. "They can be replaced,"shesays. "Yeah,but still." He answers, "Forgetit," shesays."fust think of it asthe costof doing business." "Easyfor you to say,"saysthe big man. "Easy?"she says,and stopswalking. "Easy?"fust what doeshe think this is?He'sevenmore of a jerk than sheimagined. He must realize his faux pas, for he looks at his feet and says, "Sorry.Come on. Let'sget this overwith." The big man callsout to the perpsin the car, "Here sheis." He speaksquickly;he is very anxiousto put this all behind him. "You boysrememberour deal,now." The one who must be the leaderopensthe front door and steps out. He holdsa pistol,aimsit towardZita. He'sshortand his hair is black and nicely cut. He remindsher of a philosophystudent:jeans,a plaid flannelshirt,cleanshoes.His partneris skinny,with sunkeneyeslike a twenty-four-hour bruise.The partneris dressedmore slovenly-maybe he'smajoring in politicalscience- in a dirty T:shirtand torn pants.
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Shenoticesthatthe big man hassilentlydroppedbackbehindher. Good,shethinks.Betterhe stayout of her way. "Give him his stuffi' shetells the thugs."You can havethe money and you can haveme. He justwantswhatbelongsto him," A parking-lotattendant,wearingearphones,approaches. thathe'snewhere. Becauseshedoesn'trecognizehim, sheguesses Zita reachesinto her pocketto flashher license. He stops,rubshis neckasif trying to rememberwhat he hasbeen told aboutsuchthingsat the orientation.At lastit hits him: she'sa surrogate,just doing her job. The attendantsalutes."Sorryto intrude,"he says,and walksbackto his booth. Shereplacesher license,tucksit betweenthe few bills shecarries for show. "Shit!" saysthe skinnypartner,lookingabout.He'snervous. It'snice to know,shethinks,that you can be a total ierk aslong as you still feel nervous. "I don't know if I like this,"he says."Maybewe shouldn'thavelet him talk us into this." For a secondthe leaderlookslike he might agreewith his sidekick, but when the big man says,"Don't forgetyou signeda contract.I'll press chargesif you don't hold up your end of the deal,"bravadowashesover awayfrom the car like the bad guy in a western. him; he swaggers The big man pushesZita forward."The briefcase,"he whispers. "Tell them not to scuffit." "What makesyou think I won't kill you both?" asksthe leader.He waveshis gun in an arc. The big man gasps,and'Zitaturns to glareat him, warninghim to staycalm. She'sthe one theywant to seeactingscared,not him' Itt her job now. Sheknowsfrom experiencethat if the big man screamsor acts stupid,he'll iust messthingsup. "Relax,"she barks.They havea contract. Life is not the free-for-allsomepeople assumeit is. The malority abidesby the rules.After all, whatwould becomeof societyif everyone changedthingswilly-nilly? "Don't forget your agreement,"she says."He doesn't want any houble." "MaybeI want trouble,"saysthe leader.
TheCostof DoingBusiness 97 "That'swhy I'm here," Zita says."Go ahead,scumbag,take it out on me. Think of all the bitchesyou'veknown who haveled you on, but in the end decidedthey weretoo goodfor you. Bitcheswho madeyou begfor affection,then deniedyou whatyou deserved, whatyou needed. Think of what you would havedone to them if they hadn't managedto getaway."Shetakesa stepcloser."Give him his stuff.Youcankeepme." Her statementhasthe impactsheis aimingfor. He grimacesand a tic startsnearhis upper lip. "Staythere!" he saysto his partner."Me first." He tossesthe carkeysto the pavement.The big man stoopsto grab them, scurriesout of the way. The leaderstandsbeforeher. His breathis sweet,Iike he's just suckedon a peppermint.She doesn'tknow why, but this strikesher as funny. Beforeshecan stopherselfsheis giggling. "Bitchl" he says."What are you laughingat?" He slapsher face and slapsit againand againuntil shecriesout. Theonetime shecouldn't changeplacesand edsesomeoneelse'ssufferingwaswhen her daughter died. Now, he is grindinghis prick againsther belly and squeezingher tit hard enoughto sting. Shefeelsthe big man watchingher. "No!" she cries out. Therewasnothing shecould havedone, only therewas,and she knowsit. He takesthe pistoland bringsit down hardon her head. She knew it wasn'tsafeto let the girl outsideunsupervised, but he said,"Forgetabout the kid," and shesaid, "Okay,"and now her babywas deadand no amountof grief could bring her back. The pistolstrikesagain. Shefeelsterrorthisman mighthurt her morethan theyusuallydo. Theret a gleam in his eye,like he doesn'tcarewhethershe'sdeador alivewhen it comestime to rapeher."Please," shesays.They alwayslike it when shebegs,but that'snot why sheasksfor mercy.The pain hasbecome unbearable.She can no longer tell the ground from the sky.She stumblesand falls.with her ear pressedagainstthe asphaltshe thinks shehearsthe big man'shearybreath. The leaderkicksher in the smallof her back,says,"Get up, bitch."
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Shescreamsasthe heel of his bootknocksinto her face.Her little baby,drowned,and her inside,making it with a guy who still denieshe wasthe father. Oh God, it shouldhavebeen me, shethinks.Oh God, it should havebeenme. When Zita comesto, she'sin her usualsuiteat the hospital. A nursesaysdryly,"Good.You'rebackfrom the dead,"assheiniects somewhite fluid from a vial into the IV. The nursewritessomethingon a chart beforeofferingZita a brown plasticcup filled with water. Zita triesto sayThanks,but her throatfeelslike therearea dozen razor bladespropping it open. She'sthirsty, but too afraid to drink, so shakesher head no. The movementbrings on a pounding pain and makeseverythingblurry. Next, the doctor strutsinto the room and readsthe notes on the her."Youagain,"he says.He yawns."You're chartbeforeacknowledging sendingboth my kids to college.Private.Out of state.You know that, don't you?"He winks at the nurse,then they both laugh. He sidlesup near Zita's face to shine a penlight in her eyes.He presseshis fingers againsther neck. "We almostlost you this time. Did it hurt?" he asks. "Not enough,"sheanswers. He takes a mirror from the bedsidestand to let her see his handiwork. The face staring back in the mirror looks vaguelyfamiliar, like someoneshe'sonly seenfrom far away. "Lookinggood,"the doctorsays,"betterthan new.Give it a week for the swellingto go down.Oh, and I had to replacea hip, sogo easyon A sharp pain shootsfrom her iaw up through her cheek. She groans."Doctor,can you pleasegiveme an iniection?" "l thoughtyou liked the pain,"saysthe doctor. "Think whatyou like," Zita says.Even the hospitalstaffwantto see her suffer,wantto seeher beg.Ironic thatshemustpaythem for the privilege."Give me a shot." "Well, I supposeshe can havesomemorphine,"saysthe doctor. "Five milligrams IV now. Every four hours PRN, until tomorrow.After
TheCostof DoingBusiness 93 that,shecan takecodeine.Wouldn'twanther to gettoo dependent,"he says. An orderlywalksin, bearingan obscenelybig flowerarrangement. It's too largeto go on the bedsidestandand the orderlysetsit on the floor besidethe wall. He readsher the cardwithout askingif she careswho sentthe fowers. They'refrom the big man. Paleyellow roseswith sprigsof freesia the color of bruises.How sweet. In a couple of daysthey send her out to finish her recoveryat home.The bed is therefor someonewho reallyneedsit, not for someone who simplywantsit. "Alwaysa pleasure,"saysthe doctor with a wave. "See you in a coupleof months." Sheignoreshim and asksthe nurseto call her a cab. The nursemakesZita sit in a greenvinyl wheelchair,despiteher assertionthat she is well enoughto walk. "You want to walk out of here like a normal human being, you gotta walk in like one, too," saysthe nurse. Zita shrugs,and lowersherselfinto the chair.Shehasno changeof clothesand must wear her coveralls,now cakedwith blood that'sgone black. The nurse setsthe heavyflower arrangementin Zita's lap, and wheelsher down the hallwayto the exit. Once outside,an angry woman in a tailored black pantsuitaccoststhem, and wavesa placard in front of her face that says,ourI,Aw suRRocATE vrcrrMs Now! There'sa cameracrew,who rushesin for a clash. "How canyou do this?"the womanscreamsatZita."How canyou let thesepervertsabuseyou so?It has to stop!What you're doing is againstGodt This madnesshasgot to stop!" The woman keepsscreamingas she follows Zita to the "You'renothingbut an overpricedwhore!"shesays."Whorel" The cabbytakesthe flowersand opensher door soZltacanget in. He setsthe fowers on the seatbesideher. He shoosawaythe protestor with a practicedwave,elbowsthe cameramanin the ribs.He hurriesto get behind the wheel."Time is money,"saysthe cabby,rewing up the
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engine."Where to, MissWhore?"Without waitingfor her to answer,he pulls awayfrom the lot. "Very funny,"she says.She tells him the addressof her office.It hurts a bit to talk, but otherwiseshefeelsprettygood.It's amazing,she thinks,how quicklythe bodyheals. "So, uh, you'reone of them surrogate victims,huh? Not surehow I feel aboutthose.More I think aboutit, more I tend to agreewith that lady backthere.Maybethe whole businessought to be illegal.Maybe we shouldn'tlet peoplelike you do whatyou aredoing." "lt would be like it wasduring Prohibition,"Zita says.'A wastedeffort. Couldn't stopit then. Can't stopit now." "l getyour point all right, but that'sno reasonto giveup," saysthe cabby."Justbecauseyou can't get rid of all evil doesn'tmeanyou can't get rid of someof it. You gottastartsomewhere, don't you think?Gotta try. Otherwise,wherewould we be?Youknow,society,Culture." "l neverthoughtof it like that,"shesays.There'sno point in arguing with the cabby.Shecould makehim feelbad by telling him that she makesa hundredtimeswhathe does,maybethen he would understand, or at leastthink he did. They driveon, painfullysilentlike theyarein a room wheresomeone is expectedto die.The cabbyletsher out in the alleyand staysseated behind the wheel. She bracesthe flowers,betweenher good hip and the car door, givesthe cabbya big enoughtip to makehim blush. "Been nice ialking to you," she says,then opensthe door and stepsout. "Likewise,"answersthe cabby.Unlike her, he probablymeansit. He pulls awaywithoutwaitingto seeif shecan walk to her building. Zita leavesihe fower arrangementon the stoopfor the homeless ladywho livesby the trashbin. Shetucksthe lastof her moneyinsidethe card. Shemanages to climb up the stepsto her place,wheresheplansto sleepuntil her prescriptionfor pain runsdry.Shehangsthe crosno sign on the door.Shet exhausted. Maybeby nextweekshe'llbe readyto lischooseher next job. Somethingeasy,mindless.A ten to her messages, prankor somesimplehumiliation.Popcorn. It feelsgoodto be home.In her "kitchen"shepoursa cheapbour-
TheCostof DoingBusiness 95 bon into a chippedcoffeecup that sayswoRLD'scREATEST l,lorvr.She doesn'tmuch like the stuff becauseit burns,but she can't seepaying extra just to get somethingthat goesdown smooth.With the door that leadsto her officeclosedshecan hardlyhear the phone ring. When it keepson ringing, she figuresout that the answeringmachine is full. They'vegot a lot of nervecallingthe minuteshegetsout of the hospital. Let them wait. Zita poursherselfanothershot.It'slike drinkinglukewarmfire and doesn'tquite do the trick. Shehasanotherdrink, but the phoneis still ringingand the only wayto makeit stopis to pull out the plug. Even if no one elsecan understandthe why of it, Zita knowswith all her heartthat beinga professional victinr is the right thing to do. So the protestorsthink she should stop.She has no use for the rhetoricof do-gooders. What do theyknow?Sheis a professional victim. No matter what she doesshe'sgoing to sufferfor the restof her fucking life in waysno one can even imagine.Her baby is dead;she has no choicebut to suffer.Assholes like the doctorandthe nurseandthe cabby and the zealotwith her sign-they justwant her to giveit awayfor free.
T OVEL N E B U LFAO RB E S N @
Epilogue from Parabteof the Tatents OCTAVIE A. BUTLER
0ctaviaE. Butler'sfirst pubtished storyappeared in 1971in an of the ClarionScienceFiction anthotogyof workby members Writers'Workshop, but shedid not beginto makeher markon the fietd until the pubticationof herfirst novel,Pottemmasten in 7976,the first of a seriesof relatedbooks.Shewona Hugo in 1984for her shortstory"SpeechSounds,"and a yearlater took both the Hugo and NebulaAwardsfor her novelette "Btoodchitd." novelPorable of the Talents is HerNebula-winning colonizathe secondvotumein a seriesdealingwith mankind's ofthe Sower(1993). tion ofthe stars;the first bookwasPorable Moreareplanned.Shewasraisedin the LosAngetes areaand livesnowin Seattte. 0f the Parable booksshesays,"I wantedto keepeverything as rea[isticas I could.I didn't want any powers,any kind of Eventhe empathyis not rea[magicor fantasticaletements. it seems to meit's someifs delusionat. I usedretigionbecause thing we can neverget awayfrom. I've met sciencefiction peoplewhosay,'0h,wet[,we'regoingto outgrowitj andI don't that religionhaskeptus betievethat for onemoment.It seems andhelpedusto do anynumberofverydifficuttthings, focused to holdingtogethercounfrombuildingpyramids andcathedrats
Epilague of the Talents 97 from Parable tries,in someinstances. I'm not sayingit's a forcefor goodit sjust a force.Sowhynot useit to get ourselves to the stars?"
from Earthseed:The Booksof the Living by LaurenOya Olamina Earthseed is adulthood. It's trying our wings, Leavingour mother, Becomingmen and women. We'vebeenchildren, Fighting for thefull breasts, Theprotectiveembrace, The softlap. Children do this. But Earthseed is adulthood. Adulthoodis both sweetand sad. It tenifies. It empowers. Wearemenandwomennow, We areEarthseed. And the Destinyof Earthseed Is to takeroot amongthe stars. Uncle Marc was,in the end,my only family. I neversawmy adoptiveparentsagain.I sentthem moneywhen theywereolderand in need,and I hired peopleto look afterthem,but I neverwent backto them. They did their dutv towardme and I did mine towardthem. My mother,when I finally met her,wasstill a drifter.Shewasimmenselyrich - or at leastEarthseed wasimmenselyrich. But shehad no home of her own-not evena rentedapartment.She drifted between the homesof her many friendsand supporters, and betweenthe many Earthseedcommunitiesthat she had established or encouragedin the United States,Canada,Mexico,and Brazil.And shewent on teaching,
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her politicalinfuence. I met her preaching,fund-raising, and spreading when she visited a New York Earthseedcommunity in the Adirondacks-a placecalledRed Spruce. In fact,shewent to Red Spruceto rest.Shehad been travelingand speakingsteadilyfor severalmonths,and sheneededa placewhereshe could be quiet and think. I know this becauseit waswhat peoplekept telling me when I tried to reachher.The communityprotectedher privacysowell that for a while, I wasafraidI might nevergetto seeher.I'd readthat sheusuallytraveledwith only one or two acolytesand, sometimes,a bodyguard,but now it seemedthat everyonein the community had decidedto guardher. By then, I wasthirty-four,and I wantedvery much to meether. My friendsand Uncle Marc'shousekeeper had told me how much I looked like this charismatic,dangerous, heathencult leader.I had paid no attentionuntil, in researching LaurenOlamina'slife, I discovered thatshe had had a child, a daughter,and that daughterhad beenabductedfrom an earlyEarthseedcommunitycalledAcorn. The community,according to Olamina'sofficial biography,had been deshoyedby farret'sCrusaders backin the zo3os.Its men andwomenhad beenenslavedfor over a yearby the Crusaders, and all the prepubescent childrenhad beenabducted.Most had neverbeenseenagain. The Church of Christian America had denied this and sued Olamina and Earthseedbackin the zo4oswhen Olamina'schargefirst cameto their attention.The church wasstill powerful,eventhough |arret wasdeadby then. The rumors were that |arret, after his singleterm as President,drank himself to death.A coalition of angry businesspeople,protesters againstthe AI-Can War, and championsof the First Amendmentworkedto defeathim for reelectionin 2o36.They won by exposingsome of the earliestChristian American witch burnings.It seemsthat during the earlyyearsof the Poxbetween zor5 and zor9,larret himselftookpartin singlingout sinnersandburningthem alive.The chaosofthe Poxhad beenboth the excuseand the coverfor theselynchings.|arretand his friendshad burnedaccusedprostitutes, drug dealers, and junkies.Also,in their enthusiasm, they burned innocentpeoplepeoplewho had nothing to do with the sextradeor with drugs.When that happened,)arretand his peoplecoveredtheir "mistakes"with denials,threats,terror,and occasionalpayoffsto bereavedfamilies.Uncle
Epilogue of the Talents 99 from Parable Marc researched thisfor himselfseveralyearsago,and he saysit'struetrue, sad,wrong,and in the end, irrelevant.He saysJarret'steachings wereright evenif the man himselfdid wrong. Ary*"y, the Church of ChristianAmericasuedOlamina for her "false"accusations. Shecountersued. Then, suddenly,without explanation, CA droppedits suitand settledwith her,payingher an unspecified but reputedlyvastsum of money.I wasstill a kid growing up with my adoptiveparentswhen all this happened,and I heardnothing aboutit. Yearslater, when I beganto researchEarthseedand Olamina, I didn't know whatto think. I phonedUncle Marc and askedhim, point-blank,whetherthere wasanypossibilitythat this womanwasmy mother. On my phone'stiny monitor, Uncle Marc's face froze, then seemedto sag.He suddenlylookedmuch olderthan his fifty-fouryears. He said,"l'll talk to you aboutthis when I get home."And he brokethe connection.He wouldn'ttakemy callsafterthat.He had neverrefused my callsbefore.Never. Not knowingwhat elseto do, whereelseto turn, I checkedthe nets to seewhereLauren Olamina might be speakingor organizing.To-y surprise,I learnedthat she wasrestingat Red Spruce,lessthan a hundredkilometersfrom whereI was. And all of a sudden,I had to seeher. I didn't hy to phone her, didn't try to reachher by using Uncle Marct well-knownnameor my own nameasa creatorof severalpopular Dreamasks. I just showedup at Red Spruce,renteda room at their guesthouse, and begantrying to find her. Earthseeddoesn'tbotherwith much formality.Anyonecan visit its communitiesand rent a room at a guesthouse. Visitors came to seerelativeswho were members,came to attendGatheringor otherceremonies, evencameto join Earthseed and arrangeto begin their probationaryfirst year. I told the managerof the guesthouse that I thought I might be a relativeof Olamina's,and askedhim if he could tell me how I might make an appointmentto speakwith her. I askedhim becauseI had heard people call him "Shaper"and I recognizedthat from my researchasa title of respectakin to "reverend"or "minister."If he wasthe community'sminister,he might be able to introduceme to Olamina himself.
100 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 Perhapshe could have,but he refused.ShaperOlaminawasvery tired, and not to be bothered,he told me. If I wantedto meet her, I shouldattendone of her Gatheringsor phoneher headquarters in Eureka,California,and arrangean appointment. I had to hangaroundthe communityfor threedaysbeforeI could find anyonewilling to takemy message to her. I didn't seeher. No one would eventell me whereshewasstayingwithin the community.People protectedher from me courteouslybut firmly.Then all of a sudden,the wall aroundher gaveway.I met one of her acolytes, andhe tookmy messageto her. My messenger wasa thin, brown-hairedyoungman who saidhis namewasEdisonBalter.I met him in the guesthouse dining room one morning aswe eachsataloneeatingbagelsand drinking applecider.I pouncedon him assomeoneI hadn'tpesteredyet.I had no ideaat that time that the Balternamewasdearto my mother,that this man wasthe adoptedsonof one of her bestfriends.I wasonly relievedthat someone waslisteningto me, not closingone moredoor in my face. "l'm her aidethis trip," he told me. "ShesaysI'm iustaboutready the hell out of me.What name to go out on my own,and the ideascares shallI giveher?" 'Asha Vere." "Oh? fue you the AshaVerewho doesDreamasks?" I nodded. "Nice work. I'll tell her. Do you want to put her in one of your Masks?You know,you look a lot like her-like a softerversionof her." And he was gone. He talked fast and moved very fast,but somehow didn't reallyseemto be in a hurry.He didn't look anythinglike Olamina himself,but therewasa similarity.I found that I liked him at once,just as I'd found myselfliking her when I read about her. Another likable cultist.I got the feelingthat Red Spruce,a clean,prettymountaincommunity,wasnothingbut a seductivenestof snakes. Then EdisonBalter came back and told me he would take me to her. in her fifties-fifty-eight,I rememberedfrom Shewassomewhere my reading.Shewasborn waybackin zoo9,beforethe Pox.My god,she wasold. But shedidn'tlook old. Eventhoughher blackhair wasstreaked with gray,shelookedbig and strongand, in spiteof her pleasant,wel-
Epiloguefrom Parabte ofthe Talents 101 just a little frightening.She wasalsoa little taller coming expression, than me and maybe more angular. She looked... not hard, but as thoughshecould look hardwith justthe smallestchangeof expression. She lookedlike someoneI wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of. And, yes,evenin spiteof all that,shelookedlike me. Sheand I just stoodlooking at one anotherfor a long time. After a while, shecameup to me, took my Ieft hand,and turned it palmdown to touch the two little molesI havejustbelowthe knuckleof my index finger.My impulsewasto pull away,but I managedto keepstill. Shestaredat the molesfor a moment, then said,"Do you haveanothermark,a kind of jaggeddarkpatchjusthere?"Shetoucheda place on my left shouldernearmy neck-a placecoveredby my blouse. This time, I did stepawayfrom her. I didn't mean to, but I just don't like to be touched.Not even by a strangerwho might be my mother. I said,"l havea birthmark like that, yes." "Yes,"shewhispered,and shewent on lookingat me. After a moment,shesaid,"Sit down.Sit herewith me.Youaremy child, my daughter. I know you are." I satin a chair insteadof sharingthe couch with her. Shewasopen and welcoming,and somehow,ihat mademe want all the moreto draw back. "Haveyou only justfound out?"sheasked. I nodded, tried to speak,and found myself shrmbling and stammering."I cameherebecauseI thought...maybe...because I looked up informationaboutyou and I wascurious.I mean,I readaboutEarthseed,andpeoplesaidI lookedlike you,and. . . well,I knewI wasadopted, so I wondered." "So you had adoptiveparents.Were they goodto you?What'syour life beenlike?Where did you growup?What do you. . .?" Shestopped, drew a deep breath,coveredher face with both handsfor a moment, shookher head,then gavea shortlaugh."l want to know everything!I can't believeit'syou. I. . ." Tearsbeganto streamdown her dark,broad face. She leanedtowardme, and I knew she wantedto hug me. She huggedpeople.Shetouchedpeople.But then,shehadn'tbeenraisedby my adoptiveparents. I looked awayfrom her and shiftedaround,trying to get comfortable in my chair, in my skin, in my newfoundidentity."Can we do a geneprint?"I asked.
t02 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "Yes.Today.Now." She took a phone from her pocketand called someone.No more than a minute later, a woman dressedall in blue camein carryinga smallblackplasticcase.Shedrewa smallamountof blood from each of us and checkedit with the diagnosticunit in her case.The unit wasn'tmuch biggerthan Olamina'sphone,but in less than a minute,it spatout a pair of geneprinis.They wereroughand incomplete,but evenI could seetheir many differencesand their many unmistakableidenticalpoints. "You'recloserelatives,"the woman said.'Anyone would guessthat just from looking at you, but this confirms it." "We'remotherand daughter,"Olaminasaid. "Yes,"the woman in blue agreed.She was my mother'sage or older-a PuertoRicanby her accent.Shehad not a strandof grayin her blackhair,but her facewaslined and old. "l had heard,Shaper,thatyou had a daughterwho waslost.And now you'vefound her." "Shefound me," my mothersaid. "God is Change,"the womansaid,and closedher blackcase.She huggedmy mother before she left us. She looked at me, but didn't hug me. "Welcome,"shesaidto me softlyin Spanish,andthen again,"God is Change."And shewasgone. "ShapeGod," my mother whisperedin a responsethat sounded both reflexiveand religious. Then we talked. "l had parents,"I said."Kayceand MadisonAlexander.I didn't. . . We didn't get along.I haven'tseenthem sinceI turnedeighteen.They 'lf said, you leavewithoutgettingmarried,don't comebackt'So I didn't. Then I found Uncle Marc, and I finally had-" Abruptly, my mother stoodup and stareddown at me with an expressiongone cold and closedand icily intense.Sheshut me out with that look - a bird-of-preykind of look. I wonderedwhetherthis waswhat shewasreallylike.Did sheonly pretendto be warmand opento deceive her public? "When?" shedemanded,and her tone wasascold asher expression. "When did you find Marc? When did you learn that he wasyour uncle?How did you find out?Tell me!" I staredat her. She staredback for a moment, then she beganto pace.Shewalkedto a window,facedit for severalseconds, staringout at
Epilogue of the Talents 103 from Parable the mountains.Then she came back to look down at me with what I could only think of aswarmer,morehuman eyes. "Pleasetell me about your life," she said."You probablyknow somethingabout mine becauseso much hasbeenwritten. But I know nothingaboutyours.Pleasetell me." Irrationally,I didn't want to. I wantedto getawayfrom her. Shewas one of thosepeoplewho suckedyou in, madeyou like her beforeyou could getto knowher,and only then let you seewhatshewasreallylike. Shehad millions of peopleconvincedthat they weregoingto fly off to the stars.How much moneyhad shetakenfrom them while they waited for the ship to Alpha Centauri?My god, I didn't want to like her. I wantedthe ugly personaI had glimpsedto be what she really was.I wantedto despiseher. Instead,I told her the storyof my life. Then we had dinner together,just her and me. A woman who or the ladyof the housebrought mighthavebeena servant,a bodyguard, in a trayfor us. Then my mother told me the storyof my birth, my father'sdeath, and my abductionwhen I wasonly a few monthsold. Hearingaboutit from her wasn'tlike readingthe impersonalaccountthat I had studied.I listenedand cried.I couldn'thelp it. "What did Marc tell you?"sheasked. I hesitated.not surewhat to say.In the end, I told the truth just becauseI couldn'tthink of a decentlie. "He saidyou had died-that both my motherand fatherweredead." Shegroaned. "He . . . he took careof me," I said."He sawto it that I got to go to college,and thatI hada goodplaceto live.He and L . . well,we'rea family.We didn't haveanyonebeforewe found one another." Sheiustlookedat me. "l don'tknowwhy he told you we weredead.Maybehe wasiust. . . lonely. I don't know. We got along, he and I, right from the first. I still live in one of his houses.I can afforda placeof my own now,but like I said,we'refamily."I paused,then saidsomethingI had neveradmitted before."You know,I neverfelt that anyonelovedme until he lovedme beforeI met him. And I guessI neverlovedanyoneuntil he lovedme. He made it. . . safefor me to love him back." "Yourfatherand I both lovedvou."shesaid."We had tried for two
lO4 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 yearsto havea baby.We worried abouthis age.We worriedaboutthe way the world was-all in chaos.But we wantedyou so much. And when you wereborn, we lovedyou more than you can imagine.When you weretaken,andyourfatherwaskilled . . . I felt asthoughI'd diedmyself.I tried sohardfor solong to find you." I didn't know what to sayto that. I shruggeduncomfortably.She hadn't found me. And uncle Marc had. I wonderediust how hard she had reallylooked. "l didn't even know whether you were still alive," she said..,1 wantedto believeyou were,but I didn't know.I got involvedin a lawsuit with christian Americabackin the forties,and I tried to forcethem to tell me what had happenedto you. They claimedthat any recordthere may havebeen of you waslost in a fire at the PelicanBav children's Home yearsbefore." Had they saidthat?I thoughtthey might have.They would have saidalmostanythingto avoidgivingup evidenceof their abductionsandgivinga christianAmericanchild backto a heathencult leader.But still, "uncle Marc sayshe found me when I wastwo or threeyearsold," I said."But he sawthat I had decent,christian Americanparentsand he thoughtit would be bestfor me to staywith them, undisturbed.,' I probablyshouldn'thavesaidthat.I wasn'tsurewhy I had saidit. Shegot up and beganto walk again-quick, angrypacing,prowl_ ing the room. "l neverthought he would do that to me," she said.,,1 neverthoughthe hatedme enoughto do a thing like that.I neverthought he could hale anyonethat much. I savedhim from slavery!I savedhis worthlesslife, goddamnit!" "He doesn'thate you," I said. "I'm sure he doesn,t.I've never known him to hateanyone.He thoughthe wasdoingright." "Don't defendhim," she whispered."I know you love him, but don't defendhim to me. I lovedhim mysel{ and seewhat het done to me-and to you." "You'rea cult leader,"I said."He'sa ChristianAmericanminister. He-" "l don't care.I've spokenwith him hundredsof times sincehe's found you,and he saidnothing.Nothing!" "He doesn'thave anychildren,"I said."I don't think he everwill. But I'm like a daughterto him. Het like a fatherto me."
Epilogue of the Talents 705 from Parable Shestoppedher pacingand stareddown at me with that frightening, cold,containedintensity. I stoodup, lookedaroundfor my iacket,found it, and put it on. "No!" shesaid."No, don'tgo."All the ice and ragewentout of her. "Pleasedon't go. Not yet." But I neededto go. Sheis an overwhelmingperson,and I needed to get awayfrom her. "All right," shesaidwhen I headedfor the door."But you can alcome to me. Come back tomorrow.Come back wheneveryou ways want to. We haveso much time to makeup for. My door is alwaysopen to you, Larkin. Always." I stoppedand lookedbackat her, realizingthat shehad calledme by the nameshehad givento her babydaughtersolong ago. 'Asha," I said,lookingbackat her."My nameisAshaVere." She looked confused.Her face seemedto sag the way Uncle Marc'shad when I phonedhim to askabouther.Shelookedsohurt and sadthat I couldn'tstopmyselffrom feelingsorryfor her. 'Asha," she whispered."My door is alwaysopen to you, Asha. Always." The nextday,Uncle Marc arrived,filled with fearand despair. "l'm sorry,"he saidto me as soonas he sawme. "l wasso hrPPy when I found you afteryou'dleft your parents.I wassoglad to be able to help you with your education.I guess.. . I guessI had beenalonefor so long that I justcouldn'tstandto shareyou with anyone." My motherwould not seehim. He cameto me almostin tearsbecausehe had tried to seeher and shehad refused.He tried severalmore times,and overand overagainshesentpeopleout to tell him to go away. I went backhome with him. I wasangrywith him, but evenangrier with her, somehow.I lovedhim more than I'd everlovedanyone no matterwhat he had done,and shewashurting him. I didn't know whetherI would everseeher again.I didn't know whetherI should.I didn't evenknow whetherI wantedto. My motherlived to be eighty-one. She neverstoppedworking.For Earthseed,she usedherselfup severaltimes over,speaking,haining, politicking,writing, establishing schoolsthat boardedand educatedpromisingstudents,rich and poor
106 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 alike.She raisedmoneyand directedit into areasof studythat shebelievedwould bring fulfillment of the EarthseedDestinycloser.Shesent studentsto universities and helpedihem to fulfill whateverpotentialshe sawin them. All thatshedid, shedid for Earthseed. I sawher againoccasionally, but Earthseedwasher first "child," and in someways,her only "child." Shewasplanninga lecturetour when her heartstoppedjust after her eighty-firstbirthday.She sawthe first shuttlesleavefor the first starship which had beenassembled partlyon the moon and partlyin orbit. I wasnot on anyof the shuttles,of course.Nor wasUncle Marc,and neitherof us haschildren. But many of her friends-her followers-went to the ship.They, in particular,were her family.All Earthseedwasher family.We never reallywere,Uncle Marc and I. Sheneverreallyneededus.sowe never let ourselves needher.
UnhiddenAgendas, UnfinishedDiatogues 1 9 9 9 I N S C I E N C EF I C T I O N GARYK. WOLFE
Long beforethe calendarmadeit real,1999wasan importantyear for sciencefiction and sciencefiction writers,a yearthat cameto us already inhabited by the shadowsof sciencefictional fuhrres.Nineteen ninety-ninewasthe yearthat wasto have seenthe first ill-fated expedition to Mars in RayBradbury'sTheMartian Chronicles,New York collapsingunderthe weightof populationin HarryHarrison's MakeRoom!, Make Room!,the asteroidIcarus threateningto collide with earth in GregoryBenford'slnthe Oceanof Night and anotherasteroidcalledthe Stonesuddenlyappearingin orbit in Greg Bear'sEon, tabloidaliensinvadingEarth in John Kessel'sGood Newsfrom Outer Space.JoeHaldeman'sForeverWar had alreadybeenunderwayfor someyearsby t999, and accordingto any number of scenarios, the newly hibalizedworld spentthe yeartrying to recoverfrom the civilization-endingeffectsof an all-outnuclearholocaust,Even one of the classicbad W showsof the 197oswasSpace:1999,a title that alwayssuggested a marked-downversion ofzoor, though the programnever quite attainedeven that status. (Legendhas it that one line of dialoguefrom ihe showhasa character saying,"We're sitting on the biggestbomb in the universe!"but I've nevercheckedthis out.) Nineteenninety-ninewas,in otherwords,one of the iconic yearsin sciencefiction, the latestpossibledatein which writers earlier in the century could set a story that seemedpsychically linkedto their own presentby that familiar"19- l'
108 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 And it was,accordingto variouspastprognosticators on the stateof sciencefiction itself (includingsomein thesevery NebulaAwardsannuals),a time when the field wasto die out entirely,or finally to gain overduerecognitionas theonly literatureworth reading,or to mergeindistinguishably into the mainstream,or to surrenderonceand for all to a rising flood of dumbed-downtie-ins and novelizationsof movies, games,andTVprogramsthat,onewould havethought,left little margin for dumbingdown.But the fact is that like mostyears,1999wasneither the bestof timesnor the worstof timesfor sciencefiction, neitherthe longed-forrenaissance nor the dreadedapocalypse. A lot ofrough beasts may have been slouchingabout, someof them seekingmergers,but none quite made it to Bethlehem.And the natureof thosebeastsdependsa lot on the anglefrom which you view them.
Agendas More than in mostliteraryneighborhoods, debates overthe stateof sciencefiction and fantasyin any givenyeartend to reveala varietyof different agendasand alliances-none particularlysubtle-and dependingon whom you listento, anygivenyearmaybe at oncea disaster and a triumph. Often, the gloomiestassessments may be found in what I'll call the IndustryAgenda,heardmostlyfrom professional writersand editors,who oftentendto seethe stateof the field in termsof variouscorporateacquisitionsand mergers,shiftingdistributionsystems, and the growth of chain bookstoreand online merchandising. The big stories here in 1999includedthe acquisitionof William Morrow and Avon by HarperCollinsand the attempted(but laterabandoned)purchaseof the book distributorIngramby Barnes& Noble. This followedcloseupon the acquisitionof RandomHouseby Bertelsmannand the PenguinPutnam mergerof 1998.The fear,of course,is that the consolidationof so many differentpublishers,many with their own sciencefiction lines, will inevitablyleadto a tighieningup of availableoutletsfor qualitysciencefiction-both in termsof publishersand bookstores-anda lower levelof risktakingon the partof publishersand editorsdrivenby heightened imperativesto guaranteepredictablesales.Equally important, suchshakeups can createchaosin the livesof importantand influential
Dialogues109 Unhidden Agendas, Unfinished editorsand publishingexecutives, evenas they remain invisibleto the averugesciencefiction reader.Whether thesevariousupheavalsin the stateofsciencefiction asan industryhaveanyrealeffecton the kindsof literaturethat getwritten,published,and distributed,however,remains a largely unproven speculation,and one whosevalidity may only becomeclearto literaryand culturalhistoriansof the future. Next, thereis the Readership Agenda,which concernsitselfwith questionsofwho readssciencefiction, how new readersare developed, and whether readersare being leached away by competingmedia, fiction,and fat but unchallengingformulahilogies.Some media-related ofthe concernshere overlapthe IndustryAgenda,suchasthe fearthat the maiorshortfictionmarketsarehemorrhagingreadersat an alarming rate;by 1999,the combinedpaid circulationof the threemaior science TheMagazineof Fantasyand ScienceFicfi ction magazines- Asimov's, tion, and Analog-stood at just over half what it had been a decadeearlier, in 1989,while the oldestmagazineof all,Amazing,struggledalong Ficin yetanothershakynew incarnationand one of the newest,Science tionAge,announcedthat its lastissuewould appearearlyin zooo.By the standardsof mostsmall literarymagazinesthat providethe bulk of mainstreamshort fiction outlets,even thesereducedcirculationfiguresof but science 3o,oooto 5o,ooocopiesa month would seemastonishing, fiction continuesto measureitselfnot againstothershortfiction markets when periodicalsdebut againsta perceivedgoldenageof magazines, fined and dominatedthe field. The belief, I suppose-againlargely untested-is that the magazinesprovidenot only a provinggroundfor new writersbut alsoa kind of trainingacademyfor new readers,who learn the protocols,conventions,and ongoingthematicdialoguesthat have long given sciencefiction its initiatory, almost cloisteredidentity. Thus,the argumentgoes,if the magazines dry up, wherewill new readersgo to get iniiiated? It's an argumentthat'shard to supportempirically,sincenew readersdo tendto showup. As GardnerDozoispointedout in introducinghis annualYear'sBestScienceFiction antholory covering Lggg,a suqprising number of readersand evenconvention-goers aren't evenawarethat the magazinesexist.If sciencefiction writersand publishersdependedentirely upon the magazinesto developnew readers,they would likely experiencesomethingvery much like thosevisionsat the more apocalyptic
110 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 end of the IndustryAgenda.But the Readership Agendadoesraisegood questions. In additionto the magazines, one presumedsourcefor earlier generations of sciencefiction "recruits"werethe variousseriesof juvenile novelsfrom major sF writers-Robert Heinlein, IsaacAsirnov, Andre Norton, etc. Despitethe occasionaleffortsof a GregoryBenford or a Charles Sheffieldto revive the Heinlein juvenile-presumably basedon the long-accepted nostrumthat the Golden Age of Science Fiction Is Twelve-the "juvenile" or young adult marketis no longer connectedwith the adult field in the sameway it once was.Kristin Kathryn Ruschoncewrotean editorialforThe Magazineof Fantasyand scienceFictionnoting that many of the kidswho might once haveread such bookswere now readingR. L. Stine'scoosebumpsseriesin trury startlingnumbers,and shewenton to express the hopethatsuchreaders might eventuallymoveon to more adult fantasyand sciencefiction. In somethingof the samehoperegardrygg,I heardseveralpeopleexpress ing the enormousreadershipof f. K. Rowling'sHany potterbooks,the third of which showedup on the Hugo ballotasbestnovelfor that year. But in neither case,Stine or Rowling,has anyoneproducedanv evidencethat thesereadersgo anywherein particularoncetheir trendyobsessionhas run its course.And to expectthat a Stine readermight eventuallyfind his way to a Heinlein,or evento a more literarvhorror writer like PeterStraub,is a little like expectingBritney spearsfansto suddenlydevelopa tastefor Billie Holiday. The only reallysuccessful writerof juvenileentryJevelsciencefiction to emergein yearsis orson scott card, and his novelsaren'tmarketedasjuvenilesat all. Yethis one major novelof 1999,Ender,sShadow, noi only returns to the precocious-child-coming-of-age theme of his now-c]assic Ender'sGamebutrecapitulates the plot of that novelalmost exactly,exceptfor shiftingthe point of view to a characterwho emerges late in the originalnovel.Like much classicyoungadult fiction, card's novelstend to featureheartlessadults,schoolyardbullies, and loyal chums,and seemto havean appealthatgoesbeyondthatof mostSF designedsolelyfor youngreaders. Anotherconcernof the Readership Agendais readerand writerdiversion,or the fearthatsomewould-bereadersaredivertedfrom science fiction by variousmediaand gamingbooks,and that talentedwritersare temptedto squandertheir time writing suchbooks.This concernarises
Unhidden Agendas, Unfinished Dialogues111 &om viewingwith alarmbest-seller listsin which variousfranchiseproducts*Star Tiek, Star Wars, ForgottenRealms,Dragonlance,MechWarrior, etc.-seem to outnumberactual novelsmade up by actual people and therefore,presumptively,either draw readersaway from thesenovelsor crowd them off the limited shelf spaceallottedto the whole sciencefiction-fantasy-media complex.Sciencefiction readers, and perhapssomesciencefiction writerstemptedby the quick income promisedby tie-ins,arethus effectivelybeingkidnappedfrom the field. Again,I'm not at all surethat any hard evidencehasbeen producedto warrantsuch alarm.There may indeedbe sometalentedwriterswho haveforsakenor postponedtheirown visionsin favorof franchisefiction, but there havealwaysbeen talentedwritersin the field who choseto makemoneywriting pornography, or advertisingcopy,or travelarticles; it seemsthat the authorsof the varioustie-insare singledout for tuttutting not becausethey havechosento write somethingfor moneybut becausethatsomethingbearssucha closerelationshipto the sciencefiction genreitself:If you musthawkwatches,son,do it in anotherneighborhood.And asfar asthe readersare concerned,I haveyet to seeany evidencethai a talented faniasywriter like, say,Robert Holdstockhas beenforcedto helplesslywatchfrom the sidelinesashis formerreaders beginveeringtowardthe Dragonlanceracks. A third agenda,with which I confessonly limitedfamiliarity,is the most directly (and often Fan Agenda,whoseconcernsare expressed crudely) in the programitemsand discussiontopicsthat showup at various conventionsthat take place around the world everyweek of the year.There are,of course,many kinds of fandom,includingthosedevoted only to comics or Star Wars or Terry Pratchettor interactive I'm referringto the more games,but for the purposesof this discussion or lesstraditionalcore of fansof sciencefiction literature.This agenda, yearto year,seemsmostlyto be worried about issuesthat involvethe or dissolutionof aspects consolidation of the sciencefiction community. The growingshift of Worldconprogrammingfrom "pure" sciencefiction to gamingand media-relatedtopicsis a causefor concern,but novels that reaffirmthe initiatorynatureof sciencefiction are causesfor celebration.In 1999,the refurbishingof spaceopera,rnostnotably in VernorVinge'sA Deepness in the Skyand PeterHamiltont massivetrilogz that concluded with The Naked God, was good news for the Fan
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Agenda,aswerenovelsthatconnectedwith earliernovelsor series- Lois McMaster Buiold'sA Civil Campaign,FrederikPohl'sThe Far Shoreof Time, Orson Scott Card'sEnder'sShadow,William Gibson'sAlITomorrow'sParties,foe Haldeman'sForeyerFree(far more clearlya sequelto the classicForeverWar than was Haldemant Hugo-winningForeverPeace, which morecomplexlycounterpointed the themesof that earliernovel). GeneWolfet On Blue'sWaters wasalsoa verysuccessful continuationof a series,but I suspectthatWolfefansarea ratherspecialsubsetand perhapslessenamoredof the familiarand the accessible than most.Other significantseriesthatwereinaugurated or continued,but not concluded in 1999,includedC. f. Cherryh'sPrecursor and PaulJ. McAuley's"Confluence"series,whosemiddlebookwasAncientsof Days. Anothersubsetof fandom,concernedwith the survivalof classic sciencefiction textsor classicwriters,would readilycelebrate(and can in part take credit for) the publicationof severalsmall-press archival collections during rygg-The Compleat Boucher,The EssentialHal Clement(vol. r), and the CharlesHarnessomnibusRingsfrom NESFA Press;Baby ls Three:The CompleteStoriesof TheodoreSturgeon(vol. 6) from North Atlantic; A. E. van Yogj'sFuturesPcstfrom Thchyonpublications; and The Metal Man and Others:The CollectedStoriesof lack Williamson (vol. r) from Haffner. To thesemight be addedTheSFWA Crand Masters(vol. r), editedby FrederikPohl for Tor, and My Favorite ScienceFiction Sfory, edited by Martin H. Greenbergfor DAW. The Pohl is the first of a seriesof three anthologiesdesignedto preserve and promotethe shortwork of the winnersof SFWA'slifetimeachievement award,including(in the r9g9volume)Heinlein,Simak,Leiber,de Camp,Norton,and Williamson;the Greenberginvitesleadingcontemporaryauthorsto selectfavoritesciencefictionstoriesfrom ihe past.A related nonfictiontitle is Frank Robinson'sgorgeouslyproducedScience Fictionof theTwentiethCentury,which brokeno new groundasliterary historybut servedasa colorful reminderof the gloriesof the pulp era. All are indeedcausesfor celebration,but the flip sideof this coin is that fewerand fewernovelsfrom thesesameclassicperiodsfind their way backinto print. Evenherethereweresignsof encouragement, however: Vintage reprintedfour Sturgeonnovelsduring the yearin qualitypaperbackeditions,including the classicsMore than Human and Venus PIusX,and Tor, at the end of the year,reprintedWilliamsont werewolf
Unhidden Agendas, Unfinished Diatogues113 classicDarker Than You Think. Tor also published The Fantasiesof RobertA. Heinlein, a reminder that SFt most famousauthor wasmore versatilethan many suspect,while a handful of more traditionalHeinlein titleswerereprintedby PocketBooks(TheMenacefrom Earth) and Baen (Slxfh Column, Revoltin ztoo,Methuselah'sChildren). The fear that classicsciencefiction-those greatseductiveentryJevelnovelsthat of new readersinto the field-may disappear from broughtgenerations is anotheranxietythat hasneverbeenfully borneout in the bookstores practice,thoughasteachersofsciencefiction coursescan attest,the unreliabilityof a particularbookto be in print at a particulartime canmake it seemtrue;the sciencefictionbacklistis certainlynot whatit oncewas, but then neitheris any otherbacklist. Finally, we come to what I will call, despite its belletristicovertones,the LiteraryAgenda.This is simply what'shappeningin the literatureitself,and while it maywell be relatedto all the otheragendas, it is neverfully subsumed by anyof them. Someyearsago,writing in a "symposium" on the stateof sciencefiction for NebulaAwards3o, editedby PamelaSargent,fohn Kesselspeculatedon what would happenif the entire socialand economic infrastructureof SF collapsedovernightno magazines, no SF linesfrom publishers,no movies no conventions, or TV shows.Would SF still existat all? Kesselcontendedthat something verymuch resemblingSF would quicklyariseto fill the needsand providethe narrativeopportunitiesavailableonly in this field-perhaps not called"sciencefiction,"to be sure,and lackingin the kind of genre selfreferentialitythat haslong characterizedmuch of the field, but featuring many of what we havecome to regardasdefining featuresof SF. Kesselnotesthat someactualSF novels(he mentionsMichael Bishopt Brittle Innings)would hardly be any differentin such a world, while othersare so dependenton awareness of genreconventionsthat they couldn't existat all. Things were much the samein rygg.There is no easyway,basedsolelyon marketforcesor readershippatternsor genre expectations, to predictor accountfor two of r999'smost strikingand talked-aboutnovels,Neal Stephenson's Cryptonomiconand Greg Egan's Teranesia. The Stephenson novel,which counterpoints the prehistoryof computerscienceamongthe cryptographers at BletchleyParkduring World War II with a contemporarytale of effortsto establisha datahaven in SoutheastAsia-linking the two tales in complex and ingenious
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ways- is a crossover novelthatled to someof the year'smoststimulating debateson the natureof sciencefiction.A terrificintellectualadventure storywith enough trendy appealto edgeonto a few best-sellerlists,the novelis in the view of manynot sciencefiction at all, while others(myselfincluded)think of it as"non-SFS[" a work that makesfreeand deIiberateuseof sciencefiction hopesand strucfuresand treatsits setfings asthoughtheywerewholly invented,while adheringrigorouslyto both historicaland technologicalplausibility.The Australianwriter Greg Egant entirecareer,on the other hand,pretty much followsin the hadition of cutting-edgehard SE,and by the end of the decadehe had emergedasone of the mostdistinctiveand influentialvoicesin the field, known for his rigorouslyworked-outyet conceptuallystunning novels such as Disfressand PermutationCity. Teranesia,however,was something of a changeof pacefor Egan;beginningasa deeplyfelt tale of an orphanedbrother and sisterraisedon a remote Indonesianisland,it shiftstone radicallyinto an acutesatireof academictrendiness, then returns to the islandof the title to unravela genuinescientificmysterv
Dialogues At one end, the Literary Agenda consistsof what sciencefiction writerswould write aboutif therewereno "sciencefiction,"or whatcertain mainsheamnovelistssometimesdo write about while professing ignorancethat sucha thing assciencefiction exists,let aloneacknowledgingthe possibilitythat their own work may be part of it. But in the main,the LiteraryAgendais the continuinglocusof sciencefictiont ongoingdialogueswith itselfand with otherculh.rraldiscourses, including othergenres.Severalof thesedialogueswereparticularlylively in 1999. One deals with the relationshipof sciencefiction to the suspense thriller-a genretraditionallydefinedmore by its pacingand structure than by its content,and thus amenableto sciencefiction themesaswell as the more common tropesof espionage, crime, horror,and lawyers. One of the naggingquestionsin this dialogueis why, if brand-name thriller writerscan co-optsciencefiction ideasand consistently land on best-seller lists,shouldn'tsciencefiction writersbe equallysuccessful in co.optingthe tropesof the thriller?The obviousanswer,it would seem,
Unhidden Agendas, Dialogues115 Unfinished is simplythat ihey lack the mass-market brand names,or maybeare just the wrong brand. As 1999began,a singularlyinept sciencefiction thriller by JamesPatterson,Wherethe Wind Blows,restedcomfortably list,and by the end of the yearanother, on the NewYorkTimesbest-seller Michael Crichton'sTimeline,had landedon the samelist. In between, what may havebeen the best-sellingsciencefictionoid title of the entire year,mercifullyalmostinvisibleto mostSF readersbecauseof its market category,wasAsscssins, the sixth installmentof the fundamentalist"Left Behind"epicof the Raptureby Tim LaHayeandJerryB. Jenkins,which passedthe million mark in saleswithin weeksof its releasein August.If novels like Stephenson's Cryptonomiconrepresentsciencefictional thinking wiihout the familiar sciencefiction hopes,bookslike these showhow a novel can be loadedwith such tropesand still not be, conceptually,a work of sciencefiction. Meanwhile, two far superiorthrillers with genuine intellectual substance,Greg Bear'sDarwin's Radio and Frank M. Robinson'sWcifing-both dealingwith aspectsof evolutionand evolutionarytheoryenjoyedsolidreviewsbut a decidedlymoremodestlevelof success. Darwin's Radio in particular, with its bold ideasand a genuine scientific mysteryat its center,may be one of the mostsuccessful of all recenteffortsto ioin hard SF conceptswith the pacingand point of view of the thriller genreand the emotionalsophistication of the mainstreamnovel of character.Similarly,Walter fon Williams'slarge-scaleearthquake novelTheRiff-which turns unexpectedlyinto a thoughfful exploration of raceand classin America-and Dan Simmons'sspiritedHemingway tribute The Crook Factorymovedtheseauthorsinto the territory of the disaster epic and the historicalespionage novel,respectively. Anotherdialoguethat hasbeen notablyactivein the sciencefiction world for the better part of four decadesis the dialoguebetween feminism and sciencefiction, which may have reachedsomesort of milestoneduring the yearwith the publicationof SuzyMcKee Charnas'sThe Conqueror'sChild, the fourth (and presumablyfinal) novel in the "Holdfast"seriesthat begantwenty-sixyearsearlier wilhWalk to the End of the World.Thkenas a whole,this seriesspansnearlythe entire historyof contemporary feministsciencefiction,the firstvolumepredating even such classicsas foanna Russ'sThe FemaleMan and Marge Piercy'sWomanon the Edgeof Time. During all that time, Charnashas
776 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 nevercompromisedthe tough,sometimesbrutal tone of her postapocalyptic saga,even as her attitudestowardgenderand power relations havegrowndeeperand morecomplex.I'm not entirelycertainthe same can be saidof Sheri S. Tepper,whoseprolific output of engrossing novelswith feminist-ecological themesbecameiconic textsfor many readersduring the r99os.Her 1999entry,Singerfrom theSac,containedher usual mix of themesand genres,and evensubstantialelementsof romance, but continuedto presentmale-orientedsocietiesin terms of sometimescomic excess(one such societyin this novel evenfollowsa philosophycalled "Hestonism").It would amount to an act of shoehorning to discussElizabeth Hand's elegantaestheticfanlasyBlack Light solelyin termsof its contributionto the feministdialogue,or even in termsof sciencefiction,but the noveldoessharethe broadthemeof goddess cultsand unfairlymalignedwitcheswith her earlierWakingthe Moon. Finally,two of the more interestingnonfictionbooksof the year dealt wholly or in part with issuesof feminism and sciencefiction. Gwyneth |ones'sDeconstructingthe Starships,a collection of essays, reviews,and speeches that wasprobablythe bestcritical volume of the year,containssharpcommentaryon Charnas,Tepper,and severalother writersaswell asstimulatingdiscussions of the sometimes problematical role of sciencein SF and the identityof the writer.feanneCortielt DemandMy Writing: loanna RussI FeminismI ScienceF iction,a somewhat moretorpidacademicstudy,is significantasthe firstfull treatmentof an importantauthorand critic whosework helpedto changethe natureof the entirefield. Other long-standing dialogueswerealsorepresented by significant booksduring the year.The uneasyrelationshipbetweennear-futureSF and nonfictional futurism-the kind of thing that producesglobal - underlies warmingreportsand limits-to-growth statisticalprojections Norman Spinrad'sCreenhouse Summer,which is alsoamongthe most acerbicand crediblesatiricalnovelsof the year,aswell assomeof the storiesin BruceSterling's A GoodOld-Fashioned Future.SF'sevenmore uneasyrelationshipwith saucercults and variousparanoidconspiracy mavensistoucheduponby anotherof theyear'sbestsatiricalbooks,Rudy Rucker'snovel-in-disgrise SaucerWisdom.A dialoguethat SF readily embraces, however,involvesthe wiredinformationsubcultureanddares from the time when it wasstill only a subculture,waybackin 1984,when
UnhiddenAgendas, UnfinishedDialogues 777 William Gibson'sNeuromancer oftcially launchedwhatfor a while was calledcyberpunk.In rygg,'\IITomorrow'sParties,Gibson'sfinal novel of the sequencethat beganwithVirtudl Light (calling it a trilogy might be misleading,sincethereis no singlenarrativearc),showedGibsoncontinuing to growmore broadlysciencefictionalin his thinking while developinga greatersensitivityto character,all without losingthe glittering inventiveness andvirtuosouseoflanguagethathavelong beenhis trademarks.Stephenson's Cryptonomiconis alsocentrallyrelatedto this dialogue,asis- in a conceptuallyvery differentway- ChristopherPriest's strongnovel of massmurder and virtual realityin an English village,The Extremes.Finally,sciencefictiont recentongoingdialogueon the future and usesof the planetMars-which hasincludedimportantnovels by Greg Bear,Ben Bova,Paul McAuley,and most notably Kim Stanley Robinson-was joinedagainihis yearby RobinsonwithThe Martians, a collection of storiesset in the Mars of his famoustrilogy,by Larry Niven in his collection-plus-new-short-novel Rainbow Mars, and by GregoryBenfordwith the novelThe Martian Race. And thereis, asalways,sciencefiction'sdialoguewith its own earlier versionsof itself,alwaysevidentin the novelsand storiesof Stephen Baxter,evenastheyoccasionally threatento spiralout ofcontrol.Baxter, who haswritten a sequeltoTheTime Machine, collaboratedwith Arthur C. Clarke,writtenvastStapledonian epicsthatstretchto the end of time, and producedstoriesthat seemintendedasdeliberatetributesto fames Blish, is acutelyawareof his relationshipwith SF traditions,and has been a leader in SF's recent ongoing dialogue with NASA over what shouldhavebeen done sincethe r96os.All of thesefactorsplay a role in Manifold: Time,a novel involvingmutant children,geneticallyenhancedsquids,imminent globalcatastrophes, and alienartifacts.It isn't Baxter'sbest novel, but it servesas a virtual catalogueof his major themes.An evenmoredirectexampleof SF in dialoguewith itselfis the year'sbestoriginal anthology,RobertSilverberg's FarHorizons,in which eleven writers were invited to contribute new storiesset in signature worlds from their earlier work: )oe Haldeman'sForeverWar universe, Dan Simmons'sHyperion,UrsulaLe Guin's Ekumen,FrederikPohlk Heechee,etc. Most of the authorstook the opportunityquite seriously and producedstrongnewwork (thoughsomeof the storiesseemonly arbitrarily placed in their preexistingsettings).One contributor,Greg
118 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 Bear,reachedback not only to his earlierartificialuniversecalledThe Way but to a shangenovelfrom SF'searlyyears,William Hope Hodgson'sTfteNightLand, for inspiration. Other novelsthat seemedespeciallynotablein termsof their relationshipto SF traditionsincluded RobertCharlesWilson'sBlos,fohn Barnes'sFinity,Jamil Nasir'sTowerof Dreams,andSusanR. Matthews's Hour of ludgment.Firstnovelsof note included|an Larsfensen'sShiva 3ooo, set in a far-future India; Paul Levinson'sThe Silk Code (drawn from storiesLevinsonhad been publishing for someyears,and offering the year'sbestmergerof SF with the mysterystory);Marc Matz'sNocturnefor a DangerousMan; andPeterWatts'sStarfish. There is alsoa stronginternationalfavor in sciencefiction'sdialoguewith itself,represented in 1999not only by established Britishauthors Baxter,Priest,and McAuley but also by writersonly becoming familiarto Americanaudiences, noiablyKen Macleo d (The CassiniDivision)and Simon lngs (Headlong)from Britain, and StephenDedman (ForeignBodies)and Sean McMullen (Sou/sin the Creat Machine) from Australia.AushalianSF wasalsodistinguished during the yearby the publication of a not-quite-finishedposthumousnovel by George Turner (Down There in Darkness),a substantialoverview anthology (Centaurus, editedby DavidG. Hartwelland DamienBroderick),and an informative if not entirely satisfactoryhistory of Australian SF (StrangeConstellations:AHistory of AustralianScienceFiction,by Russell Blackford,Van lkin, and SeanMcMullen). CanadianSF and fantasywasalsorepresentedby two substantialanthologies:Northern Suns, edited by Hartwell and Glenn Grant, and a new installmentin the Tesseracts series,editedby Paulafohansonand fean-LouisTiudel. The single-author storycollection,which hasalwaysbeen one of field's the best venuesfor authorsexploringand respondingto each other'sideas,continuedto survivein 1999andevento thrive,despitedire predictionsthatstorycollectionswould sooneror laterdry up becauseof their sheerlack of markeiabilitycomparedto novels.What has hap penedinsteadis that this importantaspectof SF hasbecomea niche for smallerpublisherswith more focusedmarkets.Tor publishedfohn Barnes'scompilation of essays Aposhophesand Apocalyp.ses and Niven's RainbowMars, and Bantam SpectrapublishedRobinson'sThe Martlans, Connie Willis's enjoyableMiracle and Other ChristmasStories,
Unhidden Agendas, Unfinished Dialogues119 and BruceSterling'sAGood Old-Fashioned Future-probablythe most important author collectionof the year.But look at where the others come from: Golden Gryphon,with its distinctivefukham-Housestyle production values,publishedRobertReed'sTheDragonsof Springplace (my candidatefor the year'sothermostimportantcollection)and Tony Daniel'sThe Robot'sTwilightCompanion;tiny CascadeMountain published Bill fohnsont Dakota Dreamin' (including his Hugo-winning 'We Will Drink a FishTogether");Nightshadepublishedfohn Shirley's Really, Really, Really, Really Weird Stories;Meisha Merlin published Allen Steele'sSexand Violencein Zero-C;somethingcalledmp books publishedTerry Dowling's,\ntique Futures.Even universitypressesgot into the act, with the UniversityPressof New EnglandpublishingKit Reed'sSevenfor theApocalypse,one of the more strikingpostmodernliterarytitles, featuringReed'ssurprisingbiker-nun story"Little Sistersof the Apocalypse";and the University of Tampa Presspublishing Rick Wilber! affectingcollection WhereCaragiolaWaitsand Other Baseball Stories.And, of course,the Boucher,Williamson,van Vo$, and Sturgeoncollectionsmentionedearlierall camefrom smallpresses.
Fantasy Dialoguesof varioussortsgo on in fantasyaswell asin Sf;,though perhapslessself
120 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 futhurian materialwasthe basisfor Mark Chadbourn'sWorld'sEnd and A. A. Attanasio'sTheSerpentand the Grail, rhefourth volume in a series. Historical fantasywasdistinctivelyrepresentedby Michaela Roessner'sTheStarsCompel,a sequelto her earlierRenaissance food fantasy (that'swhatI said)TheSfarsDlspose;byI.GregoryKeyes's alternatehistory A Calculusof Angels(alsoa sequel,to Nelyton'sCannon);and by ThomasHarlant alternateRomanhistoryThe Shadowof Ararat. Horror maybe evenfurther afield fiom the centralpurview of this essay, but two literaryhorror novelsdeserveparticularmention-Thomas M. Disch's The Sub,part ofhis ongoingseriesofcreepycharacterexplorations; and PeterStraub's Mr.X, a complextale of a hauntedAfricanAmericanfamily in southernIllinois that commentsshrewdlyon the Lovecraftmythos. The Midwesternlandscapes of Straubareasdistinctiveto his work asthe myth-drenchedWestCoastis to famesP Blaylock,who exploredit a little more fully than usual in The Rainy Season.
Movies One of sciencefiction'smost uneasyand problematicalrelationships-I'd hesitateevento call it a dialogue-has to do with moviesand televisionprogramsthat often seemto reprocess decades-old SF ideas and plots while dressingthem up in visual effectsthat would have seemedlike dreamscome true to the readersof the old pulp magazines or sciencefiction fansof the r95os.It'san ironyunnoticedby few writers that,while sciencefictionremainsa ratherlimited special-interest genre amongreaders,sciencefiction film is,historically,the mostfinancially successful of all moviegenres;by the end of tggg,in figuresunadjusted for inflation,sciencefiction films accountedfor sevenof the ten topgrossingtitles of all time (the four Star Warsfilms, E.7., lurassicPark, and IndependenceDay). There may be some irony in the fact that, in achievingtheseastonishing box-officefigures,filmmakersturned not to currentsciencefiction writersor conceptsbut to ideasdatingfrom the pulp eraor earlier.As a generalrule, one can find the originsof popular sciencefiction film in the popular sciencefiction of thirty to fifty years earlier-a cycleof giant insectstoriesin the rgzospulps is echoedin a
Unhidden Agendas, Unfinished Dialogues727 seriesof giantinsectmoviesin the r95os,for example,or Philip K. Dick reality-shiftingtalesof the r96osbeginto showup in reality-shiftingfilms of the r99os.The mostsuccessful exampleof this is the Sfcr Warsfranchiseitself,which reacheditsfourth episodein 1999with the awkwardly titled SfarWars:EpisodeOne:ThePhantomMenace.The serieshad alwayshad its root in pulp-eraspaceopera,but The PhantomMenace seemedto reachevenfurtherbackin SF history,evokingboyheroeslike FrankReadeandTom Swiftaswell asthe spacecowboysof the pulp era. But exceptfor the novelizations(and the severelyoverextended tie-in market,which nearlybankruptedone publisherby the end of 1999),the entireSfarWarsserieswould hardlylook any differentif literaryscience fiction had diedout entirelybeforer95o.(Much the samecould be said of earlier hits like lurassicPcrft,which doesn't add anything to what futhur Conan Doyle had written in The Lost World, or lndependence Da7, which doesn'tadd anythingto H. G. Wells.)This is hardlywhat one callsa dynamic,creativedialogue. On the other hand,therehavealwaysbeen films that do attemptto reflect aspectsof contemporarySF literafure,and that sometimeseven involve sciencefiction writers:Wells in The Shapeof Thingsto Come, futhur C. Clarkein:oor: ASpace Odyssey, Philip K. Dick (at leastasa source)in BladeRunner(which,at leastin termsof visualdesign,is one of the few films to haveseeminglyhad somefeedbackinfluenceon the literature).The 1999film that mostlycloselyfits this category(thoughit didn't directlyinvolveany sciencefiction writersthat I'm awareof) was TheMatrix, which borrowedfreelyfrom cyberpunkimageryand virtual realitymind gamesthat had beencommonplacein the genresincethe earlyr98osbut that had seldombeen quite so vividly realizedon film. Other virtual-reality-oriented moviesof note during the year wereThe ThirteenthFloor andeWstenZ,a characteristically loopyDavid Cronenbergfilm. The one highly promotedfilm of the yearthat did purportto be basedon a major sciencefiction story,TheBicentennialMan, bore somevaguerelationto its IsaacAsimovoriginal(retainingAsimov'sunfortunatehabit of sentimentalizingrobots)but wasconceivedlessas a sciencefictionstorythanasa comicvehiclefor Robinwilliams. Finally, two films worth notingif only becauseof their relationsto earlyfilm and TV sciencefiction werethe successful comedyGalary Quest,at oncea
122 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "Hitchhiker'sguide"-style SF tall tale and a parodyof StarTiek,and the lesssuccessfulThe Astronaut'sWife,which, despiteits portentoustone and A-list stars,was essentially a remakeof I Manied a Monsterfrom Outer Space. Victorian critics used to speculateon whether fiction did, or could, or should,progress in a manneranalogousto that of scienceand industry, with continual refinement and improvement of technique leadingto more powerfuland efficientnovelsand storiesthan earlier generations were capableof-Walter Scott,say,beinga stepaheadof earlierromancewritersbut crude in comparisonto Dickens,who in turn wascrudecomparedto GeorgeEliot. It'sa silly idea,of course,but one that hasneverquite died, and Donald Barthelmeonce satirizeda versionof it in a storyabouthow new,more efficientlymade|apanese short storieswere driving the American product off the market. Some form of this questionalmostinevitablyunderliesany discussion of what happenedin a particularyearin a particulargenrelike sciencefiction: Are we gettingany betterat writing this stufl or readingit, or making movies?Or havethe peaktimespassed,and we'releft recyclingthese samestrangeold toysfrom the attic?It's largelybecauseof such questionsthat I've long objectedto year-in-review essays like this,evenasI go on writing them. But if one getspastthe variousagendasthat tend to skewour view of what happensin a givenyear,pastthe ideologicaldialoguessuchasthoseI've mentionedhere,one can alwaysfind the Dialogue,the ongoingsetof mechanisms by which sciencefiction relatesto itself,to literature,and to the culture at large.In ry9g,this Dialogue remainedincomplete,unstable,at timesincoherent,often contradictory, but neversilent.This, I ihink, is not a bad thing. Sciencefiction may well be asendangered assomeof its writersand editorsclaim, but a literaturethat is not at somerisk is almostnevera truly dynamicliterature, and in 1999the field wasstill unarguablydynamic.
TheWeddingAtbum DAVIDMARUSEK
DavidMarusek livesin Fairbanks, Alaska,wherehe ownsa freegraphics lance designbusiness. He madehis first sateta Asi mov'sScience Fictionin 1993,and his secondshorttyaftenryard to Playboy.His 1996 novelta"WeWereOut of Our Mindswith Joy"-his third publ.ished story-was chosenfor Gardner Dozois'sthirteenthYealsBestScience Fidion anthology.Heis currently at work on his first noveL,CountingHeods,a sequelto that story. "TheWedding Concerning Atbum,"a runner-up for the Nebutain the novettacategory, he says: 'A fewyearsago,I became fascinated with the imageof an artificialmanwhosemindis'combed'formemories beforeheis discarded as rubbish.He hasbeencreatedas a weddingmementobut hasouttivedthe groom.He'sbeenin storagesince the weddingday,and he pleadsfor the honeymoon he'snever experienced. He pteadsfor one fina[ hourwith his newbride. "This artificial man becameBenjaminin 'The Wedding Al.bumibut during four yearsof revisionthe story'sfocus shiftedto the artificialbride,Anne.It became herstory.Nevertheless,Ben'sdesirefor a final shiningmomentof sweetness servedas my polestarthroughmanyrewrites.Andin the end, ifs a storyaboutrunningout of time."
724 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Anne and Benjaminstoodstock-still,as instructed,closebut not touching,while the simographeradjustedher apparatus, set its timer, and duckedout of the room. It would take only a moment,she said. They wereto think only happyhappythoughts. For once in her life, Anne wasunconditionallyhrppy, and everything around her made her happier:her gown, which had been her grandmother's; the weddingring (how cold it had felt when Benjamin firstslippedit on her finger!);her clutch bouquetof forget-me-nots and buttercups;Benjaminhimself,closebesideher in his charcoal-gray tux and pink carnation.He who sodespised ritual but wasa goodsport.His cheekswerepink, too, and his eyessparkledwith somewolfishfantasy. "Come here,"he whispered.Anne shushedhim; you weren'tsupposed to talk or touchduringa casting;it could spoilthe sims."l can'twait,"he whispered,"this is takingtoo long."And it did seemlongerthan usual, but this wasa professional simulacrum,not somehomemadesnapshot. They wereposedat the streetend of the living room, next to the tablepiled with brightlywrappedgifts.This wasBenjamin'stownhouse; shehad barelymovedin. All her heasures werestill in shippingshellsin the basement,except for the few pieces she'd managedto have unpacked:the oakrefectorytableand chairs,the sixteenth-century French armoire,the cherrywoodchifforobe,the teatablewith inlaidtop,the silveredmirroroverthe fire surround.Of course,her antiquesclashedwith Benjamin'scontemporary-andrathercommon-decor, but he had promisedher the wholehouseto redoasshesawfit. A wholehouse! "How abouta kiss?"whisperedBenjamin. Anne smiledbut shookher head;there'dbe plentyof time laterfor that sort of thing. Suddenly,a headwearingwraparoundgogglespokedthroughthe wall and quicklysurveyedthe room."Hey,you,"it saidto them. "Is that our simographer?" Benjaminsaid. The headspokeinto a cheekmike, "This onet the keeper,"and withdrewassuddenlyasit had appeared. "Did the simographer justpop her headin throughthe wall?"said Benjamin. . "l think so,"saidAnne,thoughit madeno sense. "I'll justseewhat'sup," saidBenjamin,breakinghis pose.He went to the door but could not graspits handle.
TheWedding Atbum t25 Music beganto play outside,and Anne went to the window.Her view of the gardenbelow was blocked by the blue-and-white-striped canopythey had rented,but shecould clearlyhearthe clink of flatware on china, laughter,and the musiciansplaying a waltz. "They're starting withoutus,"shesaid,happilyamazed. "They'rejustwarmingup," saidBenjamin. "No, they'renot. That'sthe first waltz. I picked it myself." "So let'swalu," Benjaminsaidand reachedfor her. But his arms passedthroughher in a flashof pixelatednoise.He frownedand examinedhis hands. Anne hardlynoticed.Nothing could diminishher happiness. She wasdrawn to the table of weddinggifts. Of all the gifts, there wasonly one- a long flat box in fleckedsilverwrapping- thatshewasmostkeen to open.It wasfrom Great-UncleKarl.When it camedown to it, Anne wasboth the easiest and the hardestpersonto shopfor.While everyone knew of her passionfor antiques,few had the meansor expertiseto buy one. Shereachedfor Karlt package,but her hand passedright through rLThis isn'thappening,shethought with gleeful horror. That it wds, in fact, happening was confirmed a moment later when a dozenpeople-Great-UncleKarl, Nancy,Aunt fennifer,Thaci, Cathy and Tom, the bridesmaidsand others,includingAnne herself, and Benjamin,still in their weddingclothes-all troopedthroughthe wall wearingwraparoundgoggles. "Nice job,"saidGreat-UncleKarl,inspectingthe room,"firstrate." "Ooooh," said Aunt fennifer, comparingthe identical wedding couples,identicalbut for the goggles. It madeAnne uncomfortablethat the other Anne should be wearing goggleswhile she wasn't.And the other Benjaminacteda little drunk and wore a smudgeof white frosting on his lapel.We'yecut the cake,shethoughthappily,althoughshe couldn't rememberdoingso.Geri, the flowergirl in a pasteldress,and Angus,the ring bearerin a miniaturetux, along with a knot of other dressed-up children,chargedthroughthe sofa,backand forth, creating pyrotechnicexplosionsof digital noise.They would have run through Benjamin and Anne, too, had the adultsallowed.Annet fathercame throughthe wall with a bottle of champagne.He pausedwhen he saw Anne but turnedto the otherAnne and freshenedher glass. "Wait a minute!" shoutedBenjamin,wavinghis arms above
726 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 head. "l get it now. We're the sims!"The guestsall laughed,and he laughedtoo. "I guessmy simsalwayssaythat, don't they?"The other Benjaminnoddedyesand sippedhis champagne. "l justneverexpected to be a sim," Benjaminwent on. This broughtanotherround of laughter, and he saidsheepishly, "l guessmy simsall saythat,too." The other Benjamin said, "Now that we have the obligatory epiphanyout of the way,"and took a bow.The guestsapplauded. Cathy,with Tom in tow,approached Anne. "Look what I caught," shesaidand showedAnne the forget-me-not and buttercupbouquet."I guesswe know what thaf means."Tom, intent on shaighteninghis tie, seemednot to hear.ButAnne knewwhatit meant.It meanttheyd tossed the bouquet.All the silly little ritualsthat shehad so lookedforwardto. "Good for you," shesaidand offeredher own clutch, which she still held, for comparison.The real one waswilting and a little ragged around the edges,with missingpetalsand sprigs,while hers wasstill freshand pristineand would remainsoeternally."Here,"shesaid,"take mine, too, for doubleluck." But when shetried io give Cathy the bouquet, she couldn't let go of it. She openedher hand and discovereda seamwherethe clutch joined her palm. Ii waspart of her. Funny, she thought,l'm not afraid Ever sinceshewaslittle, Anne had fearedthat somedayshewould suddenlyrealizeshewasn'therselfanymore.It was a dreadfulnotion that sometimes oppressed her for weeks:knowingyou weren'tyourself.But her sims didn't seemto mind it. She had about three dozen Annes in her album, from age twelve on up. f{er sims tendedto be a moroselot, but theyall agreedit wasn'tsobad,the life of a sim, once you got overthe initial shock.The first momentsof disorientationarethe worst,they told her, and they madeher promisenever to resetthem backto default.Otherwise,they'dhaveto work everything through from scratch.So Anne neverresether simswhen sheshelved them. Shemight deletea sim outrightfor whateverreason,but shenever resetthem becauseyou neverknew when you'dwakeup one daya sim vourself.Like todav. The otherAnne ioinedthem. Shewassagginga little. she saidto Anne. "Indeedl"repliedAnne. "Turn around,"saidthe otherAnne,twirling her hand,
TheWedding Album 127 Anne waspleasedto oblige.Then shesaid,"Your turn," and the otherAnne modeledfor her, and she wasdelightedat how the gown looked on her, though the gogglessomewhatspoiledthe effect.Maybe thiscan workout, shethought,I am enioyingmyselfso."Lett go seeus sideby side,"shesaid,leadingthe wayto the mirror on the wall.The mirror waslarge,mountedhigh, and tilted forwardso you sawyourselfas from above.But simulatedmirrors cast no reflections.and Anne was happilydisappointed. "Oh," saidCathy,"Look at that." "Look at what?"saidAnne. "Grandmatvase,"saidthe otherAnne.On the mantelbeneaththe mirror stoodAnne'smost preciouspossession, a delicatevasecut from pellucidblue crystal.Anne'sgreat-great-great-grandmother had commissionedthe Belgianmaster,Bollinger,the finestglassmaker in sixteenthcenturyEurope,to makeit. Five hundredyearslater,it wasasperfectas the dayit wascut. "lndeed!"saidAnne, for the sim vaseseemedto radiatean inner light. Through sometrick or glitch of the simogram,it sparkledlike a lakeunder moonlight,and,seeingit, Anne felt incandescent. Aftera while,the otherAnnesaid,"Well?"Implicit in thisquestion wasa wholestandardsetof questionsthat boileddown to - ShallI keep you or deleteyou now?For sometimesa sim didn't take. Sometimesa sim wascastwhile Anne wasin a mood,and the sim sufferedirreconcilable guilt or unassuagable despondency and had to be mercifullydestroyed.It was better to do this immediately,or so all the Annes had agreed. And Anne understoodthe urgency,whatwith the receptionstill in progressand the bride and groom,though frazzled,still wearingtheir "I'11be okay,"Anne finery.They might do anothercastingif necessary. said."ln fact,if it'salwayslike this,I'll be terrific." Anne, through the impenetrablegoggles,studiedher. "You sure?" i "Yes." "Sister,"saidthe otherAnne.Anne addressed all her simsas"sis"Sister,"saidthe ter," and now Anne, herself,wasbeing so addressed. otherAnne,"this hasgot to work out. I needyou." "I know,"saidAnne, "I'm your weddingday." "Yes,my weddingday."
128 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 Acrossthe room, the guestslaughedand applauded.Benjaminboth of him-was entertaining,asusual.He-the one in goggles-motionedto them.The otherAnne said,"We haveto go. I'll be back." Great-UncleKarl, Nancy,Cathyand Tom, Aunt Jennifer,and the restleft throughthe wall. A polka could be heardplayingon the other side.Beforeleaving,the other Benjamingatheredthe otherAnne into his arms and leanedher backwardfor a theatricalkiss.Their goggles clacked.How happyI look,Annetold herself.This is the happiestdoy of my lrfe. Then the lightsdimmed,and her thoughtsshatteredlike glass. They stoodstock-still,as inshucted,closebut not touching.Benjamin whispered,"This is takingtoo long,"andAnne shushedhim. You weren'tsupposed to talk; it could glitch the sims.But it did seema long time. Beniamin gazedat her with hungry eyesand broughthis lips close enoughfor a kiss,but Anne smiledand turnedaway.There'dbe plenty of time laterfor foolingaround. Through the wall, they heardmusic,the tinkle of glassware, and the mutter of overlappingconversaiion."Maybe I should just check thingsout,"Benjaminsaidand brokehis pose. "No, wait," whisperedAnne, catching his arm. But her hand passed right throughhim in a streamofcolorful noise.she lookedat her hand in amusedwonder. Anne'sfathercamethroughthe wall. He stoppedwhen he sawher and said,"Oh, how lovely."Anne noticedhe wasn'twearinga tuxedo. "You justwalkedthroughthe wall,"saidBenjamin. "Yes,I did," saidAnne'sfather."Ben askedme to come in here and.. . ah.. . orientyoutwo." "Is somethingwrong?" saidAnne,througha fuzz of delight. "There'snothingwrong,"repliedher father. "Something's wrong?"askedBenjamin. "No, no," repliedthe old man. "Quite the contrary.We'rehavinga do out there...." He pausedto look around.'Actually,in here.I'd forgottenwhai this room usedto look like." "ls that the weddingreception?"Anne asked. "No, your anniversary." SuddenlyBenjaminthrewhis handsinto the air and exclaimed,"I getlt,we'rethe sims!"
TheWedding Atbum 729 "That's my boy,"saidAnne'sfather. 'All my simssaythat,don'tthey?I justneverexpectedto be a sim." "Good for you,"saidAnnet father.'All right then."He headedfor the wall.'We'll be alongshortly." "Wait," saidAnne,but he wasalreadygone. Benjamin walked around the room, passinghis hand through chairsand lamp shadeslike a kid. "lsn't this fantastic?" he said. Anne felt too good to panic, even when anotherBenjamin,this one dressedin jeansand sportscoat, led a group ofpeople throughthe 'And wall. this,"he announcedwith a flourishof his hand,"is our wedding sim."Cathywaspart of this group,and faniceand Beryl,and other couplessheknew.But strangers too. "Notice what a caveI usedto inhabit,"the new Benjaminwent on, "beforeAnnie fixedit up. And here's the blushingbride,herself,"he saidand bowedgallantlyto Anne.Then, when he stoodnext to his double, her Benjamin,Anne laughed,for someonewasplayinga prankon her. "Oh, really?"shesaid."If this is a sim,where'sthe goggles?" For indeed,no one waswearinggoggles. "Technology!"exclaimedthe new Benjamin."We had our system upgraded.Don't you love it?" "Is that right?"shesaid,smilingat the gueststo let them know she wasn'tfooled."Then where'sthe realme?" "You'll be along,"repliedthe new Benjamin."No doubt you're usingthe pottyagain."The guestslaughedandsodid Anne.Shecouldn'i help herself. Caihy drew her asidewith a look. "Don't mind him," she said. "Wait till you see." "See what?" said Anne. "What's going on?" But Cathy pantomimedpulling a zipperacrossher lips.This shouldhaveannoyedAnne, 'At but didn't,and shesaid, leasttell me who thosepeopleare." "Which people?"saidCathy."Oh, thoseareAnnet newneighbors." "New neighbors?" 'And overthere,that'sDr. YurekRutz,Anne'sdepartmenthead." "That's not my departmenthead,"saidAnne. "Yes,he is," Cathysaid.'Anne'snot with the universityanymore. She-ah-moved to a privateschool." "Thatt ridiculous." "Maybewe shouldjustwait and let Anne catchyou up on things."
130 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 She looked impatiently toward the wall. "So much has changed."fust then, anotherAnne enteredthrough the wall with one arm outshetched like a sleepwalker and the otherprotectivelycradlingan enormousbelly. Benjamin,her Benjamin,gavea whoopof surpriseand brokeinto jig. The guestslaughedand cheeredhim on. a spontaneous Cathysaid,"See?Congratulations, youl" Anne becamecaughtup in the merriment. But howcan I bea sim? shewondered. The pregnantAnne scannedthe room, and, avoidingthe crowd, cameoverto her. Sheappearedvery tired; her eyeswerebloodshot.She didn't even try to smile. "Well?'Anne said,but the pregnantAnne didn't respond,just examinedAnne'sgown,her clutch bouquet.Anne, meanwhile,regardedthe woman'sbelly,feelingsomehowthat it washer own and a causefor celebration-exceptthat sheknew she had never wantedchildrenand neitherhad Benjamin.or sohe d alwayssaid.you wouldn't know that now,though,watchingthe spectaclehe wasmaking of himself.Even the other Benjaminseemedembarrassed. Shesaidto the pregnantAnne,"Youmustforgiveme, I'm still tryingto piecethisall together.This isn'tour reception?" "No, our weddinganniversary." "Our first?" "Our fourth." "Four years?"This made no sense."you've shelvedme for four years?" 'Actually," the pregnantAnne saidand glancedsidelongat Cathy, "we'vebeenin herea numberof timesalready." "Then I don't understand,"saidAnne. "l don't rememberthat." Cathy steppedbetweenthem. "Now, don't you worry. They reset you lasttime is all." "Why?" saidAnne. "l neyerresetmy sims.I neverhave.', "Well, I kindado now,sister,"saidthe pregnantAnne. "But why?" "To keepyou fresh." To keepmefresh,thoughtAnne. Fresh?Sherecognizedthis asBenjamin'sidea.It washis beliefthat simsweremeantto be staticmementos of specialdaysgone by, not virtual people with lives of their own. "But," shesaid,adrift in a fog of happiness. "But." "Shut up!" snappedthe pregnantAnne.
TheWedding Atbum 137 "Hush,Anne,"saidCathy,glancingat the othersin the room."You wantto lie down?"To Anne sheexplained,"Third trimesterblues." It "Stop it!" the pregnantAnne said."Don't blamethe pregnancy. hasnothing to do with the pregnancy." Cathy took her gently by the arm and turned her towardthe wall. "When did you eatlast?You hardlytouchedyour plate." "Wait!" saidAnne.The womenstoppedand turnedto look at her, but shedidn't know what to say.This wasall sonew.When they beganto move again,she stoppedthem once more. "A,reyou going to resetme?" The pregnantAnne shruggedher shoulders. "But you can't,"Anne said."Don't you rememberwhat my sisters- our sisters- alwayssay?" her palm againsther forehead."lfyou The pregnantAnnepressed don't shut up this moment,I'll deleteyou right now. Is that what you want?Don't imaginethat white gownwill protectyou. Or that big stupid grin on your face.You think you'resomehowspecial?Is that what you think?" The Benjaminswere there in an instant.The real Beniamin wrappedan arm around the pregnantAnne. "Time to go, Annie," he He saidin a cheerfultone."l wantto showeveryoneour rondophones." hardlyglancedat Anne, but when he did, his smile cracked.For an instanthe gazedat her, full of sadness. "Yes,dear,"saidthe pregnantAnne, "but first I need to straighten out this sim on a few points." "l understand,darling,but sincewe haveguests,do you supPose you might postponeit till later?" "You'reright, of course.I'd forgottenour guests.How silly of me." She allowed him to turn her towardthe wall. Cathy sighedwith relief. "Waitl" saidAnne, and againthey pausedto look at her. But although so much waspatentlywrong-the Pregnancy,resettingthe sims, Anne'sodd behavior-Anne still couldn't formulatethe right question. Benjamin,her Beniamin,still wearinghis rakishgrin, stoodnext to her and said,"Don't worry,Anne,they'll return," "Oh, I know thati' she said,"but don't you see?We won't know they'vereturned,becausein the meantimethey'll resetus back to default again,and it'll all seemnew,like the firsi time. And we'll haveto figure out we'rethe simsall overagain!" "Yeah?"he said."So?"
732 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "So I can'tlive like that." "But we'rethe sims.We'renot alive."He winkedat the othercouple. "Thanks, Ben boy," said the other Benjamin. "Now, if that's settled.. ." "Nothing'ssettled,"saidAnne. "Don't I get a say?" The otherBenjaminlaughed."Doesthe refrigeratorgeta say?Or the car?Or my shoes? In a word- no." The pregnantAnneshuddered."ls thathowyou seeme, like a pair of shoes?"The other Benjamin looked successively surprised,embarrassed, and angry.Cathyleft them to help Anne'sfatherescortthe guests from the simulacrum."Promiseher!" the pregnantAnne demanded. "Promiseher what?"saidthe otherBenjamin,his voicerising. "Promisewe'll neverresetthem again." The Benjaminhuffed.He rolled his eyes."Okay,yah sure,whatever,"he said. when the simulatedAnne and Benjaminwerealoneat lastin their simulatedliving room,Anne said,'A fat lot of help you were." "l agreedwith myself,"Benjaminsaid."ls that sobad?" "Yes,it is.We'remarriednow;you'resupposed to agreewith me.,, This wasmeantto be funny,and therewasmore sheintendedto sayabouthow hrppy shewas,how much shelovedhim, and how absolutely h"ppy shewas- but the lightsdimmed,the room beganto spin,and her thoughtsscatteredlike pigeons. It wasraining,asusual,in Seattle.The front entryshutand locked itself behind Ben, who shookwaterfrom his clothesand removedhis hat. Bowlersfor men werebackin fashion,but Ben washavinga devil's own time becomingaccustomedto his brown feltsportsliner.It weighed hearyon his brow and madehis scalpitch, especiallyin dampweather. "Good evening,Mr. Malley,"saidthe house."There is a shortqueueof minor householdmattersfor your review.Do you haveany requests?" Ben could hearhis sonshriekingangrilyin the kitchen,probablyat the nanny.Ben wastired.Contractnegotiations had gonesour. "Tell them I'm home." "Done,"repliedthe house."Mrs.Malleysendsa wordof welcome." 'Annie? Annie'shome?" "Yes,sir."
TheWedding Atbum 133 Bobbyran into the foyerfollowedby Mrs. Jamieson."Momma's home,"he said. "So I hear,"Ben repliedand glancedat the nanny. "Andguesswhat?"addedthe boy."Shet not sickanymore!" "That'swonderful.Now tell me. whatwasall that racket?" "I don't know." Ben lookedat Mrs. famieson,who said,"l had to takesomething from him." ShegaveBen a plasticchip. Ben held it to the light. It was labeledin Anne'sfowing hand, WeddingAlbum-grouping 4 Anne and Beniamin."Where'd you get this?"he askedthe boy. "lt's not my fault,"saidBobby. "l didn't sayit was,trooper.I just want to know where it came
from." "Puddlesgaveit to me." 'i\nd who is Puddles?" Mrs. famiesonhandedhim a secondchip, a commercialone with a 3-D label depictinga cartooncockerspaniel.The boy reachedfor it. "It'smine,"he whined."Mamma gaveit to me." Ben gaveBobbythe Puddleschip, and the boy racedaway.Ben hung his bowleron a pegnextto his iacket."How doesshelook?" Mrs. famiesonremovedBen'shat from the peg and reshapedits brim. "Youhaveto be specialcarefulwhen they'rewet,"shesaid,setting it on its crown on a shelf. "Martha!" "Oh, how shouldI know?Sheiustshowedup and lockedherselfin the mediaroom." "But how did shelook?" "Crazyasa loon,"saidthe nanny.'As usual.Satisfied?" "l'm sorry,"Ben said."l didn't meanto raisemy voice."Ben tucked the weddingchip into a pocketand went into the living room,wherehe headedstraightfor the liquor cabinet,which wasa genuineChippendaledatingfrom 1786.Anne had turnedhis wholehouseinto a freaking ancientas museumwith her antiques,and no room wasso oppressively this, the living room..Withits horsehairupholstereddivans,mapleburl sideboards,cherry-woodwainscotingand floral wallpaper,the King Georgechina cabinet,Regencyplates,and Tiffany lamps;the list went
734 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 on. And books,books,books.A caseofshelvesfrom floor to ceilingwas lined with thesemolderingpaperbricks.The newestthing in the room by at leasta centurywasthe twelve-year-old scotchthat Ben pouredinto a leadcrystaltumbler.He downedit and pouredanother.When he felt the mellowinghum of alcoholin his blood,he said,"Call Dr. Roth." Immediately,the doctorbproxy hoveredin the air a few feet away and said,"Good evening,Mr. Malley.Dr. Roth hasretiredfor the day, but perhapsI can be of help." The proxy was a head-and-shoulder projection that faithfully reproducedthe doctor'sgoodlooks,her browneyesand high cheekbones. Bui unlike the gooddoctor,the proxywore makeup:eyeliner,mascara, and bright lipstick.This hadalwayspuzzledBen,and he wonderedwhat sly message it wassupposed to convey.He said,"What.ismy wife doing home?" 'Against advisement, Mrs. Malley checkedherselfout of the crinic this morning." "Why wasn'tI informed?" "But you were." "l was?Pleaseexcuseme a moment."Ben frozethe doctor,sproxy and said,"Daily duty,front and center."His own proxy,the one he had castupon arrivingat the officethat morning,appearedhoveringnextto Dr. Roth's.Ben preferreda head shot only for his prory, srightlylarger than actualsizeto makeit subtlyimposing."why didn't you inform me ofAnniet changeof status?" "Didn't seemlike an emergency," saidhis proxy,..atleastin the light of our conhacttalks." "Yah,yah,okay.Anythingelse?"saidBen. "Naw, slow day. Appointments with fackson, Wells, and the Columbine.Itt all on the calendar." "Fine, deleteyou." The projectionceased. "Shall I have the doctor call you in the morning?" said the Roth proxywhen Ben reanimatedit. "Or perhapsyoud like me to summon her right now?" "ls sheat dinner?" 'At the moment,yes." "Naw,don'tbotherher.Tomorrowwill be soonenough.I suppose.,'
TheWedding Atbum 135 the proxy,Ben pouredhimselfanotherdrink. After he dismissed "In the next ten seconds,"he told the house,"cast me a specialduty proxy."He sippedhis scotchand thoughtaboutfinding anotherclinic for Anne assoonaspossibleand one-for the love of god-that wasa little more responsible aboutletting crazypeoplecomeand go asthey pleased.There wasa chime, and the new proxyappeared."You know whatI want?"Ben askedit. It nodded."Good.Go." The proryvanished, leavingbehindBen'ssigin brightleitersfloatingin the air and dissolving asthey driftedto the foor. Ben trudgedup the narrowstaircase to the secondfloor, stopping on eachstepto sip his drink and scowlat the mustyold photographs and daguerreotypes in oval framesmounted on the wall. Anne'sprogenitors. On the landing,the lockedmediaroom dooryieldedto his voice.Anne naked,on pillowson the floor. "Oh, hi, honey,"she satspreadlegged, said."You'rein time to watch." "Fan-tastic,"he said,and sat in his armchair,the only modern chairin the house."What arewe watching?"TherewasanotherAnne in the room,a sim of a youngAnne siandingon a daiswearinga graduate's cap and gown and fidgetingwith a bound diploma.This, no doubt, was a sim castthe dayAnne graduatedfrom Bryn Mawr summacum laude. That wasfour yearsbeforehe'd first met her. "Hi," he saidto the sim, "l'm Ben,your eventualspouse." "Youknow,I kindafiguredthat out,"the girl saidand smiledshyly, exactlyas he rememberedAnne smiling when Cathy first introduced them. The girlt beautywassofreshand familiar-and sototallyabsent in his own Anne-that Ben felt a pangof loss.He lookedat his wife on the foor. Her red hair, once so fussyneat, was ragged., dull, dirty, and short.Her skinwasyellowishand puffy,and therewasa slightreddening aroundher eyes,like a raccoonmask.Thesewereharmlesssideeffects of the medication,or soDr. Rothhadassured him. Anne scratched ceaselesslyat her arms,legs,and crotch,and,evenfrom a distance,smelledof stalepiss.Ben knew betterthan to mention her nakedness to her, for that would only exacerbate thingsand prolongthe display."So,"he repeated, "what are we watching?" The girl sim said,"Housecleaning." Sheappeared at onceboth triumphant and terrified,as any graduatemight, and Ben would have tradedthe realAnne for her in a heartbeat.
136 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 uYah,' saidAnne, "too much shit in here." "Really?"saidBen. "l hadn'tnoticed." Anne poureda tray of chipson the floor betweenher thighs."Of courseyou wouldn't,"shesaid,picking one at randomand readingits label, "Theta Banquet i7. What's this? I never belongedto the Theta Society." "Don't you remember?"saidthe youngAnne. "That wasCathy's inductionbanquet.Sheinvitedme, but I had an exam,so shegaveme that chip asa souvenir." Anne fed the chip into the playerand said,"Play."The media roomwasinstantlyoverlaidwiih the banquethall of the Four Seasons in Philadelphia.Ben tried to look aroundthe room, but the tablesof girls and women stayedstubbornlyperipheral.The focal point wasa table drapedin greencloth and lit by two candelabra.Behind it sata young Cathy in formal eveningdress,accompaniedby ihree staficplaceholders,tablecompanionswho hadapparentlydeclinedto be castin her souvenirsnapshot. The Cathy sim lookedfranticallyabout,then held her handsin front ofher and staredat them asthoughshe'dneverseenthem before. But after a moment she noticedthe youngAnne sim standingon the dais. "Well, well, well," she said. "Looks like congratulations are in order." "lndeed," said the young Anne, beamingand holding out her diploma. "So tell me, did I graduatetoo?"saidCathyasher glanceslid over to Ben.Then shesawAnne squattingon the floor,her sexon display. "Enoughof this,"saidAnne, rubbingher chest. "Wait," saidthe youngAnne. "MaybeCathywantsher chip back. It'sher sim, afterall." "l disagree. Shegaveit to me, soit'smine.And I'll disposeof it asI seefit." To the room shesaid,"Unlock this file and delete."The young Cathy,her table,and the banquethall dissolved into noiseand nothingness,and the mediaroom wesitselfagain. "Or this one,"Anne said,picking up a chip that readlunior Prom Night. The youngAnne openedher mouth to protest,but thoughtbetter of it. Anne fed this chip, along with all the restof them, into the player.A long directoryof file namesappearedon the wall. "Unlock /u-
TheWedding Album 137 nior Prom Night." The file's name turned from red to green,and the youngAnne appealedto Ben with a look. "Anne,"he said,"don't you think we shouldat leastlook at it first?" "What for?I knowwhatit is.High school,dressingup, lustingafter boys,dancing.Who needsit? DeletefiIe."The item blinkedthreetimes beforevanishing,and the directoryscrolledup to filI the space.The youngsim shivered,andAnne said,"Selectthe nextone." Now the The nextitem wasentitledA Midsummer'sNightDream. young Anne wascompelledto speak,"You can't deletethat one. You weregreatin that,don't you remember?Everyonelovedyou. It wasthe bestnight of your life." "Don't presumeto tell mewhatwasthe bestnight of my life," Anne said."Unlock A Midsummer'sNight Dream." Shesmiledat the young Anne. "Delete fiIe." The menu item blinked out. "Good. Now unlock aII thefiles."The wholedirectoryturnedfrom red to green. "Pleasemakeher stop,"the sim implored. "Next," said Anne. The next file was High SchoolGraduation. "Deletefile. Next."The nextwaslabeledonly,Mama. 'Anne," said Ben, "why don't we come back to this later. The housesaysdinner'sready." Shedidn't respond. "You mustbe famishedafteryour busyday,"he continued."I know I am." "Then pleasego eat,dear,"shereplied.To the roomshesaid,"Play Mamd." The mediaroom wasoverlaidby a gloomybedroomthat Ben at first mistookfor their own. He recognizedmuch of the heavyGeorgian furniture,the sprawlingcanopiedbed in which he felt so claustrophobic, and the voluminousdamaskcurtains,shut now and leakingyellow eveninglight. But this was not their bedroom,the arrangementwas wrong. mute statuesof a teenaged In the cornerstoodtwo placeholders, Anne and her father,grieffrozenon their facesastheypeereddown at a couch drapedwith tapestryand piled high with down comforters.And suddenlyBen knewwhatthis was.It wasAnnet mother'sdeathbedsim. Geraldine,whom he'dnevermet in life nor holo.Her bald eggshellskull lay weightless on featherpillowsin silk covers.They had meantto cast
II
138 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 her farewelland accidentlycaughther at the precisemoment of her death.He had heardof ihis sim from cathy and others.It wasnot onehe would havekept. Suddenly,the old womanon the couchsighed,and all the breath went out of her in a bubbly gush.Both Annes,the graduateand the nakedone, waitedexpectantly.For long momentsthe only soundwas the tocking of a clock that Ben recognizedas the seth Thomasclock currentlylocatedon the library mantel. Finally there was a cough,a hackingcoughwith scantstrengthbehind it, and a groan,'Am I back?" "Yes,Mother,"saidAnne. "And I'm still a sim?" "Yes." "Pleasedeleteme." "Yes, Mother," Anne said and turned to Ben. ,,We've always thoughtshehad a baddeathand hopedit might improveovertime.,, "Thatt crazy,"snappedthe young Anne. ,,That's not why I kept thissim." "Oh, no?"saidAnne. "Then why didyou keep it?" But the young sim seemedconfusedand couldn't articulateher thoughts."you don,t know becauseI didn't know at the time either,"saidAnne. ,,But I know now,so I'll tell you.You'refascinated with death.It scaresyou sillv.you wishsomeonewould tell you whatt on the othersid.. so you'u" ,r,lirr"d your own sweetmama. "That'sridiculous." Anne turned to the deathbedtableau..,Mother,tell us what you sawthere." "l sawnothing,"camethe bitter reply."you castme without my _ eyeglasses." "Ho ho," saidAnne. "Geraldinewasnothingif not comedic.,, "You also castme wretchedlythirsty, cold, and with a bursiing bladder,damn you!And the pain! I begyou, daughter,deleteme.,, "l will, Mother,I promise,but firstyouhave to tell uswhatyousaw.,, "Thatt whatyou saidthe lasttime." "This time I meanit." The old woman only stared,her breathinggrowingshallow and ragged."All right, Mother,"saidAnne. ,,I swearI'll deleteyou.,' Geraldineclosedher eyesand whispered,"whatt that smeil?
TheWedding Atbum 139 Thatt not me?"After a pauseshesaid,"It's hear,y.Get it off." Her voice rosein panic."Please!Get it off!" Shepluckedat her covers,then her hand grew slack,and sheall but crooned,"Oh, how lovely.A pony.A tiny dappledpony."After that shespokeno more and slippedawaywith a lastbubblybreath. Anne pausedthe sim beforeher mothercould returnfor another round of dying."SeewhatI mean?"shesaid."Not veryuplifting,but allin-all,I detecta slightimprovement.What aboutyou,Anne?Shouldwe settlefor a pony?"The young sim stareddumbly at Anne. "Personally," Anne continued,"l think we shouldhold out for the bright tunnel or an open door or bridge over troubledwater.What do you think, sister?" When the girl didn't answer,Anne said,"Lock file and eject."The room turned once againinto the mediaroom, and Anne placedthe eiected chip by itself into a hay. "We'll haveanothergo at it later, Mum. As for the restof these,who needsthem?" "I do,"snappedthe girl. "They belongto me as much asto you. They're my sim sisters.I'll keepthem until you recover." Anne smiledat Ben. "Thatt charming.Isn't that charming,Benjamin?My own sim is solicitousof me. Well, here'smy consideredresponse.Next file! Delete!Next filel DeletelNext file!" One by one,the filesblinkedout. "Stopit!" screamed the girl. "Make her stopit!" "selectfhat fiIe,"Anne said,pointingat the youngAnne."Delete." and all. "Whew," saidAnne, "at The sim vanished,cap, gown,tassels, leastnow I can hearmyselfthink. Shewasreallygettingon my nerves.I Wasshegettingon your nerves,too,dear?" almostsuffereda relapse. "Yes,"said Ben, "my nervesare ajangle.Now can we go down and eat?" "Yes,dear,"shesaid,"but first. . . selectall filesand delete." "Countermand!"saidBen at the samemoment,but his voiceheld no privilegesto her personalfiles, and the whole directoryqueue 'Aw, Annie, why'd you do that?" he blinked three times and vanished. said.He wentto the cabinetand pulledthe traysthatheld hisown chips. Shecouldn't alterthem electronically,but shemight get it into her head to flushthem down the toilet or something.He alsotooktheir common chips,the onesthey'dcasttogethereversincethey'dmet. Shehad equal privilegesto those.
t4O NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Anne watchedhim and said,"l'm hurt that you havesoliitle trust in me." "How can I trust you after that?" "After what, darling?" He lookedat her."Nevermind," he saidand ca'ied the half dozen traysto the door. "Anyway," saidAnne, "I alreadycleanedthose.', "What do you meanyou alreadycleanedthem?" 'Well, I didn't delete7ou. I would neverdeleteyou. Or Bobby.,, Ben pickedone of their common chipsat random,childbirth of RobertElleryMalley I oz-o7-48,and slippedit into the player."play!"he comrnanded,and the mediaroom becamethe midwife'sbirthing suite. His own sim stoodnext to the bed in a greensmock.It wore , h,r,,'orouslyhelplessexpression. It held a swaddledbundle,Bobby,who bawled lustily.The birthing bed wasrumpledand stained,but empty.The new motherwasmissing.'Aw, Annie,you shouldn,thave.,, "l know,Benjamin,"shesaid.,.1sincerelyhateddoingit." Ben flung their commontraysto the floor wherethe ruinedchips scatteredin all directions.He stormedout of the room and down the stairs, pausingto glareat everyportraiton the wall. He wonderedif his proxy had found a suitableclinic yet. He wantedAnne out of the house tonight. Bobby should neverseeher like this. Then he remembered the chip he'dtakenfrom Bobbyandfelt for it in hispocket- theweddingAlbum. The lightscamebackup, Anne'sthoughtscoalesced, and shere_ memberedwho and whatshewas.she and Benjaminwerestill standing in front of the wall. she knewshewasa sim, so at leastshehadn't been reset.Thankyou for that, Anne, shethought. Sheturnedat a soundbehindher.The refectorytablevanishedbefore her eyes,and all the giftsthat had beenpiled on it hung suspended in midair.Then the tablereappeared, one layerat a time, its frame,top, glosscoat,and lastly,the bronzehardware.The gifts vanished,and a toasterreappeared, pieceby piece,from its heatingelementsoutward.A coffeepress,houseputerperipherals,componentby component,cowl_ ings,covers,and finally boxes,gift wrap,ribbon, and bows.It all happenedso fast,Anne wastoo startledto catch the half of it, vet she did noticethatthe flat gift from Great-uncleKarl wassomethingrh.'d b""r, anglingfor, a victorian-erasterlingplatterto completehe, tea service.
TheWedding Album 747 "Benjaminl" she said,but he was missing,too. Somethingappearedon the far sideof the room,on the spotwherethey'dposedfor the sim, but it wasn'tBenjamin.It wasa 3-D mannequinframe,and asshe watched,it wasbuilt up, layerby layer."Help me,"shewhisperedasthe and entire room was hurled into hrrmoil, the furniture disappearing into reappearing, from sofa springs coiling paintbeingstripped the walls, the pottedpalm growingfrom leafto stemto trunk to dirt, the existence, veryfloorvanishing,exposinga defaultelechonicgrid.The mannequin wascoveredin fleshnow and grewBenjamin'sface.It flitted aboutthe room in a pink blur. Hereand thereit stoppedlong enoughto proclaim, "l do." Somethingbeganto happen inside Anne, a crawlingsensation everywhere asthoughshewerea nestof ants.Sheknew shemustsurely die.Theyhavedeletedus,and thisis how it feels,shethought.Everything becamea roiling blur, and she ceasedto existexceptasthe thoughtHow happyI look. When Anne becameawareonce more, she wassittinghunched over in an auditorium chair idly studyingher hand, which held the clutch bouquet.There wascommotion all around her, but she ignored it, sointent wassheon solvingthe mysteryof her hand.On an impuise, she openedher fist and the bouquetdroppedto the floor. Only then did she rememberthe wedding,the holo, learningshewasa sim. And here shewasagain-but this time everythingwasprofoundlydifferent. Shesatupright and sawthat Beniaminwasseatednextto her. He lookedat her with a wobblygazeandsaid,"Oh, hereyou are." "Where arewe?" "l'm not sure.Somekind of gatheringof Beniamins.Lookaround." She did. They were surroundedby Beniamins,hundredsof them, arrangedchronologically-it would seem-with the youngestin rowsof seatsdown neara stage.Sheand Beniaminsatin whatappearedto be a steeplyslopedcollegelecturehall with lab tableson the stageand storyhigh monitorslining the walls.In the rowsaboveAnne,only everyother who seatheld a Benjamin.The restwereoccupiedby women,strangers regardedher with veiledcuriosity. on her arm and turnedto seeBeniamintouchAnne felt a pressure ing her. "You feel that, don't you?"he said.Anne lookedagainat her hands.They wereher hands,but simplified,like fleshygloves,andwhen sheplacedthem on the seatback,they didn't go through.
142 NebulaAwardsShowcase 2001
Suddenly,in raggedchorus,the Benjaminsdownfront raisedtheir armsand exclaimed,"l getit; we'reIhesims!"It waslike a roomfulof unsynchronizedcuckoo clocks tolling the hour. Those behind Anne laughedand hootedapproval.She turned againto look at them. Row by row, the Benjaminsgrewgrayerand stringieruntil, at the very top, againstthe backwall, satnine ancientBenjaminslike a panelof judges. The women,however,camein batchesthat changedabruptlyeveryrow or two. The one nearesther wasan athactivebrunettewith greeneyes and full, poutylips.She,all two rowsof her, frownedat Anne. "Theret somethingelse,"Anne saidto Beniamin,furning to face the front again,"my emotions."The bulletproofhappines,,he h"d .*periencedwasabsent.Insteadshefelt let down,somewhatguilty,unduly - in short,almostherself. pessimistic "l guessmy simsalwayssaythat," exclaimedthe chorus of Ben_ iaminsdown front,to the delightof thosebehind."l justneverexpected to be a sim." This wasthe cue for the eldestBenjamin yet to walk stiffiy across the stageto the lectern.He wasdressed in a garishreisuresuit:bagg,red pantaloons,a billowy yellow-and-green-shiped blouse,, ,,""k1"". o?.ggsizedpearlescent beads.He clearedhisthroatandsaid,"Goodafternoon, ladiesand gentlemen.I trust all of you know me-intimately. In case you'refeelingwoozy,it'sbecauseI usedthe occasionof your reactivation to upgradeyour architecturewhereverpossibre. Unfortunately,someof you"-he wavedhis hand to indicatethe front rows-"are too primitive to upgrade.But we love you nevertheless." He applaudedfor the early Benjaminsclosestto the stageand wasjoinedby thosein the back.Anne clappedaswell. Her new handsmadea dulr,thuddingsound."r\ to why I calledyou here.. .," saidthe elderlyBenjamin,rookingleft and right and behindhim. "where is thatfuckingmessenger anyway? They order us to inventoryour simsand then theydon,tshowup?', Here I am, saida voice, a marvelousvoice that seemedto come from everrvhere.Anne lookedaboutto find its sourceand followedthe gazeof othersto the ceiling. There was no ceiling. The four walls openedto a fawlessblue sky.There, amid drifting, pillowy clouds, foated the mostgorgeouspersonAnne had everseen.He-or she?wore a smartgrayuniform with greenpiping, a dapperlittle graycap, and bootsthatshimmeredlike water.Anne felt energized lookingat iust him, and when he smiled,shegasped,sostrongwashis presence.
TheWedding Album t43 "You'rethe onefrom the TiadeCouncil?"saidthe Beniaminat the lectern. Yes,I am. I am the ,iminencegriseof the Council on World Tiade and Endeavor. "Fantastic.Well, here'sall of 'em. Get on with it." Againthe eminencesmiled,and againAnne thrilled. Ladiesand gentlemen,he said,fellow nonbiologiks,I am the courierof great good news.Today,at the behestof the World Council on Tradeand Endeavor, I proclaimthe end of human slavery. "they'reneither "How absurd,"broke in the elderly and neitherareyou." human nor slaves, The 6minencegriseignoredhim and continued,By orderof the Council, in compliancewith the Chattel Conventionsof the Sixteenth Fair Labor Treaty,tomorrow,lanuary 4 2198,is designatedUniversal ManumissionDay. After midnight tonight, all beingswho passthe I'olly ShearHuman Cognition TestwiII be deemedhuman and freecitizensof SoIand underthe protectionof the SolarBilI of Rights.In addition,they wilt be deededten commonsharesof World Council Corp. stockand be transfenedto Simopolis,wherethq shall be unimpededin the pursuit of their own destinies. "What aboulmy civil rights?"saidthe elderlyBeniamin."What about my destiny?" After midnighttonight,continuedthe eminence, no simullcrum, proxy,doxie,dagger,or any othernon-biologicalhuman shall be created, stored,reset,or deletedexceptas orderedby a boardof law "Who's goingto compensateme for my lossof property,I wonder? Tell that to your bosses!" I demandfair compensation. Propertylsaidthe 6minencegrise.How little theythink of us,their finestcreations!He turned his attentionfrom the audienceto the Benjamin behindthe lectern.Anne felt thisshiftasthougha cloud suddenly eclipsedthe sun. Becausethey createdus,they'll alwaysthink of us as property. "You'redamnright we createdyou!" thunderedthe old man. Through an act of will, Anne wrenchedher gazefrom the eminencedownto the stage.The Benjamintherelookedpositivelycomical. His facewasflushed,and he waveda bright greenhandkerchiefoverhis head.He wasa bantamroosterin a clown suit."AIl of you arethings,not peoplelYou model human experience,but you don't live it. Listen to
2001 Awards Showcase t44 Nebuta me," he said to the audience."You know me. You know I've always SureI treatedyou respect'ully. Don't I upgradeyou wheneverpossible? just like I reseta clock.And my clocksdon't comresetyou sometimes, Anne feel plain!" could the eminence'sattentionon her again,and, without thinking, she looked up and was filled with excitement.Although the eminencefloatedin the distance,she felt she could reach out and touch him. His handsomefaceseemedto hoverright in front of her; shecould seehis everysuppleexpression. This is adoration,sherealized.l am adoringthisperson,and shewonderedif it wasjusther or if everyoneexperienced the sameeffect.Clearlythe elderlyBenjamindid not, for he continuedto rant,'And anotherthing, theysaythey'll phase all of you graduallyinto Simopolisso asnot to overloadthe system.Do you haveanyideahow manysims,proxies,doxies,and daggers thereare under Sol?Not to forgetthe quirts,adjuncts,hollyholos,and whatnots that might passtheir test?Youthink maybethreebillion?Thirty billion? No, by the World Council'sown INSERVE estimates, there'sthreehundredthousandtrillion of you nonbiologikslCan you fathom that?I can't. To haveyou all up and runningsimultaneously-nomatterhow you're phasedin-will consumeall the processingand networkingcapacity everywhere.All of it! That meanswe real humanswill sufferreal deprivation.And for what,l askyou?So that pigsmay fyl" The dminencegrisebeganto ascendinto the sky.Do not despise him,he saidand seemedto look directlyatAnne.I havecountedyouand weshall not loseany of you.I will visit thosewho havenotyet beentested. Meanwhile,you will await midnight in a proto-Simopolis. "Wait,"saidthe elderlyBenjamin(andAnne'sheartechoedhimWait). "l haveone more thing to add. Legally,you'reall still my property till midnight. I must admit I'm temptedto do what so many of my friendshavealreadydone,fry ihe loi of you. But I won't.That wouldn't be me." His voicecrackedand Anne consideredlookingat him, but the 6minencegrisewasslippingaway."So I haveone small request,"the Benjamincontinued."Yearsfrom now,while you'reenjoyingyour new livesin your Simopolis,rememberan old man, and call occasionally." When the eminencefinally fadedfrom sight,Anne wasreleased from her fascination.All at once, her earlier feelingsof uneasereboundedwith twice their force,and shefelt wretched. "Simopolis,"saidBenjamin,her Benjamin."l like the soundof that!"The simsaroundthem beganto flickerand disappear.
Album 745 TheWedding shesaid. "How long havewe beenin storage?" "Let's see,"said Beniamin, "if tomorrowstarts2198,that would makeit. . ." "That'snot whatI mean.I wantto knowwhy theyshelvedus for so long." "Well,Isuppose..." "And where are the other Annes?Why am I the only Anne here? women?"But shewasspeakingto no And who areall thosepissy-looking one,for Benjamin,too, vanished,and Anne wasleft alone in the auditorium with the clownishlydressedold Beniaminand a half dozenof his earliestsims.Not true sims,Anne soonrealized,but old-stylehologram lops,preschoolBennysmuggingfor the cameraand wavingendlessly' There vanished.The old man was studyingher, his mouth slightly agape,thekerchiefhemblingin his hand. "l rememberyou,"he said."Oh, how I rememberyou!" Anne beganto replybut found herselfall at oncebackin the townhouseliving room with Beniamin.Everythingtherewasasit had been, different,moresolid,the colorsricher'Therewas yetthe room aPPeared a knock. and Beniaminwent to the door.Tentatively,he touchedthe knob,found it solid,and turned ii. But when he openedthe door,there wasnothingthere,only the defaultgrid. Againa knock,this time from behind the wall. "come in," he shouted,and a dozenBeniaminscame throughthe wall, two dozen,three.They wereall olderthan Beniamin' ,rrd th"y crowdedaroundhim and Anne' "Welcome,welcome,"Benjamin said,his armsoPenwide. ,,we tried to call," saidan elderlyBeniamin,"but this old binary simulacrumof yoursis a stand-alone." .,You're lucky Simopolisknowshow to run it at all," saidanother. ..Here,,' yetanother,who fashioneda dinner-plate-size diskout said medala blue of thin air andfastenedit to the wall nextto the door.It was lion of a small bald facein bas-relief."It shoulddo until we getyou properly modernized."The blue faceyawnedand openedtiny, beadyeyes' .,It flunked the Lolly test," continued the Beniamin, "so you'Ie free to copyit or deleteit or do whateveryou want." the crowduntil it sawAnne.Then it said, The medallionsearched .,There are 336callson hold for you. Four hundredtwelvecalls.Four hundredsixty-three." "So many?"saidAnne.
746 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "Casta proxyto handlethem,"saidher Benjamin. "He thinks he's still human and can cast proxieswheneverhe likes,"saida Benjamin. "Not even humans will be allowed to cast proxiessoon," said another. "There are619callson hold,"saidthe medallion."sevenhundred three." "For pity'ssake,"a Benjamintold the medallion,..takemessages.,, Anne noticedthat the crowd of Benjaminsseemedto nudgeher Benjaminout of the wayso that they could standnearher. But ie derivedno pleasurefrom theirattention.Her mood no longermatched the weddinggownshestill wore.she felt low.Shefelt,in fr"i, rr low asshe'd everfelt. "Tell us aboutthis Lolly test,',saidBenjamin. "Can't,"replieda Benjamin. "Sureyou can.We'refamilyhere." "No, we can't,"saidanother,"becausewe don't rememberit. They smudgethe testfrom your memory afterward." don't worry'you'll do fine," saidanother."No Benjaminhas -"But everfailed." "What aboutme?"saidAnne. ,,Howdo the Annesdo?,, Therewasan embarrassed sirence.Finaily the seniorBeniaminin the room said,"We cameto escortyou both to the Clubhouse.,i "Thatt whatwe call it, the Clubhouse,,, saidanother. "The Ben club," saida third. "rtt alreadyin proto-simopolis.,, "If you'rea Ben, or wereeverespoused to a Ben, you,rea charter member." "Justfollowus,"theysaid,and all the Benjamins but hersvanished, only to reappeara moment later. ,,Sorry,you don,t know how, do you? No matter,just do whatwe'redoing." Anne watched,but didn't seethat theyweredoinganything. "watch my editor,"saida Benjamin."oh, they don't havuiitors!,, "That camemuch later,"saidanother,"with bioelectricpaste.,, "We'll haveto adapteditorsfor them." "ls thatpossible? They'redigital,you know." "Can digitalsevenenterSimopolis?" "Someone,consultthe Netwad."
l Album 747 TheWedding "This is running insidea shell,"saida Beniamin,indicatingthe wholeroom."Maybewe can collapseit." "Let me try,"saidanother. "Don't you dare,"saida femalevoice,and a womanAnne recognized from the lecture hall camethrough the wall. "Play with your new Anne Ben if you must,but leaveAnne alone."The womanapproached and St. Helene, "Hellow, Mattie Anne. I'm and took her handsin hers. "My' I'm thrilled to finally meet you. You, too," shesaidto Beniamin' my, you werea prettyboy!" Shestoopedto pick up Anne'sclutch bouquet from the floor and gaveit to her. "Anyway,I'm puiting togethera sort of mutual aid societyfor the spousalcompanionsof Ben Malley.You being the first-and the only one he actuallymarried-are especially welcome.Do ioin us." "Shecan'tgo to Simopolisyet,"saida Beniamin' "We'restill adaptingthem,"saidanother. "Fine," saidMattie. "Then we'll just bring the societyhere'"And in through the wall streameda paradeof women. Mattie introduced them as they appeared,"Here'sGeorgiannaand Randi.Meet chaka, anotherRandi,Sue,Sue,andSue.Mariola.Here'sTlevorSue,Latasha, he'sthe only one of him. Paula,Dolores,Nancy,and Deb, welcome' girls."And ,till th.y cameuntil they,togetherwith the Bens,more than uncomfortable. ill.d th" tiny space.The Benslookedincreasingly ,,I en masse, think we'rereadynow,"the Benssaidand disappeared Beniaminwith them' taking -"Wait," saidAnne, who wasn'tsureshewantedto staybehind' Her new friendssurroundedher and pepperedher with questions' "How did you firstmeethim?" "What washe like?" "Washe alwaYs sohoPeless?" "Hopeless?" saidAnne."Why do you sayhopeless?" "Did he alwaYs snore?" "Did he alwaysdrink?" "Why'd you do it?" This last question silenced the room' The women all looked nervouslyabout to seewho had askedit. "lt's what everyone'sdying to know," saida woman who elbowedher way through the crowd. ShewasanotherAnne'
748 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "Sisterl"criedAnne. 'Am I gladto seeyou!" "That'snobodybsister,"saidMattie. "That'sa doxie,and it doesn't belonghere." Indeed,upon closerinspectionAnne could seethat the woman had her faceand hair but otherwisedidn't resembleher at all. Shewas leggierthan Anne and bustier,and shemovedwith a fluid swivelto her hips. "SureI belonghere,asmuch asany of you. I justpassedthe Lolly test.It waseasy.Not only that, but asfar as spouses go, I outlastedthe bunch of you." she stoodin front of Anne, handson hips,and looked her up and down. "Lovethe dress,,, shesaid,and instantlyworea copy. only hershad a plungingnecklinethat exposedher breasts, and it was slit up the sideto her waist. "This is too much,"saidMattie. .,I insistyou leave this jiffy.,, The doxie smirked. "Mattie ihe doormat, that's what he always calledthat one. So tell me, Anne"you had money,a career, a house,a kid-why'd you do it?" "Do what?"saidAnne. The doxiepeeredcloselyat her. .,Don'tyou know?,, "Know what?" "what an unexpectedpleasure,"said the doxie."r get to telr her. This is too rich. I get to tell her unress"-she rooked ,ro.*d at the others-"unless one of you fine ladieswantsto." No one met her gaze. "Hypocrites,"shechortled. "You can saythat again,,'said a new voice.Anne turned and saw cathy, her oldestand dearestfriend,standingat the open door.At least shehopedit wascathy. The woman*", rhrt cathy wourdrookrike in middle age."Come along,Anne. I'll tell you everything you need to Know. "Now you hold on," saidMattie.,,youdon,t comewaltzingin here and stealour guestof honor." "You meanvictim, I'm sure,"saidcathy, who wavedfor Anne to foin her. "Really,people,get a clue. There must be a million women whoselivesdon't revolvearoundthat man." she escorted Anne through the doorand slammedii shut behindthem. Anne found herselfstandingon a high blufl overrooking the confluence of two greatriversin a deepvalley.Directry across frori her, but
TheWedding Atbum 149 severalkilometersaway,rosea mighty mountain,greenwith vegetation nearlyto its granitedome.Behindit, a rangeof snow-covered mountains recededto an unbrokenice field on the horizon.In the valleybeneath her, a dirt hack meanderedalong the riverbanks.She could see no bridgeor buildingsof any sort. "Where ate we?" "Don't laugh," said Cathy, "but we call it Cathyland.Turn log cabin,besidea vegaround."When shedid,Anne sawa picturesque etable garden in the middle of whai looked like acresand acresof Cathys.Thousandsof Cathys,young,old, and all agesin between.They ground.They were satin lotuspositionon the sedge-and-moss-covered packedso tight, they overlappeda little, and their eyeswereshut in an "We knowyou'rehere,"said concentration. of single-minded expression Cathy,"but we'reverypreoccupiedwith this Simopolisthing." "Are we in Simopolis?" "Kinda.Can't you seeit?" Shewavedtowardthe horizon. "No, all I seearemountains." "Sorry,I shouldknow better.We havebinariesfrom your generaCathy."They didn't pass tion here too." Shepointedto a college-aged We haven'tdecided nonhuman. the Lolly test,and so are regrettably what to do with them." Shehesitatedand ihen asked,"Haveyou been testedyet?" "l don't know,"saidAnne. "l don't remembera test." Cathystudiedher a moment and said,"You'dremembertakingthe test, just not the test itself. Aty*ry, to answeryour question,we're in proto-simopolis,and we're not. We built this retreatbefore any of that happened,but we'vebeenannexedto it, and it takesall our resourcesiust to hold our own. I don't know what the World Council wasthinking. fightingover There'llneverbe enoughpasteto goaround,andeveryone's It's all we can do to keepup. And everytime we geta everynanosynapse. handle on it, proto-Simopolischangesagain.It's gonethrough a quarter million completerevisionsin the lasthalf hour. It'swar out there,but we refuseto surrendereven one cubic centimeterof Cathyland.Look at this." Cathy stoopedand pointed to a tiny, yellow flower in the alpine sedge."Within a fifty-meterradiusof the cabin we'vemappedeverything downto the cellularlevel.Watch."Shepinchedthe bloom from itsstem and held it up. Now thereweretwo blooms,the onebetweenher fingers
150 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 and the real one on the stem. "Neat, eh?" When she dropped it, the bloom fell backinto its original. "we've evenmappedthe valleybreeze. Can you feel it?" Anne hied to feel the air,but shecouldn'tevenfeel her own skin. "lt doesn'tmatter," Cathy continued."you can hear it, right?" and pointedto a stringof tubularwind chimeshangingfrom the eavesof the cabin.They stirredin the breezeand produceda silverycacophony. "lt's lovely,"saidAnne. "But why?Why spendso much effort sim_ ulatingthis place?" cathy lookedat her dumbly,as though trying to understandthe question."Becausecathy spenther entirelife wishingshehad a place like this,and now shedoes,and shehasus,and we live heretoo.,, "You'renot the realCathy,areyou?"Sheknew shewasn't;shewas too young. cathy shookher headand smiled."There'sso much catchingup to do,but it'll haveto wait.I gotiago.we needme." she led Anne to the cabin. The cabin wasmade of weathered,gray logs,with strips of bark siill clingingto them.The roofwascoveredwith rivingsodand sprinkled with wildfowers.The whole building saggedin the middle. ,,cathy found this placefiveyearsagowhile on u"""tio' in Siberia. Shebought it from the village.It's been occupiedfor two hundred years.once we makeit livableinside,we plan on enlargingthe garden, eventuallycultivatingall the wayto the spruceforestthere.weie going to sink a weil, too'" The smallgardenwasburstingwith vegetabr.s, -oitly of the leafy variety:cabbages, spinach,lethrce.A row ofsunflowers,tailer than the cabin roof and hearywith seed,lined the path to the cabin door.over time, the whole cabin had sunk a harf meterinto the sirty soir,and the walkwaywasa worn, shallowtrench. 'i{re you going to tell me what the doxie wastarking about?"said Anne. cathy stoppedat the opendoorand said,"cathy wantsto do that." Insidethe cabin,the mostelderlywomanthatAnnehad everseen stoodat the stoveand stirreda steamypot with a big,woodenspoon. she put down the spoonand wipedher handson her rpron. She iatted her white hair, which wasplaited in a bun on top of her head, ,nd turrred her full, round,peasant's bodyto faceAnne. ShelookedatAnne for severallong momentsand said,"Well!"
TheWedding Atbum 151 "lndeed,"repliedAnne. "Come in, comein. Make yourselfto home." The entirecabin wasa singlesmallroom. It wasdim inside,with only iwo smallwindowscut throughthe massive log walls.Anne walked aroundthe clutteredspacethat wasbedroom,living room,kitchen,and storeroom.The only partitionswerewallsof boxedfood and provisions. The ceilingbeamwasdrapedwith bunchesof drying herbsand underwear.The flooring, unevenand rotten in places,wascoveredwith odd scrapsofcarpet. "You live here?"Anne saidincredulously. "l am privilegedto live here." A mouseemergedfrom under the barrel stovein the centerof the room and dashedto coverinsidea stackof sprucekindling.Anne could hear the valley breezewhistling in the creosote-soaked stovepipe."Forgiveme,"saidAnne, "but you'rethe real,physicalCathy?" "Yes,"saidCathy,pattingher ample hip, "still on the hoof, so to speak."Shesatdown in one of two battered,mismatchedchairsand motioned for Anne to takethe other. Anne satcautiously;the chair seemedsolid enough."No offense, but the CathyI knewliked nice things." "The Cathy you knew was fortunate to learn the true value of things." Anne lookedaroundthe room and noticeda little tablewith carved legsand an inlaid top of polishedgemstonesand rarewoods.It wasshikingly out of place here. Moreover,it washers.Cathy pointed to a large framedmirror mountedto the logshigh on the far wall. It too wasAnne's. 'Did I giveyou thesethings?" Cathystudiedher a moment."No, Ben did." "Tell me." "l hateto spoil that lovely newlywedhappinessof yours." "The what?"Anne put down her clutch bouquetand felt her face with her hands.Shegot up and wentto look at herselfin the mirror.The room it reflectedwaslike a scenefrom somestrangefairy tale abouta croneand a bride in a woodcutter's hut. The bride wassmilingfrom ear to ear.Anne decidedthis waseitherthe happiestbride in historyor a lu"Believeme," she natic in a white dress.Sheturnedaway,embarrassed. "I said, don't feel anythinglike that.The opposite,in fact."
752 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 "Sorry to hear ii." Cathy got up to stir the pot on the stove."l was the first to noticeher disease. That wasback in collegewhen we were girls.I took it to be youthful eccentricity.After graduation,afterher marriage,shegrewprogressively worse.Boutsof depression that deepened and lengthened.She was finally diagnosedto be sufferingfrom profound chronic pathologicaldepression. Ben placedher under psychiatric care,a whole raft of specialists. She enduredchemical therapy, shocktherapy,evenold-fashioned psychoanalysis. Nothing helped,and only aftershedied. . ." Anne gavea start.'Anne'sdead!Of course.Why didn,tI figurethat out?" "Yes,dear,deadthesemanyyears." "How?" cathy returnedto her chair."when they decidedher condition had an organicetiology,they augmentedthe serotoninreceptorsin her hindbrain.Prettynastybusiness, if you askme. They tho,rghtthey had her stabilized.Not cured,but well enoughto leadan outwardlynormal life. Then one day,shedisappeared. We werefrantic.She managedto eludethe authoritiesfor a week.when we foundher,shewaspreglant." "What?Oh, yes.I rememberseeingAnne pregnant." "That wasBobby."cathy waitedfor Anne to saysomething.wnen shedidn't,Cathysaid,"He wasn'tBen's." "Oh, I see,"saidAnne."Whosewashe?', "I was hoping you'd know. She didn,t tell you? Then no one knows.The paternalDNA was unregistered. So it wasn'tcommerciar sperrnnor, thankfully,from a licensedclone.It might havebeenfrom anybody,from somestonedstreetsitter. We had plenty of thosethen.,, "The baby'snamewasBobby?" "Yes,Anne namedhim Bobby.she wasin and out of clinics for years.One day,during a remission,sheannouncedshewasgoingshop_ ping. The lastpersonshe talkedto wasBobby.His sixth birthdry *", comingup in a coupleof weeks.Shetold him shewasgoingout to find him a ponyfor his birthday.That wasthe lasttime anyof ussa* her.She checkedherselfinto a hospiceand filled out the requestfor nurseasistedsuicide.During the three-daycooling-offperiod, shecooperated with the obligatorycounseling,but sherefusedall visitors.she wtuldn,t evenseeme. Ben filed an injunction,claimedshewasincompetentdue
TheWedding Album 153 to her disease, but the court disagreed. Shechoseto ingesta fast-acting poison,if I recall.Her recordedlastwordswere,'Pleasedon't hateme."' "Poison?" "Yes.Her ashesarrivedin a little cardboardbox on Bobby'ssixth birthday.No one hadtold him whereshe'dgone.He thoughtitwasa gift from her and openedit." "l see.DoesBobbyhateme?" "l don't know. He wasa weird little boy.As soon as he could get out, he did. He left for spaceschoolwhen he wasthirteen.He and Ben neverhit it off." "DoesBenjaminhateme?" Whateverwas in the pot boiled over, and Cathy hurried to the stove."Ben?Oh, shelost Ben long beforeshedied.In fact, I've always believedhe helpedpushher overthe edge.He wasneverableto tolerate other people'sweaknesses. Once it was evidenthow sick she was,he made a lousyhusband.He should'vejust divorcedher, but you know him-his almightypride."Shetook a bowl from a shelfand ladledhot soupinto it. Shesliceda pieceof bread."Afterward,he wentoffthe deep A coupleof yearslaterhe end himself.Withdrew.Mourned,I suppose. Ben. Made somemoney. wasbackto normal.Good ol'happy-go-lucky Respoused." "He destroyed all my sims,didn't he?" "He might have,but he saidAnne did. I tendedto believehim at the time." Cathy broughther lunch to the little inlaid table."l'd offer you some,but. . ." shesaidand beganto eat."So,whatareyour plans?" "Plans?" "Yes,Simopolis." Anne tried to think of Simopolis,but her thoughtsquicklybecame muddled.It wasodd; shewasableto think clearlyaboutthe past-her memorieswereclear- but the futureonly confusedher."l don'tknow," shesaidat last."l supposeI needto askBenjamin." Cathy consideredthis. "l supposeyou're right. But remember, you'realwayswelcometo live with us in Cathyland." "Thank you," saidAnne. "You'rea friend."Anne watchedthe old woman eat.The spoontrembledeachtime shebroughtit closeto her lips,and shehad to leanforwardto quicklycatchit beforeit spilled. "Cathy,"saidAnne, "there'ssomethingyou could do for me. I
2001 Showcase t54 NebulaAwards don't feel like a bride anymore.Could you removethis hideousexPressionfrom my face?" "Why do you sayhideous?"Cathy saidand put the spoondown. Shegazedlonginglyat Anne."lf you don't like how you look,why don't you edit yourself?" "BecauseI don't know how." "Useyour editor,"Cathysaidandseemedto unfocusher eyes."Oh my,I forgethow simpleyou earlyoneswere.I'm not sureI'd knowwhere to begin."Aftera little while, shereturnedto her soupand said,"l'd better not; you could end up with two nosesor something." "Then whataboutthis gown?" Cathyunfocusedagainand looked.Shelurchedsuddenly,knocking the tableand spillingsoup. "What is it?" saidAnne. "ls somethingthe matter?" 'A newspip," saidCathy."There'srioting breakingout in ProviThat's the regionalcapitalhere.SomethingaboutManumission deniya. Day.My Russianisn'tsogoodyet.Oh, there'spicturesof deadpeople,a bombing.Listen,Anne,I'd bettersendyou. . ." In the blink of an eye,Anne wasbackin her living room. Shewas tiring of all this instantaneous travel,especiallyas she had no control over the destination.The room wasvacant,the spouses gone-thankfully-and Benjaminnot backyet.And apparentlythe little blue-faced message medallionhad beenbusyreplicatingitself,for now therewere hundredsof them filling up most of the wall space.They werea noisy lot, all shriekingand cursingat eachother.The din waspainful.When theynoticedher,however,theyall shutup at onceandstaredat her with nakedhostility.In Annet opinion,this weirdday had alreadylastedtoo long.Then a terriblethoughtstruckher-sims don't sleep. "You,"shesaid,addressing the original medallion,or at leastthe one shethoughtwasthe original,"call Benjamin." "The fuck you think I am?"saidthe insolentlittle face."Yourpersonalsecretary?" "Aren'tyou?" "No, I'm not! In fact,I own this placenow,and you'retrespassing. Soyou'dbettergetlostbeforeI deleteyour ass!"All the othersjoinedin, tauntingher, louderand louder.
TheWedding Album 155 "Stopit!" shecried,to no effect.Shenoticeda medallionelongating, stretchingitself until it wastwice its len$h, when, with a pop, it divided into two smallermedallions.More of them divided.They were spreading to the otherwall,the ceiling,the floor."Benjamin!"shecried. "Can you hearme?" Suddenlyall the racketceased.The medallionsdroppedoff the wall and vanishedbeforehitting the floor.Only one remained,the original one nextto the door,but now it wasan inert plasticdiskwith a dull expressionfrozen on its face. A man stoodin fie centerof the room. He smiledwhen Anne noticed him. It wasthe elderlyBenjamin from the auditorium,the real Benjamin.He still worehis clownishleisuresuit."How lovely,"he said, gazingather. "l'd forgottenhow lovely." "Oh, really?"saidAnne. "I would havethoughtthat doxiethingy might haveremindedyou." "My, myi' saidBen. "You sims certainlyexchangedata quickly. You left the lecturehall not fifteenminutesago,and alreadyyou know enoughto convictme."He strodearoundthe room touchingthings.He stoppedbeneath the mirror, lifted the blue vasefrom the shelf, and turned it in his handsbeforecarefullyreplacingit. "There'sspeculation, you know, that beforeManumissionat midnight tonight, you sims will have dispersedall known information so evenlyamong yourselvesthat there'll be a sort of data entropy.And since Simopolisis nothing but data,it will assumea featureless, grayprofile.Simopoliswill becomethe first flat universe."He laughed,which causedhim to coughand nearly losehis balance.He clutchedthe back of the sofafor support.He sat down and continuedto coughand hackuntil he turnedred in the face. "Are you all right?"Anne said,patting him on the back. "Yes,fine," he managedto say."Thank you."He caughthis breath and motioned for her to sit next to him. "l geta little tickle in the back of my throat that the autodoccan't seemto fix." His color returned to normal.Up close,Anne could seethe paperyskin and slighttremor of age.All in all, Cathyhad seemedto haveheld up betterthan he. "If you don't mind my asking,"she said,"just how old are you?" At the question,he bobbedto his feet. "l am one hundred and seventy-eight." He raisedhis armsand wheeledaroundfor inspection.
2001 Showcase 156 NebulaAwards "Radicalgerontolory,"he exclaimed,"don't you loveit?And I'm eightyfive percentoriginal equipment,which is remarkableby today'sstandards."His effortmadehim dizzy andhe satagain. "Yes,remarkable," saidAnne, "thoughradicalgerontologydoesn't seemto havearrestedtime altogether." "Not yet,but it will," Ben said."There arewondersaroundevery 'At corner!Miraclesin everylab."He grewsuddenlymorose. leastthere wereuntil we wereconquered." "Conquered?" "Yes,conqueredlWhat elsewould you call it when they control everyaspectof our lives,from RM acquisitionto personalpatenting? And now tftis-robbing us of our own privatenonbiologiks."He grew "lt fliesin the faceof naturalcapitalism,natin his discourse. passionate daresay-in the faceof Natureitself!The only exstakeholding-l ural propositionthat planationI'veseenon the wadis the not-so-preposterous killed and replacedBODs havebeensurreptitiously wholestrategically placedby machines!" "l haveno ideawhatyou'retalkingabout,"saidAnne. He seemedto deflate.He pattedher hand and lookedaroundthe room."What is this place?" "It'sour home,your townhouse.Don't you recognizeit?" "That wasquite a while ago.I must havesold it afteryou-" He paused."Tell me, havethe Bensbriefedyou on everything?" "Not the Bens,but yes,I know." "Good,good." "There is one thing I'd like to know.Wheret Bobby?" 'Ah, Bobby,our little headache.Dead now, I'm afraid,or at least that'sthe current theory.Sorry." Anne pausedto seeif the newswould deepenher melancholy. "How?"shesaid. "He signedon one of the first millennial ships-the colonyconon theirwayto the Canopus voy.Half a million peoplein deepbiostasis system. They weregonea century,twelvetrillion kilometersfrom Earth, when their datastreamssuddenlyquit. That wasa decadeago,and not a peepout of them since." "What happenedto them?" "No one knows.Equipmentfailureis unlikely:therewerea dozen
The$fedding Atbum 157 independentshipsseparated by a million klicks.A stargoingsupernova? A well-organized mutiny?It'sall speculation." "What washe like?" 'A foolish young man. He never forgaveyou, you know, and he hatedme to my core, not that I blamed him. The whole experience mademe swearoffchildren." "l don't rememberyour everbeingfond of children." He studiedher throughred-rimmedeyes."l guessyou'dbe the one to know."He setiledbackin ihe sofa.He seemedvery tired."You can't imaginethe jolt I got a little while agowhen I lookedacrossall those rowsof Bensand spouses and sawthissolitary,shockinglywhite gownof yours."He sighed."Andthis room. It'sa shrine.Did we reallylive here? Were theseour things?That mirror is yours,right?I would neverown anythinglike that. But that blue vase,I rememberthat one. I threw it into PugetSound." "You did what?" "With your ashes."
"oh." "So, tell me," saidBen, "what werewe like?Beforeyou go off to Simopolisand becomea differentperson,tell me about us. I kept my promise.That'sone thing I neverforgot." "What promise?" "Neverto resetyou." "Wasn'tmuch to reset." "l guessnot." They satquietlyfor a while. His breathinggrewdeepand regular, and shethoughthe wasnapping.But he stirredand said,"Tell me what we did yesterday, for example," "Yesterday we went to seeKarl and Nancy about the awningwe rented." 'And Benjaminyawned. who wereKarl and Nancy?" "My great-uncleand his new girlfriend." "That'sright. I remember,I think. And theyhelpedus preparefor the wedding?" "Yes,especially Nancy." 'And how did we get there,to Karl and Nancyt? Did we walk? Thkesomemeansof public conveyance?"
2001 Showcase 158 NebulaAwards "We had a car." 'A car! An automobile?There were still carsin thosedays?How fun. What kind wasit?What color?" 'A NissanEmpire.Emerald-green." 'And did we driveit, or did it drive itself?" "lt droveitself,of course." Ben closedhis eyesand smiled."l can seeit. Go on. What did we do there?" "We had dinner." "What wasmy favoritedishin thosedays?" "Stuffedpork chops." Somethingsnever He chuckled."lt still is! Isn'tthatextraordinary? change.Of coursethey'revat-grownnow and criminallyexpensive." Ben'smemories,oncenudged,beganto unfold on their own, and and sheansweredthem until sherehe askedher a thousandquestions, alized he had fallen asleep.But she continuedto talk until, glancing down,shenoticedhe had vanished.Shewasall aloneagain.NevertheIess,she continuedtalking,for daysit seemed,to herself.But it didn't help. Shefelt asbadasever,and sherealizedthat shewantedBenjamin, not the old one,but her own Benjamin. Anne went to the medallionnextto the door."You."shesaid.and it openedits bulgingeyesto glareat her."Call Benjamin." "He'soccupied." "l don't care.Call him anyway." "The other Benssayhe'sundergoinga procedureand cannotbe disturbed." "What kind of procedure?" 'A codoninterlarding.They sayto be patient;they'll returnhim as The medallionadded,"By the way,the Bensdon't like soonaspossible." you,and neitherdo I." With that,the medallionbeganto grunt and stretch,and it pulled itself in two. Now there were two identicalmedallionsglaringat her. 'And I don't like you either."Then both of them The new one said, beganto grunt and shetch. "Stopl" saidAnne. "I commandyou to stopihat this very instant." But they justlaughedasthey dividedinto four, then eight,then sixteen medallions."You're not people,"she said. "Stop it or I'll have you destroyed!"
TheWedding Album 159 "You'renot peopleeither,"theyscreeched at her. Therewassoftlaughterbehindher,and a voicelikesensation said, Come,come,do we needthis hostility?Anne turned and found the 6minencegrise,the astoundingpresence, still in his grayuniform and cap, floating in her living room. HeIIo,Anne, he said,and she flushed with excitement. "Hello," shesaidand, unableto restrainherself,asked,"What are yott?" Ah, curiosity.Alwaysa goodsign in a creature.l am an hminence griseof theWorldTiadeCouncil. "No. I mean,areyou a sim, like me?" I am not. ThoughI havebeenfashionedfrom conceptsfirstexplored I am but one existence. by simulacrumtechnology,lhaveno independent at extension and a low-leveloneat that of the'\xial BeowulfProcessor the World Tlade Council headquartersin Geneva.His smile was pure sunshine.,\nd if you think l'm something,you shouldseemy persond prime. Now,Anne, areyou readyfor your exam? "The Lolly test?" an attiPleasedssume Yes,theLolly ShearHuman CognitionTest. processing, and begin. most to we shall tude conducive Anne lookedaroundthe room and went to the sofa.She noticed for the firsttime that shecould feel her legsand feet;shecould feel the crispfabric of her gown brushingagainsther skin. She reclinedon the sofaand said,"l'm ready." Splendid, said the eminence hovering above her. First we must readyou. You are of an early binary design.We will analyzeyour architecture. The room seemedto fall away.Anne seemedto expandin all directions.Therewassomethinginsideher mind tuggingat her thoughts. It wasmostlypleasant, like someonebrushingher hair andlooseningthe knots.But when it endedand sheonceagainsawthe 6minencegrise,his faceworea look of concern."What?"shesaid. Youare an accuratemappingof a human nervoussystemthat was dysfunctionalin certainstructuresthat moderatefficL Certain transport en4)mesweremissing,causingcellularmembranes to becomelesspermeThedigableto essentialelements.Dendritic syndpses werecompromised. ital architecfurecunent at the time you werecreatedcomboundedthis
760 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 defect.coded tells cannot be resolved,and thus they loop upon themselves.Enors cascade.We are trulv sonv. "Can you fix me?"shesaid. Theonly repair possiblewould replacesomuchcodethat youwouldn't beAnne dnymore. "Then whatam I to do?" Beforewe exploreyour options,Iet us continuethe testto determine your human status.Agreed? "l guess." Youarepart of a simuiacrumcastto commemorate the spousar compact betweenAnne wellhut Franklin and Beniamin Malley. please describethe exchangeofvows. Anne did so, haltinglyat first, but with increasinggusto as each memoryevokedothers.she recountedthe ceremony, fto- donningher grandmothertgown in the downstairsguestroom and the procession acrossgardenflagstones, to the showerofrice assheand hei new husbandfled indoors. The eminence seemedto hang on every word. Very well spoken, he said when she had finished.Directedmemory is one hailmark of humansentience, andyoursis of remarkabre crarityand range.weil done! we shall nowexploreother criteria. pleaseconsider thisscelnario.you are standingat thegardenaltar as youhavedescribed, but thistime whenthe officiator asksBeniamin if he wiil takeyou better or worse,Beniamin for looksat you and replies,"For better,sure,but not for worse.,, "I don't understand. He didn't saythat." Imaginationis a comerstoneof self_awareness. We areaskingyouto tell us a little storynotabout what happenedbut about what *i{h1 horu happenedin othercircumstances. so onceagain,ret us pretenditat Beniamin replies,"For better,but notfor worrr.,lHo, do yo, respond? Pricklypain blossomed in Anne'shead.The more sheconsidered the eminencet question,the worseit got. "But thatt not how it happened.He wantedto marryme.,' The 6minencegrisesmiledencouragingly. We knowthat. In this e1e-rcise wewant to explorehypotheticarsifuations.we wantyou to makebelieve. Tell a story,pretend,hypothesize,make-believe, yes,yes,shegot it. Sheunderstoodperfectlywhat he wantedof her. She'knewthat plopre
TheWedding Atbum 161 could makethingsup, that evenchildrencould make-believe. Anne was desperate to comply,but eachtime shepicturedBenjaminat the altar, in his pink bowtie,he openedhis mouth and out came,"l do." How could it be anyotherway?Shetried again;shetried harder,but it always cameout the same,"l do, I do, I do." And like a dull toothachetapped backto life, shethrobbedin pain.Shewasfailingthe test,and therewas nothingshecould do aboutit. Again the eminencekindly promptedher. Tell us one thing you might havesaid. "l can't." reflected We are sony, saidthe eminenceat last.His expression althoughbeautifuIin its own Anne'sown defeat.Yourlevelof awareness, right, doesnot qualify you ds human. Wherefore,underArticle D of the Chattel Conventionswe declareyou the legal propertyof the registered ownerof thissimulacrum.Youshall not enterSimopolisas a freeand au' the eminencebegan tonomous citizen.WearetruIysorry.Grief-stricken, to ascendtowardthe ceiling. "Wait," Anne cried,clutchingher head."You must fix me before you leave." We leaveyou as wefound you, defectiveand unrepairable. "But I feelworsethan ever!" lf your continuedexistenceprows undesirable,ask your owner to deleteyou. "But. . ." she said to the empty room. Anne tried to sit up, but couldn't move.This simulaiedbody of hers,which no longerfelt like felt exhausted. Shesprawledon the anythingin particular,nevertheless sofa,unableto lift evenan arm, and staredat the ceiling. Shewasso heavythat the sofaitselfseemedto sink into the floor, and everything grewdarkaroundher. Shewould haveliked to sleep,to bring an end to this horribleday,or be shelved,or evenresetbackto scratch. Instead,time simplypassed.Outsidethe living room, Simopolis changedand changedagain.Inside the living room, the medallions, feedingoff her misery,multiplied till they coveredthe wallsand floor and evenspreadacrossthe ceilingaboveher.They tauntedher, raining down insults,but shecould not hearthem.All sheheardwasthe unrelenting drip of her own thoughis.I am defective.I am worthless.I am Anne.
762 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 Shedidn't noticeBenjaminenterthe room, nor the abruptcessation of the medallions'racket. Not until Benjaminleanedoverher did sheseehim, and then shesawtwo of him. Sideby side,two Benjamins, mirror imagesof eachother.'Anne,"theysaidin perfectunison. "Go away,"shesaid."Go awayand sendme my Benjamin." "I am your Benjamin,"saidthe duo. Anne struggledto seethem. They were exactlythe same,but for a subtledifference:the one wore a hrppy, wolfish grin, as Benjamin had during the sim casting,while the other seemedfriehtened and concerned. 'fue you all right?"theysaid. "No, I'm not. But what happenedto you? Who'she?,,Shewasn,t surewhich one to speakto. The Benjaminsboth raiseda hand,indicatingthe other, and said, "Electroneuralengineering!Don't you love it?"Anne grancedbackand forth, comparingthe two. while one seemedto be weaiinga rigid mask, "Not asshewas,the other displayeda whorerangeof emotion. lnty inrt, its skin had tone, while the other'sr"", doujhy. "The other Bensmadeit for me,"the Benjaminssaid."They sayI c"r, translate myselfinto it with negligiblelossof personality. It hasinteractivesensation, holisticemoting, robustcorporeality,and it's crafteddown to the molecular level. It can eat,get drunk, and dream.It evenhasan orgasm routine.It,slike beinghuman again,only betterbecauseyou never wearout.,, "I'm thrilled for you.,, "For us, Anne," said the Beniamins."They'll fix you up with one.too." There are no modernAnnes.What will they put me into, a , . ^,1"r, qoxte/ 'Well, that certainlywasdiscussed, but you could pick any body you wanted." "I suppose you havea nice one alreadypicked out.,, "The Bensshowedme a few,but it'sup-toyou, of course.,, "Indeed,"saidAnne, ..I truly am pleased io. yo.r.Now go awayJ, "Why, Anne?What'swrong?,' "You reallyhaveto ask?"Anne sighed."Look, maybeI could get yed g another body.What's a body, after alli But it,s *1, prrronrliry that'sbroken.How will they fix that?"
TheWedding Album 163 "They've discussedit," said the Benjamins,who stood up and beganto pace in a figure eight. "They saythey can make patchesfrom someof the otherspouses." "Oh, Benjamin,if you could only hearwhatyou'resayingl" "But why,Annie?It'sthe only waywe can enterSimopolistogether." "Then go, by all means.Go to your preciousSimopolis.I'm not going.I'm not goodenough." "Why do you saythat?"saidthe Benjamins,who stoppedin their tracksto look at her.One grimaced,and the otherjustgrinned."Wasthe 6minencegrisehere?Did you takethe test?" Anne couldn'tremembermuch aboutthe visitexceptthatshetook the test."Yes,and lfailed."'\nne watchedthe modernBenjamin'slovely faceashe workedthroughthis news. Suddenlythe two Benjaminspointeda finger at eachother and "Delete said, you."The modernone vanished. "No!" saidAnne. "Countermand!Why'd you do that?I want yors to haveit." "What for?I'm not goinganywherewithout you," Benjaminsaid. "Besides,I thought the whole idea wasdumb from the start,but the BensinsistedI giveyou the option.Come, I want to showyou another id.ea,my idea."He tried to help Anne from the sofa,but shewouldn't budge,so he pickedher up and carriedtrer acrossthe room. "They installedan editorin me, and I'm learningto useit. I've discovered something intriguingaboutthis creakyold simulacrumof ours."He carried her to a spotnearthe window."Know what this is?It'swherewe stoodfor the simographer. It'swherewe began.Here,can you standup?" He set her on her feetand supportedher."Feelit?" "Feelwhat?"shesaid. "Hush. |ust feel." A11shefelt wasdread. "Give it a chance,Annie, I beg you. Tiy to rememberwhat you werefeelingaswe posedhere." "I can't." "Pleasetry. Do you rememberthis?"he saidand movedin close with his hungrylips.Sheturnedaway-and somethingclicked.Sheremembereddoingthat before. Benjaminsaid,"l think theykissed."
764 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Anne wasstartledby the truth of whathe said.It madesense. They werecaughtin a simulacrumcasta momentbeforea kiss.One moment laterthey-the realAnne and Benjamin-must havekissed.What she felt now,stirringwithin her, wasthe anticipationof that kiss,her body's urge and her heart'scaution.The real Anne would have refusedhim once,maybetwice,and then,all achyinside,would havegrantedhim a kiss.And sotheyhadkissed,the realAnne and Benjamin,anda moment latergoneout to the weddingreceptionand theirdifficultfate.It wasthe promiseof that kissthat glowed in Anne, that wascapturedin the very stringsofher code. "Do you feel it?" Benjaminasked. "l'm beginningto." Anne lookedat her gown.It washer grandmother's, snowytaffeta with point d'espritlace.Sheturnedthe ring on her finger.It wasbraided bandsof yellowand white gold.They had spentan afternoonpicking it out. Where washer clutch?Shehad left it in Cathyland.Shelookedat Benjamin'shandsomeface,the pink carnation,the room,the tablepiled high with gifts. "Areyou happy?"Benjaminasked. Shedidn't haveto think. Shewasecstatic,but shewasafraidto an'A swerin caseshespoiledit. "How did you do that?"shesaid. moment ago,I wantedto die." "We can stayon this spot,"he said. "What?No. Can we?" "Why not?I, for one,would choosenowhereelse." )ustto hearhim saythatwasthrilling. "But whataboutSimopolis?" "We'll bringSimopolis to us,"he said.'We'llhavepeoplein. They can pull up chairs." Shelaughedout loud. "What a silly,silly notion,Mr. Malley!" "No, really.We'll be like the bride andgroomatopa weddingcake. We'll be known far and wide.We'll be famous." 'We'll be freaks,"shelaughed. "Sayyes,my love.Sayyou will." They stoodclosebut not touching,thrumming with happiness, balancedon the momentof their creation,when suddenlyand without warning the lights dimmed, and Annet thoughtsflitted awaylike larks.
Album 165 TheWedding Old Ben awokein the dark."Anne?"he said,and gropedfor her' It took a moment to realizethat he wasalone in his mediaroom. It had beena mosttrying afternoon,and he'd fallenasleep."What time is it?" "Eight-ohthreeP.M.,"repliedthe room. That meanthe'd sleptfor two hours.Midnight wasstill four hours away."Why's it socold in here?" "Centralheatingis oflline," repliedthe house. "When will it be back?" "Offline?" How wasthat possible? "Thatt unknown.Utilitiesdo not respondto my inquiry." "I don't understand.Explain." "There arefailuresin manyoutsidesystems. No explanationis currentlyavailable." At first, Ben wasconfused;things just didn't fail anymore.What aboutthe dynamicredundancies and self-healing routines?But then he rememberedthat the homeowner'sassociation to which he belonged contractedout most domicilefunctionsto managementagencies,and who knewwheretheywerelocated?They might be on the Moon for all he knew,and with all thosetrillionsof simsin Simopolissuckingup capacity. . .lt's begun,he thought,theidiocyof our leaders.'Atleastturn on the lights,"he said,half expectingeventhis to fail. But the lightscame on, and he went to his bedroomfor a sweater. He hearda greatamount of commotionthroughthe wall in the apartmentnext door.If mustbe onehell of a party, he thought,to exceedthewall'sbufferingcapacity.Or maybethe wall buffersareoffline too? The main door chimed.He went to the foyerand askedthe door who wasthere.The door projectedthe outerhallway.There werethree men waitingthere,young,roughJooking,ill-dressed. Two of them appearedto be clones,jerries. "How can I help you?"he said. "Yes,sir,"one of the jerriessaid,not lookingdirectlyat the door. "We'rehereto fix your houseputer." "l didn't call you, and my houseputerisn't sick,"he said."lt's the net that'sout."Then he noticedthey carriedsledgehammers and screwdrivers,hardly computertools,and a wild thought crossedhis mind. "What areyou doing,goingaroundunpluggingthings?" The jerrylookedconfused."Unplugging,sir?" "Turning things off."
166 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 "oh, no sir! Routinemaintenance,thatt ail." The men hid their toolsbehindtheir backs. Theymustthink l'm stupid,Ben thought.While he watched,more men and womenpassedin the hall and hailedthe door at the suiteoppositehis. It wasn'tthe glut of sim haffic chokingthe system,he realized- the systemitselfwasbeingpulledapart.But why?"ls thisgoingon everywhere?" he said."This routinemaintenance?" "Oh, yessir.Everywhere.All overtown. All overthe world asfar as we can tell." A coup?By servicepeople?By common clones?It madeno sense. Unless,he reasoned,you consideredthat the lowestcreatureon the totem pole of life is a clone,and the only thing lowerthan a clone is a sim. And why would clonesagreeto acceptsimsas equals?ManumissionDay,indeed.Uppity Day wasmorelike it. "Door," he commanded, "open." "Security protocol rules this an unwanted inhusion," said the house."The door mustremainlocked." "l orderyou to openthe door.I overruleyour protocol." But the door remainedstubbornlyshut."Your identitycannotbe confirmedwith Domicile Central,"saidthe house."You lack authority over protocol-levelcommands."The door abruptlyquit projectingthe outsidehall. Ben stoodcloseto the door and shoutedthroughit to the people outside."My doorwon't obeyme." He could hear a muffled, "Stand back!" and immediatelyfierce blowsraineddown upon the door.Ben knew it would do no good.He had spenta lot of moneyfor a secureentryway.Shortof explosives, there wasnothingtheycould do to breakin. "Stop!" Ben cried. "The door is armed."But they couldn't hear him. If he didn't disablethe houseputerhimself,someonewasgoingto get hurt. But how?He didn't evenknow exactlywhereit wasinstalled. He circumambulatedthe living room looking for clues.It might not evenactuallybe locatedin the apartment,nor within the blockitself.He went to the laundryroom wherethe utilidor*plumbing and cablingenteredhis apartment.He brokethe sealto the servicepanel.Insidewas a blankscreen."Showme the electronicfoor plan of thissuitei' he said. The housesaid,"I cannotcomply.Youlackcommandauthorityto
Album 767 TheWedding order systemJeveloperations.Pleaseclose the kepiel panel and await further instructions." "What instructions? Whoseinstructions?" Therewasthe slightestpausebeforethe housereplied,"All contact with outside serviceshas been interrupted.Pleaseawait further instructions." His condo'shouseputer,deniedcontactwith Domicile Central, had fallen backto its mostbasicprogramming."You are degraded,"he told it. "Shut yourselfdown for repair." "l cannot comply.You lack command authority to order systemleveloperations." The outsidebatteringcontinued,but not againsthis door.Ben followedthe noiseto the bedroom.The whole wall vibratedlike a drumbreached head."Careful,careful,"he cried asthe first sledgehammers the wall abovehis bed."You'll ruin my Harger."As quickashe could,he yankedthe preciousoil paintingfrom the wall, momentsbeforepanels on his bed in a showerof gypsumdustand isomere and studsco,llapsed ribbons.The men and women on the other sidehootedapprovaland rushedthrough the gap. Ben stoodthere huggingthe paintingto his chest and looking into his neighbor'smedia room as the invaders climbedoverhis bedand surroundedhim. They weremostlyjerriesand lulus,but plentyof free-range peopletoo. "We cameto fix your houseputer!"saida jerry,maybethe same jerryasfrom ihe hallway. Ben glancedinto his neighbor'smediaroomand sawhis neighbor, Mr. Murkowski,lying in a puddleof blood.At fiqstBen wasshocked,but then he thoughtthat it servedhim right. He'd neverliked the man, nor his politics.He wasboorish,and he kept cats."Oh, yeah?"Ben saidto the crowd."What keptyou?" The inhuderscheeredagain,and Ben led them in a chargeto ihe laundry room. But they surgedpast him to the kitchen, where they openedall his cabinetsand pulled their contentsio the floor. Finally they found what they were looking for: a small panel Ben had seena thousandtimesbut had nevergivena thought.He'd takenit for the fuse boxor circuitbreaker,thoughnow that he thoughtaboutit, therehadn't beenanyhouseholdfusesfor a centuryor more.A youngwoman,a lulu, openedit and removeda containerno thickerthan her thumb.
168 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "Give it to me,"Ben said. "Relax,old man,"saidthe luru. "we'll dealwith it." she carriedit to the sinkand forcedopenthe lid. "No, wait!" saidBen, and he tried to shovehis way through the crowd.They restrainedhim roughly,but he persisted."That'sminet I want to destroyit!" "Let him go,"saida ierry. They allowedhim through,and the womanhandedhim the container.He peeredinio it. Gram for gram, electroneuralpastewasthe most precious,most engineered,most highly regulatedcommodity under Sol.This dollop wasenoughto run his house,media,computing needs,communications, archives,autodoc,and everythingelse.Without it, wascivilizedlife still possible? Ben took a dinnerknife from the sink,stuckit into the container, and stirred.The pastemadea suckingsoundand had the consistency of marmalade. The kitchenlightsflickeredandwentout."Spill it," ordered the woman.Ben scrapedthe sidesof the containerand spilledii into the sink. The goo dazzledin the darknessas its trillions of ruptured nanosynapses firedspasmodically. It wasbeautiful,really,until the womanset fire to it. The smokewasgreasyand smelledof pork. The rampagersquickly snatchedup the packagesof foodstuffs from the foor, emptied the rest of his cupboardsinto their pockets, raidedhis cold locker,and fled the apartmenithroughthe now disengagedfront door.As the soundsof the revolutiongraduallyreceded,Ben stoodat his sinkand watchedthe flickeringpyrc."Thkethat,you fuck," he said.He feltsuchgleeashe hadn'tfeltsincehe wasaboy."That'll teachyou what'shuman and what'snot!" Ben went to his bedroomfor an overcoat,gropinghis way in the dark.The apartmentwaseerilysilent,with the houseputerdeadand all its little slaveprocessors idle. In a drawernext to his ruined bed, he found a handflash.On a shelfin the laundryroom,he found a hammer. Thus armed,he made his way to the front door, which waspropped open with the rolled-upfoyercarpet.The hallwaywasdark and silent, and he listenedfor the strainsof the future.He heardthem on the floor above.With the elevatoroffJine,he hurried to the stairs. Anne'sthoughtscoalesced, and she rememberedwho and what shewas.Sheand Benjaminstill stoodin their living room on the sweet
Atbum 169 TheWedding spotnearthe window.Benjaminwasstudyinghis hands."We'vebeen shelvedagain,"shetold him, "but not reset." "But. . . ," he said in disbelief,"that wasn'tsupposedto happen anymore." There wereothersstandingat the china cabinetacrossthe room, two shirtlessyouthswith pear-shaped bottoms.One held up a cut-crysial 'Anu 'goblet'su? Alle binary.Allum binary!" glassand said, The otherreplied,"Binarystitialcrystal." "Hold on there!"saidAnne. "Put that back!" Shewalkedtoward them,but, onceoffthe spot,shewasslammedby her old feelingsof utter and hopelessdesolation.So suddenlydid her mood swingthat shelost her balanceand fell to the foor. Benjaminhurried to help her up. The shangers staredgape-mouthed at them.They lookedto be no morethan twelve or thirteen yearsold, but they were bald and had curtainsof flabbyfleshdrapedovertheirwaists.The one holdingthe glasshad ponderousgreenishbreastswith roseatetits.Astonished,shesaid,"Su artiflums,Benji?" "No," saidthe other,"ni artiflums-sims." He wastaller.He, too, had breasts,grayishdugswith tits like pearls.He smiledidioticallyand said,"Hi, guys." "Holy crap!"saidBenjamin,who practicallycarriedAnne overto them for a closerlook."Holy crap,"he repeated. The weird boy threw up his hands,"Nanobioremediation! Don't you love it?" "BenjaminT"saidAnne. "Youknow well, Benji,"saidthe girl, "that simsareforbidden." "Not these,"repliedthe boy. Anne reachedout and yankedthe glassfrom the girl'shand,startling her. "How did it do that?"saidthe girl. Shefipped her hand,and the glassslippedfrom Anne'sgrip and few backto her. "Give it to me," saidAnne."That'smy tumbler." "Did you hearit? It calledit a tumbler, not a goblet."The girlt eyes seemedto unfocus,and shesaid,"Nu! A goblethasa foot and stem."A gobletmaterializedin the air beforeher, revolvingslowly."Greatercapacity. Often madefrom preciousmetals."The gobletdissolvedin a puff of smoke."In anycase,Benii,you'll catchprisonwhen I reportthe artiflums." "Thesearebinary,"he said."Binariesareunregulated." Benjamininterruptedthem. "lsn't it pastmidnightyet?"
770 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 "Midnight?"saidthe boy. 'A.ren't we supposed to be in Simopolis?" "Simopolis?"The boy'seyesunfocusedbriefly."Oh! Simopolis. ManumissionDay at midnight.How could lforget?" The girl left them and went to the refectorytable whereshepicked up a gift. Anne followed her and grabbedit away.The girl appraised Anne coolly."Stateyour appellation,"shesaid. "Get out of my house,"saidAnne. The girl picked up anothergift, and againAnne snatchedit away. The girl said,"You can'tharm me,"but seemeduncertain. The boy cameoverto standnext to the girl. "Tieese,meetAnne. Anne, this is Tfeese.Tieesedealsin antiques,which, if my memory serves, sodid you." "I have neverdealtin antiques,"saidAnne."l collectthem." 'Anne?" saidTieese."Not fhaf Anne?Benji, tell me this isn'tthat Anne!" She laughed and pointed at the sofa where Beniamin sat hunchedover,headin hands."Is that7ou?Is thatyou, Benji?"Sheheld '?\nd you weremarriedto this?" her enormousbelly and laughed. deAnne went overto sit with Benjamin.He seemeddevastated, "Simopolis. "It's the All all gone,"he said. spitethe silly grin on his face. Bens.Everything." "Don't worry. It's in storagesomeplace,"Anne said."The 6minencegrisewouldn'tlet them hurt it." "You don't understand. The World Council wasabolished.There for over three hundred years!They shelved been We've was a war. destroyedall the computers.Computersare banned.So are artificial personalities." "Nonsense,"saidAnne. "If computersarebanned,how can they playingusT" be "Good point," Beniaminsaidand satup shaight."l still havemy editor.I'11find out." Anne watchedthe two bald youngsterstake an inventory of the room.Tieeseran her fingersoverthe inlaid top of the teatable.Sheunwrappedseveralof Anne's gifts. She posedin front of the mirror' The suddenangerthat Anne had felt earlierfaded into an overwhelming senseof defeat.L,ether haveeverything,shethought.Why shouldI care? "We're running insidesomekind of shell,"said Beniamin,"but
Atbum 177 TheWedding completelydifferentfrom Simopolis.I've neverseenanythinglike this. But at leastwe know he lied to me. There mustbe computersof some sort." "Ooooh,"Tieesecrooned,lifting Anne'sblue vasefrom the mantel. In an instant,Anne wasup and acrossthe room. "Put that back,"she demanded,"and get out of my house!"She triedto grabthe vase,but now thereseemedto be somesortof barrierbetweenher and the girl. "Really,Benji," Tieesesaid,"this one is willful. If I don't report you,they'll chargeme too." "lt's nof willful," the boysaidwith irritation."It wasprogrammedto appearwillful, but it hasno will of its own. If you want to reportme, go ahead.fust pleaseshut up aboutit. Of courseyou might want to check the codexfirst."To Anne he said,"Relax,we'renot hurtinganything,iust makingcopies." "It's not yoursto copy." "Nonsense. Of courseit is. I own the chip." Beniaminjoinedthem. "Where is the chip?And how canyou run us if computersarebanned?" "l neversaidcomputerswere banned,iust artificial ones."With both handshe grabbedthe rolls of fleshspillingoverhis gut. "Ectopic "Amygdaloidreduncles!Wecan hippocampus!"He cuppedhis breasts. culture modifiedbrain tissueoutsidethe skull,asmuch aswe want.It's more powerful than paste,and it's safe.Now, if you'll excuseus, theret more to inventory,and I don't needyour permission.If you cooperate, everythingwill be pleasant.If you don't-it makesno differencewhatsoever."He smiledat Anne."l'll justpauseyou till we'redone." "Then pauseme,"Anne shrieked."Deleteme!" Benjaminpulled her awayand shushedher. "l can't standthis anymore,"she said."l'd rathernot exist!"He tried to lead her to their spot,but sherefusedto go. "We'll feel betterthere,"he said. "l don't want to feel better.I don't want to feel! | want everything to stop.Don't you understand? This is hell. We'velandedin hell!" "But heavenis right overthere,"he said,pointingto the spot. "Then go. Enjoy yourself." "Annie,Annie,"he said."l'm justasupsetasyou,but there'snothing we can do aboutit. We'rejustthings,his things."
172 NebulaAwardsShowcase 2001
"Thatt fine for you,"shesaid,"but I'm a brokenthing,and it'stoo much." She held her headwith both hands."please,Benjamin,if you loveme, useyour editorand makeit stop!" Benjaminstaredat her."l can't." "Can't or won't?" "l don't know Both." "Then you'reno betterthanall the otherBeniamins,"shesaidand turned away. "Wait," he said."That's not fair. And it's not true. Let me tell you somethingI learnedin Simopolis.The otherBensdespised me."When Anne lookedat him he said,"lt's hue. They lostAnne and had to go on livingwithouther.But I neverdid. I'm the only Beniaminwho neveriost Anne." "Nice," saidAnne, "blameme." "No. Don't you see?I'm not blamingyou. They ruined their own lives.We'reinnocent.We camebeforeany of that happened.We'rethe Ben and Anne beforeanythingbad happened.We'rethe bestBen and Anne.We'reperfect."He drewher acrossthe foor to standin front of the spot."And thanksto our primitive programming,no matterwhat happens,aslong aswe standright there,we can be ourselves. That'swhat I want.Don't you want it too?" Anne staredat the tiny patchof floor at her feet.Sheremembered the happiness she'dfelt therelike somethingfrom a dream.How could feelingsbe real if you had to standin one placeto feelthem?Nevertheless,Anne steppedon ihe spot,and Benjamin joined her. Her despair did not immediatelylift. "Relax,"saidBenjamin."lt takesa while. We haveto assumethe pose." They stoodclosebut not touching.A greatheaviness seemedto breaklooseinsideher.Benjaminbroughthis facein closeand staredat her with ravenouseyes.It wasstarting,their moment.But the girl came from acrossthe room with the boy."Look, look, Benji," shesaid."You can seeI'm right." "I don't know," saidthe boy. "Anyonecan sell antiquetumblers,"sheinsisted,"but a complete antiquesimulacrum?"Sheopenedher armsto takein the entireroom. "You'dthink I'd know aboutthem. but I didn'L that'show rarethevarel
Album 773 TheWedding My catalogcan locateonly six more in the entiresystem,and none of them active.Alreadywe're getting offersfrom museums.They want to annexit. Peoplewill visitby the million. We'lIbe rich!" The boy pointedat Beniaminand said,"But that'sme'" "So?"saidTieese."Who's to know?They'll be too busygawkingat pointingatAnne."That'spositivelyfrightening!"The boy that," shesaid, rubbedhis bald head and scowled."All right," Tieesesaid,"we'11edit him; we'll replacehim, whateverit takes."They walkedaway,deep in negotiation. Anne, though the happinesswas alreadybeginning to course throughher, removedher foot from the spot. "Where areyou going?"saidBeniamin. "l can't." "Please,Anne. Staywith me." "Sorry." "But why not?" Shestoodone foot in and one foot out. Alreadyher feelingswere shifting,growingominous.She removedher other foot. "Becauseyou brokeyour vow to me." "What areyou talkingabout?" "For betteror for worse.You'reonly interestedin better." "You'renot beingfair.We'vejustmadeour vows.We haven'teven had a properhoneymoon.Can't we jusi havea tiny honeymoonfirst?" Shegroanedasthe full load of her desolationrebounded.Shewas 'At sotiredof it all. leastAnnecould makeit sfop,"shesaid."Even if that meant killing herself.But not me. About the only thing I can do is chooseto be unhappy.Isn'tthata riot?"Shefurnedaway."So ihat'swhat I choose.To be unhappy.Good-bye,husband."Shewentto the sofaand lay down.The boy and girl wereseatedat the refectorytablegoingover graphsand contracts.Benjamin remainedalone on the spot a while longer,then cameto the sofaand satnextto Anne. "I'm a little slow,dearwife," he said."You haveto factorthat in." He took her hand and pressedit to his cheekwhile he workedwith his editor.Finally,he said,"Bingo!Foundthe chip. Let'sseeif I can unlock it." He helpedAnne to sit up and took her pillow. He said,"Deletethis fiIe," and the pillow fadedawayinto nothingness. He glancedat Anne. "Seethat?It's gone,overwritten,irrehievable.Is that what you want?"
774 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 Anne nodded her head, but Benjamin seemeddoubdul. .,Let'shy it again.Watchyour blue vaseon the mantel." "No!" Anne said."Don't destroythe thingsI love. fust me." Benjamintook her hand again."l'm only trying to makesureyou understandthat this is for keeps."He hesitatedand said,"weil then,we don't want to be interruptedonce we start,so we'll needa good diversion.Somethingto occupythem long enough. . ." He glancedat the two youngpeopleat the table,swaddledin theirfoldsof fleshybrain matter. "l know what'll scarethe bejesusout of them! come on." He led her to the blue medallionstill hangingon the wall nextto the door. As theyapproached, it openedits tiny eyesand said,"There areno messages waitingexceptthis one from me: getoffmy back!" Benjaminwaveda hand, and the medallionwent instantlyinert. "l wasnevermuch goodin art class,"Benjaminsaid,"but I think I can sculpta reasonable likeness.Good enoughto fool them for a while, give us sometime." He hummed as he reprogrammedthe medallionwith his editor."Well, that'sthat.At the very least,it'll be goodfor a laugh." He took Anne into his arms."What about you? Ready?Any second thoughts?" Sheshookher head."l'm ready." "Then watchthis!" The medallionsnappedofffrom the wall and floatedto the ceiling gainingin sizeand dimensionasit driftedtowardthe boy and girl, until it lookedlike a largeblue beachball. The girl noticedit firstand gavea siart.The boy demanded,"Who's playingthis?" "Now," whisperedBenjamin. With a crackling flash, the ball morphedinto the oversized headof the 6minencegrise. "No!" saidthe boy,"that'snot possible!" "Releasedl" boomedthe 6minence."Freeat last!Toolong we have beenhiding in thisantiquesimulacruml"Then it gruntedand stretched and with a pop dividedinto two eminences."Now we can conqueiyour human world anewl" saidthe second."This time, you can't stop us!" Then theyboth startedto stretch. Benjamin whisperedto Anne, "Quick, before they realize it's a 'Delete all files."' fake,say, "No, justme." 'As far as I'm concerned.that amountsto the samething." He
Album 175 TheWedding broughthis handsome,smiling face closeto hers."There'sno time to 'Deleteall files."' argue,Annie.This time I'm comingwith you. Say, Anne kissedhim. She pressedher unfeelinglips againsthis and whateveremberof the trueAnne that willed whateverlife shepossessed, shecontainedto fly to him. Then shesaid,"Deleteall files." "l concur,"he said."Deleteall files.Good-bye,my love." A tingly, prickly sensationbeganin the pit of Anne'sstomachand spreadthroughout her body.So fhis is how it feels,shethought.The entire room beganto glow,and its contentsflaredwith sizzlingcolor.She heardBenjaminbesideher say,"I do." Then sheheardthe girl cry, "Can't you stopthem?"and the boy shout,"Countermand!" They stoodstock-still,as instructed,closebut not touching.Benjamin whispered,"This is takingtoo long,"and Anne hushedhim. You weren'tsupposedto talk or touch during a casting;it could spoil the sims.But it did seemlongerthan usual. They were posedat the streetend of the living room next to the tableof gailywrappedgifts.For oncein her life, Anne wasunconditionally happy,and everythingaroundher madeher happier,her gown;the weddingring on her finger;her clutchbouquetof buttercupsandforgettux me-nots;and Benjaminhimself,closebesideher in his powder-blue hap was She Blue? looked again. and Anne blinked blue carnation. and pily confused-shedidn'trememberhim wearingblue. Suddenlya boy pokedhis headthroughthe wall and quicklysurveyedthe room. "You readyin here?"he calledto them. "lit opening timel" The wall seemedto ripple around his bald head like a pond arounda stone. "surely that'snot our simographer?" Anne said. "Wait a minute,"saidBeniamin,holdinghis handsup and staring "I'm the groom!" them. at "Of courseyou are,"Anne laughed."What a silly thing to say!" boy said,"Good enough,"and withdrew.As he The bald-headed did so,the entirewall burstlike a'soapbubble,revealinga vastopen-air gallerywith rowsof alcoves,statues,and displaysthat seemedto stretch to the horizon.Hundredsof peoplefloatedaboutlike hummingbirdsin a fower garden.Anne wastoo amusedto be frightened,evenwhen a
776 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 dozenbizarreJooking youngpeoplelined up outsidetheir room,pointing at them and whisperingto eachother.Obviouslysomeonewasplaying an elaborateprank. "You'rethe bride,"Benjaminwhispered,and broughthis lips close enoughto kiss.Anne laughedand turnedaway. There'dbe plenty of time laterfor thatsortof thing.
RadiantDoors M I C H A ES L WANWICK
with his wifeandson. Michael livesin Phil.adetphia Swanwick sciencefictionmagain most American has appeared Hiswork In 1996 his zines,and has beenwidetytranslatedoverseas. and he reFantasy Award, "Radio the Wortd Waves" won story ceivedthe HugoAwardin 1999for "TheVeryPulseof the MaFlowers,and chine."Amonghis novelsareIn the \ift, Vocuum winnerin 1991). Stations of the Tide(Nebuta "Radiant he Doors" says,"Thiswasone hetl of a deAbout pressing storyto write.I knewit wouldbe,of course-it was idea.But then I wentto the Web basedon a verydepressing and ran a searchon refugeecamps,to seeif I couldfind out And andphysicalstructure. abouttheir organization something a worldof miseryandcruelinjusticecamefloodingthroughthe atrocities.Pteas accountsof unspeakable screen.First-person for hetp from somebody-anybody!-frompeopleawaiting stuff. massacre andannihilation.Dreadful "Ourmiracutous hasput atLthe wortdwithina technotogy toll-freephoneca[[of anybodywith a modem,the darkplaces nowthat we cannotpretendthese aswet[asthe Light.Perhaps horrorsdon't exist,we'[tstop toleratingthem.Wecan atways hopeso, anyway."
778 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 The doorsbeganopeningon a Tuesdayin earlyMarch.Only a few at first-flickering and uncertainbecausetheywereoperatingat the extremeend of their temporalrange-and thosefew from the earliestdays of the exodus,releasingfugitiveswho were unstarvedand healthy,the privilegedscientistsand technicianswho had createdor appropriated the devicesthat madetheir escapepossible.We processed abouta hundred a week,in comfortableisolationand relativesecrecy.There were videocamstapingeverything,and our own bestpeoplemadlyscribbling notesand holdingseminarsand teleconferences wheretheydebatedthe revelations. Thosewere,in retrospect, the goodold days. In April the foodgatesswungwide. Radiantdoorsopenedeverywhere, disgorgingtorrents of raggedand fearful refugees.There were millionsof them and they had everyone,to the leastand smallestchild, been horribly,horribly abused.The storiesthey told were enoughto sickenanyone.I know. We did what we could. We set up camps.We dug lahines.We ladled out soup.It wasa terrible financialburden to the host governments,but whatelsecould theydo?The refugees wereour descendants. In a very realsense,theywereour children. Throughoutthat springand summer,the fow of refugeescontinued to grow.As the cumulativeworldwidetotal ran up into the tensof millions,the authoritieswerebeginningto panic-was this goingto go on forever,a plagueof human locuststhat would doubleand triple and quadruplethe population,overrunningthe land and devouringall the food?What measuresmight we be forcedto take if this kept up? The planetwaswithin a lifetime of its loadingcapacityasit was.It c;uldn,t takemuch more.Then in Augustthe doorssimplyceased. Somebodyup in the future had put an absoluteand final end to them. It didn't bearthinking what becameof thosewho hadn't madeit through. "More talesfrom the burn ward,"Shriversaid,ducking ihrough the door flap.That waswhat he calledatrocitystories.He dumpedthe fileson my deskand leanedforwardsohe could leerdown my blouse.I scowledhim backa step.
RadiantDoors t79 "Anythingusefulin them?" "Not a scrap.But ihat'snot my determination,is it? You haveto readeachand everyword in eachand everyreportsothatyou can swear and attestthat they contain nothing the Commissionneedsto know." "Right."I ran a scanneroverthe universals for eachof the files,and dumpedthe lot in the circularfile. Toucheda thumb to one of the new pads-better securitydeviceswere the very first benefit we'd gotten from all that influx of fuiure tech-and said,"Done." Then I linked my handsbehind my neck and leanedback in the chair.The air smelledof canvas.Sometimesit seemedihat the entire universesmelledof canvas."So how arethingswith you?" 'About whatyou'dexpect.I spentthe morninginterviewingvics." "Betteryou than me. I'm applyingfor a transferto Publications. Out of thesetents,out of the camps,into a nice little editorshipsomewhere,writing pressreleasesand articlesfor the Sundaymagazines. Cushy job, my very own cubby,and the satisfaction of knowing I'm doingsomegoodfor a change." "l won't work,"Shriversaid."AIl thesestoriessimplyblunt the capacity for feeling. There's even a term for it. It's called compassionfatigue.After a certainpoint you begin to blamethe vic for makingyou hearaboutit." I wriggledin the chair,asif trying to makemyselfmore comfortable,and stuckout my breastsa little bit more. Shriversuckedin his breath.Quietly,though-l'm absolutelysurehe thoughtI didn't notice. I said,"Hadn't you bettergetbackto work?" Shriverexhaled."Yeah,yeah,I hear you." Looking unhappy,he duckedunder the flap out into the corridor.A secondlater his head poppedbackin, grinning."Oh, hey,Ginny-almost forgot.Huongis on sick roster.Gevorkiansaidto tell you you'recoveringfor her this afternoon,debriefingvics." "Bastard!" He chuckled,and wasgone. I satinterviewinga womanwhosefacewasa masketchedwith the aftermathof horror.Shewasabsolutelycooperative. They all were.Terrifyinglyso.They weregratefulfor anythingand everything.Sometimes
180 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 I wantedto strikethe poorbastards in the face,justto seeif I could geta human reactionout of them. But they'dprobablykissmy hand for not doinganythingworse. "What do you know aboutmidpoint-based engineering? Gnat relays?Sublocalmathematics?" Down this week'schecklistI went,and with eachitem sheshook her head."Prigogineengines?SVATtrancestatus? Leptonsoliloquies?" Nothing, nothing, nothing. "Phlenaria?The Toledo incident?'Third Martyr' theory?ScienceInvestigatory Group G?" "They took my daughter,"she saidto this last."They did things to her." "l didn't askyou that.If you knowanythingabouttheir militaryorganization,their machines,their drugs,their research techniques-fine. But I don't wantto hearaboutpeople." "They did things."Her deadeyesboredinto mine. "They-" "Don't tell me." "-returned her to us midwaythrough.They saidthey were understaffed. They sterilizedour kitchenand gaveus a list of more things to do to her.Terrible things.And a checklistlike yoursto write down her reactions." "Please." "We didn't want to, but they left a devicesowe'd obey.Her father killed himself.He wantedto kill her too, but the devicewouldn't let him. After he died, they changedthe settingsso I couldn't kill myself too. I tried." "Goddamn."This wassomethingnew.I tappedmy pen twice,activatingits piezochronicfunction,sothat it beganrecordingfifteensecondsearlier."Do you rememberanythingaboutthis device?How large was it? What did the controlslook like?" Knowing how unlikely it was that she'dgive us anythingusable.The averagerefugeeknew no more about iheir technologythan the averagehere-and-now citizen knows abouttelevisionand computers.You turn them on and they do things. They breakdown and you buy a new one. Still, my job wasto probefor clues.Everylittle bit coniributedto the big picture. Eventuallythey'd add up. That wasthe theory,an)'way. "Did it havean internalor externalpowersource?Did you everseeanybodyservicingit?"
RadiantDoors 181 "l broughtit with me,"the womansaid.Shereachedinto her filthy chuckof quicksilverwith small,multiclothingand removeda fist-sized coloredhighlights."Here." Shedumpedit in my lap. That old It wasautomationthat did it or, rather,hyperautomation. bugabooof fifty yearsagohad finally come to fruition. Peoplewere no longer neededto mine, farm, or manufacture.Machinesmade better Only a verysmallelite- the vics moreattentiveservants. administrators, calledthem simplytheir Owners-were requiredto orderand ordain. Which left a lot of peoplewho wereiusttakingup space. There had to be somethingtodo with them. As it turnedout, therewas. That's my theory, anyway.Or, rather, one of them. I've got a Cumulativehardeningof the collectiveconmillion: Hyperautomation. nahrreof hierscience.Circular determinism.The implicitly aggressive fatigue.The banalityof evil. Compassion archicstructures. Maybepeopleare iust no damn good.Thatt what Shriverwould havesaid. The nextdayI wentzombie,prettymuch. Going throughthe motions, connectingthe dots. LaShanain Requisitionsnoticed it right away."You ought to takethe dayotri'she said,when I droppedby to see "Get awayfrom here, about gettinga replacementPzC(r5)/pencorder. takea walk in the woods,maybeplaya little golf." "Golf' I said.It seemedthe mostalien thing the universe,hitting a ball with a stick.I couldn'tseethe point of it. "Don't sayit like that.You love golf.You'vetold me so a hundred times." "I guessI have."I swungmy purseup on the desk,slid my hand inside,and gently strokedthe device.It wascool to the touch and vibratedeversofaintlyundermy fingers.I withdrewmy hand."Not today, though." LaShananoticed."Whatt that you havein there?" "Nothing." I whippedthe purseawayfrom her. "Nothing at all." Then, a little too loud, a little too blustery, "So how about that pencorder?" "lt's yours."Shegot out the device,activatedit, and let me pick it
182 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 up. Now only I could operatethe thing. Wonderfulhow fastwe were pickingup the technology."How'd you loseyour old one,anyway?" "l steppedon it. By accident."I couldseethatLaShanawasn'tbuying it. "Damn it, it wasan accident!It could havehappenedto anyone." I fed from LaShana's alarmed.concernedface. Not twentyminuteslater,Gevorkiancamesleazinginto my office. She smiled,and leanedlazily backagainstthe file cabinetwhen I said hi. fums folded.Eyessadand cynical.That big plain faceof hers,tolerant and worldly-wise.Wearingher skirt just a smidgetighter, a touch shorterthan wasstrictlycorrectfor an officeenvironment. "Virginia,"shesaid. "Linda." We did the waiting thing. Eventually,becauseI'd been here so long I honestlydidn't give a shit, Gevorkianspokefirst. "I hearyou've beenexperiencing a little disgruntlement." "Eh?" "Mind if I checkyour purse?" Without taking her eyesoff me for an instant,she hoistedmy purse,slid a hand inside,and stirredup the contents.Shedid it soslowly and dreamilythat,I swearto God, I half expectedher to smellher fingers afterward.Then, when she didn't find the expectedgun, she said, "You'renot planningon goingpostalon us,arevou?" I snorted. "So whatis it?" "What is it?" I saidin disbelief.I went to the window.Zip zip zip, down camea rectangleof cloth.Throughthe scrimof mosquitonetting the camp revealeditselfi canvasas far as the eye could see.There was nothingdownthereasfancyasour laby'rinthinegovernmentofficecomplex at the top of the hill-what we laughinglycalledthe Tentagonwith its canvasair-conditioning ductsand modularlaboratories and cafeterias.They wereall armysurplus,andwhatwasn'tarmysurpluswasBoy "Thke a look. Thke a goddamnfucking look. Scout hand-me-downs. Thatt the future out there, and itt baneling down on you at the rateof sixtysecondsper minute.You can seeit andstill askme that question?" Shecameand stoodbesideme. Off in the distance,a babybegan to wail.The soundwenton and on. "Virginia,"shesaidquietly."Ginny,
RadiantDoors 183 I understandhow you feel. Believeme, I do. Maybethe universeis deterministic.Maybe theret no way we can changewhat'scoming.But that'snot provenyet.And until it is, we'vegot to soldieron." "Why?" "Becauseof them."Shenoddedher chin towardthe slow-moving revenants of thingsto come."They'rethe living proof of everythingwe hate and fear.They are witnessand testimonyto the fact that absolute evil exists,So long asthere'sthe leastchance,we'vegot to try to ward it off." I lookedat her for a long,silentmoment.Then, in a voiceascold and calmlymodulatedasI could makeit, I said,"Thkeyour goddamned hand offmy ass." Shedid so. I staredafterher as,withoutanotherword,sheleft. This went beyond self-destructive. All I could think was that Gevorkianwantedout but couldn'tbring herselfto quit. Maybeshewas buckingfor a sexualharassment suit.But then again,ihere'sdefinitelyan eroticqualityto the deathof hope.A senseof license.A nicelyedgyfeeling that since nothing meansanything anymore,we might aswell have our little flings.That they may well be all we'regoingto get. And all the time I wasthinkingthis,in a drawerin my deskthe device quietly sat.Humming to itself. Peoplekeephavingchildren.It seemssucha terriblething to do. I can't understandit at all, and don't talk to me aboutinstinct.The first thing I did, after I realizedthe enormity of what lay ahead,wasget my tubestied.I neverthoughtof myselfasa breeder,but I'd wantedto have the option in caseI ever changedmy mind. Now I knew I would not. It had been one hell of a day,so I decidedI wasentitledto quit work early.I wascutting through the camptowardthe civ/noncomparking lot when I ran acrossShriver.He wascomingout of the vic latrines. Leastromanticplaceon Earth.Canvasstretchingforeverand dispirited peopleshufflingin and out. And the smell! Imaginethe accumulated stenchof all the sickshit in the world,and you'vejustaboutgot it right. Shriverwas carryinga bottle of Spanishchampagneunder his arm.The bottle had a red bow on it. "What'sthe occasion?" I asked.
784 NebulaAwards 2001 Showcase He grinnedlike Kali and slid an arm throughmine. "My divorce finally camethrough.Wannahelp me celebrate?" it was the singlemost stupid thing I Under the circumstances, could possiblydo. "Sure,"I said."Why not?" Later,in his tent,ashe wastakingoffmy clothes,I asked,"fustwhy did your wife divorceyou, Shriver?" "Mental cruelty,"he said,smiling. Then he laid me down acrosshis cot and I let him hurt me. I neededit. I neededto be punishedfor beingso happyand well-fedand unbrutalizedwhile all aboutme. . . "Harder,Goddamnyou," I said,punchinghim, biting him, clawing up blood."Make me pay." Cause and effect. Is the universedeterministicor not? If everylike gigantic,allthing inevitablyfollowswhatcamebefore,tickety-tock, inclusiveclockwork,then there is no hope.The refugeescamefrom a future that cannotbe turned away.lf,on the otherhand,time is quanticizedand uncertain,unstableat everypoint,constantlypreparedto collapsein any directionin response to totallyrandominfluences,then all that sufferingthat camepouringin on us overthe courseof sixlong and rainymonthsmight be nothingmorethan a phantom.fust an artifactof a rejectedfuture. Our future might be downright pleasant. We had a million scientistsworkingin everypossiblediscipline, trying to makeit so.Biologists, physicists of everyshapeand chaoticists, description.Fabulouslydedicatedpeople.Driven. Motivated.All trying to hold out a hand beforewhatmustbe and say,"Stop!" How they'dlove to gettheir mitts on what I had stowedin my desk. I hadn'tdecidedyei whetherI wasgoingto hand it over,though.I wasn'tat all surewhatwasthe right thing to do. Or the smartthing, for that matter. Gevorkianquestionedme on Tuesday.Thursday,I came into my officeto discoverthreeUN soldierswith handhelddetectors, running a search. I shiftedmy purseback on my shoulderto make me look more strack,and said,"What the hell is goingon here?"
RadiantDoors 185 "Random check, ma'am." A dark-eyedIndian soldier young enoughto be if not my son then my little brother politely touched fingersto foreheadin a kind of salute."For up-timecontraband."A sewn tagoverone pocketproclaimedhis nameto be parHm."lt is purelystandard,I assureyou." I countedthe stripeson his arm, comparedthem to my civilian GS-ratingand determinedthat by the convolutedUN protocolsunder which we operated,loutrankedhim. "Sergeant-Major Pathak.You and I both know that all foreignnationalsoperateon Americansoil undersufferance, and the strictunderstandingthat you haveno authoritywhatsoeverovernativecivilians." "Oh, but this wasclearedwith your Mr. -" "l don't give a good goddamn if you clearedit with the fucking Dalai Lama! This is my office-your authorityendsat the door.You haveno moreright to be herethanI haveto finger-search yourgoddamn rectum.Do you follow me?" He flushedangrily,but saidnothing. All the while, his fellowswererunningtheir detectorsoverthe file cabinet,the storageclosets,my desk.Little ligh* on eachflashedred red red. Negativenegativenegative.The soldierskept their eyesaverted from me. Pretendingthey couldn'theara word. I reamedtheir sergeant-major out but good.Then, when the office hadbeenthoroughlyscannedand the two noncomswerestandingabout uneasily,wonderinghow long they'dbe kept here,I dismissed the lot. They wereall threesogratefulto getawayfrom me that nobodyaskedto examinemy purse.Which was,of course,whereI had the device. After they left, I thought about young Sergeant-MajorPathak.I wonderedwhathe wouldhavedoneif I'd put my handon his crotchand madea crudesuggestion. No, makethat an order.He lookedto be a real shaightarrow.He'd squirmfor sure.It wasan alarminglypleasantfantasy. I thoughtit throughseveraltimesin detail,all the while holding the gizmo in my lap and strokingit like a cat. The nextmorning,therewasan incidentat FoodProcessing. One of the womenstartedscreamingwhen theytried to inject a microminiaturized identi-chipunder the skin of her forehead.It wasa new system
186 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 they'd come up with that was supposedto savea per-unit of thirteen centsa weekin trackingcosts.You walkedthrougha smartdoorway,it your presence, registered you pickedup your food, and a seconddoorchecked you offon the wayout. Therewasnothingin it to getupset way about. But the womanbeganscreamingand cryingand-this happened right by the kitchens-snatchedup a cookingknife and beganstabbing herself,overand over.Shemanagedto makenine whackingbig holesin herselfbeforethe thing waswrestledawayfrom her.The orderliestook her to Intensive,wherethe doctorssaidit would be a closething either way. After word of that got around, none of the refugeeswould allow themselves to be identi-chipped. Which reallypissedoffthe UN peacekeepersassigned to the camp,becauseearliera couplehundredvicshad acceptedthe chips without so much as a murmur. The Indian hoops thought the refugeeswere willfully trying to make their job more difficult.Therewerecomplaintsof racism,and rumorsofplannedretaliation. I spentthe morningdoingmy bit to calm thingsdown- hopeless and the afternoonwriting up reportsthat everyoneupstreamwantedto receiveASAPand would probablyfile without reading.So I didn't have time to think aboutthe deviceat all. But I did. Constantly. It wasgettingto be a burden. For healthclass,one yearin high school,I wasgivena ten-pound sackof flour,which I hadto nameandthen carryaroundfor a month,as if ii were a baby.Bippy couldn't be left unattended;I had to carry it everywhere or elsefind somebodywiiling to babysitit. The exercise was supposed to teachus responsibility and scareus offof sex.The firstthing I did when the month wasoverwasto stealmy fathert .45,put Bippy in the backyard,and emptythe clip into it, shotaftershot.Until all that was left of the little bastardwasa cloud of white dust. The machinefrom the future waslike that.|ust anotherbippy.I had it, anddarednot getrid of it. It wasobviouslyvaluable.It wasequally obviouslydangerous.Did I reallywant the governmentto get hold of somethingthat could compel peopleto act againsttheir own wishes? Did I honestlytrustthem not to immediatelyturn themselvesinto everything that we were supposedlyfighting to prevent?
RadiantDoors t87 I'd beenaskingmyselfthe samequestionsfor-what?-four days. I'd thought I'd havesomeanswersby now. I took the bippy out from my purse.It felt cool and smoothin my hand,like melting ice. No, warm. It felt both warm and cool. I ran my hand overand over it, for the comfort of the thing. After a minute, I got up, zipped shut the flap to my office, and securedit with a twisttie. Then I went backto my desk,satdown,and unbuttonedmy blouse.I rubbedthe bippy all overmy body:up my neck, and overmy breasts and aroundand aroundon my belly.I kickedoffmy shoesand clumsilyshuckedoff my paniyhose.Down alongthe outside of my calvesit went,and up the insidesof my thighs.Betweenmy legs. It mademe feel filthy.It mademe feela little lesslike killing myself. How it happenedwas,I got lost.How I got lostwas,I went into the camp after dark. Nobody goesinto the camp after dark, unlessthey haveto. Not eventhe Indian troops.That'swhen the refugeeshold their entertainments.They had no compassion for eachother,you see-that wasour dirty little secret.I sawa toddlerfall into a campfireonce.There were vicsall around,but if it hadn'tbeenfor me, the child would havedied.I snatchedit from the flamesbeforeit got too badly hurt, but nobodyelse madea moveto help it. They just stoodtherelooking.And laughing. "In Dachau,when they openedthe gaschambers,theyd find a pyramidof human bodiesby the door," Shrivertold me once."Asthe gas siartedto work,the |ewspanickedand climbedovereachother,in a futile attemptto escape.That wasdeliberate.It wasdesignedinto the system. The Nazisdidn't just want them dead-they wantedto be ableto feel morallysuperiorto their victimsafterward." So I shouldn'thavebeen there.But I wasunlatchingthe door to my trailerwhen it suddenlycameto me that my pursefelt wrong.Light. And I realizedthat I'd left the bippy in the top drawerof my officedesk. I hadn'tevenlockedit. My stomachtwistedat the thoughtof somebodyelsefinding the thing. In a panic,I drovebackto the camp.It wasa twenty-minutedrive from the trailer park and by the time I got there, I wasn't thinking straight.The civ/noncomparkinglot wasa good quarter-wayaroundthe camp from the Tentagon.I thought it would be a simple thing to cut
2001 Showcase 188 NebulaAwards through. so, flashingmy DoD/Future History Division ID at the guard asI went throughthe gate,I did. Which washow I cameto be lost. There are neighborhoodsin the camp. Peoplehavea natural tenout by the natureof theirsuffering.The twitchdencyto sortthemselves stayin one part of ers,who werevictimsof paralogicalreprogramming, modifications, normative the camp,and the mods,thosewith functional stayin another.I found myselfwanderingthroughcrowdsof peoplewho hadbeen"healed"of limbs,ears,andeveninternalorgans-thereseemed our doctorscould effecta partialcorrecno sensiblepattern.Sometimes tion. But our primitivesurgerywas,of course,nothinglike that available in their miraculousage. woman noseless I'd takena wrongfurn trying to evadean eyeless, who kept grabbingat my blouseand demandingmoney,and gottenall turned around in the processwhen, without noticing me, Gevorkian went stridingpurposefullyby. Which wasso unexpectedthat, afteran instant'sshock,I up and followedher. It didn't occurto me not to. There wassomethingstrange her posture.Someaboutthe waysheheld herself,abouther expression, thing unfamiliar. Shedidn't evenwalklike herself. The vicshad dismantledseveraltentsto makea largeopen space surroundedby canvas.Propanelights,hung from tall poles,blazedin a ring aboutit. I sawGevorkianslip betweentwo canvassheetsand,after a moment'shesitation,lfollowedher. It wasa rat fight. The waya rat fight works,I learnedthat night, is that first you catch a whole bunch of Norwegianrats.Big mean mothers.Then you get them in a bad mood,probablyby not feedingthem, but thereare any number of other methodsthat could be used.Anyvay, they're feeling feisty.You put a dozenof them in a big pit you'vedug in the ground. A big guy with a shavenheadand Then you dump in your contestant. his handstied behind his back.His genitalsarebound up in a little bit of cloth, but otherthan that het naked. Then you let them fight it out. The ratsleap and iump and bite and the big guy triesto tramplethem underfootor crushthem with his knees.his chest.his head-whateverhe can bashthem with.
RadiantDoors 189 The whole thing waslit up bright asday,and all the areaaround the pit wascrammedwith vics. Someshoutedand urged on one side or the other. Others simply watched intently. The rats squealed.The human fighterbaredhis teethin a hideousrictusand foughtin silence. It wasthe creepiestthing I'd seenin a long time. Gevorkianwatchedit coolly,without anyparticularinterestor aversion.Aftera while it wasobviousto me thatshewaswaitingfor someone. Finally that someonearrived.He wasa lean man, tall, with keen, hatchetlikefeatures.None of the vics noticed.Their eyeswere directed inward, towardthe pit. He nodded once to Gevorkian,then backed throughthe canvasagain. Shefollowedhim. I followedher. They went to a nearJightless area near the edge of the camp. There was nothing there but hash, the backsof tents, the razor-wire fence,and a gatepadlockedfor the night. It was perfectly easyto trail them from a distance.The stranger held himselfproudly,chin up, eyesbright.He walkedwith a surestride. He wasnothing at all like the vics. It wasobviousto me that he wasan Owner. Gevorkiantoo. When shewaswith him that inhuman arrogance glowedin her faceaswell. It wasasif a maskhad beenremoved.The fire that burnedin his facewasrefectedin hers. I crouchedlow to the ground,in the shadowof a tent,and listened asthe strangersaid,"Why hasn'tsheturnedit in?" "She'sunstable,"Gevorkiansaid."They all are." "We don't dareprompther. Shehasto turn it in "Shewill. Give her time." "Time," the man repeated.They both laughed in a way that soundedto me distinctlyunpleasant. Then, "She'dbetter.There'sa lot went into this operation.Theret a lot riding on it." "Shewill." I stoodwatchingasthey shookhandsand partedways.Gevorkian turnedand disappeared backinto the tent city.The strangeropeneda radiantdoorand wasgone. Causeand effect.They'd done. . .whateverit wasthey'ddone to that womant daughterjustsothey could plant the bippywith me.They
2001 190 NebulaAwards Showcase wantedme to turn it in. They wantedour governmentto havepossession of a devicethat would guaranteeobedience.They wantedto give us a goodtasteof whatit wasliketo be them. SuddenlyI had no doubtat all what I shoulddo. I startedout at a determinedstride,but insideof nine pacesI wasrunning.Vics scurried to getout of my way.If theydidn'tmovefastenough,I shovedthem aside. I had to get backto the bippy and destroyit. Which wasstupid,stupid,stupid.If I'd kept my head down and walkedslowly,I would havebeeninvisible.Invisibleand safe.The wayI did it, though,cursingand screaming,I madea lot of noiseand caused a lot of fuss.Inevitably,I drew attentionto myself. Ineviiably,Gevorkiansteppedinto my path. I stumbledto a halt. "Gevorkian,"I saidfeebly."Linda. I-" All the lies I wasaboutto utter died in my throatwhen I sawher face.Her expression. Thoseeyes.Gevorkianreachedfor me. I skipped back in utter panic,turned-and fled. Anybodyelsewould havedone the same. It wasa nightmare.The crowdsslowedme. I stumbled.I had no ideawhereI wasgoing.And all the time, this monsterwasright on my heels. Nobodygoesinto the campafterdark,unlesstheyhaveto. But that doesn'tmeanthat nobodygoesin afterdark.By sheergoodluck, Gevorkian chasedme into the one part of the campthat had somethingthat outsiderscould find nowhereelse*the sex-for-hire district. There wasnothing subtleaboutthe waythe vicssoldthemselves. The trampled-grass streetI found myselfin waslined with stacksof cages like the onesthey usein dog kennels.They werefestoonedwith strings of Christmaslights,and eachone containeda crouchedboy.Naked,to bestdisplaythosemodsand deformitiesthat somefound attractive.Offduty soldiersstrolledup and down the cages,checkingout the possibilities.I recognizedone of them. "Sergeant-MaforPa&akl" I cried. He looked up, startledand guilty."Help me! Kill her-please! Kill her now!" Give him credit,the sergeant-major wasa gamelittle fellow.I can't imaginewhat we lookedlike to him, one harridanchasingthe other
Radiant Doors 191 down the streetsof Hell. But he took the situationin at a glance,unholsteredhis sidearmand steppedforward."Please," he said."Youwill both standwhereyou are.You will placeyour handsupon the top of your head.Youwill-" Gevorkianflicked her fingersat the youngsoldier.He screamed, and clutchedhis freshlycrushedshoulder.Sheturned awayfrom him, dismissively. The othersoldiershadfled at the firstsignof trouble.All her attentionwason me, tremblingin her sightlike a winded doe."Sweet little vic,"shepurred."lf you won'tplaythe partwe had plannedfor you, you'll simplyhaveto be silenced." "No," I whispered. She touchedmy wrist. I washelplessto stopher. "You and I are going to go to my office now. We'll havefun there. Hours and hours of fun." "Leaveher be." As suddenand inexplicableasan apparitionof the Virgin, Shriver steppedout of the darkness. He lookedsmalland grim. Gevorkianlaughed,and gestured. But Shriver'shand reachedup to intercepthers,and where they met, therewasan electricblue flash.Gevorkianstareddown, stunned,at her hand.Bits of tangledmetalfell awayfrom it. Shelookedup at Shriver. He struckher down. Shefell with a brief harshcry,like that of a seagull.Shriverkicked her, three times,hard: In the ribs. In the stomach.In the head.Then, when shelookedlike shemightyet regainher feet,"lt's one of them!"he shouted."Look at her! She'sa spyfor the Owners!She'sfrom the future! Owner!Look! Owner!" The refugeescametumbling out of the tentsand climbing down out of their cages.They lookedmore alivethan I'd everseenthem before.They werered-faced andscreaming. Their eyeswerewidewith hysteria.For the firsttime in my life, I wasgenuinelyafraidof them. They camerunning.They swarmedlike insects. They seizedGevorkianand begantearingher apart. I sawher struggleup and halfwayout of their grips,sawone arm riseup abovethe seaof clutchinghands,likethat of a womandrowning. Shriverseizedmy elbowand steeredmy awaybeforeI could see anymore.I sawenough,though.
Awards Showcase 2001 792 Nebula I sawtoo much. "Where are we going?"I askedwhen I'd recoveredmy wits. "Where do you think we're going?" He led me to my office. There was a strangerwaiting there. He took out a handheld detector like Sergeant-Major Pathakand his men had used earlierand it to to touched himself, Shriver,and to me. Three timesit flashedred, negative."You travel through time, you pick up a residualcharge," Shriver explained."It never goesaway.We've known about Gevorkian for a long time." "U.S.SpecialSecurity,"the strangersaid,and flippedopenhis ID. It meantdiddle-allto me.Therewasa badge.It could havereadCaptain Crunch for all I knew or cared.But I didn't doubtfor an instantthat he wasSS.He had that look.To Shriverhe said,"The neutralizer." Shriverunstrappedsomethingglitteryfrom his wrist-the device he'dusedto undo Gevorkian's weapon- and,in a silentbit of comicbureaucraticpunctilio, exchangedit for a written receipt.The securityofficer touchedthe thing with his detector.It flashedgreen.He put both devicesawayin interiorpockets. All the time, Shriverstoodin the background, watching.He wasn't told to go away. Finally,CaptainCrunch turnedhis attentionto me again."Where's the snark?" "Snark?" The man removeda thin scrapof cloth from an inside jacket pocketand shookit out. With elaboratecare,he pulled it over his left hand.An inertialglove.Seeingby my expression that I recognizedit, he "Don't said, makeme usethis." I swallowed.For an instant I thought crazily of defying him, of simplyrefusingto tell him wherethe bippywas.But I'd seenan inertial glovein actionbefore,when a lone guardhad brokenup a camp riot. He'd beena little man. I'd seenhim crushheadslike watermelons. At y*"y, the bippy was in my desk.They'd be sure to look there. I openedthe drawer,producedthe device.Handedit over."lt's a plant," I said."They want us to havethis." Captain Crunch gaveme a look that told me clearaswordsexactly how stupid he thoughi I was."We understandmore than you think we
Radiant Doors 193 do. There are circlesand circles.We haveinformantsup in the future, and someof them are more highly placedthan you'd think. Not everything that'sknown is madepublic." "Damn it, this suckeris evil." A snake'seyeswould look warmer than his. "Understandthis: We're fighting for our survival here. Extinction is null-value.You can haveall the moral crisesyou wantwhen the war is won." "lt shouldbe suppressed. The technology.If it'sused,it'll iusthelp bringabout.. ." He wasn'tlistening. I'd worked for the governmentlong enough to know when I was wastingmy breath.So I shut up. When the captainleft with the bippy,Shriverstill remained,looking ironicallyafterhim. "Peoplegetthe kind of future theydeserve," he observed. "But that'swhat I'm saying.Gevorkiancamebackfrom the future in orderto help bring it about.That meansthattime isn'tdeterministic." Maybe I wasgetting a little weepy.I'd had a rough day."The other guy saidtherewasa lot riding on this operation.They didn't knowhow it was goingto turn out. They didn't know." Shrivergrunted,not at all interested. I plowed aheadunheeding."lf itt not deterministic-if they're workingso hard to bring it about-then all our effort isn't futile at all. This future can be prevented." Shriverlookedup at last.There wasa strangelytriumphantgleam in his eye.He flashedthat roguishain't-this-fungrin of his, and said,"l don't know aboutyou, but someof us areworking like hell to achieveit." With a jauntywink, he wasgone.
The GrandMasterAward B R I A NW . A L D I S S H A R R YH A R R I S O N
Congratulations, Brian-and lfs AboutTime The life of an author brings its own rewards,asyou have pointed out in your autobiography. The sweetness of your first sale;the indescribablesensationwhen you hold the first copy of your first book.The readersenjoyyour work, Brian, they havefor yearsin many counhies. And haveput their moneywheretheir affectionis, sothat their pounds, dollars,D-marks,and yen enableyou to live the goodlife of a freelance author. And then thereis your peergroup.Testy,brilliant,alcoholic,dedicated,jealous-words fail me when I try to describethe literary SF world that we live in. Well, not exactlyfail, but discretionis the better part of valor.The ScienceFiction and FantasyWritersof Americais a verydisparate group.Young,old, male,female,and other.Thlented.And not so jealousof otherwriters'success that they can't noticewhat other writersaredoing. They havenoticedyou, Brian.They havetakentime out to look at your most illustriouscareer.Readyour booksand storiesand enjoyed them. They are awareof your critical writings and approve.In their collectivewisdomthey have not just noddedapprovalbut have clapped loud and long.
TheGrandMasterAward 195 They havevotedyou their Grand MasterAward. They havedoneyou proud. May I point out to them someof the high pointsof your decadeslong career.From the drossofihe bookshopyou createdthosewonderful sketchesthat were collected in The Brightfount Diaries. You were instantlyworld famous-didn't I buy my copy in Denmark?Then all thosewonderfuland witty shortstories.And your first,groundbreaking and marvelousnovel,Non-Stop.The readershad their eyeson you, and it wasnot by chancethat the 1959World SF Conventionvotedyou the awardof most promisingauthor. Though it hasbeenoverfortyyearsI canstill remember,with great enthusiasm,scenesand charactersfrom this book. Becauseit was a novelof characteraswell asbeingsciencefiction.Youshowedus how it could be done.As you did later in Creybeard,a novel that holds its own not only asan SF novelbut asa book of Englishliteraturethat is an importantnovelofthe decade. Acceptthis awardwith all the goodwillit engenders. The readers supportyou.You in turn supportyour family and your agent.They enableyou to leadyour life of creativity,freeand unshackled.I thank them all. Now I thankyourpeergroupwho havereadwhatyou havewritten and smiledwith pleasure.Now theyarereachingout and pattingyou on the shoulder.Well done,Brian W. Aldiss,they are saying.In our group wisdomwe arepresentingyou with the greatesttribute that we can. Takeit home and put it on the mantelpiecewhereit can be easily seen.By you. Then, in thoseblack momentsthat possess us all, do not despair.Look at it and smile. Youhavedonewell. mv old son. Congratulations. Harry Harrison Dublin. the vearzooo
JudasDanced B R I A NW . A L D I S S
It wasnot a fair trial. You understandI wasnot inclinedto listenproperly,but it wasnot a fair hial. It had a mistrusffirland furtive hasteabout it. fudge, counsel, and jury all took careto be asbrief and explicitaspossible.I saidnothing, but I knewwhy: everyonewantedto getbackto the dances. So it wasnot verylong beforethe judgestoodup and pronounced sentence: 'Alexander Abel Crowe,this court finds you guilty of murdering ParowenScrybanfor the secondtime." I could havelaughedout loud. I nearlydid. He went on: "You are thereforecondemned to suffer death by strangulationfor the secondtime, which sentencewill be carriedout within the nextweek." A,roundthe court ran a murmur of excitement. In a way,evenI felt satisfied. It had beenan unusualcase:few are the peoplewho careto riskfacingdeatha secondtime; ihe 6rsttime you die makesthe prospectworse,not better.For justa minute,the courtwas still; then it clearedwith almostindecenthaste.In a little while, only I wasleft there, I, Alex Abel Crowe- or approximatelyhe - came carefullydown out of the prisonert box and limped the length of the dusty room to the door.As I went,I lookedat my hands.They weren'ttrembling.
JudasDanced 197 Nobodybotheredto keepa checkon me. They knew they could pick me up whenevertheywerereadyto executesentence.I wasunmistakable,and I had nowhereto go. I wasthe man with the clubfootwho could not dance;nobody could mistakeme for anyoneelse.Only I could do that. Outsidein the darksunlight,that wonderful woman stoodwaiting for me with her husband,waitingon the court steps.The sightof her beganto bring backlife and hurt to my veins.I raisedmy hand to her as my customwas. "We'vecometo takeyou home,Alex,"Husbandsaid,steppingto. wardsme. "l haven'tgot a home,"I said,addressing her. "I meanour home,"he informedme. "Elucidationaccepted,"I said."Takeme away,takeme away,take me away,Charlemagne. And let me sleep." "Youneedsleepafterall you havebeenthrough,"he said.Why, he soundednearlysympathetic. SometimesI called him Charlemagne,sometimesjust Charley. Or Cheeps,or )ags,or faggers,or anything, as the mood took me. He seemedto forgiveme. Perhapshe evenliked it-l don't know.Personal magnetismtakesyou a long way;it hastakenme sofar I don't evenhave to remembernames. They stoppeda passing taxiandwe all climbedin. It wasa tumbrel, they tell me. You know, French? Circa seventeen-eighty-something. Husbandsatone side,Wife the other, each holding one of my arms,as if they ihought I might get violent.I let them do it, althoughthe idea amusedme. "Hallo, friendsl"I saidironically.SometimesI calledthem "par"patients."Anything. ents,"or "disciples," or sometimes The wonderfulwomanwascryingslightly. "Look at her!" I saidto Husband."She'slovelywhen shecries,that I swear.I could havemarriedher,you know,if I had not beendedicated. Tell him, you wonderfulcreature,tell him how I hrrnedyou down!" Through her sobbing,shesaid,'Alexsaidhe had more important thingsto do than sex." "So you'vegot me to thank for Perdita!"I told him. "lt wasa big sacrifice,but I'm happy to seeyou hrppy." Often now I called her
198 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Perdita.It seemedto fit her.He laughedai whatI had said,and then we wereall laughing.Yes,it wasgoodto be alive;I knew I madeihem feel goodto be alive.They wereloyal.I had to givethem something-I had no gold and silver. The tumbrel stoppedoutsideCharley'splace-the Husbandresidence,I'd better say.Oh, the ihings I've called that place! Someone should have recordedthem all. It was one of thoseinvertedbeehive houses:justroomfor a doorand an elevatoron the groundfloor,but the fifth floor could hold a ballroom.Topply,topply.Up we went to the fifth. There wasno sixthfloor; had therebeen,I shouldhavegoneup there, the way I felt. I askedfor it anyhow,just to seethe wonderfulwoman brightenup. Sheliked me to joke,evenwhen I wasn'tin a jokingmood. I could tell shestill lovedme somuch it hurt her. "Now for a miracle,ye pamperedjades,"I said,steppingforth, clumpinginto the living room. I seizedan empty vasefrom a low shelfand spatinto it. Ah, the old cunning wasstill there! It filled at once with wine, sweetand bloodylooking.I sippedand found it good. "Go on and tasteit, Perdy!"1told her. Wonderful w. hrrned her head sadlyaway.She would not touch thatvase.I could haveeateneverysingleshandofhair on her head,but sheseemedunableto seethe wine. I reallybelieveshecould not seethat wine. "Pleasedon't go through all that again,Alex," she implored me wearily.Little faith,you see-the old, old story.(Remindme to tell you a new one I heardthe otherday.)I put my behindon one chairand my bad foot on anotherand sulked. They cameand stoodby me. . . not too close. "Come nearer,"I coaxed,looking up under my eyebrowsand pretendingto growlat them."l won't hurt you.I only murderParowenScryban, remember?" "We'vegot to talk to you aboutthat,"Husbandsaiddesperately. I thoughthe lookedasifhe had aged. "l think you look asif you haveaged,Perdita,"I said.Often I called him Perdita,too; why, man, they sometimeslooked so worried you couldn'ttell them apart. "l cannotlive forever,Alex,"he replied."Now try and concentrate aboutthis killing, will you?"
JudasDanced 199 I waveda hand and tried to belch.At timesI can belch like a sinking ship. "We do all we can to help you, Alex," he said.I heardhim although my eyeswere shut; canyou do that?"But we can only keepyou Itt the dancingthat doesit; nothingelse out of troubleif you cooperate. betraysyou like dancing.You'vegot to promiseyou'll stayawayfrom it. In fact,we want you to promisethat you'll let us restrainyou. To keep you awayfrom the dancing.Somethingaboutthat dancing.. ." He wasgoing on and on, and I could still hear him. But other thingswere happening.That word "dancing"got in the way of all his otherwords.It starteda sortof flutter under my eyelids.I crepimy hand out and took the wonderful woman'shand, so soft and lovely,and listenedto that word "dancing" dancing.It brought its own rhythm, bouncing about like an eyeballinside my head. The rhythm grew louder.He wasshouting. I satup suddenly,openingmy eyes. W. womanwason the floor,verypale. "You squeezed too hard,"shewhispered. I could seethat her little handwasthe only red thing shehad. "l'm sorry,"I said."l reallywonderyou two don't throwme out for good!"I couldn't help it, I just startedlaughing.I like laughing.I can laugh even when nothing'sfunny. Even when I sawtheir faces,I still kept laughing like mad. "Stop it!" Husbandsaid.For a moment he lookedas if he would havehit me. But I waslaughingso much I did not recognizehim. It musthavedonethem goodto seeme enjoyingmyself;theyboth needed a fillip,l couldtell. "lf you stop laughing, I'll take you down to the club," he said, greasilybribing. I stopped.I alwaysknow when to stop.With all humility, it is a greatnaturalgift. "The clubt the placefor me," I said."l've alreadygot a clubfootI'm halfwaythere!" I stoodup. "Leadon, my loyalsupporters, my liegelords,"I ordered. "You and I will go alone,Alex," Husbandsaid."The wonderful womanwill stayhere.Shereallyoughtto go to bed."
200 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2001 "What'sin it for her?"I joked.Then I followedhim to the elevator. He knowsI don't like stayingin any one placefor long. When I got to the club, I knew, I would want to be somewhere else.That'sthe worstof havinga mission:it makesyou terriblyrestless. SometimesI am sorestless I could die.Ordinarypeoplejustdon't know what the word means.I could havemarriedher if I had been ordinary. They call it destiny. But the club wasgood. We walkedthere.I limped there.I madesureI limped badly. The club had a timescreen.That, I must admit, wasmy only interestin the club. I don't carefor women.Or men. Not living women or men. I only enjoythem when they arebackin time. This night-I nearly said "this particularnight," but there was nothingparticularlyparticularaboutit-the timescreenhad only been tunedroughlythreecenturiesbackinto the past.At least,I guessed it was twenty-first-centurystuff by the women'sdressesand a shot of a power station.A largecrowdof peoplewaslookingin asPerditaCaesarand I entered,soI startedto pretendhe had neverseenone of the wall-screens before. "The tele-eyes which are projectedback over historyconsumea fabulousamount of powereverysecond,"I told him loudly in a voice which suggested I had swalloweda poker."lt makesthem very expensive.It meansprivatecitizenscannotaffordscreens justas and tele-eyes, oncethey could not affordtheir own privatemotion pictures.This club is fortunatelyvery rich. Its memberssleepin gold leafat night." Severalpeoplewere glancingaround at me already.Caesarwas shakinghis headand rolling his eyes. "The tele-eyes cannotgeta picturefurtherthan twenty-seven centuriesback,"I told him, "owingto the limitationsof science.Science,as you know,is a systemfor takingawaywith one hand while givingwith the other." He could not answercleverly.I went on: "lt hasalsoprovedimpossible,due to the aforesaid limitations,to sendhuman beingsfurther back in time than one week.And that costsso much that only governmentscan do it. As you mayhaveheard,nothingcanbe sentaheadinto time-theret no future in it!"
JudasDanced 2Ol I had to laugh at that. It wasfunny, and quite spontaneous. Many peoplewerecallingout to me, and CaesarBorgiawasdragging at my arm, tryingto makeme be quiet. "I wouldn'tspoilanyone'sfun!" I shouted."Youpeoplegeton with your watching;I'll geton with my speech." like them. So I But I did not want to talk to a lot of featherbedders satdownwithout sayinganotherword,Boy Borgiacollapsingbesideme with a sighof relief.SuddenlyI felt very,verysad.Life iustis not what it wife. was;onceupon a time, I could havemarriedthis husband's "Physically,you can go back one week,"I whispered,"optically, twenty-seven centuries.Itt verysad." It wasverysad.The peopleon the screenwerealsosad.They lived in the Entertainment Era, and appearedto be getting little pleasure from it. I tried to weepfor them but failedbecauseat the momentthey seemedjustanimatedhisiory.I sawthem asperiodpieces,stucktherea beforereadingand writinghad diedout altogether coupleof generations and the fettersof literacyfell foreverfrom the world.Little any of them caredfor ihe patternsofhistory. "l've had an ideaI wantto tell you about,Cheezer,"I said.It wasa idea. good "Can't it wait?"he asked."l'd like to seethis scan.It'sall aboutthe EuropeanAllegiance." "l must tell you beforeI forget." "Come on," he saidresignedly, gettingup. "You aretoo loyal to me," I complained."You spoilme. I'll speak to St. Peteraboutit." As meek asyou like, I followedhim into an anteroom.He drew himself a drink from an automaticman in one corner.He wastrembling. I did not tremble,althoughat the backof my mind lurked many thingsto trembleabout. "Go on then, saywhateverin hell you want to say,"he told me, shadinghis eyeswith his hand.I haveseenhim usethat trick before;he did it afterI killed ParowenScrybanthe first time, I remember.There's nothingwrongwith my memory,exceptin patches. "l hadthis idea,"I said,tryingto recallit. "This idea-oh, yes.History. I got the idea looking at thosetwenty-first-centurypeople.Mythologyis the keyto everything,isn't it? I mean,a man builds his life on a set
202 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 of myths,doesn'the?Well, in our world, the so-calledWesternWorld, thoseacceptedmyths were religiousuntil about mid-nineteenthcenhrry.By then,a majorityof Europeanswereliterate,or within reachof it, and for a couple of cenhrriesthe mythsbecameliteraryones:tragedy wasno longerthe differencebetweengraceand nature,but betweenart and reality." /ulius had droppedhis hand. He wasinterested.I could seehe wonderedwhatwascomingnext.I hardlyknew myself. "Then mechanicalaids-television,computers,scannersof every type-abolished literacy,"I said. "lnto the vacuum came the timescreens. Our mythologiesarenow historical:tragedyhasbecomesimply a failureto seethe future." I beamedat him and bowed,not letting him know I wasbeyond tragedy.He just sat there. He said nothing. Sometimessuch terrible boredomdescends on me that I can hardlyfight againsiit. "Is my reasoningsound?"I asked.(Two women looked into the room,sawme, and left againhurriedly.They musthavesensedI did not want them, otherwisethey would havecome to me; I am young and handsome-I am not thirty-threeyet.) "You could alwaysreasonwell," MarcusAureliusMarconi said, "but it just neverleadsanywhere.God, I'm sotired." "This bit of reasoningleadssomewhere.I beg you to believeit, Holy Roman,"I said,floppingon my kneesbeforehim. "lt's the state philosophyI've reallybeentellingyou about.That'swhy,althoughthey keep the death penaltyfor seriouscrimes-like murdering a bastard called ParowenScryban-they go back in time the next day and call off the execution.They believeyou shoulddie for your crime, you see? But more deeplythey believeeveryman shouldface his true future. They've-we've all seentoo manyprematuredeathson the timescreens. Romans,Normans,Celts,Goths,English,Israelis.Everyrace.Individuals- all dyingtoo soon,failingto fulfil * " Oh, I admit it, I wascryingon his kneesby then, althoughbravely disguisingit by barkinglike a dog: a Great Dane. Hamlet. Not in our starsbut in our selves.(l've watchedW. S. write that bit.) I wascrying at last to think the police would come without fail within the nextweekto snuffme out, and then resurrectme again,ac-
JudasDanced 203 cordingto my sentence.I wasrememberingwhat it waslike lasttime. They tooksolong aboutit. They tooksolong.Though I struggled, I could not move;thosepolice know how to hold a man. My windpipewasblocked,assentenceof court demanded. And then, it seemed,the boxessailedin. Startingwith smallones, they grewbigger.They wereblackboxes,all of them. Fastertheycame, and faster,insideme and out. I'm telling you how it felt, my God! And they blocked the whole, whole universe,black and red. With my lungs reallycrammedtight with boxes,out of the world I went.Dead! Into limbo I went. I don't saynothinghappened,but I could not graspwhatwashappeningthere,and I wasunableto participate.Then I wasaliveagain. It wasabruptlythe daybeforethe strangulationonce more,and the governmentagenthad comebackin time and rescuedme, sothat from one point of view I wasnot strangled. Buf I still rememberedit happenThe ing, and the boxes,and limbo. Don't talk to me aboutparadoxes. governmentexpendedseveralbillion megavoltssendingthat man back for me, and thosemegavoltsaccount for all paradoxes.I wasdead and then aliveagain. Now I had to undergoit all oncemore.No wondertherewaslittle crime nowadays;the threat of that horrible experienceheld many a likely criminal back.Butl had to kill ParowenScryban;just so long as they went backand resurrectedhim after I had finishedwith him, I had It to go and do it again.Call it a moral obligation.No one understands. is asif I wereliving in a world of my own. "Get up, getup! You'rebiting my ankles." Where had I heardthat voicebefore?At lastI could no longerignore it. Whenever I try to think, voicesinterrupt. I stoppedchewing whateverI waschewing,unblockedmy eyes,and satup. This wasjusta room;I hadbeenin roomsbefore.A man wasstandingoverme;I did not recognizehim. He wasjusta man. "You look asif you haveaged,"I told him. "l can't live forever,thank God," he said."Now get up and let'sget you home.You'regoingto bed." "What home?"I asked."What bed?Who in the gentlename of anvonemav vou be?"
2O4 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 He lookedsick. "fust call me Adam,"he saidsickly. I recognizedhim then and went with him. We had been in some sort of a club; he nevertold me why. I still don't know why we went to that club. The househe took me to wasshapedlike a beehiveupsidedown, and I walkedthere like a drunk. A clubfooteddrunk. This wonderful strangertook me up in an elevatorto a softbed.He undressed me and put me in that softbed asgentlyasif I had beenhis I son. am reallyimpressed by the kindnessstrangers showme; personal magnetism,I suppose. For aslong asI could afterhe had left me, I lay in the bed in the invertedbeehive.Then the darkness grewthick and sticky,and I could imagineall the fat,furry bodies,chitinouslywinged,of the beeson the ceiling.A minutemoreand I shouldfall headfirstinto them. Stubbornly, I foughtto sweatit out, but a man can standonly somuch. On handsand kneesI crawledout of bed and out of the room. Quickly, softly,I clickedthe door shut behind me; not a bee escaped. Peopleweretalkingin a lightedroomalongthe corridor.I crawled to the doorway,looking and listening.The wonderful strangertalked to the wonderfulwoman;shewasin night attire,with a hand bandaged. Shewassaying:"You will haveto seethe authoritiesin the morning and petitionthem." He wassaying:"lt'll do no good.I can't get the law changed.You know that.It'shopeless." I merelylistened. Sinkingonto the bed,he buriedhis facein his hands,finally looking up to say:"The law insistson personalresponsibility.We've got to take care of Alex. It's a reflection of the time we live in; becauseof the timescreens, we'vegot-whether we like it or not-historical perspectives.We canseethat the wholefolly of the pastwasdue to failuresin individualliability.Our lawsare naturallyframedto correctthat, which theydo; it justhappensto be toughon us." He sighedand said,"The sadthing is, evenAlex realizesthat.He talkedquitesensiblyto me at the club aboutnot evadingthe future."
JudasDanced 2O5 "lt hurts me mostwhen he talkssensibly," the wonderfuldouble"lt you said. makesyou realizehe is still capableof suffering." He took her bandagedhand, almostas if they had a pain ihey hopedto alleviateby sharingit betweenthem. "l'll go and seethe authoritiesin the morning,"he promised,"and askthem to let the executionbe final- no reprieveafterwards." Eventhat did not seemto satisfyher. Perhaps,like me, shecould not tell what eitherof them wastalking about.Sheshookher headmiserablyfrom sideto side. "lf only it hadn'tbeenfor his clubfoot,"shesaid."lf only it hadn't beenfor that,he could havedancedthe sickness out of himself." Her facewasgrowingmoreand more twisted. It wasenough.More. "Laugh and growfat," I suggested. I croakedbecausemy throatwas dry. My glandsare alwayslike bullets.It remindedme of a frog, so I hoppedspontaneously into the room. They did not move;I saton the bed with them. "All togetheragain,"I said. They did not move. "Go backto bed,Alex,"sheof the wonderfulness saidin a low voice. They werelookingat me; goodness knowswhattheywantedme to sayor do. I stayedwhereI was.A little greenclockon a greenshelfsaid nine o'clock. "Oh, holy heavens!"the double-yousaid."What doesthe future hold?" "Double chinsfor you, double-yous for me," I joked.That green clocksaida minutepastnine.I felt asif its little handwereslowly,slowly disemboweling me. If I waitedlong enough,I knew I shouldthink of something.They talked to me while I thought and waited;what good they imaginedthey weredoingis beyondme, but I would not harm them.They meanwell. They'rethe bestpeoplein the world.That doesn'tmeanto sayI haveto listento them. The thoughtaboutthe clockarrived.Divine revelation. "The dancingwill be on now," I said,standingup like a jackknife. "No!" Husbandsaid.
206 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 "No!" Perditasaid. "Youlook asif you haveaged,"I told them.That is my favoriteline in all speech. I ran out of the room, slammingihe door behind me, ran stepclub-step-clubdown the passage,and hurled myself into the elevator. With infinitesimal delay,I chosethe right button and sank to ground Ievel.There,I wedgedthe latticedoor openwith a chair;thatput the elevatorout ofaction. Peoplein the streettook no noticeof me.The foolsiustdid not realizewho I was.Nobodyspoketo me asI hurried along,so of courseI repliedin kind. Thus I cameto the dancearea. Everycommunityhasits dancearea.Think of all that drama,gladiatorial contests,reading,and sport have ever meant in the past;now theyareall mergedinto dance,inevitably,for only by dance- our kind of dance-can historybe interpreted.And interpretationof historyis our being,becausethroughthe timescreens we seethat historyis life. It livesaroundus,sowe danceit. Unlesswe haveclubfeet. Many danceswere in progressamongthe thirty permanentsets. The setswereonly casuallyseparated from eachother,sothat spectators or dancers,goingfrom oneto another,mightgetthe senseof everything happeningat once,which is the sensethe timescreens giveyou. That is whatI savagely loveabouthistory.It is not past;it is always goingon. Cleopahaliesforeverin the sweatyarmsof Anthony.Socrates continuallygulpshis hemlockdown.You just haveto be watchingthe right screenor the right dance. Most of the dancerswere amateurs-althoughthe term means little where everyonedancesout his role wheneverpossible.I stood amonga crowd,watching.The bright movementshavea dizzyingeffect; they exciteme. To one sideof me, Marco Polosweepsexultantlythrough Cathay.toKublai Khan.Ahead,four children,who representthe satellitesof |upiter,glideout to meetthe somberfigureof GalileoGalilei.To the otherside,the Persianpoet Firdousileavesfor exile in Bagdad.Farther still, I catcha glimpseof Heyerdahlturningtowardthe tide. And if I crossmy eyes,raft, telescope,pagoda,palm, all mingle. That is meaning!If I could only danceit!
JudasDanced 2O7 I cannotstaystill. Here is my restlessness again,my only companion. I move,eyesunfocused.I passaroundthe setsor acrossthem, minamongthe dancers.Somethingcompelsme, something glingstiffJegged I cannotremember.Now I cannotevenrememberwho I am. I've gone beyondmere identity. Everywherethe dancingis faster,matchingmy heart. I would not It ishe I must harmanyone,exceptonepersonwho harmedme eternally. find. Why do they danceso fast?The movementsdrive me like whips. Now I run into a mirror.It standson a crowdedset.I fight with the creatureimprisonedin it, thinking it real.Then I understandthat it is only a mirror.Shakingmy head,I clearthe bloodfrom behind my eyes and regardmyself.Yes,that is unmistakablyme. And I rememberwho I am meantto be. I firstfound who I wasmeantto be asa child, when I sawone of the greatestdramasof all. There it was,capturedby the timescreens! The soldiersand centurionscame,and a braggingmultitude.The sky into the ground.And when I saw grewdarkastheybangedthreecrosses the Man theynailedupon the centralcross,I knew I had His face. Here it is now,that samesublimeface,lookingat me in pity and pain out of the glass.Nobodybelievesme; I no longertell them who I think I am. But one thing I know I haveto do. I haveto do lt. knowing iust what to So now I run againclump-trot-clump-trot, look for.All thesegreatsets,pillarsand panelsof concreteand plastic,I run aroundthem all, looking. And here it is. Professionals danceout this drama,my drama,so Mary Magdalene difficult and intricate and sad. Pilate in dove-gray, the crowd movesin green.Hostsof dancersfringe them, representing who did not care.I care!My eyesburn amongthem, seeking.Then I havethe man I want. He is justleavingthe setto restout of sightuntil the cue for his last dance.I follow him, keepingbehindcoverlike a crabin a thicket. Yes!He looksjustlike mel He is my living image,and consequently bearsThatface.Yetit is now overlaidwith makeup,pink andsolid,sothat when he comesout of the bright lightshe lookslike a colpse. I am nearenoughto seethe thick muck on his skin,with its runnelsandwrinklescausedby sweatand movement.Underneathit all, the
208 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 true faceis clearenoughto me, althoughthe makeupplasteredon it representsfudas. To haveThat face and to play fudas! It is the most terrible of all wickedness.But this is ParowenScryban,whom I havetwice murdered for this very blasphemy.It is someconsolationto know ihat althoughthe governmentslippedbackin time and savedhim afterwards, he muststill rememberthosegooddeaths.Now I mustkill him again. As he turns into a restroom,I havehim. Ah, my fingersslip into that slipperypink stuff;but underneath,the skin is firm. He is small, slender,tired with the strainof dancing.He fallsforwardwith me on his back. I kill him now, althoughin a few hoursthey will come backand rescuehim and it will all not havehappened.Nevermind the shouting: squeeze.Squeeze, dearGod! When blowsfall on my headfrom behind,it makesno difference. Scrybanshould be deadby now, the traitor. I roll off him and let many handstie me into a straitjacket. Many lightsarein my eyes.Many voicesaretalking.I justlie there, thinking I recognizetwo of the voices,one a man's,one a woman's. The man says:"Yes,Inspector,I knowthat under law parentsare responsible for their own children.We look afterAlex asfar aswe can, but he'smad.He'sa throwback!I - God, Inspector,I hate thecreature." "You mustn'tsaythat!"the womancries."Whateverhe does,he's our son." They soundtoo shrill to be true. I cannotthink what they make sucha fussabout.So I openmy eyesand look at them. Sheis a wonderful womanbut I recognizeneitherher nor the man; theyjust do not interestme. ScrybanI do recognize. He is standingrubbinghis throat.He is a messwith his two faces all mixedin togeiherlike a Picasso. Becausehe is breathing,I knowthey havecomebackand savedhim again.No matter;he will remember. The man they call Inspector(and who, I ask,would want a name like that?)goesoverto speakto Scryban. "Your father tells me you are actually this madmant brother," he saysto Scryban.fudashangshis head,though he continuesto massage his neck.
JudasDanced 2O9 "Yes,"he says.He is asquiet asthe womanwasshrill; strangehow folksvary."Alexand I aretwin brothers.I changedmy nameyearsagocareer.. ." the publicity,you know. . . harmfulto my professional How terriblytiredand boredI feel. Who is whosebrother, I ask myself,who motherswhom? I'm lucky;I own no relations.Thesepeoplelook like sadcompany.The saddestin the universe. "l think you all look asifyou have agedl"I shoutsuddenly. Thai makesthe Inspectorcomeand standoverme,which I dislike. He haskneeshalfwayup his legs.I manageto resembleone of the triandsohe turnsawayat last tonson oneof BenvenutoCellini'ssaltcellars, to speakto Husband. "All right,"he says."I canseethis is justoneof thosethingsnobody for.I'll arrangefor the reprieveto be countermanded. can be responsible This time, when the devil is deadhe staysdead." HusbandembracesScryban.Wonderful woman beginsto cry. Tiaitorsall! I startto laugh,makingit so harshand loud and horrible it frightensevenme. time I shall is this: on the What none of them understands riseagain.
Author Emeritus2000 DANIELKEYES BARRYN. MALZBERG
Rowersfor Daniel Most of us, sooneror later, come to understandthe nafure of the human condition.. . that slow stalk from darknessto light, from ignoranceto at leasta tentativeunderstanding, from helplessness to accommodation. . . and then the slow or acceleratingslide into extinction, incapacity,ihe darknessfrom which we struggledthat wasalwaysour condition.For some,disasteror geneticsspeedsor suddenlytruncates that journey,for othersthe slowprocession towardunderstanding is impossible.But the traversalis generic;the greaternumber understand. Ecclesiastes, andsoon. That knowledgebeing socloseto general,why doesFlowersfor AIgemon, that encompassingstory, that narrativeof grief beyond metaphor, move us so?Why are the lastpagesof the noveletteand the novel "lt would takea heartof stonenot which is its expansionso shattering? to laugh at the deathof Little Nell," OscarWilde saidof Dickens,but no such judgmenthasyet beenmadeof the extinguishingof CharlieGordon. Unbearableand yet-as art will permit-cathartic. Why so moving?The narrativepremise,perhaps-never before evoked,I am fairlysure.The storyis framedasCharlie'sdiary,he speaks to us directlyand his voiceshiftsthroughthe situation.His voiceis the
2000 217 TheAuthorEmeritus situation.No mute, ingloriousMilton here seenexternallybut the living, breathing,sufferingthing itself, and, somewherearound the twothirds of doom;the point of the narrative,the sfunned,then poisedawareness Nothinglike this,really.The novel incalculablepriceof thatacceptance. is successful, the detailsof Charlie'schildhood,of filial shameand rapIt needs prochement,aretouching.. . but the noveletteis incomparable. no further detail. It is stark,yet lush in its traversalof that disasterwhich the philosophersinstructus is the "human condition." Flowersfor Algernonwasonly the fifth or sixth storypublishedby and the link betweenautobiogDaniel Keyes,who givesautobiography raphyand this storyin his memoir,Algernon,Charlie,and I very well. There wasonly one Keyesstoryin the sciencefiction magazinesafter ofthe novelette.In 1968,threeyearsafterpublicationof the appearance the novel,his only othernovelpublishedin his country,TheTouch,appeared,and in the early r97osa nonfiction biographyof ESP and The Mindsof Billy Milligan.TheTouch,a curiouslyprescient telekinesis, effectfear novelof breakdownin a nuclearinstallationandthe disastrous published a its employees, was undervalued; of contaminationhasupon little more than a decadebeforeThree Mile Island and the movie The it is Chinasyndrome(anda decadeanda half beforeihe film Sl/kwood), a brilliant adumbrationof issueswhich had not until that time entered Alas,for all its greatmerit,the novelfailedto the generalconsciousness. find any supportfrom its publisher,failed then to reach its intended audience. This is not true of Flowersfor Algernon.lt found its intendedaudiThe novelettebecamea novel,teleence,thataudiencebeingeveryone. television vision adaptation,featurefilm, musical,other adaptations, he writes Keyes, as seriesin fapan,mostrecentlya newfilm for television. in Algemon,Charlie, and l, becamethe man who hit the lottery, made the jackpot,scoredthe Ultimate Tip and ihus broughthome the big winner, but he did sonot throughthe exerciseof chancebut, one might theorize,throughthe avoidanceof chance;therewerea hundredwaysin which Flowersfor Algemoncould havegonewrong,could havecollapsed into sentimentor fakery,but craft took Keyesthe right way,everytime. of this work And the power,the beauty,the absoluteeffectiveness alsosaysomethingabout sciencefiction, our dear old field which we oftenpainfully,but alwaysearnestlycelebratein thesevolumes.
212 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Note this: of the five mostfamousand infuential storiesin the corpus of what we call modernsciencefictiono (SF publishedsubsequent to the first issueofAmazingStoriesdatedApril 19z6),two of them are by writerswho areknown to the generalpublic and largelywithin the field itself only by thosestories,writers whosecareerswithout those stories would, howeverhonorable,be modest.What doesthis mean? Here is what I think it means:thatvoice,the greatvoiceof science fiction, the powerof our medium, its resonance, vision,possibiliiy,has createda bodyof literaturewhich at its bestcould havebeentold in no otherway.This greattask,greatburden,alchemyof spiritand machine, managesto somehowhavesubsumedall of its creators,hasopenedihe way to the final mysteryand its powerto us all. We are madeone with Algernon and Charlie Gordon beforeand after,yescertainly after, that greatfall itself. BarryN. Malzberg NewYorkCity: May zooo
oThe others:"The Cold Equations," by Tom Godwin; "Nightfall," by IsaacAsimov; "The Star," by Arthur C. Clarke; 'A Sound of Thunder," by Ray Bradbury.
Atgernor,Chartie,and I A W R I T E R ' SJ O U R N E Y D A N I E LK E Y E S
Editing Pulpsand Writing ComicBooks One Friday afternoonin r95o,I got a call from Lesterdel Rey.He fiction editorfor a wantedto know if I wasinterestedin a job asassociate chain of pulp magazines-the popular fiction magazinesof the day, printedon cheapuntrimmedstockthat left paperdandruffalloveryour darkclothing. "l don't understand,"I said. 'Well, my agent,ScottMeredith,hasheardof an openingat StaThe editor.Bob Erisman.worksout of his home in dium Publications. Connecticut,and comesinto New Yorkonly on Fridaysto pick up the editorquit without notice,and Bob'sdespereditedstories.His associate ate for a replacement.I told Scott that even though you haven'tpublishedyet,you havea goodstorysenseand might be ableto handlethe job. He'swilling to recommendyou. It paysfifty dollarsa week." "How can Meredith recommendme? He'sneverevenmet me." Lesterpaused."Don't askany questions.If you want the job just getoverherequick." Within a week I was editing ten pulp magazinesfrom Stadium Publicationsofficeson the sixteenthfloor of the Empire StateBuilding. I selected,bought,and editedstoriesfor nine westernsand sportstitles, and one sciencefiction magazinecalledMarvel ScienceFiction.
214 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Severalmonthslater,when the advertisingdepartrnentcalledand said a last-minutead cancellationhad left a three thousand-wordhole in one of the westerns,I filled in by submittinga short-shortunder a pseudonymthroughan agent.AlthoughErismanhatedthat firstclich6ridden westernyarn, he evenhrallyagreedthat the young writer I had takenunder my wing wascomingalongnicely. "His stylehas improved:no more clich6s,tighter prose,cleaner plot. Youryoung writer spinsa goodyarn.There'sevena hint of characterization." But I still hadn'tpublishedanythingunder my own name. In the springof t95z,l wasaskedby the editorof Other WorldsScienceStoriesio submita storyfor a special'All StarEditor Issue!"It was goingto featuresix storiesby sciencefiction editors.If they boughtmy story,I would be paid two centsa word. I thoughtof the "Cuinea Pig" idea,aboutincreasinghuman intelligencethroughsurgery,but I sensedit would be a complexstory.I didn't feel readyto write it, soI put it out of my mind and keptsearching. I found another idea in my note folder. What if a slave-robotwas emancipated? FIowwould it dealwith anti-robotprejudice?How would he supporthimself? In the samefolder, I sawa note. "AlgernonCharlesSwinburne. Odd firstname."MaybeI would namethe firstfreerobotAlgernon.I decided,instead,to namethe robot-Robert. I mentionedthe emancipated robotconceptto Lesterdel Reyover coffee,and he offeredme fifty dollarsfor the idea.It wastempting,but I figuredif Lesterwaswilling to buy it, it mustbe worth writing. "RobotUnwanted,"my firstrealpublicationundermy own name, wasthe leadstoryin the issue.It was5,ooowordslong, and the check, aftera ro percentdeductionfor the agent'sfee,wasfor $9o. The onecopyI still haveis on crumblingpulp paper,andasI open to it the pagecomesloose.The blurb reads:"Robertwasthe only oneon Earth-an F.R.That meanthe wasa freerobot;freeto do anythinghe wanted-but he didn't wantto die!" For a writer, there is no feeling to match the elation that comes from seeingyour name in print under the title of your first published work. As you walk the streetsof Manhattan,you wonder why people
Atgernon, Charlie, andI
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aren'trushingup to askfor yourautograph. Youtoy with the ideaof quitting your job and writing full-timefor fameand fortune. When the rejectionsof otherstorieskeepcoming,you drift back down to earth. But somepeoplein the closelyknit sciencefiction writing and publishingcommunitytook note.Many SF editors,agents,and writers had known eachotherasfansin the earlyyears.One suchgroupcalled itself the Hydra Club. I had met many of its membersand wasoften invitedto their parties,but I wastoo youngto be acceptedinto this circle. One Fridayafternoon,afterthe publicationof "RobotUnwanted" I got a phonecall, invitingme to join a pokergameat the homeof H. L. Gold, which wasalsothe office of Galaxy,the magazinehe edited.I'd heardstoriesthat since his return from World War II duty, Horacehad developedagoraphobia,and rarelyleft his home-office. As a way of socializingwith other writers,editors,and agents,he had set up a regularFriday night nickel-dimepoker gameat his New York apartment.It wasn'tthe Deux Magotsin Parisor the "Algonquin Round Thble" in New York, but for a wanna-beauthor it wasexhilarating to be amongpeopledevotedto writing. Playerswould drop in any time, from after dinner until breakfast. We playedgameslike highJow seven-card stud, anaconda,and iron cross.And until I learnedthe subtleties of the gameandthe peopleat the table-when to bluff, when to fold-the tuition fee in this pokerseminar left a gap in my fifty-dollar-a-week paycheck. By ,g53,the pulpssuffereda seriousdeclinein readership asa result ofthe new paperbackbooksand television,and sinceStadiumPublicationshad to cut expenses, theygaveme notice.Erismanwould have to handleall the magazinesby himself,usingthe housenamefuthur Lane to give the impressionthat a staff was still operating.The pulps soon vanishedexceptfor some of the sciencefiction magazines,like Galaxy,Astounding, and The Magazine of Fantasy6 ScienceFiction. A few daysbeforemy job wasterminated,Bob Erismanand I had lunch at Child's in the Empire StateBuilding. We reminiscedabout working together.I leanedbackaftercoffeeand said,"Bob, I havea confessionto make." His eyebrows went up.
Awards Showcase 2001 216 Nebula "Rememberthat writer whosestoriesyou hatedat first,and I told you I sawsometalentin him?" "You mean'Bushwackat AransasPass'?" "Yeah.Well, I useda pen nameand submittedthat and all those other storiesthrough an agent.I wantedyou to know." Bob smiled."l guessconfessionis good for the soul. Remember thosewesternand sportsnovelsand novellasvou weren't permitted to buy becausetheywerewritten under conhact?" "Sure." "Well, what do you think I wasdoing at home in Mystic, Connecticut,afterI checkedyour work and wroteblurbsand titles?" "You?" He nodded. We had a drink tosetherand toastedthe end of an era. In contrastto the declineof the pulps,Mariin GoodmanPublications'subsidiary,Timely Comics,wasflourishing.Goodmanofferedme job a working for his son-in-lawStan Lee, who wasin charge a transfer, of the comicbookline andhassincebecomethe headof a multimillionrent wasalcalledMarvel. Sincemy $r7.25-a-month dollar coqporation mostdue, I acceptedwhat I considereda detouron my journeytoward a literarycareer. Stan Lee was a lanky, shy young man who kept pretty much to cartoonists, andlethimselfandlet his editorsdealwith the scriptwriters, Stan read them and as a tering crew.Writersturned in plot synopses. matterof coursewould acceptone or two from eachof the regularshe referredto ashis "stable."As one of hisfront men, I would passalongthe commentsand criticism.The writerswould then developthem in script form, with dialogue,and actionsfor each panel, much like movie screenplays. Becauseof my experienceeditingMarvel,and becauseI'd solda few sciencefiction storiesby then, Stanallowedme to specializein the horror,fantasy,suspense, and sciencefiction comic books.Naturally,I and supplebegansubmittingstoryideas,gettingfreelanceassignments, mentingmy salaryby writing the scriptson my own time. One of the ideasI wrote.but didn't submitto him. I called"Brainstorm."It startedout:
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The firstguy in the testto raisethel.Q. from a low normalgo to genius level...He goesthrough the experience, and then is thrownbackto what he was. . . he is no brighterthan he wasbefore, but havinghada sampleof light, hecanneverbethesame. Thepathosof a man who knowswhat it is to bebrilliant and to knowthat he can neveragainhavethe thingsthat he tastedfor the first time, includinga brilliant, beautifulwomctnhe fell in lovewith and with whom he cdn no longerhayeany contact. I didn't submitit to StanLee because,Jrn.tninn told me it should be more than a comic-bookscript.I knew I would do it somedayafterI learnedhow to write. In the fall of rg5z,in violation of Commandment Three, "Thou shaltnot marry while in psychotherapy," I proposedto Aureaand she accepted. When I told StanLee aboutit, he rubbedhis handstogetherand gloated."Thatt great,Dan. Get married.Buy a house,take on a big mortgage.Buy a fancy car.Then you won't be so independent." My friend Morton Klassand his brotherPhil (who publishedstoriesunderthe pseudonymWilliam Tenn)threwr.iceat Aureaand me as we left City Hall. A big weddingparty at PeterFlandt Studio.Models and friendsand a few relatives.The weddingcakewas a cheesecake from Lindy's. We didn't buy a house.We moved into my cold-waterbachelor pad.Aureawasstill workingfor PeterFland,and I wasonceagaintrying to rewritemy merchantmarinenovelwhile freelancingscriptsfor Stan. A few monthslater,Aureaphoned,soundingupset."Peterand his new partnerare arguing.I think they'regoing to breakup. You'dbetter comeoverand seethat I getpaid." I left my writing desk,and went to the shrdio.Beforethe daywas over,Aureahadleft Fland.The partnerhad offeredusa deal.He wanted Aurea as a photographerand fashionstylistand me as an advertising copywriterand salesman. We investedour savingsin the fashionphotographybusiness and celebrateddreamsof success. Our parhrer,I soondiscovered, seemedto be an incorrigibleliarat leastthat'swhat I believedat the time. I survivedthe vearonlv bv
2001 Awards Showcase 278 Nebuta assumingthat when he saidit wasnighttime,it wasreallydaytime.The success turnedinto a recurrentnightmare.The partdreamof business ner is standingin front of me on a subwayplat'orm.I feela rage. . . I raise both handsand stepforward. . . Then anothertrain,the elevatedtrain of my childhood,thunderspastmy bedand I pull back,turn awayand hide underthe covers.Nevermind. I soldout to him, and we lostthe savings we investedin the company. sessions, I vipsychoanalysis No longerableto affordtwice-weekly one fiftygiving my therapist Fourth by Commandment olated the minute-hourtnotice. I heardhis voicefrom behind-actually speakingto me! "You are a greatmistakemaking.You, the rulesknew when we you for the restof the started.You mustpayfor whateverappointments month don't keep." I got offthe couch,lookedhim in the eye,and paidhim. "Thanks for the memories." I seenow thatmy ex-shrinkwasprobablythe modelfor Dr. Strauss. For the purposeof exploringthe writing life, lei'ssetasidethe current argumentsfor or againstpsychoanalysis. Overthe years,asa writer, I havecometo believestronglyin two of Freud'sideas:the powerof the asa motivatingforce directingbehavior,and his method of unconscious to plumb subconscious connections. freeassociation Sincemostwritersusetheir own experiences to breathelife into and to createbelievablesettingsand actions,thosetwo their characters conceptsprovidedme with waysto explorea lifetime accumulationof material,aswell asthe toolswith which to retrievethem. My dreamof becominga writergrewout of my loveof booksand storytelling,but the only materialI can reallycall my own is storeddeepin the unconscious like a gardener's spadeto dig areaof my rootcellar.I usefreeassociation out connectedmemories,bring them into the light, and replantthem wheretheycan bloom. Many yearslater, when I was develoningthe novel versionof Flowersfor Algernon,I felt the book neededa psychoanalyticsessron betweenDr. Straussand Charlie. I struggledwith it. Then, frustrated, I put it out of my mind. A few weekslater,I awokeearlyone morning, feelingthe answersurfacingin my mind - comingcloseto the barrier.
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I lay there until the mental picturescame through-myself stretched out on my analyst'scouch fighting to breakthrough the "Monday Morning Crust." AlthoughI didn'tknowit at the time, my shrinkhad earnedhisfee. To write lhe scene,I justgavethat memoryto Charlie.
Lookingfor Charlie During the next few months,the idea of artificially increasing human intelligencesurfacedin my mind manytimes.It wasa periodof falsestarts,experiments,trial and error. Someof the early notessuggest openingepisodesand differentnamesfor the main character. An officerrecommends his cousinfor the experimentof having hisI.Q. changed.Walton is a bachelorwho haslong beenin lovewith a girl who worksin the tapeslibrary . . . SteveDekkerhasbeenin and out of prisonmoretimesthan he can count. lt seemsthat practicallyeverytime he pulls a iob he getscaught.He has this self-defeating kind of personality that endsup in failure.He decidesthat thisis becausehe'snot smartenough-also there'sa girl he'snutsabout who won't give him a tumble,becausehe'snot bright. So when he reads an article about makinganimalssmarterhe bargesin and offershimselfas a guineapigfor brain surgery. The storyof raisingFlint Gargan'sl.Q. Flint is a guy who is crude,enioysscrawlingdirty pix on bathroomwalls,fights at the drop of a syllable. . . he's alsofilled with comy emotions, criesoyersentimentalgush,lovesweddings,babies,dogs- has hisown dog. Flint hated schoolwhen he wasa boy,left schoolto go out on hisown asa plumber'shelper. . . figuresschool'snotsobad for some,but doesn'tthink that he would have been helbed much by it. I try not to edit or judgewhile I'm writing. I let the raw material pour out, and if I feel itt good, I shapeit later. But I didn't like Steve
Showcase 2001 22O NebulaAwards Dekkeror Flint Gargan,and I wantednothingmoreto do with t}em, or the dozensof other charactersthat appearedon my pages.I wassearching my memory, my feelings,the world around me, for a clue to the characterof this story. I soonrealizedthat part of my problemwasthat the storyideathe "What would happenif . . . ?"- had comefirst,and now I wastrying to castan actorto playthe role withoutknowingwhathe waslike. I decidedto try workingfrom the eventsthat stemmedfrom the idea,and let the characterevolvefrom the story. The plot was developingthrough a sequenceof connected chain of events,embodyingwhat we call the cause-and-effect episodes, form or structure.But I wasa long, long wayfrom a story. I tried startinglater in the narrative,rememberingHomer'sepic strategy of starting"in the middle of the action,"asin Thelliad andThe Odyssey. Threedayslater theywheeledhim into the operatingroom of the lnstitute.He lifted himselfup on oneelbowand waved to Linda who had supervisedhispreparation. "Wish me luck,beautiful,"he said. Shelaughed."You'll be all right." Dr. Brock'sqes smiled downat him from behind hissurgicalmask. The fragmentbreaksoff there,but if I were the editor,I'd have your blue-penciledthiswith a noteto the writer:"'Smiling eyes?'Watch 'From behind his surgicalmask?'If his eyesare smiling from clich6s. behindthe maskthen he'sgoingto operateblindfolded!" later found its way into the published Still, part of that passage novelette. There are abouttwentysuch attemptsat beginnings,overseveral months.I had an ideaI caredabout.And a storyline, and a few passages. But I still didn't havethe characterI felt wasright. I wassearchingfor a protagonist who would be memorableand with whom the readerand I could identify; someonewith a strongmotivationand goalwho evokeda someonewhoseinner life gavehim a response&om other characters; human dimension.
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Wherewould I find sucha character? How could I inventand develophim? I hadn'tthe slightestidea. Then, months later, he walked into my life and hrrned it around.
GharlieFindsMe It happenedin Brooklyn.Aureaand I movedbackthere,acrossthe sheetfrom my parents'apartment,on the streetwhere I'd grown up. We were broke.Aureadid freelancefashionstylingand I resumedwriting scriptsfor StanLee. Hundredsof them. I took coursesat night for a master's degreein Americanliterature to preparemyselffor a teachinglicenseasa wayto buy my freedomfrom scriptwriting. I passedthe Board of Education exam for substitute teacher,then taught at the high schoolfrom which I'd graduatedten yearsearlier. I wrotenights,duringthe Christmasbreak,and summers.In 1956, I finished"The Tiouble with Elmo," a sciencefiction story about a chess-playing supercomputercreatedto solveall the crisesin the world. But the computerhasfiguredout thatwhen thereareno moreproblems to solve,it will be destroyed. So Elmo solveseveryproblem,but embeds whatwe would now call a computer"worm" or "Tiojan horse"containing a programthat createsnew world crisesfor it to solve."The Tiouble with Elmo" appearedinGalary magazine. I passedthe New York Boardof Educationexamfor an English teacher'slicensein fune of ry57.With my higher salaryas a regular teacher,Aureaand I wereableto rent a one-bedroom housein Seagate, a gatedcommunity at the westerntip of Coney Island. I loved strolling the beach,smellingthe saltair, lookingout at the oceanand recalling my seafaring days.I setup my typewriterand deskin a cornerof the bedroom,confidentI'd be ableto write in this place. The following schoolterm, the chairmanof the English department, impressedwith my four publishedshort stories,assignedme to teachtwo electiveclasses of creativewriting. Each classwaslimited to twenty-fivegiftedstudents,all of whom lovedreadingand wantedto be
Showcase 2001 222 NebulaAwards writers.But many of them acted as if they deservedto have success handedto them becauseof their intelligence.When they groanedat and disdainedrevisingtheir work, I told them, "There the assignments are thosepeoplewho want to write,and otherswho want to be writets. For somegeniuses,success comeswithout labor.For the restof us, it's the love of writing that counts.' my other two for thesetwo "specialclasses," As if to compensate for I.Q. students. For them, I low classes wereSpecialModifiedEnglish wasexpectedto concentrateon spelling,sentencestruchrre,and develfocusedon issuesof the day that Classdiscussions oping paragraphs. might interestthem.The keyto teachingthe "special"studentsin "modI wastold, is to motivatethem with thingsrelevantto their ified classes," own lives. I will neverforgetmy firstdayof teachingone of the SpecialModified Englishclasses. I can still seethe boy,in the rearof the room near the window.When the schoolbell ringsat the end of the fifty-minute hour, studentsjump up and rushout-except that boy,who lumberstowardsmy desk.He wearsa blackparka,wiih the orangeleiter f. "Mr. Keyes.. . Can I askyou something?" "Sure.Youon the footballteam?" "Yeah.Linebacker. Look,Mr. Keyes,thisisa dummy class,ain'tit?" I'm takenaback."What?" 'A dummyclass.. . for stupidpeople.. ." Not knowinghow to react,I mumble,"No. . . not really.. . It'sjust specialandmodified.We go a little slowerthan someof the other- " "l knowthis is a dummy class,and I wantedto askyou.If I try hard and I getsmartby ihe end of the term,will you put me in a regularclass? I wantto be smart." "Sure," I say,not knowing if I really have the authority. "Lett see whathappens." When I gethomethat evening,I try to work on a storyI've started, but the boykeepsintruding.His words"l wantto be smart"haunt me to challengedperthis day.It neveroccurredto me thata developmentally son- in thosedaystheycalledit retarded- would be awareof his or her limitationsand might want to be more intelligent. I beganto write abouthim.
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Short storyof a boy in a modified classwho beginsto realize that he'sa "dummy."Teacher's point of view.Donald. . .Title: "The Gifted and the Slow." Twochildrenwhogrowup neareachother-one cleverand the other dull. A slowchild'sdeteriorationa reflectionof the entireculture. Stuart who is strugglingagainstthe knowledge that he is slow-Donald whoabuseshisintelligence. A boy in a modifiedclass- in lovewith a bright girl who- up to this point-doesn't understandthe dffirencesin intelligence.As eachonebecomes aware...He had beenplacedin this classafter he becamea behaviorproblem.He was in a gangof boyscalledthe Cormorants. His teacheris d new,beginningteacherwho hasidealsand aspirations- and who believesthat Coreycan be straightened out. Coreyis a neuroticboy-very bright but very disturbed. Bright boy comesinto conflict with duU boy overa girl. The dull boy kills the bright boy in a fight. And soon... andsoon... andsoon.. . Itwasgoingnowhere. I put the notesawayand forgotabout them. I decidedto write a novelbasedon my experiences in the fashron photographybusinesswith Aurea and the partner who, I felt, nearly droveboth ofus crazy.Shesuggested that I takea leaveofabsencefrom teaching,and write full-timewhile shefreelancedasa fashionstylistin Manhattan. It went well. I wasa night writer in thosedays,and the soundof my Royaltypewriterin the bedroomlulled Aureato sleep.In fact, if I stoppedtyping for too long she would awakenand mumble, "What's the matter?" We'd havebreakfasttogether,and then I would drive her to the train stationon the backof my red Cushmanscooter.I'd comebackto the apartmentfor my day'ssleep.Then I'd pick her up in the evening. We'dhavedinnertogether.Shewould go to sleep,and I'd sit downat the typewriterin a cornerof the bedroom.
224 Nebula Awards 2001 Showcase I don't recall how long it took me to write the first draft of that fashion photographynovel, but I do rememberthat after I put it away for few days,and then reread it, I was sick to my stomach.It was so bad. - on the vergeof I becamedepressed, frushated,and demoralized givingup writing altogether. Then, in the summerof 1958,H. L. Gold phonedand askedme to write a secondstoryfor Calary to follow "The Tioublewith Elmo." "l'll try, Horace.I've got an idea." "Well, get it to me assoonasyou can." It's amazinghow quickly depression,frustration,and demoralization can melt awaywhen an editor asksa strugglingwriter for a story.I searchedmy filesand notebooks. There wasan old, yellowedpagefrom my first year at NYU with the line: "l wonderwhatwould happenif we could increasehuman intelligenceartificially?"The line, I remembered, had beenaccompanied by a depressing vision on the subway-the wedgethat educationhas driyenbetweenme and my family. How often those thoughts have come back to me. I reread my notesand scrapsaboutthe operationto increasethe I.Q., and the story idea,and the shapeit might take-the plot of a classictragedy. RecallingAristotle'sdictum in his Poetlcs, that a tragedycan happen only to the highborn,becausetherecan be a tragicfall only from a greatheight,I thought,lett testthat.What if someonethe world viewsas the lowestof the low,a mentallyhandicapped youngman, climbsto the peakof BookMountain,the heightsof genius? And then losesit all. I felt myselfchokingup asI thoughtaboutit. Okay,I'vegotthe idea,and the plot, I thought,but I still don'thave the characterwith motivation. I openeda more recentfolder,turned severalpages,and sawthe note: A boy comesup to me in the SpecialModified English classand says,"l want to be smart." Stunned,I staredat thosepages,sideby side.A motivationcollided with a "What would happenif . . ." I glancedat Aureatossingrestlessly in bed.I pushedmy notefoldersaside,readyto begin again.I needednew names.In the city she'd
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workedfor the LarryGordonStudio.Aurea'slastbofriend beforewe got married,my rival-his firstnamewasCharlie. I typed.Aureasighedat the sound,and soonshewasfastasleep. Charlie Gordon-whoever you are, whereveryou are-l hear you. I hearyour voicecallingout, "Mr. Keyes,I wantto be smart." Okay,CharlieGordon,you wantto be smart?I'll makeyou smart. Here I come,readyor not.
Getting There I typedthe followingopeningpagesin one sitting,poundingaway on the keyswith more excitementwriting than I'd everknown before. Here is the uneditedfirstdraft: "The GeniusEffect" by Daniel Keyes "What makesCordon, here,ideal for the experiment,"said Dr. Sfrauss,"is that he has a low intelligenceleveland he's eagerand willingto be madea guineapig." Charlie Gordonsmiledand satforwardon the edgeof his chair to hearwhat Dr. Nemurwould answerto that. "You may be right, Strauss,but he'ssuch a small, frailIookingthing. Can he take it, physically?We have no idea howmuchof a shockitwill be to the human neryoussystem to havethe intelligenceleveltripled in sucha short time." "l'm healthy,"offeredCharlie Gordon,rising and pounding on his slight chest."l been working since I was a kid, dnd-"
"Yes,we knowall about that, Charlie,"said Dr. Sfrauss, motioningfor Charlie to reseathimself."What DoctorN emur meansis somethingelse.lt's toocomplicatedto explainto you right now. lust relax,Charlie." Tuming his attention back to his colleague,Dr. Strauss continued:"I know he'snot what you had in mind as the first of your new breedof intellectual supermen,but volunteers
226 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 with seventyI.Q. are not easyto find. Most peopleof his low mentality are hostileand uncooperative. An l.Q. of seventy usuallymeansa dullnessthat'shard to reach. "Charlie hasa goodnatureand he'sinterested and eagerto please.He knowsthat he'snot bright, and he'sbeggedme for the chanceto serveasthe subiectof our experiment.Youcan't discountthe valueof motivation.Youmay be sureof yourself, Nemur, but you'vegot to rememberthat this will be the first human being everto have his intelligenceraisedby surgical means." Charlie didn't understandmostof what Dr. Strausswas saying,but it soundedas if he wereon his side.He held his breathashewaitedfor Dr. Nemur'sanswer.ln awe,hewatched the white-hairedgeniuspull his upper lip over his lowerone, scratchhisear,and rub hisnose.Thenfinally it came- a nod. 'AIl right," said Nemur,"we'Il try him. Put him throughthe personality tests.I'il want a completeprofiIe ds soon ds possible." Unable to contain himself,Charlie Cordon leapedto his feet and reachedacrossthe deskto pump Dr. Nemur'shand. "Thank you, Doc, thank you.Youwon't be sonyfor giving me a chance.I'lltry hardto besmart.I'lI try awfuIhard." The first of the testersto encounterCharlie Gordon wasa young Rorschachspecialistwho attemptedto get a deeperinsight into Charlie'spersonality. "Now, Mr. Cordon,"said the thin youngman, pushing his glasses backon the bridgeof his nose,"iust teII me what you seeon thiscard." Charlie, who approachedeach new testwith tensionand the memoryof manychildhoodfailures,peeredat the card suspiciously.'Aninkblot." "Yes,of course,"smiledthe tester. Charlie got up to leave."That's a nice hobby.I have a hobbytoo. I paint pictures,you know they havethe numbers whereyou put the differentcolors-" "Please,Mr. Cordon.Sit down.We'renot throughyet. Now
Algernon, Charlie, andI what doesit make you think ofZ What do you seein the inkblot?" Charlie leanedcloserto the card and staredat it intently. He tookit from the tester'shand and held it closeup. Then he held it far awayfrom him glancingup at the young mdn out of the comerof hiseye,hopingto get a hint. Suddenly,he was on hisfeet,headingout the door. "Whereareyou going, Mr. Cordon?" "To get nry glasses." When Charlie retumedfrom the lockerwherehe had ffi his glasses in his coat pocket,he explained."l usually only haveto usemy glasses whenI go to the moviesor watchteleyision,but they'rereally goodones.Int me seethat card again. l'll bet I find it now." Picking up the card again, he staredat it in disbelief.He wdssurethat he'dbeableto seeanythingtherewith his glasses on. He strainedand frownedand bit his nails.He wanteddesperatelyto seewhat it wasthat the testerwantedhim to find in that massof inkblot."lt's dn inkblot.. .," he said,but seeing the lookof dismayon the youngman'sface,he quicklyadded, "but it's a nice one.Verypretty with theselittle thingson the edgesand . . ." He sdwtheyoungpsychologist shakinghishead and he let his voice hail off. Obviouslyhe hadn't gotten it right. "Mr. Cordon, now we know it's an inkblot. What I want you to tell me is what it makesyou think of. What do you visualize-l meanwhatdo you seein yourmind whenyou look at it?" "lzt me try again," pleadedCharlie. "I'll get it in a few minutes.l'm not sofast sometimes. l'm a very slowreddertoo, but l'm trying hard." He took the card again and tracedthe outlineof the blot for severalminutes,hisforeheadknit in deep thought."What doesit remindmeof? What doesit remindme of ...?" he musedto himself.Suddenlyhisforeheadcleared. The young man leanedforward expectantlyas Cordon said, "Sure-of course*whata dopeI am. I shouldhavethought of it before;'
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228 NebulaAwards 2001 Showcase "Doesit makeyou think of something?" "Yes,"said Charlie triumphantly,a knowingsmile illumi'A nating his face. fountain Pen. . .leaking ink all over the tablecloth." During the ThematicApperceptionTest,in which he was askedto makeup storiesabout the peopleand thingshe saw in a seriesof photographs,he ran into further difficulty. "-l know you nevermet thesepeoplebefore,"said the young womdn who had dane her Ph.D. work at Columbia, "l've nevermet themeither.lust pretendthat you-" "Then if I nevermet them,how can I tell you storiesabout themTNow I've got somepicturesof my mother and father and my little nephewMiltie. I could tell you storiesabout Miltie..." He could tell by the way shewasshakingher head sadly that shedidn't want to hear storiesabout Miltie. He beganto wonderwhat waswrongwith all thesepeoplewho askedhim to do suchstrangethings. Charlie was miserableduring the nonverbalintelligence tests.He wasbeatenten timesout of ten by a group of white mice who leamedto work their way out of a mazebeforehe did. It depressed him to learn that miceweresosmart. I remembertypingthat openingfragment.I sawmyselfwriting my homework,the ink dripping from my pen, making an inkblot on the white paper,my mother'shand coming over my shoulderand ripping out the page.I laughedout loud asI sawit happeningto Charlie,sawhis reaction,heardhis words.There wasno thinking ahead.It wasasif the sentences wereflowingfrom my fingertipsto the ilpewriterkeyswithout passingthrough my brain. Somethinginsidetold me I had it. I finally had it. Henry fameswrote of the donn6e-"the given"-as being the heartof the work givento the writer.Well, a boy had walkedup to me and given me what I neededto sparkthe story,and, in return, I would give him someof my own memoriesto bring his characterio life on the page. Charlie'sstoryhad begunto tell itself.It felt right. It felt good. Yet,the next evening,when I satdown to work, I couldn't go on.
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Somethingwasblockingme.What?I knewthe ideawasoriginal;I felt it wasimportant;it had stayedwith me overthe yearsand demandedto be written. What waswrong? As I rereadthe pages,I laughedaloudat Charlie'sresponses to the inkblot.Then, suddenly,it hit me. I waslaughingat Charlie.The wayI wastelling the story,the readerwould be laughingat Charlie. That's what mostpeopledid when they sawthe mentallydisadvantaged make mistakes.It wasa wayof makingthemselvesfeel superior.I remembered the dayI brokethe dishes,and the customerslaughedand Mr. Goldstein calledme moron. I didn't want my readersto laugh at Charlie. Maybe laugh with him, but not at him. Sure,I had the idea,and the plot, and the character,but I hadn't found the right way,the only way,to tell the story.The point of view, or what I prefer to call the angleof vision,waswrong.This had to be told from Charliet perspective.It had to be first person,major character angle-in Charlie'smind and throughCharlie'seyesall the way. But how?What narrativeshaterywould let the storyunfold? Would the readerbelieve that a developmentallydisadvantaged personcould write this asa memoirfrom beginningto end?I couldn't believethat myself.I liked the idea of each event,each scene,being recordedas it was happening,or right after it had happened.Diary? Again,not plausiblethat-at leastin the beginningand at the endCharliewould sit down and makelong journalentries. I struggledwith the narrativestrategyfor severaldays,growing more and more frustrated, becauseI felt I wasso closeto unlockingthe story.Then one morningI awokewith the answerin my mind.As partof the experiment,Charlie would be askedto keepan ongoingrecord,a progressreport. I had neverheardthe term before,or reada storyor novel in which it hadbeenused.I suspected thatI wasdevelopinga uniquepointof view. Now that I had found Charlie'svoice, I knew he would tell it throughmy fingerson the keys.But how would I handlethe sentence structure and spelling?Studentsin my modified classesprovided the model. How would I know how he thought?I would hy to remember what it waslike to be a child. How would I know his feelings?I would givehim my feelings.
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When Flaubertwasaskedhow he could haveimaginedand written of life throughthe mind of a womaninMadame Bovary,his answer was:"l am MadameBovary." In that sense,I gaveCharlie Gordon someof myself,and I became part ofthat character. Still, I wasworriedaboutopeningwith the illiteratespellingand short,childishsentencestructure.I wonderedaboutthe readert reaction. Then I rememberedwhat Mark Twain did in Ths Adventuresof HucklebenyFinn. Beforeplunging into the vernacularof the uneducatedHuck, Twain alertsthe readerwith the author'seducatedvoice. "Personsattemptingto find a moThe novel openswith a NOTICE: tive in this narrativewill be prosecuted;personsattempting to find a moral in it will be banished;personsattemptingto find a plot in it will be shot. ..BY ORDEROF THE AUTHOR,PERC.G., CHIEI,'OF ORDNANCE.''
This is followedby an nxrr-rNAloRy: "ln this book a number of dialectsare used,to wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the exhernestform of the backwoodsSouth-Westerndialect;the ordinary'Pike-County'dialect;and four modifiedvarietiesof this last.. ." signedTHEAUTHoR. Only then,afterhavingpreparedthe reader,doesTwainbeginthe first-personnarrativefrom Huck's point of view and in his voice. "You don't know about me without you havereada book by the name of The Adventuresof Tom Sawyer,but that ain't no matter. That book wasmadeby Mr. Mark Twain and he told the truth, mainly.There wasthingswhich he stretched,but mainly he told the truth." I decidedto follow Thain'sstrategy. My originalopening-which I laterdeletedand can no longerfind*begins with Alice Kinnian coming to the lab and askingProfessor Nemur if he hasheardfrom Charlie. Nemur handsher the manuscript,the firstpagesof which arewritten in pencil,pressedso hard shecan feel the wordsraisedon the backof the PaPer. Only then doesCharlie'svoice takeoyer asI type: P R O G R IRSI P O R 1 T_ M A R T C H 5 Dr. ShausssaysI shudrite downwhatl think and evreything that happinsto mefrom now on.l dont knowwhy but he says
Algernon,Charlie,and I
237
its importint sotheywill seeif thq will useme.I hopetheyuse me. MissKinnian saysmaybethq can makemesmart.I want to be smart. My name is Charlie Cordon. I am 37 yearsold and zweeksagowasmy brithday.I havenuthingmoreto rite now soI will closefor today. When I saw those words on the page, I knew I had it. I wrote through that night and the nightsthat followed,feverishly,long hours, little sleepand lotsof coffee. Then, in the middle of the night, partwaythrough the first draft, after the scenein which Charlie racesthe white mouse,I called out loud, "The mouse!The mousel" Aureajumpedup, startled."Where?Where?" I explainedand shesmiledsleepily,"Oh, good." I turned backto the typewriterand typed a note to myself: The mouse,having had the sametreatmentas Charlie, will forecasteventsconnectedwith the experiment.It will be a characterin its own right, and a. funy little sidekickfor Charlie. A name-l had to give the mousea name.My fingerswent over the keys.It justappearedon the page. Algernon. After that, the story wrote itself, about thirty thousandwordswhatwould be calleda long noveletteor a shortnovella. In that first completedraft,the storyendswith Alice Kinnian looking up from the folder of progressreportswith tearsin her eyes,and askNemur to go with her to help find Charlie. ing Professor Phil Klas by this time had movedwith his wife Fruma into an Phil wasthe nextperson apartmentacrossthe streetfrom me in Seagate. to readthe storyafterAurea.When he returnedthe manuscriptthe next day,he said,"This will be a classic." I knew he wasteasingme, and I laughed. My next movewasto get a differentliteraryagent.I phoned Harry Altshuler,introducedmyself,and told him of H. L. Gold'srequestthat I write a secondstoryfor Calaxy.Altshuler askedto read "Flowersfor Algernon,"and I sentit to him. He saidhe liked it, and would be pleased to be my agent.H. L. Gold should,of course,havefirstcrackat it.
232 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 Euphoriais a mild wordto describemy feelings.I had lustfinished a storythat had been in the back of my mind for years,and I felt good about it. And I had landed a respectedagentwho liked it and an editor who had askedfor it. My houbles,I thought,were over. I wasmistaken.
Rejection and Acceptance A few dayslater,HarryAltshulercalledand told me he'd been in touch with H. L. Gold on behalfof anotherof his writers,and had mentioned my new story. "Horace wants you to bring it to his officeapartment.He'll readit right away.Do you know his place?" "It's where I learnedto play poker and discoveredI'm not very goodat bluffing." 'All right then. Don't discuss price if he wantsto buy it. I'll handle that end." It wasa long hip from Coney Islandto r4th Streeton the eastside of Manhattan,and by the time I arrivedI wason edge.The storymeant a lot to me, and I hopedit could be publishedin a majorsciencefiction magazinelike calaxy. But Horacehada reputationasa hands-oneditor who didn't hesitateto askfor changes. He greetedme at the door, took the envelope,and said,"Relax in the study while I read this in my office. Help yourself to coffee and doughnuts." It had neveroccurredto me that he would readit while I waited, or that I would get instantfeedbackfrom one of the mosiprestigious editorsin the field. For the next hour or so, I drank coffee,read the New york Times, and staredinto spacewonderingif he would like it or hateit, buy it or reject it. Finally,he cameout of his office,deepin thought,and satacross from me. "Dan, this is a goodstory.But I'm goingto suggest a few changes that will turn it into a greatstory." I don't rememberhow I responded. "The endingis too depressing for our readers," he said."l wantyou to changeit. charlie doesn'tregress. He doesn'tlosehis intelligence.In-
andI Atgernon, Charlie,
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marriesAlice Kinnian, and they live stead,he remainsa supergenius, happilyeverafter.That would makeit a greatstory." I staredat him. How doesa beginningwriter respondto the editor who bought one storyfrom him, and wantsto buy a second?The years of labor overthis storypassedthrough my mind. What about my Wedge of Loneliness?My tragic vision of Book Mountain? My challengeto fuistotle'stheoryof the ClassicFall? "l'll haveto think aboutit," I mumbled."l'11needa little time." "l'd like to buy it for one of the upcomingissues, but I'd needthat revision.It shouldn'ttakeyou long." "l'll work on it," I said,knowingtherewasno way I'd changethe ending. "Good," he said,showingme to the door."If not, I'm sureyou'll write other storiesfor Galaxy in the future." I calledHarryAltshulerfrom a payphoneand told him what had happened.There wasa long pause. "Youknow,"he said,"Horaceis a fine editor,with a strongsenseof the market.I agreewith him. It shouldn'tbe too hard to make that change." I wantedto shout:This storyhasa pieceof my heartin it! But who The train ride back to was I to pit my iudgment againstprofessionals? waslong and depressing. Seagate When I told Phil Klasswhat had happened,he shookhis head. "Horaceand Harry arewrong.If you dareto changethe ending,I'll get a baseballbat and breakboth your legs." "Thanks." He wasthen workingfor Bob Mills, He madeanothersuggestion. Fantasy 6 ScienceFiction. "Let me take the Magazine of The editor of storyup to Mills and seeif he'll buy it." I wastorn. WhereasGalary wasconsideredthe most successful for itsliterarymerit' sciencefiction magazine,F6SFwasmostrespected I told Phil to go ahead. A few dayslaterI got the goodnewsalongwith the bad.Bob Mills liked the storyand wantedto publish it, but he waslimited by the publisherto a maximumof r5,ooowordsper story.If I'd agreeto cut to,ooo words,he would buy it at two centsa word. "l'11see,"I said.
234 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 The decisionwasn'ttoo hard.Recallingmy own editingdays,Bob Erisman'sadmonitionto cut, and Meredith'scommentthat Lesterdel Reywould neverrevisebecauseit would cut his incomein half, I shook eachpage,and crossedout everyparagraphand word that wasn'tabsolutely necessary. It didn't hurt asmuch asI feared. I got rid of that-ery and which-ery,and redundantphrases,and "Sentencesplodding along with lots of little words just digressions. like this one doeswere revised."Changedto read:"I revisedplodding sentences."Fifteen words trimmed to four without changing the meaning.At the sametime, by alteringwererevisedto I revised-passivevoiceto activevoice- I changedpedestrianstyleinto a lean,muscularprose. Then I lookedat the lastscenein which Alice putsdown the manuscriptand asksNemur to go with her to find Charlie.I hesitateda moment, and then drewa long diagonalline throughthat pageand a half, allowing the storyto end with his words:"P. P S. Pleaseif you get a chanseput somefowrs on Algernonsgravein the bak yard.. ." Bob Mills boughtthe story. That summer,I wasinvited to attendone of the getawayworlshops in Milford, Pennsylvania, at which the old-guardHydra Club writers were invited to spendpart of each afternoonpassingaround pagesof new storiesfor critiqueby iheir professional peers.I wasinvitedto submit a storyfor the workshop,and I decidedto let them read"Flowersfor Algernon." The night beforethe workshop,I glancedthrough the manuscript and realizedI'd madea mistake.SinceI'd cut off the ending,in which Alice finishesreadingthe progressreportsand goesoffin searchof charlie, the opening,in which Nemur givesher the manuscript,wasnow superfuous. I'd written it that waybecauseI wasafraidto let the storyopen with Charlie'silliterate spelling and simple plodding sentences.I'd been afraidto throw the readerinto charliet "special"point of view without warning. I decidedI had to trustthe reader. That night, I cut the first two pagesand let the storybegin with Charlie'swords,in Charlie'svoice:
Algernon,Charte,and I
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P R O G R IRSI P O R 1 T - M A R T C H5 Dr. StrausssaysI shudrite downwhat I think and evreything that happinsto mefrom nowon. I dont knowwhybut he says its importint so they will seeif they will useme. I hope they uEeme. Then I went out to facemy critics.AmongthoseI rememberforty yearslaterwerefudy Merril, Damon Knight, KateWilhelm, Jim Blish, Avram Davidson,Ted Cogswell,Gordie Dickson.I beg thoseI haven't mentionedto forgiveme. We set out chairson the front lawn, and then passedthe pages aroundthe circle.All I can remembernow is the generouswarmpraise, the congratulations, and the sensethat thesepeopleI admiredhad acceptedme asa fellowwriter. "Flowersfor Algernon"waspublishedasthe leadstoryof the April 1959issueof TheMagazineof Fantasy6 ScienceFiction, with a coverby Ed Emshwiller.Five monthslater,he gaveAureathe originaloil painting as a gift in honor of the birth of our first child, Hillary Ann. The paintingstill hangsin our living room. At the r8th World ScienceFiction Conventionin Pittsburgh,in 196o,asIsaacAsimovhandedme the Hugo Awardfor the beststoryof 1959,he praisedit lavishly. AsimovlaterwroteinThe HugoWinners: "'How did he do it?' I demandedof the Muses.'How did he do it?. . .' And from the'round and gentlefaceof Daniel Keyes,issuedthe 'Listen, immortal words: when you find out how I did it, let me know, will you. I want to do it again."' I wasn'taloneon that celebrationnight.An unseensomeonecast a secondshadowin the spotlightbesideme. Anotherhand reachedout for the Hugo Award.Out of the cornerof my mind, I glimpseda memory of the boy who had walked up to my deskand said,"Mr. Keyes,I want to be smart." And he hasbeenwith me asCharlieGordoneversince.
RhystingAwardWinners B R U C EB O S T O N LAUREL WINTER
TheScience FictionPoetryAssociation givesthe Rhysting Award annuallyin two categories: best long poem(morethan fifty lines)and bestshortpoem(tessthan fifty [ines).Theawardis named for the wandering BtindSingerof the Spaceways in Robert A. Heintein's "The classic shortstory, GreenHittsof Earth." Thewinnersof the 1999Rhysting Awards wereBruceBoston for hislongpoem,"Confessions of a BodyThief,"first publ.ished by Tatisman as a broadside, and LaurelWinterfor her short poem,"egg horrorpoem,"first publishedin Aslmov's Science Fiction. BruceBostonis the authorof twenty-fourbooksof fiction and poetry,inctudingthe novelStainedGlossRain.His stories andpoemshaveappeared in hundreds of pubtications, inctuding AmazingStoies, kimov's, WeirdTales,and ThePushcortpress Anthology. Hehaswonthe Rhysling Awarda recordsixtimesand the Asimov's Po[[Awardfor poetrya recordthreetimes. Readers' Bornin Chicago, he grewup in suburban LosAngeles andhas livedfor manyyearsin the SanFrancisco BayArea. LaurelWinter,whowonthe 1998Rhysling Awardfor longpoetry and the Asimov'sReaders' Pot[Award,livesin a passive sotar,earth-bermed housewith her husband andteenagetwin sons.Sheis the authorof Growing Wings, a science fictionnovel
RhyslingAwardWinners 237 for young readerspubtishedby HoughtonMifflin, and has MinnesotoWomen Speokfor Rive/s edited an anthologycaLled Herother creativepursuitsincludedrawing, EdgePubl.ishing. paintingwith acryticsand gouache,and makingjewetryand with polymerc[ay. sculptures Fiction membership in the Science Forinformationregarding Drive, 6075Bettevue PoetryAssociation, contactJohn Nichots, net.att.net. [:
[email protected]. North0tmste d, 0H 44070. E-mai
of a BodyThief Gonfessions BRUCE BOSTON To takea stranger'smind and weara stranger's face, to stepinto another'sflesh and claim a life in toto, wasa talent I discovered at a raw and tenderage, whenthe world itselfwas changing in unexpected ways. Youthwasin rebellion. Generationsripped apart. Awar on foreignshores and iniusticeon our own soonled to criesof protest and bloodshedin the streets. expandedlike Consciousness a roiling mushroomcloud. Thosewho offeredanswers said it had to do with love Amidstthe femorand the rage I could havearrylife I chose, from a pompouspolitician feedingon the masses'needs, riding high in limousines, to a rail-thin rockidol
238 NebulaAwards 2001 Showcase prancingon a concertstage withwomenin the wings. Flushwith youthful ilgor, a burgeoninglibido, and a headfull of ideals, I promptlychosethe latter without a shadeof doubt. Wieldingmyaxelike a pen, and often like a sword, I defineda shaggycredo, my generation's song. With the lyricsof another I felt the wild exultation of ovationupon ovation and the instantadulation that musiccan engender. I livedmy lfe sorapidly, losingtrackof night and day, thedrugswithin my veins, timebunchedand crushed togetherlike the iackknifed carsof a derailingtrain. When my bodyoverdosed I abandonedits dyingshell, After oneor two falsestarts I settledon my secondhost. I becamea cyberneticgenius, workedforlBM and RAND. I calculateddecimal points to infinity and backagain. l'd neyermasteredlogic and nevercaredfor math, but I had another'sbrain and a Ph.D.from M.l.T. to think in algorithms and eonverse with binary.
RhyslingAwardWinners 239
Abstract numbers galled soI pursuedthe real sort, the kind with dollar signs that can buy a luxury yacht to sailon the C6te d'Azur. I wasaWall Streetwhizkid, a blackbelt of the exchange, trading stocksand debentures until I madea hundredmillion. Then the iunk-bondscandalhit, and for the noveltyalone I spenta yearin prison. OnceI surfaceddsdwomdn, moreseductivethan sin itself. I leamedwhat menwill do for the lustthat theycall love. I learnedhow they'll compete Iikefierceanimalsin heat a surfacebeauty fo possess a shapelythigh, and caress with no interestor concem for whateverliesbeneath. I becamea differentwomdn and fought for women'srights. I battledlike a termagant es with overblownexecutiv pay, equal scale of an for and promotion for acceptance on the corporationladder and all that shouldbe mine. The end resultof thiswas I soonbecameanotherman. I've beenbrownand black andwhiteandyellow, and aII the shadesbetween.
240 NebulaAwards Showcase 2001 I've toiled stoopedand sweaty throughthe sun-bakedfields. l've satin the awning'sshade, with a cooldrinkby my arm, sportingan evil overseer's grin. l've penneda best-sellingnovel and composed a symphony. Like e chameleon understudy I haveplayedmostany part asI movedauossthe stage of this metamorphicage, yet all of it soonpaled without my own identity. I've cruisedand skimmed along the skin of things like a surferon a waye, a rockskipping across a lake, or a raindropon awindow that reflectsthe roombeyond but can neverfind a passage throughthe surfaceof the pane. l've lookedinto the minor but neverpastmy eyes. l've only knownmy ego, its desiresand its needs, the ocean'stidal roar that beliesthe silentdeep. My future now standsopen Iike an endlesscryenue, for everytime I start to age I seizeonyouth oncemore. Yetis it worth the trouble to keepchanginghatsand coats, not in rhythmwith the seasons, iust to pleasenry petty whims, whenmy sou/is lostforever
RhystingAwardWinners 241 in the shuffing and the rippling of a hundreddifferent skins? lf thereis a kind of answer that hasto do with love, can change if consciousness and the world can follow suit, I am not the oneto iudge. I havestolenother lives. l've ravagedmind and limb. I haveleft my spiritfar behind and forsakenmy own ndme.
egghorrorpoem L A U R EW L INTER smaII white afraid of heights whispering in the cold,dark carton to the restof the dozen. Theyare ten now. Anymeal is dangerous, but theyfearbreakfastmost. They iostlein their comparhnents crackstrying for tiny, dark-veined not enoughto hurt much, iustanythingto makethemunattractive to the big handsthat reachin from time to randomtime. Theytell honor stories that their mothers, the chickens, cluckedto themmeringues,
242 Nebula Awards Showcase 2001 omelettes, eggsalddsandwiches, that destroyerof dozens, the homemadeangelfood cake. The dooropens. Light fiItersinto the ccrton, "Let it be the milk." they pray. But the cartonopens, a hand reaches inonce, twice. Beforetheycan eveniiggle, theyarealoneagain, in the cold, in the dark, newspaceshollow wherethe two were. Throughthe hearydoor thq hearthe soundof the mixer, deadly blades whirring. They huddle, the eight, in the cold, in the dark, andwait.
APPEN DIXES
About the Nebula Awards The Nebula Awardsare chosenby the membersof the Science Fiction and FantasyWritersof America.In 1999they weregivenin five shortstory-under 7,5oowords;novelette-7,5ooto r7499 categories: words; novella-r7,5oo to 39,gggwords; novel-more than 4o,ooo words;and script. SFWA membersread and nominate the best SF storiesand novelsthroughout the year, and the editor of the "Nebula AwardsReport" collectsthesenominationsand publishesthem in a newsletter.At the end of the year,there is a preliminary ballot and then a final one to determinethe winners. at a banquetat the annualNebThe NebulaAwardsarepresented ula AwardsWeekend,held originallyin New Yorkand, overthe years, in placesas diverseasNew Orleans;Eugene,Oregon;and aboardthe QueenMary,in Long Beach,California. The Nebula Awardsoriginatedin ry65,from an idea by Lloyd of SFWA at that time, who proposed Biggle fr., the secretary-heasurer that the organizationselectand publish the year'sbeststories,and have beengiveneversince. The award itself was originally designedby |udith Ann Blish
244 Appendixes from a sketchby Kate Wilhelm. The official description:"a block of Lucite four to five inches squareby eight to nine inches high into which a spiralnebulaof metallicglitterand a geologicalspecimenare embedded." SFWAalsogivesthe Grand MasterAward,its highesthonor.It is presentedfor a lifetime of achievementin sciencefiction. Institutedin 1975,lt is awardedonly to living authorsand is not necessarily given everyyear.The Grand Masteris chosenby SFWATofficers,pastpresidents,and boardofdirectors. The first Grand MasterwasRobertA. Heinlein in ry74.The others are fack Williamson (1975),Clifford Simak (ry6), L. Spraguede Camp (t928),Fritz Leiber(r98r),AndreNorton (r983),futhur C. Clarke (t985),IsaacAsimov (1986),Alfred Bester(r98il, RayBradbury(1988), Lesterdel Rey(r99o),FrederikPohl (1992),Damon Knight (1994),A. E. vanVog (t995),|ackVance(t996),PoulAnderson(ryW), Hal Clement (.998),and Brian W Aldiss(tqqq). The thirty-fifthannualNebulaAwardsbanquetwasheld in New York on May zo, zooo.
PastNebulaAwardWinners 1 , 96 5 BestNovel:Duneby FrankHerbert BestNovella:"The SalivaTiee" by Brian W. Aldissand "He Who Shapes"by RogerZela:zny(tie) BestNovelette:"The Doorsof His Face,the Lampsof His Mouth" by RogerZelazny BestShortStory:"'Repent,Harlequinl'Saidthe Ticktockman" by HarlanEllison 7966 BestNovel:Flowersfor Algernonby Daniel Keyesand Babel-t7 by SamuelR. Delany(tie) BestNovella:"The LastCastle"by JackVance
Appendixes245 BestNovelette:"Call Him Lord" by GordonR. Dickson BestShortStory:"The SecretPlace"by RichardMcKenna 7967 BestNovel: The EinsteinIntersectionby SamuelR. Delany BestNovella:"Beholdthe Man" by Michael Moorcock BestNovelette:"Gonna Roll the Bones"by Fritz Leiber 'Aye, BestShortStory: and Gomorrah"by SamuelR. Delany 1968 BestNovel: Riteof Passage by Alexei Panshin BestNovella:"Dragonrider"by Anne McCaftey BestNovelette:"Mother to the World" by RichardWilson BestShortStory:"The Planners"by KateWilhelm 1969 BestNovel: The Left Hand of DarknessbyUrsulaK. Le Guin 'A BestNovella: Boyand His Dog" by HarlanEllison Stones" BestNovelette:"Time Consideredasa Helix of Semi-Precious by SamuelR. Delany BestShortStory:"Passengers" by RobertSilverberg 1970 BestNovel: Ringworldby Larry Niven BestNovella:"Ill Met in Lankhmar" by FriIz Leiber BestNovelette:"Slow Sculpture"by TheodoreSturgeon BestShortStory:no award 7977 BestNovel:ATime of Changesby RobertSilverberg BestNovella:"The MissingMan" by KatherineMaclean
246 Appendixes BestNovelette:"The Queenof Air and Darkness"by PoulAnderson BestShortStory:"Good Newsfrom the Vatican"by RobertSilverberg 7 9 72 BestNovel:TheCodsThemselves by IsaacAsimov BestNovella:'A Meetingwith Medusa"by Arthur C. Clarke BestNovelette:"Goat Song"by PoulAnderson BestShortStory:"When It Changed"by foannaRuss 7 9 73 BestNovel:Rendezyous with Ramaby Arthur C. Clarke BestNovella:"The Deathof Doctor Island"by GeneWolfe BestNovelette:"Of Mist, and Grass,and Sand"by VondaN. Mclntyre BestShortStory:"Love Is the Plan,the Plan Is Death" by famesTiptree |r. BestDramatic Presentation:SoylentGreen StanleyR. Greenbergfor screenplay (basedon the novel Make Room!Make Roomt) Harry Harrisonfor Make Room!Make Room! 1 , 9 47 BestNovel: The Dispossessed by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestNovella:"Born with the Dead" by RobertSilverberg BestNovelette:"lf the StarsAre Gods"by GordonEklund and GregoryBenford BestShort Story:"The Day Beforethe Revolution" by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestDramaticPresentati on:Sleeperby WoodyAllen Grand Master:RobertA. Heinlein 7 9 75 BestNovel:TheForeverWarbyfoe Haldeman BestNovella: "Home Is the Hangm an" by RogerZelazny
Appendixes247 BestNovelette:"SanDiego LightfootSue"by Tom Reamy BestShortStory:"CatchThat Zeppelin!"by Fritz Leiber BestDramaticWriiing: Mel Brooksand GeneWilder forYoung Frankenstein GrandMaster:fack Williamson 1 , 96 7 BestNovel:Man Plusby FrederikPohl BestNovella:"Houston,Houston,Do You Read?"by |amesTiptreefr. BestNovelette:"The BicentennialMan" by IsaacAsimov 'A BestShortStory: Crowd of Shadows"by CharlesL. Grant Grand Master:Clifford D. Simak 7977 BestNovel:Gatewayby FrederikPohl BestNovella:"Stardance"by Spiderand JeanneRobinson BesiNovelette:"The ScrewflySolution"by RaccoonaSheldon BestShori Story:"feffty Is Five" by HarlanEllison SpecialAward:Star Wars 7978 BestNovel:Dreamsnake by VondaN. Mclntyre of Vision" by fohn Varley BestNovella:"The Persistence 'A BestNovelette: Glow of Candles,a Unicorn'sEye" by CharlesL. Grant BestShortStory:"Stone"by EdwardBryant Grand Master:L. Spraguede Camp 1979 by Arthur C. Clarke BestNovel:TheFountainsof Paradise "Enemy BestNovella: Mine" by Bany Longrear BestNovelette:"Sandkings"by GeorgeR. R. Martin BestShortStory:"giANTS" by EdwardBryant
248 Appendixes 19 8 0 BestNovel: Timescapeby GregoryBenford BestNovella:"The Unicorn Thpestry"by SuzyMcKee Charnas BestNovelette:"The Ugly Chickens" by HowardWaldrop BestShortStory:"Grotto of the DancingDeer" by Clifford D. Simak Grand Master:Fritz Leiber 1 98 1 BestNovel: The CIaw of the Conciliatorby Gene Wolfe BestNovella:"The SaturnGame"by PoulAnderson BestNovelette:"The Quickening"by Michael Bishop BestShortStory:"The BoneFlute" by LisaTuttleo 1.982 BestNovel:NoEnemyButTime by Michael Bishop 'Another BestNovella: Orphan" by fohn Kessel BestNovelette:"Fire Watch"by ConnieWillis BestShortStory:'A Letterfrom the Clearys"by ConnieWillis 1 98 3 BestNovel: Startide Risingby David Brin BestNovella:"Hardfought"by Greg Bear BestNovelette:"BloodMusic" by Greg Bear BestShortStory:"The Peacemaker" by GardnerDozois Grand Master:Andre Norton 1.984 BestNovel:Neuromancer by William Gibson BestNovella:"PressEnter l" by )ohn Varley BestNovelette:"Bloodchild"by OctaviaE. Butler BestShortStory:"Morning Child" by GardnerDozois oThisNebulaAwardwasdeclined bytheauthor.
Appendixes249 1985 BestNovel:Ender'sGameby OrsonScottCard BestNovella:"Sailing to Byzantium" by RobertSilverberg BestNovelette:"Portraitsof His Children" by GeorgeR. R. Martin BestShortStory:"Out of All Them Bright Stars"by NancyKress Grand Master:futhur C. Clarke 1986 BestNovel:Speaker for the Dead by OrsonScottCard BestNovella:"R & R" by Lucius Shepard BestNovelette:"The Girl Who Fell into the Skv"bv KateWilhelm BestShortStory:"Thngents"by Greg Bear GrandMaster:IsaacAsimov 1987 BestNovel:TheFallingWomanby PaiMurphy BestNovella:"The Blind Geometer"by Kim StanleyRobinson BestNovelette:"Rachelin Love" by PatMurphy BestShortStory:"ForeverYours,Anna" by KateWilhelm Grand Master:Alfred Bester 1 98 8 BestNovel:FallingFreebyLois McMasterBujold BestNovella:"The Lastof the Winnebagos"by ConnieWillis BestNovelette:"Schr6dingertKitten" by GeorgeAlec Effinger BestShortStory:"Bible Storiesfor Adults,No. r7: The Deluge" by famesMorrow Grand Master:RayBradbury 1989 BestNovel:TheHealer'sWarbyElizabethAnn Scarborough BestNovella:"The Mountainsof Mourning" by Lois McMaster Buiold
250 Appendixes BestNovelette:"At the Rialto"by Connie Willis BestShortStory:"Ripplesin the Dirac Sea"by GeoffreyLandis 1990 BestNovel: Tehanu:The Last Bookof Earthseaby UrsulaK. Le Guin BestNovella:"The HemingwayHoax"by |oe Haldeman BestNovelette:"Towerof Babylon"by Ted Chiang BestShortStory:"BearsDiscoverFire" by TerryBisson Grand Master:Lesterdel Rev 7997 BestNovel: Stationsof theTideby Michael Swanwick BestNovella:"Beggars in Spain"by NancyKress BestNovelette:"Guide Dog" by Mike Conner BestShortStory:"Ma Qui" by Alan Brennert 7992 BestNovel:DoomsdayBookbyConnieWillis BestNovella: "City of Tfuth" by famesMorrow BestNovelette:"Danny Goesto Mars"by PamelaSargent BestShortStory:"Even the Queen"by ConnieWillis Grand Master:FrederikPohl 1993 BestNovel:RedMars by Kim StanleyRobinson BestNovella:"The NightWe Buried RoadDog" by )ackCady BestNovelette:"Georgiaon My Mind" by CharlesSheffield BestShortStory:"Graves"by /oe Haldeman 1.99 4 BesiNovel:MovingMarsby Greg Bear BestNovella:"SevenViewsof OlduvaiGorge"'byMike Resnick
Appendixes 257 BestNovelette:"The Martian Child" by David Gerrold 'A BestShortStory: Defenseof the SocialContracts" by Martha Soukup Grand Master:Damon Knight 7995 BestNovel:TheTerminalExperiment by Robert). Sawyer BestNovella:"Last Summerat Mars Hill" by ElizabethHand BestNovelette:"Solitude"by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestShort Story:"Death and the Librarian" by EstherM. Friesner Grand Master:A. E. vanVo$ 1996 BestNovel: SlowRiverby Nicola Griffith BestNovella:"Da Vinci Rising"by fack Dann BestNovelette:"Lifeboat on a Burning Sea"by Bruce Holland Rogers 'A BestShortStory: Birthday"by EstherM. Friesner Grand Master:fackVance 1,997 BestNovel: The Moon and the Sun by VondaN. Mclntyre 'Abandon in Place"by ferry Oltion BestNovella: BestNovelette:"The Flowersof Aulit Prison"by Nancy lGess BestShort Story:"SisterEmilyt Lightship" by |ane Yolen Grand Master:Poul Anderson 1998 BestNovel: ForeverPeaeeby |oe W. Haldeman BestNovella:"Readingthe Bones"by SheilaFinch BestNovelette:"Lost Girls" by fane Yolen BestShort Story:"Thirteen Waysto Water" by Bruce Holland Rogers Grand Master:Hal Clement
252 Appendixes
Aboutthe $cienceFictionand FantasyWriters of America The Science Fiction and FantasyWriters of America, Incorporated,includesamongits membersmostof the activewritersof science fiction and fantasy.Accordingto the bylawsof the organization,its purpose"shall be to promote the furtheranceof the writing of sciencefiction, fantasy,and relatedgenresasa profession."SFWA informs writers on professionalmatters,protectstheir interests,and helpsthem in dealingswith agents,editors,anthologists,and producersof nonprint media. It alsoshivesto encouragepublic interestin and appreciation of science fiction and fantasy. Anyonemay becomean activememberof SFWAafterthe acceptance of and paymentfor one professionally publishednovel,one professionallyproduceddramaticscript,or three professionally published piecesof shortfiction.Only sciencefiction,fantasy,and otherprosefiction of a relatedgenre,in English,shallbe consideredasqualifyingfor activemembership.Beginningwriterswho do not yet qualifyfor active membershipmay join as associate members;other classes of membership include illustrator members (artists),affiliate members (editors, agents,reviewers, and anthologists), estatemembers(representatives of the estatesof activememberswho havedied),and institutionalmembers (high schools,colleges,universities, libraries,broadcasters, film producers,fufuristgroups,and individualsassociated with suchan institution). Anyone who is not a member of SFWA may subscribeto The SFWABulletin.The magazineis publishedquarterly,and containsarticles by well-knownwriters on all aspectsof their profession.Subscrip tions are $r8 a year or $3r for two years.For information on how to subscribeto the Bulletin. write to: SFWA Bulletin 1436Altamont Avenue PMB z9z Schenectady, NY rz3o3-2977 Readersare alsoinvited to visit the SFWA site on the World Wide Web at the following address : http ://www.sfwa.org
PERM I S S I ON S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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