N EBULA
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sHowcAsE2000 TheYear'sBestSF and Fantasy Chosenby theScience Fiction and FantasyWritersof America
EDITED BY
GregoryBenford
A H A R V E SOTR I G I N A L H A R C O U RI T N,C . SanDiego NewYork London
compilation copyright @ zom by Science l.'iction and Fantasywriters of America Inhoduction copyright @ zrrc, 1999 byAbbenford Associates Headnotes copyright @ zooo by Abbenford Associates George Zebrowski essayscoplright @ zom by Ceorgc Zebrowski David Hartwell essaycopytight O zom by Davi
PS648.S3N388Z-6+lnS 8r3'.o876'o8-dcr9 AACR z MARC-S Libraryof Congress jrev [87o9r84 ISBN or5ro47qx ISBN or16oo7o5-3(pbk) Textseiin Electra Designedby KaelinChappell Printcdin the UnitedStatesofAmerica Firstedition !]DCBA Permissionsacknowledgments appear on pagesz81z8g, which constrtute a continuation ofthe copyright page.
IN MEMORIAM
RobertA.W. ("Doc") Lowndes Naomi Mitchison RachelCosgrovePayes T. A. Waters fo Clayton |ean-ClaudeForest Allen Drury LawrenceSanders Alain Doremieux Shin'ichiHoshi SeanA. Moore Ernstftinger PeterNilson WaylandDrew Ted Hughes FrankD. McSherryfr. JohnL. Millard AuberyVincent Clarke |ohn V. Baltadonis T. BruceYerke RichardWright fudis Waters
CONTENTS
Introduction: The ScienceFictionatGenhrry ix Benford Gregory Readingthe Bones 1 SheilaFinch
lost Girls 69 faneYolen
ThirteenYVays to Water 89 BruceHollandRogers
FromForenerPeace 101 )oe Haldeman
Genreand Genesis: A Discussionof $cienceFiction'sLiterary Role tl5 W H YC A N ' TW EA L L J U S TL I V ET O G E T H E R ? )onathanLethem RESPECTABILITY GordonVan Gelder G A T E K E E P EARNSDL I T E R A RBYI G O T S GeorgeZebrowski
GOOD NEWS A B O U T5 F I N B A DP U B L I S H I NTGI M E S David Hartwell T H ET R U T HA B O U TS C I - F IM O V I E S , R E V E A I EAOT L A S T Bill Warren
Winter Fire 147 GeoffreyA.Landis
Lethe
t6S
Walter)onWilliams
The lt{ercy Gate ZO3 Mark). McGaruy The 1998 Author Emeritus: Wiiliam Tenn 237 George Zebrowski My life and llard Times in SF Z4t William Tenn
The Grand Master Award: Hal Clement Z4g Poul Anderson
UncommonSense ZS3 Hal Clement
Rhysling Award Winners Z7t fohnGrey LaurelWinter
Appendixes ZTs About the NebulaAwards SelectedTitlesfrom the ryg8preliminaryNebula Ballot PastN ebulaAward Winners '\bout the ScienceFictionand FantasyWritersof America
Introduction F I C T I O N A LC E N T U R Y T H ES C I E N C E G R E G O RBYE N F O R D
This volume celebratessomeof the bestsciencefiction published duringa particularlyengagingperiod,the yearsjusta bit beforethe cenfury turnsoverand deliversunto usa millennium.A suitablemomentto casta backwardglance. Severalpiecesin this anthologyrefect on sciencefiction'splacein literatureoverall.(See,in particular,the pieceby fonathanLethemand the responsesto it.) Others revel in the genre'shistory.Both viewsare particularly germaneto a field that has come to dominate the visual media,while remaininglargelyneglectedby the conventionalliterary world. Nebula volumesare not collectionsof the best of the year;for those,see the annual productionsof Messrs.Hartwell and Dozois. Instead,Nebula nomineesand winnersare the favoritesof a club, the ScienceFiction Writers of America,which is as riddled with highly opinionatedfolk as any small town. Winnerscan representa compromise,the resultantof divergentforces.Factionsand evenbloc votingcan carrythe day,and have.Sincea largenumberof fantasywritersmigrated into the SFWA,makingit the SFFWA,we seemore fantasyamongthose honoredby nomination.So any Nebulavolumeis more like a momentary readingof the pulsethan a pinnacleof effort.That given,I have tried to framethe fiction here with commentarvbv otherson how the
Introduction
genrelooksin the waningmomentsof a millennium. onry in this inhoduction shall I hold forth from my own, rafier unusual,perspective. Here I mingle my own opinionswith someincidents I found clar_ from the genre'sother source:science.As a professorof phpics lfyiT, (atthe universityof california at lrvine) and an SF writer,I feel myself at the intersectionof both theseilluminating spotlights. Considerthesequotationsfrom century: ""rorJth. "It is the business of thefuture to be dangerous; and it is amongthe meritsof sciencethat it equipsthe future for its duties." _Atfred North Whitehead,rgu "Deniedthe magicof mythology, we musthaveit in science_ hencesciencefiction." -Edward Harrison, r98o "Scienceis my tenitory,but science fiction is the landscapeof my dredms." _Freeman Dyson,1997 me, this bespeaksa curhrrethinking aroud.whitehead was a philosopher,Harrisonis an astronomer,and Dysonis a physicist, futurisg and an excellentwriter.They all felt the quick pulseof science,s heartbeat beneathsociety'sskin. In 1997David Hartwell presenteda mammoth tome titled The scienceFiction century, making the broad claim that in this last remarkablehundred years,"science fiction did not aspireto take overliterah:re,but reality." Furthermore, in his view, "t-he overwhelming evidence is that Americansciencefiction and the Americanmarketdiive the sF world.,, sF has"now outlastedall the other countercultureor outsider literary movementsof the century" and "is read with easeand comprehension by the teenagechildren of educatedadultswho can derivelittle or no pleasurefrom it." Hartwell seesthe genreas"attemptsto get at the truth of the human condition in this century,so contouredand conditioned by scienceand technology." Alas,I wish more peoplebelievedthis wereso. Much of our culture still doesnot seesciencefiction this wayprincipally, I think, becausewe all have a built-in reflex: to accept the presentasa given,ordinary,unremarkable. Yet today would have been a wonder to anyone living in rg99, simplybecauseof changeswroughtby science.unthinkingly anchoring
Introduction
ourselvesin our moving Now, we do not realizehow it camefrom Then. aweWe cannot seeour livesastaking place in our great-grandparents' somefuh:re. Fundamentally,Hartwell wasright-SF speaksfor sciencemore than any other fiction (and often more tellingly than nonfiction). Its goal is to take over the real world, becauseslowly scientistsbecame quite awarethat, like it or not, their culture wasdoing just that. Of course,it was easyto make mistakes,but more often through timidity than bravado(". . . computersin the future may haveonly r,ooo vacuum fubesand weigh only lz a ton."-Popular Mechanics,March
ry4s). As change acceleratedover the last two centuries,Iiterature expressedanxietiesand anticipationsabout it. In Mary Shelley'sseminal novel, Frankensteinwas the scientist'sname, yet revealingly,most rememberit asthe monster's. A telling hit. Often SF makesscientists into heroes,while conventional fiction (andmuch of Hollywood)fearsthem.Yeta centuryagoscientistswere more likely to be depictedheroically.Why? Anotherwayof gettingat whatwe in this genrehaveall beenabout is to inquire into how scientistsmake their own culture through SF. I havehad a long, winding involvementwith modern scienceand fiction, the inevitableclashofthe nobleand imaginaryelementsin bothscience and fiction on one clean hand, with the gritty and practical way the world usesit on the othersoiledhand. I estimatethat half the scientistsI know havebeen heavy-dutySF fans, even if they now read little fiction at all. Many notable figuresI knew-Edward Teller,FreemanDyson,Leo Szilard,StephenHawking, Marvin Minsky, Martin Rees-read S[, and some even wrote it. Though somederideS[ sciencefeelsthe genreat itsback,breathingon its neck in the raceinto the future. This hasbeenprincipallya centurydriven by physics.The nineteenthcenturywasdominatedby the metaphorsand technologicalimplicationof two moreappliedsciences: chemistryand mechanics. Starting around 1899,elechomagnetictheory and experiment gaveus the telephone,radio,TV, and computers,and madethe internal combustionengine practical-thus, the car and airplane,leadinginevitablyto the rocketand outer space.That fatefulweddingof the rocket
xii
Introduction
with the othermonumentalproductof physics, the nuclearbomb,led to the end of large-scale strategic,rrfrr._r, profounda changeas any in moderntimes. Personally,I have neversettledemotionallythe tensionsbetween the h1s;r impact of physicsand its abshactgraces. They representtwo quite differentmodesof thinking. I grewup amid the shatteredruins of Germany and /apan,with a father who had fought through World War II and then spentlong yearsoccupyingthe fallei enemyl"ands. I took asa given that physicshad stoppedstrategic warfare,not by uplifting mankindto higherconsciousness but by ,.r'ring it siily.Nothing in the half centurysincehaschangedmy mind. At the time, I did not realizehow much that resolutioncame from ideasdevelopedin sF. For the central lessonof sF as a medium is that the highwaybetweenit and sciencerunsboth ways. In the Wellsian era, r89o-r9ro, physicswas exploring elecho_ magneticwondersand inventing both relativityand early quanfum mechanics.Meanwhile,SF wasconcernedmostlywith voyagesin an ever-expandinglandscape.It lagged science considerably,though its flights made without much scientificbacking-time travel,other dimensions- werecertainlyimaginative. YetSF did takeon ideaslong beforethe generalculture would face them. Throughout this cenfury, conventional literafure persistently avoidedthe gatheringprospectof a conceptuallyaltered tomo*ow, reheating into a realistpostureof fiction of ever-smallercompass. Even as a boy,when I startedreadingHeinlein, Clarke,and the othermodernmasters, it took a while beforeI rearizedthat mostpeople thought that a "sciencefictional" conceptmeantit wassomehowunreal, evenabsurd. In orthodoxliteraturethis is the common, unspokenassumption; the presentworld, so soon to be the stuff of nostalgia,enjoysan auto. matic,unearnedprivilege.In this the humanisttraditionresiststhe culhrre of science-for SF is, fundamentally,bestseenthat way. In America the genre came about through scruffy pulp maga_ zines,beneaththe contemptof modernistsavants.This bias remains today,isolatingthe genreasno other is from the springsof mainstream attention.High-churchmysteriesreceiverespect'ulnotice(p D. fames,
Introduction xiii fohn le Carr6);our bestreceivea paragraphof noticein the backof the literarybus. All this began back at the Wells-)amesfrach-rre.Foregrounding personalrelations,the novel of charactercame- in a classicpre-World War I debatebetweenHenry famesand H. G. Wells-to claim the pinnacle of orthodox fiction. |ames won that argument,banishingWells from the citadel of high literature and concedingto him a popularity more famesdid not enjoyin histime. But in sodoing,|amessurrendered than sales;he left the future to the genrethat would later increasinglyset the termsof socialdebate. Of course,the genre is not a simple predictivemachine.The science fictional shotgunblastinto tomorrow is bound to hit sometargets. H. G. Wells, the Shakespeare of the genre, fired off more speculative roundsthan anyone,and indeedhelpedbring aboutthe tankin his r9o3 "The Land lronclads."Churchill rememberedthis tale during World War I and beganthe researchthat led to its battlefield use. When Hugo Gernsbackfounded Amazing Sforiesin 1926,fullbodied quanfum mechanicswas being invented, mostly in Germany. Pulp SF dealt mostly with the wondersissuingfrom the physicsof the Wellsianera-electromagnetism,wider explorations of the planets. In World War II we sawfohn Campbellt Golden AgeatAstounding, and simultaneously,the greatexplosionof physicsinto the percep tual world of the public. By this time SF wasbreathingon the neck of physics,running just slightlybehind the implicationsof discoveries.Sincethen, the two have beencloselylinked,yet this is seldomknown in the largerculture. That speculationleadsto seriousstudyI learnedmoreand morein my career.The usual versionof the scientificmethod speaksof how anomaliesin datalead theoriststo explorenew models,which are then checkedby dutiful experimenters,and so on. Realityis wilder than that. More fun, too. No one hasimpressedme more with the power of speculationin sciencethan Freeman Dyson. Without knowing who he was, I found him a like-minded soul at the daily physicsdepartmentcoffee breaks, when I wasstill a graduatestudentat the Universityof California at San Diego, in the mid-r96os.
xiv
Introduction
I wasespeciallyimpressedthat he had the audacity to give actual departmentcolloquia on his odd ideas:notionsabout spaceJxproration by using nuclearweaponsasexplosivepushers,and speculationson odd variantsof life in the universe.He had just published a short note on what came to be called Dyson spheres-vast civirizations that swarm aroundtheirstar,soakingup alr availablesunlight and emittinginfrared. we might well studyinfraredemittersto detectcivilizations, tilen. at ageeightwrotean SF nover,sir phinipRoberfsbEroru-Dyson nar collision, about scientistsdirecting the orbits of asteroids.He was unafraid to publish conjectural, even rather outrageous ideas in the solemnpagesofphysicsjournals.when I remarked oi-,thir, he answered with a smile,"You'll find I'm not the first.,, Indeed,he descended from a rine of futuristBritishthinkers,from J. D. Bernal ofThe world, the Fleshand the Devil toolaf stapledon to futhur c- clarke. rn rnfinite in AIIDirectionsDysonremarkedihat,.Sciencefiction is, afterall, nothing more than the exprorationof the future usingthe toolsof science.,' This wasa fairly common view in thoseburgeoningtimes. In ry63, my first yearof graduateschool,I met Leo Szilardat dfarhent co]roquia, avidly holding forth on his mpiad ideas.Szilard had persuaded Einstein to write the famous letter to Rooseveltexplaining ih"t Abomb waspossible, and advocating the Manhattanproject.He had"n a genius for seizingthe moment.Szilardhad seenthe potentialin nuclear physicsearly,even urging his fellow physicistsin the mid-r93os to keep their researchsecret.And he read SF.He evenwrote it. I had read szilard'ssatiricalSF novel Thevoice of the Dolphins in t96t, and his sF shortstories,and from him heardthe story,famous in the genre,of how in the spring of ry44creve cartmill pubrisheda clear descriptionof how an atomic bomb worked,in Astoundingscience Ficfion, titled "Deadline." Szilard mentioned to me that caitmill,s bomb would not haveworked,but the storydid shessthat the keyproblem was separatingnonfissionableisotopesfrom the crucial uranium 235. This story becamelegend, proudly touted by fans ,ft., th" *r, asproof of SF'spredictivepowers.It wasa tale of an evil alliance called the Axis-oops, no, the Sixa-who are preventedfrom dropping the A-bomb,while their opponents,the Allies- no, oops,that'sth; seiila refrainfrom using the weapon,fearingits implications.
Introduction
As Campbell nevertired of telling, in March 1944a captain in the Intelligenceand SecurityDivisionof the ManhattanProiectcalledfor an investigationof Cartmill. He suspecteda breach in security,and on Campbell'sofwantedto traceit backward.U.S.securitydescended fice, but Campbell truthfully told them that Cartrnill had researchedhis storyusingonly materialsin public libraries. Indeed,a specialagentnosedaroundCartmill himselflgoingsofar asto enlisthis postmanto casuallyquiz him abouthow the storycameto be written. The postmanrememberedthat Campbell had sentCartmill a letter severaldaysbefore the specialagent clamped a mail cover on Cartmill's corespondence.This fit the daywhen agentshad alreadyvisited Campbellt office.Campbell wasalertinghis writer, posthaste.Soon enough,securitycamecalling. SF writersare often askedwherethey get their ideas.This wasone time when the answermattered. Cartmill had workedfor a radium prodrrctscompanyin the rgzos, he told the agent, which had in turn interestedhim in uranium research.He alsofishedforth two lettersfrom Campbell, one written ten daysshort of two yearsbeforethe Hiroshima bombing, in which Camp bell urgedhim to exploretheseideas:"U ,3, has-l'm statingfact,not theory-been separatedin quantity easilysufficientfor preliminary atomic powerresearch,and the like. They got it out of regularuranium ores by new atomic isotopeseparationmethods;they have quantities measuredin pounds.. ." Since a minimum critical massis lessthan a hundred pounds,this wassniffing closeto Top Secretdata. "Now it might be that you found the story worked better in allegory,"Campbell had advised,neatlyleadingCartmill to distancethe yetunwritten tale from current events. Plainly Campbell wastrying to skirt closeto secretshe must have guessed.The literary historian Albert Bergerobtainedthe formerly secret files on the Cartmill case,and ashe points out in Analog (September 1984), Campbell never told Cartmill that wartime censorship directivesforbadecny mention of atomic energy.Campbell wasurging his writer out into risky territory. Cartmill wasedgy,respondingthat he didn't want to be so closeto home asto be "ridiculous.And there is the possibledangerof actually suggesting a meansof actionwhich might be employed."Still, he had
xvi
Introduction
usedthe leadendeviceof simply invertingthe Axis and Ailies names, thin coverindeed.campbell did not askhim to changethis, suggesting that both men were tantalized by the lure of ,"rrity behiil their dreams. The Ofhce of Censorshipcame into play. Some suggested with_ holding Astounding'smailing privileges,which would havJ ended the magazine.In the end, not attractingattentionto the cartmill storyand the magazineseemeda smarterstrategy.Security fearedthat ,,. . . ru.h articlescomingto the attentionof personnelconnectedwith the proiect areapt to leadto an undueamountof speculation." only those sitting atop the Manhattan project knew what was going on. "Deadline" might make workersin the far-flung separation plantsand machiningshopsfigureout whatail thisuraniumL, for, talk about it. The Project wasafraid of imagination,particurarry "nd disciplined dreamingwith numbersand factswell marshaled.Thev feared sciencefiction itself. This set the mold. For in the r94osHenry Luce'sTime Magazine announcedthat this wasthe AmericanCentury. H. Bruce Franklin'swar stars:The superwedponand the Americanlmaginationhasmadethe casethats$ particurarry in the purp magazines, shongly influenced U.S. foreign policy. In the r93os Harry Tiuman had read lurid pulp magazineSF yams of ,,rp.rw"apons set_ tling the hashof evil powers.often they wereherd in ,.adin.rs in"fter, suringthe countryagainstan uncertainfuture. Tiuman wasn'talone. popular culture'srootsrun deep.Time and againat LivermoreI heardphysicistsquoteSF worksasargumentsfor or againstthe utility of hypotheticalinventions,especially weapons. one daywhile we wereworking on a differentsortof problem,EdwardTeller took a breakand pointed out to me an interestingparagraph in an old paperback: Weweresearching.. . for a way to useIJz35in a controlledex_ plosion.We had a yisionof a one-tonbomb that would.be a wholeair raid in itself,a singleexplosionthat would fl.ntten out an entire industrial center.. . . If we could devisea really practicalrocketfuel at thesametime,onecapableof driving a
Introduction xvii warrocketatathousandmilesdnhour,ormote'thenwe "uncle" to would be in a positionto make mostanybodysdy Uncle Sam. We fiddledaroundwith it all the restof 1943and weIIinto 1944.Thewar in Europeand the troublesin Asiadraggedon' After ltaly foldeduP . . . The storywasby RobertA. Heinlein, writing as"AnsonMacDonald," titled " Solution Unsatisfactory"(May ry4r, Astounding)' Teller notedthat the storyevengetsthe principal eventsin the war Tellersaid,describinghow in the right order."I found that remarkable," Manhatian Projectphysicistswould sometimestalk at lunch about SF storiestheyhad read. Someonehad thoughtthat Heinlein'sideaswereuncannilyaccurate.Not in the details,of course,becausehe describednot a bomb,but dustasan ultimateweaPon.Spreadovera counratherusingradioactive try, it could be decisive. In a wayHeinlein had been provedright. The fallout from nuclear burstscan kill many more than the blast. Luckily, Hiroshima and Nagasakiwereair bursts,which scoopedup little topsoiland soyieldedvery low fallout.For hydrogenbombs,fallout is usuallymuch more deadly. In Heinlein'sdescriptionof the shategicsituation,Teller said,the physicistsfound a soberingwarning. ultimate weaPonslead to a strateHow to avoid unsatisfactory. lic standoffwith no way back-a solution ihir, ,r,d the whole generalproblem of nuclearweaPonsin the hands of brutal states,preoccupiedthe physicistslaboring to make them. Nowhere in literature had anyone else confronted such a Faustian dilemma asdirectly,concretelY. coming three yearslater in the samemagazine,cleve cartmillt at Los "Deadline" provokedastonishmentin the lunch-tablediscussions Alamos,Teller said.It reallydid describeisotopeseparationand the bomb itselfin detail,and raisedasits principal plot pivot the issuethe physicists werethen debatingamongthemselves:Shouldthe Allies useit? To the physicistsfrom many countriesclusteredin the high mounof New Mexico,cut offfrom theirfamiliarsourcesof hutain strangeness manistlearning,it musthaveseemedparticularlystrikingthat Cartmill laid upon manynations. describedan allied effort,a ioint responsibility
nriii Introduction Discussionof Cartmillb"Deadline"wassignificant.The storytdetail wasremarkable,its sentimentsevenmore so.Did this ratherobscure storyhint at what the Americanpublic reallythoughtaboutsuch a superweapon,or would think if they only knew? Thlk attractsattention.Tellerrecalleda securityofficerwho tooka decidedinterest,makingnotes,sayinglittle. In rehospect,it waseasyto seewhat a wartimeintelligencemonitorwould makeof the physicists' Who was this guy Cartmill, anyway1Where did he get conversations. problem?"And thesedetails?Who tippedhim to the isotopeseparation that is why Mr. Campbellreceivedhis visitors,"saidTeller. I blinked. So the great,resonantlegend of early hard SF was,in fact,triggeredby the quiet,distanl"fan" communityamongthe scientiststhemselves. For me, closingthe connectionin this fundamentalfable of the field completedmy own quizzical thinking about the link between the scienceI practiceand the fiction I deployin orderto think aboutthe largerimplicationsof my work, and of others.Eventstingedwith fable to bring us messages havean odd quality,looping back on themselves guess. more tangledand subtlethan we sometimes That erawasnot the zenithof SF'sinfuence, though' To the larger culture, after the r95os,visual SF wasat leastasimportantasanythingin Print. Today,in visual media SF rules.lt deliversregularmegahits'Fantasy,SF'smarketally,enioysexactlythe reverse' Huge fantasytrilogiesdominatethe best-sellerlists,while little SF for Hollygetstherein the r99os.Yetfantasyhasneverled to largegrosses effects. of special the rise wood,despiteits apparentcompatibilitywith a verydifferentpartof the culture, that SF penetrates This suggests and that its mosteffectivetoolsmay be its visions,asin StanleyKubrick's zoor, ratherthan its idea-hearyfictions.Fantasymay bestappealto deep emotionalneeds,and not dependasmuch on specialeffects(seenone 'em all) or wonders. elf, seen Spacetravelwasthe signatureimageryof the genre- and it photographswell, too. (Biotech is not goingto haveit so easy') As far backas1869EdwardEverettHale's"The Brick Moon" envisionedmannedartificial satellites.SF had playedout this ideain greatdeI i
Introduction xlx tail by the time Arthur C. Clarke anticipatedthe huge impact of global communicationssatellitesin ry45(without patentingthe idea,alas). Spacewasan intuitivechoice,minglingtechnologywith vasthorizons-and an easyone.Most SF advocates havehailedeachpredictive bull seye asthough the authorswereusing rifles,when in fact the genre spraysforth a shotgunblast of what ifs. Heinlein anticipatedthe water bed and remote-conholwaldoes.Wells and others foresawnuciear weaponry,massbombing, and spacetravel. Indeed, ever since )ules Verne'scannon-propelledexpeditionto the moon, SF usedspaceasa metaphorfor the opening of the human prospect.Vernecorrectlysethis cannonvery nearCape Canaveral,arguing that the U.S.would probablyleadthe world in technologicalinnovation,and southernFlorida wasenergeticallyuseful for launching, sinceone gainedthere the most cenhifugal boostfrom the Earth'srotation. His choice of cannon overrocketsseemsto havecomefrom a novelisticdesireto link spacewith military means,anotherprescientshot. Conhary to a common observation,half a dozen authorsforesaw first moon landingswatchedby the wholeworld on television.Though visionarieslike Heinlein inconectlydepictedthe first moon rocketsasbuilt by privatecapital,in fact such companiesdid build the Apollo-erahardware;the moneywasfirst launderedthroughthe government,though. Someauthorsevensawthat a U.S.-U.S.S.R. rivalrywould be necessaryto launch the SpaceAge. Large ideasneededbig causesto drive them, a lessonwe shouldnot forget.Nothing grand is done offhandedly. SF has a love of the large, a reaction to )amesiansitting-room drama.Changesin everydaylife, which most concernreal people,SF usesasbackgroundverisimilitude,not the focus. While earlyoptimistic SF thoughtautomationwould yield an easy cornucopia,by the r95osKurt Vonnegut'sPlayerPiano sawhow marginalizedsomepeoplewould become,a persistentproblem.Few authors have seen any solution to this predicament,other than republics of leisure that inevitably run into the hap of bread-and-circuses distractions-an uncomfortableresemblance to many aspectsof our present, with our exaggerated sportsand entertainment,which increasinglyinfilhatespoliticsand evenscience. RudyardKipling predicted hansatlanticair expressin "With the Night Mail." Even the pulpera deathraysfound their vindicationin the
Introduction
laserbeam,but in our liveslasersreadCDs and serveastiny, smartservantsbearinginformation,not death. Still, the genredid a conspicuousprafall overcomputers.Well into r96os, writers clung to the image of a monolithic single machine the worshipedby attentivemathematicians,missingthe personalcomputer revolution. Worse,starting in the r93osthey assumedthat robotswould confront us with the most profoundpuzzlesof human identity.SF robots were humanoid with advancedintelligence.Few imaginedrobotsas routinemonomaniacfactorylaborers,boltedin place. This meantthat the issuesof artificialintelligencewereactedout by metalmen we nowknowto be implausible,missingmanyof the deep conceptual problems the field confrontstoday.A.rtificial intelligences shouldn'tlook like us,becausetheywon't reallybe like us. How technology looks has become, thanks to TV and movies, more important than ever.Movie imagerymatters;when PresidentReagan advocatedmissiledefense(advisedin part by SF writerslike ferry Pournelle)the mediadubbedit "StarWars"-though Reaganneversaid If politicsis at basisa discussionof the defensewould be space-based. wherewe are going,what then is its naturalliterary medium? We havecome a long way from unblinking wonder at technolog' from the top-downsocialengineeringdoctrinesthat accompanied and the broodingoptimismof a centuryago.SF now moreoftenemploysthe self-organizingprinciplespopular in biolory, economics,artificial intelligence,and evenphysics. Virginia Postrelin r998'sThe Future and l* Enemiesarguesthat the essentialpolitical differencestoday are between stasistsand dynamists.In a sense,theseterms reflect two sciences:biologl vs. mechanics.SF now usuallysideswith futuresrun not by Wellsiansavant innovatingfrom below and running their technocratsbut by the masses, own lives,thankyou very much. This gatheringbelief in dynamicchangedriven by freedomand information flow contrastswith the oddly static tone of much earlier thinking. Mundane literaturehascarriedan unspokenagenda,assuming that the presentt preoccupationsstandfor eternalthemes. Even early SF presumedthat elitesshould rule and that informamany.Wellswas tion shouldflow downward,enlighieningthe shadowed
Introduction ,od welcomedto speakby the PehogradSoviet,the Reichstag,Stalin, and both Rooseveltpresidents-a companythat never doubted their managerialagenda. Today,such mechanistic,pseudo.scientificself-confidenceseems quaintlysmug. Control dominatedmuch SF thinking, perhapsmore strikingly in Asimovt psychohistory.I recently wrote a novel set in his Empire, and tried to updatehow psychohistory could work-but it's a tough job. Clockworktheoriesarenot in vogue. Now, the genrelooksto more vibrantmetaphors,while cockinga waryeyeat our manyloomingproblems. SF writersarenow much lessinterestedin predictingand thus determiningthe fuhrre,preciselybecausethey do not believethat linear, programmaticdeterminismis the right angleof attack.They seethemselvesmore asconceptualgardeners,planting for fruiffirl growth, rather than engineersdesigningeternal,graysocialmachines. What doesthis portend for the next century?Grand physicalmeasuresstill beckon. We could build a sealevelcanal acrossCentral America, explore Mars in person,useasteroidalresourcesto uplift the bulk of humanity. Siberiacouldbe a freshfrontier,betterrun byAmericanmetaphors than the failed,topdown Russianones. Biologicalanalogieswill probablyshapemuch politicalthinking to come.We will gain control of our own reproduction,cloning and altering our children.Genetic modificationis surelya dynamistagenda, for the many mingled effectsof changedgenesdefy detailedprediction. Though the convergingpowersof compuiersand biologywill give us much mastery,how such forcesplay out in an intenselycyberquick world will be unknowable,arisingfrom emergentproperties,not stasist plans. Unlike physics,biologyis goingto be hardto directin a topdown manner.Parentswill makemajordecisions, seekingbiotechto betterthe prospects of their children. Despite our rather dark impulsesto control the shadowyfuture landscape,to know the morrow,it will be evenharderin the sciencefictional worldsto come. Scientistsusedto pay more attentionto SF than anybody.(I mean the thinking genre,not the knockoffHollryood product.)I doubt that is so today,though surelyit is still the genrethat bestexpresses the unique
xxii Introduction powerof their worldview I am surethat the writersof sF's founding era, and perhapsof this one aswell, would be pleasedto hear that they have beensoinfuential. From the vantageofa few decades hence,ashistory comes into focus, the mainstreamculfure may fathom that we have passedthroughThe ScienceFictionalAmericanCentury. somebodyreally waslisteningout there. our writers are bardsof science,asPoul Andersonhasremarked. Perhapsthey areaswell the unacknowledgedlegislatonof tomonow. In the nineteenth century, missingthe mark by a mile, Shelley (Mary'shusband)thought that job fell to the poets.
The 1998NebulaArrvards Final Ballot F O RN O V E L The LastHawfr,CatherineAsaro(Tor Books) oForever Peace,loeHaldeman(Ace) Moonfall, JackMcDevitt (Harperprism) How FewRemain,Hary Turtledove(Del Rey) Death of the N ecromancer,Martha Wells To SayNothingof theDog, Connie Willis (BantamSpecha) F O RN O V E L L A 'Aurora
in Four voices,"catherine Asaro(AnalogscienceFictionand Fact) "The Bossin the Wall," Awam Davidson& Grania Davis (Tachyon Publications) o"Readingthe Bones,"SheilaFinch (TheMagazineof Fantasy5 ScienceFiction) "lzzy and,theFatherof Terror,"Eliot Fintushel(Asimov'sscienceFiction) "fumping Offthe Planet,"David Gerrold(SFfue) "Ecopoiesis,"GeoffreyA. landis (SFA,ge)
olndicates winner.
Introductionxxiii F O RN O V E L E T T E "The TiuestChill,'Gregory Feeley(SFAge) "Time Gypry,"Ellen Klages(BendingtheLandscape: Sd OverlookPress) "The Mercy Gate,"Mark f. McGarry (TheMagazineof Fantasy6 ScienceFiction) "Echea,"Kristine Kathryn Rusch(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Lethe," Whlter |on Williams (Asimov'sScienceFiction) o"LostGirls," fane Yolen (Realrnsof Fantasy) F O RS H O R S T TORY "When the Bough Breaks,"StevenBrust (The EssentialBordertown, Tor) "StandingRoom Only," Karen|oy Fowler(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Fortune and Misfortune," Lisa Goldstein(Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Winter Fire," Geoftey A. Landis(Asimov'sScienceFiction) o"Thirteen Waysto Water,"Bruce Holland Rogers(Btack Catsand BrokenMinors,Martin Greenbergand )ohn Helfers,Ed., DAW) "Tall One," K. D. Wentworth (TheMagazineof Fantasy6 Science Fiction)
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Readingthe Bones S H E I L AF I N C H
Sheil.a Finchwasborn and rearedin London,attendedBishop 0tter Cotlege, then taughta yearin the dockLands beforethey became trendy.Shecameto the UnitedStatesanddid graduate workin medievat literatureandtinguistics with Harol.d whitehail. at IndianaUniversity. Shehaslivedin Catifornia sincej.962and published has six novets,inctudingherlatest,DavidBin,s \ut of Time:Tigerin theSlcy,a young-aduttnovet.Withthirty shortsto_ riesand severalnonfictionpiecesaboutSFpubtished, shehas longbeeninterested in the moreintellectualcomponent of the fietd.Shealsohaspubtished poetryand othernon-SFwriting. Shehastaughtat E[ CaminoCoLtege since19g0and hascon_ ductedsummer workshops in Idyl,twiLd, Catifornia. Her,,[ingste/, series,to whichReading theBonesbelongs,is the foremoststudy of linguisticproblems with atiens,bringinga thoroughunder_ standing of modern theory,ptusimagination. Thisstrihngnovetla ,,lingstef won the Nebutaandis part of an in-progress novet.
I Someonewastrying to tell him something. RiesDanyo wallowedround on the bench,peeringthrough the
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tavern'sthick haze,eyesunfocusedby too much 4tth. The sitarhe didn't remembersettingon the bench besidehim crashedto the floor. The gourdcrackedasit hit stone. A male Freh satbesidehim, the alient almostliplessmouth moving urgently.The Freh had a peculiarswirlingdesigntattooedfrom his foreheaddown the nose,and one of his handswaswrappedin a filthy rag.Riesstaredat dark blood seepingthrough the folds.The alien spoke again,the pitch of his voicewrithing like smoke. Riesdidn't catcha word. sometimeshe wonderedif the nativevocalizationson this planet shouldevenbe calledanythingasadvancedaslanguage - especially the impoverished versionthe Freh malesused.Not that his human employers were interestedin actually having a conversationwith thesealiens. Justaswell. He wasn'tthe lingsterhe'd beenjustfiveyearsago. The nativeliquor had given him a pounding headacheand he neededto sleepit off. The Freh's unbandaged,bird-claw hand shook his arm, urging him to payattention.Dizzinesstook him. For a moment, he drifted untetheredin a mahix of protolanguage,unable to graspeither the alien's Frehti or his own nativeInglis to form a reply,a sensationcloselyresembling what he rememberedof the conditionlingsterscalled interface, but withoutthe resolution. A harshburstof noisebatteredhis eardrums,boomingand echoing aroundthe low-roofedtavern.He squinied,trying to clearhis clouded vision.Two male Freh caperedacrossthe floor, armswindmilling. He startedto riseAnd wasknockeddown offhis chair and draggedbehind the overturnedtable. Thuds. Screams.The crowdedtaverneruptedinto shrill pandemonium.Frehvoicesululatingat the upperend of the scale.Something else- a deeperfootnotethat broughtthe hairsup on his neck. He tried to stand.The room cartwheeled dizzily around him. A pungeni odor filled his nostrils- a stenchlike rotten flesh,decayingfungus.He had a suddenimageof nightmarebeastsrutting.The meal he d just eatenrushedbackup into his throat. Somethingslammedinto his back,topplinghim again.He struggled out from underneaththe weight. A pudgy juvenile Freh, shapelessin
Readingthe Bones
layersof thick, stinking rags,stareddown at him for a moment, then scrambledawayhastily.Ries saton the floor in the wreckage,his head throbbing,his mind blank. Tonguesof flame flickered acrossthe low ceiling; acrid smoke filled his lungsand madehim cough.The coughingcausedhim to retch again.He doubledover. "Thlker." The alien with a bloody hand shook his arm. "Thlker. Danger." The sound of Frehti was like birdsong.Trying to make senseof such warbling,twittering,and chirruping-problematic at the best of times-was impossiblein his presentstate.He got maybeone Frehti word in everytwo. He closed his eyes againstthe stinging smoke, ihe piercing screeches. Moybu I really am dying, he thought. No exaggeration. Maybenot tonight,or tomorrowor evena month from now. But he sensedhis body succumbingto death little by little, felt the slow tighteningof zyth'sgrip around his heart. He had a sudden vision- a splinterview of greenfoothills and sapphirelake- that closed down asrapidlyasit opened.If he didn'tgiveit up, he wouldn'tlive long enoughto seeEarth again. Then he wasawareof the bump and scrapeof beinghauledover benches,broken crockery,other bodiesin the way. He wastoo tired to resist. One of the alienshad tried to give him a message lastnight. The memoryprickedhim ashe droppeda stepbehindthe Deputy Commissioner'swife and her companionsmoving through the cloth merchants'bazaar.He shieldedthe flask o{ qth he was opening from their sightand tooka medicinalgulp.The demonthat lived in that flask raced through his blood like liquid flame, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. In his experience,stonesoberor drunk like lastnight, the Freh had the most stunted languageof any sentient beings in the Orion Arm. Even very early linguistsfrom pre-Guild dayshad taught there wasno such thing as a primitive language,and what was true on Earth had provedtrue through the Orion Arm: All languagesthe Guild of Xenolinguistshad everfound were assophisticatedastheir speakersneeded.
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On the other hand, the Guild could be wrong;Frehti, the languagespo_ ken hereon Krishna,could turn out to be an exception. His head poundedas if he d slammedit repeatedlyinto a stone wall, his skinwasclammy,and his throatseemedto havebeenscrubbed with sand.He had no recollectionof how he got back to his quartersin New Bombay. It wasnot yet noon, but the heatwas alreadyfierce.Dust roseashe walked,makinghis eyeswater.He sneezed, startlinga smallcroudof insectshoveringabouthis face.Alreadyhe could smellthe rich, chocolate odor of the river moving sluggishlypastthe edgeof the nativetown. The monsoon would be here any day,bringing its own set of problems. There wereno pleasantseasons on Krishna. The nativename for the planet wasNot-Here.^How can anybody saytheir own world isn'there?ithe Deputy commissioner'swife nna a.mandedwhen he d translatedthis for her. "No wonderthey'reall so uselessl" l(rishna was too benign a deity to give name to this planet, he thought.Kali would'vebeenmoreappropriate. The DepCom's wife and fifteen-year-olddaughtermoved slowly down the line of stallsin the silk merchants'section,followedbv the wife of someminor official in the human colony.The women dabied sweat from their cheekswith one hand,fendedoffflying insectswith the other. They took their time, the Depcom's spoileddaughterplucking with obvious irritation at her mother'ssleeve.The girl's red hair which she'd piled on her headin a stylemuch too old for her had comeloose,and he could seedampshandsof it stuckto the backof her slenderneck. The bazaarwascrowdedwith small,plump alienswhoseskin had a color and texturethat remindedhim of scrubbedpotatoes.The males' faceswere decoratedwith iattoos,crude as a child's scribbled designs, done in dark purple ink; the femaleswent unadorned.Like -"rry ,r"., he'd seenin the orion fum, the Freh werehumanoid-as if oncehaving found a good recipe,Mother Nature wasloathe to throw it away_ and no taller than ten-year-oldhuman children. Their mouths had almostno lip, and their eyeswereround and lackedlids. Like a bird or a reptile, they had a nictitating membranethat could veil their gaze,and, their handswere four-fingered.The oddestthing about them was that suchlumpishbeingshad mellifluous,birdlikevoices. Almost all of them here in the bazaarwere male. They squatted
Readingthe Bones
along the edgesof the narrow path betweenthe stalls,leanedon poles supportingtatteredsilk awnings,or crowdedaround the stallsof foodsellers.Two-thirdsof the male population never seemedto have anything to do; their sole purposein life seemedto be standingabout hallnaked,staringat eachotherand at the humans. No more detailssurfacedfrom the eventsin the tavern.When he'd beenyounger,he'd bouncedbackvibrantlyfrom nighk like lastnight. Now they left him feeling a hundred yearsold, his body demanding more of what waskilling it to function at all. He took anothersip-the alcohol flamed in his throat-put the flask back in his pocket,and caughtup with the women. He despised theseshoppingtrips.The womenarguedand disparagedand forcedthe pricesdown to a level he wasashamedto hanslate. And then they'd take their shimmering purchasesback up to the Residence and have somethingfussymade out of them. The DepCom's women liked the delicatetextileson Krishna,but theypreferredthe elaboratefashionsthey rememberedfrom Earth, howeverinappropriatethey might be in this climate.But eventhat wasn'tthe heartof his discontent. This wasno job for a lingster,evenone who'd fallen asfar ashe had. Raggedawningsovereachstallhung limp in the still air.The everpresentsmellsof the bazaar,rotting vegetables,flyblown meat,sewage running in open ditchesbehind the stalls,and the merchants'sweatsoakedragsfilled his nose.A hand dimpledlike a child'spluckedat his sleeve,and he tumed to seehalf-rawmeaton a stick offeredto him. The sellerof the meatgazedat him. He recognizeda juvenile, still carrying the rolls of fat about its neckthat markedimmaturity.Behindthe iuvenile,rowsof small,featherless,flying creaturesthe nativestrappedwere setto roastovera bed of coalsalongsidesucculentred-browntubers.He shookhis head and regrettedit when the hangoverpoundedagainin his temples.The iuvenile grinned. There was a youthfulnessin all their faces,a bland childlike expression that neverseemedto mature.The only difference betweenthem asthey grewwasthat while theystayedpudgythey tended to losethe exaggerated neck fat. He'd neverseenan old Freh,maleor female,or evenan obviously middle-agedone. He didn't know if this meant they died young, if they simply kept their old out of sight, or even if they put them all to death
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above a certain age. It was a mark of how little importance humans placedon the nativesof this world, their customsor their language,that had spenttime here, and the xenolinguistsinino xenoanthropologists had spentpreciouslittle. tially sentby the Guild Across the alluvial plain on which the Freh town was built, Krishna'ssun climbed the Makert Bonestill the erodedmountains glowed fiercely white like the skeletonof some extinct mammoth. He wiped a trickle of sweatfrom his neck, willing the women to hurry up. Sometimesthey could go on like this for a couple of hours, examining bolts of iridescentmaterial,picking and complaining. The squattingmerchantsheld theirwaresuP silently,gazingincuriously at the human women, occasionallyscratchingsimple markson small squaresof damp clay to keeptrack of their sales.They had no written language,and their arithmetic,on a baseof eight,seemednot to be very flexible either. He glancedat an alien infant lying in a makeshift cradleunderneatha stall; its parentpaid no attentionor perhapswastoo lazy to swatthe insectsswarmingover its face.The DepCom'swife had organizeda wives'committeeto teach lirishnat nativeselementaryhygiene;it didn't seemto be havingmuch success. "Danyo." Mem Patelcrookeda finger at him. "Seethat bolt? Find out what this shifty-eyedthief wantsfor it." For this elementarytask the DepCom's wife requiredthe expenservices of a Guild lingster.Mem Patel,like the restof the human sive colony, hadn't bothered to learn anything of this language beyond "Kitchen Frehti," an impoverishedpidgin of a very few alien wordsand her own nativeInglis,which sheusedwith the femaleFreh who worked in the Residence. "Danyo! The brocadethis boy'sholding!" Besidethe male alien, a femalestoodup, readyto bargain.She brown garmentand a necklaceof plaited vines with a wore a shapeless few grayclay beadsthat wasno match for the garishblue designson her mate'sface.On Krishnait seemedto be the female'siob to communicate;he wonderedif perhapsmalesfound it beneaththeir dignity to talk too much. Beforehe couldbegin,the comlinkthe DepCom insistedhe wear on theseoutingsbtzzed at his wrist. He held the tiny receiverto his ear. "Ries. I need you up here. Right away." Deputy Commissioner
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ChandraPatel'svoiceechoedinsidehis skull, disturbingthe brooding hangoveragainasif it were a flock of bats. Riesstaredat his shakinghand."Sir?" "lntelligenceiust in," the DepCom's voice said."Mules massing acrossSeparation River." In the little more than two yearsRieshad been here,he'd seenthe patternrepeateveryyear.A handful of the secondraceon Krishna,nicknamed"Mules" by the humansfor their long, horseyfaces,came into the native town and ran wild for a few daysjust before the monsoon struck. Nothing serious,as far as anyone could tell. A few fights with their Freh neighbors,an occasionalnativeshackburned to the ground. One of the DepCom'shobbieshad been gatheringinformation,anecdotal for the mostpart, about the Mules. "lt's monsoon weather,the silly season,"he said, watching the women plucking frefully at rainbowsilks."Mules don't pay attentionto New Bombay." "Maybe. But I found a recordof an attack when the colony was foundedfifteenyearsago.Almostwipedthemout." The DepCom'sdaughterturnedand,catchingRies'sgazeon her, sfuck her tongue out at him. He frowned at the girl and sawher laugh. "The early commissioners kept very poor records,"Patel said. "Maybewe can't trustthem. But I don't want to takechances." "Nothing the Sfar of Calcutta can't take careof, surely?" "Bringthe womenbackto the Residence, Ries.lmmediately." The DepCom'swomenhadn'tbeenpleased.Rieshad let their indignationwashoverhim, ignoringtheir shrill protests. Backin his own quartersin the Residence,he poureda shotof zyfh in a small glass.They'd been wrong at the Mother Houseto think he couldn'thandleit. Therewasa lot of pressure in lingstering;someof the Guild's bestpeoplebroke under the shain. He leaneddown to the computer on his deskand touched a key; the screenbecamea mirror.The actionremindedhim how long since he'd usedthe AI for the pulposeit wasintended;hours spentbrowsing through its copiousfiles on the flora and fauna of lfoishnadidn't count. It wasassuperfluoushereashe felt himselfto be.A highly trainedling sterand a superiorAI with nothingto do, whata waste.
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He frownedat his swollenfaceunder tangledcurls of dark brown blurred under hair-no grayshowingyet-the line of his cheekbones the flushed skin, the blue eyesbloodshotlike the hacks of a wounded bird over snow.He steppedawayand noticed an exha couple of kilos around the waist. He changedinto freshtropicalwhites,tuggeda comb throughhis hair, erasedthe mirror, and went out of his room. At the top of the stairs, he changedhis mind, duckedbackinside,and grabbedthe flask,which he hrckedinto a thigh pocket. On the ground floor, a Freh houseboywith no understandingof how a central air systemworked had left the doors of the Residence's greatentrancehall wide open.A faint breathof humid air movedsluggishlyinside,alreadylacedwith aerosolsfrom the distantocean'sseasonal diatom bloom. Soon the monsoon would turn the streetsof human enclaveand nativetown alike into riversof mud and the air into a smotheringblanketladenwith infection.He closedthe doors. Turning back, he found one of the houseboyssilently moving acrossthe hall. This one wasdrapedin gaudylayersof red and orange silk. But today somethingfierce moved through the houseboy'ssmall eyesbeforeit wasreplacedby the servile,grinning expression the Freh adoptedin human presence. An archedalcoverevealeda closeddoor.Riesknocked. "Comein." Chandra Patelglancedup from a large deskdominatedby an oversizescreen.The only sign of luxury here wasthe antique scarlet and gold carpetwith a designof thatchedhutsandwaterbuffalothatlay on the polishedwood floor. Purchasedfrom an impoverishedmuseum in India and imported at greatcost,it soothedPatel'soccasionalboutsof homesickness. disorderlyheap On the desktodayRiessawan uncharacteristically of papers,infocubes,and disks,asif ihe DepCom had lostpatienceand bangeda fist down in their midst, jumbling them. The usuallyimmaculatediplomathadn't takentime to shavethis morning,and the burgundy silk loungingrobehe worelookedasif he'd sleptin it. "What haven'tyou told me?"Riesasked. Acrossthe room, Patel'stea kettle on a hot-stoneand two cups of delicateporcelainwaitedon a smalltable.Riestooka pinch of aromatic
Readingthe Bones
black tea leavesfrom a canister,put someinto each cup, then filled the cupswith boiling water.Backturnedto the DepCom, he poureda few dropsof ryth from the flaskinto his own tea.He handedthe other cup to the DepCom. Patelsaidheavily,"The Calcutta'son training maneuvers.Out of the sector.It'll take too long for her to get back." Tea forgottenfor a moment,Riesstaredat the DepCom. When humanshad firstarrivedon thisplanet,the Frehwho livedmainlyin the lowlandsalong SeparationRiver had been easilyimpressedby the displayof superiortechnologyinto lettingthem settlepeacefully. The DepCom wasfond of pointing out that most Freh were living better now than they'dbeen beforethe adventof human colonists.Not to mention the stuff they managedto stealfrom the humans they worked for, his wife would add;colonywiveshad developedthe necessary ritual of inventoryinghouseholdpropertyat leastoncea month. The Mules seemedto be a differentspecies than the Freh.Almost nothing was known about their history or their culture; their only obmayhemvisitedon their neighbors. servedbehaviorwasthis once-a-year Rieshimselfhad neverevenseenone closeup. But the puqposeof the small starship,The Star of Calcutta, was mainly to guard the planet againstattackby theVenatixi,an alienracewho boreno lovefor humans and whoseviolenceintermittentlyscarredthis sectorof the fum. Yet it seemedsomebodyhad blundered,havingthe ship goneright now. "But that isn'twhy I calledyou down here,Ries.Look at this."The DepCom indicatedthe screenwith a brown hand. "I know you're interestedin the Freh language.I think I've found somethingmore bizarre." Curious,Riesmovedoverto the deskto look.The one thing that had made his employmenthere bearablewasPatel'sfriendship. It was the DepCom who suggested Riesmakeuseof the sitarthat hadbeenhis. The sitar,Riesrememberednow,that had beendamagedand then forgotten in a nativetavern. BeforePatelcould elaborateon what he'd found, the door opened and his wife hurried in. NayanaPatel-a short woman who might've beenvoluptuousin heryouth-had changedinto an elaborateredgown with voluminousskirtsheavilyembroideredin silver.He could seehints of the gown'sIndian ancestry,but overornamentedand fussy;the embroiderymust'veaddedat leasia kilo to its weight.
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"chan!" shesaidsharplyto her husband."you mustsaysomethrng to the servants.Amah ruined my breakfastthis morning.youd think afterall this while she'dhavelearnedhow to preparenaan.Now I find that she'srun away." NayanaPatelcalledall the femalehouseservants"Amah,"refusing to learn their namesin retaliationfor what shesawastheir refusalto prepare the vegetariandiet the Patelsfollowed, and claiming she couldn't tell one from anotherin any case. "Find yourselfanotherservant.Nava." Half a dozensilverbraceletson her wrist chimed musicallyasshe moved in front of his desk."That's what I'm trying to tell you, Chan. They'veall gone." Patelstaredat her for a second,then abruptryturned back to his deskand presseda button on a smallpad. They waitedin silence.He bangedhis hand on the padagain.Nothing happened. "Yousee?"Mem Patelsaid."we're alone in thisgreatawfulhouse. Left to fend for ourselves." Rememberingthe odd, veiled look the houseboyhad given him, Riesfelt a hemor of apprehension slideup his spine. "Ries,"Patelsaid."Get my family to rhecarcuffa's base.Thke my skipcar." Mem Patelsaidpehrlantly, m not goinganywherewithoutyou. Chandra." "Stop arguingfor once, Naya,and go with Ries. follow assoon asI can." Shestaredat him. "But I needto nack_,' "Get the children." patel took her arm and steeredher out the door. When she'dgone,he gazedat Ries...I can trust you with my fam_ ily, can't I?" "Sir7" "Youte a goodman when you'renot drinking,"patel saidbluntly. Angerburnedin his stomach.,,youcan rely on me.,, "The bottom line, Ries,"MagisterKai had said, that we can't rely on you anymore." The Head of the Mother Houseof the Guild of Xenolinguists had turnedhis gazeout the archedwindowof his studyasif auturinal rain-
the Bones tt Reading cloudsslowlyobliteratingAlpine peaksabsorbedhis full attention.fues had been summonedback to the Mother Housefor retraining,something all lingsterswereencouraged to do at regularintervals.Other lingsterscaughtup on new technolory and techniques,but he wassubjected to lecturesfrom a new Head, a man lessinclined to be indulgent than the one he'd known asa studenttwenty yearsago. "l seefrom the record that the Guild has given you a number of chancesoverthe lastthreeyears."MagisterKai turned to facehim again. "You werea very talentedlingsterin the beginning.But your addiction to nativealcoholsis a seriousproblem." "lt's under control now, Magister."What choice did he have but staysoberon Earth?They would'vefound and confiscatedhis supplyat the port if he d tried to bring any homewith him. "ls it, Ries?I'd like to think so.I'd like to think that all the yearsthe Guild spentpreparingyou for servicehaven'tbeenwastedafterall. I'd like to believethat we could sendyou out into the field without worrying whether or not you'd be soberenough'todo your job. But I find that beliefhardto sustain." His last assignmenthad been a disaster.He knew the Guild would've much preferredto sendsomeoneother than himself, but the urgency,and he'd been the only experienced client alien had expressed at the time. lingstercloseenoughto takethe assignment "I wassick.Pickedup somekind of nativevirus-" "And dosedit with native alcohol," Magister Kai said. "Dangerously compromisingthe interfacebecauseyou were out of control. Another time you, and the Guild, may not be so lucky.You do realizethe risk you take?" Lingsteringwasmore of an art thana sciencefor all the Guild proclaimedotherwise,and asan artisthe'd found that somenativeliquors set his considerabletalent free. That last time he'd managedto scare himselfbecauseit had takenhim daysto shakethe demonsthat stalked throughhis skull. There were hazardsto mixing alcohol or any pharmaceutical, alien or otherwise,with the already volatile drugs of interface. The Guild had long ago learned to weed out candidateswith sensitivityto Terran intoxicants,narcotics,stimulants,and hallucinogens,not even bothering to sendthem for heatment.Yet it wasimpossibleto know in
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advanceall the aliensubstances a human could becomeaddictedto and developappropriateimmunogens. He'd begunthe slidethreeyearsearlierwhen his youngwife died. He'd promisedher he'd be ihe rock under her feef insteadhed let her die. The Guild told him therewasnothing he could havedone for yv, evenif he'dbeenthere.Therewasnothinganybodycould've done,they said.He didn't believethem; the Guild didn't approveof lingsters marrying. He d beenout of it on somenativepotion that morningjncapable of helpingher when sheneededhim. Later,he drankto foriet theiamagethe drinkinghad caused. And then he'dfound he courdi,t stop.The Guild had movedhim from planetto pranet,and on each hed found somethingto easehis pain, somethingthey courdn't immunize him againstin advance.He didn't need somesanctimonious representative of the Guild telling him he shourdquit; he knew it. But ire knew he wasn'treadyjustyet. He saidtersely,"I'm sobernow." "Perhapsyou mean it this timei Magister Kai gazedat him for a moment' 1{nd becauseof that, I'm giving you one rastchance.The colony on Krishnawasfounded a d,oz-eny."r,,go. The aboriginalpop_ ulation is placidwith the rudimentsof , ri-pr.Irnguage. rhZ tingrt"^ who forgedthe interfacesetup the AI to handle it.,, "'l-hen rvhydoes anybodystill needa lingster?,, "The Deputy Commissioneron Krishna, Chandrapatel,is an old friend of mine," MagisterKai said."He wantsa personar hanslatorfor his family;' shoppingfacilitatorwas more like it, he thought, as he reft the Depcomt study.There wasn'teven enough wo.k hJre for a gradeone translator'But he d kept his word to Magiste, Kai. He hadn't-misseda dayof this boringand demeaningduty. He crossedthe hall. Through the high windows he sawthe first wispsof cloud gatheringoverthe ribcage of the Maker'sBones.If iagged Patelwasright and the Mules intendedto attack the human this time while the ship wasoffworld, thered be real "o-pound trouble. He enteredhis own room and gazedat the messhe lived in. while the Depcomt wife packed,he'd beiter pull together a few things of his own' The only object of real importancehe possessed wasthe fi".ldp"ck
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of interface drugs that all lingsterscarried when they were on assignment. Not that he'd had any opportunityto useeither the alpha or beta in the wholetwo yearshe'd spenton Krishna,bui no lingster sequences everwalkedoffand left his fieldpackbehind. He thought of apocryphalstoriesof lingsterswho'd come through triumphantly hefting their packsas if theyd faced nothing disasters, more than a routine interface.The storieswere more propagandathan actualhistory,but the habit lingered.He strappedit on the hip opposite the flash. To himselfat least,he had to admitthat he'dlovedthe Guild once, when he wasyoung.He still thoughtwith fondnessof his shrdentdays. It had seemedan almostholy endeavorto immersehimself in the mystery of language,and the Guild, monasticin its foundationin any case, did little to discouragethis religiousfervor in its lingsters.Yet there was somethingaboutthe Guild that ateup a lingster'sproductiveyears,then cynical,and bereft. spathim out, exhausted, Somewherein the silent househe hearda muffied thud. Mem clothesand baubles, Patel,probably,bumpinga hunk full of expensive and he'dbe the onestuckwith carryingit up to the roof.In a sourmood, he startedup the stairsthat led to the family'sprivateapartments. Anotherthump, behind him this time. Then a sharpcrashof furnifure overturned.And a scream. He turnedbacktoo fast,triggeringa giddyspell.For a secondthe stairstilted crazilyunder his feet and he lost his footing, slipping down two steps.He grabbedat the stairrail for balance,then movedwith greai care acrossthe hall till the dizzinesssubsided.The noisewascoming from Patel'sstudy. Nausearosein his stomach.He hesitatedoutsidethe door. Anotherscream. He flung the door open on a nightmaresceneand cameinstantly, sharplysober. The DepCom lay on the antiquecarpetby his desk,the spreading pool of his blood obliteratingits pastoraldesigns.One of Patel'shands clutched the shatteredkeypadof his terminal. Standingover him, a small.nakedalien,with a facesocoveredin tattoosthatthe naturalcolor of the skinhardlyshowed,held a bladelike an elongaiedthin pyramidin hand. one bloodstained
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It took Riesseveralsecondsto comprehendthe incrediblescene. Not Mule. The assassin wasFreh.His heartlurched. The plump little alien glancedat Ries.Two others,wearingonly the Freh versionof a loincloth,wereransackingthe room, overturning chairsand emptyingbookshelves. He screamedat them in Kitchen Frehti:"Scum, obeyyour master." Lingsteror not, it wasall he could rememberof the languagein his shock. The Freh holding the three-edgedknife crimsonwith Patel'sblood jabberednervously.The other assassins revertedto familiar nativebehavior,shovingeach other in their hasteto scrambleout the open window through which they'dentered. Sick with horror,he let his eyescomebackto the DepCom'slifelessbody, glazedwith its own blood. Then he dropped to his knees. Patelt fingershad flickeredbriefy. Somethingclatteredto the foor ashe knelt.Ignoringit, he cradled the DepCom'sbloodyheadin his lap.Closeup, he caughtthe faint iron smellof the spreadingblood. "Ries," Patel whisperedhoarsely."l must tell you-MulesSomethingI justlearned-" "Saveyour strength,Chan. I'll gethelp." Weak fingersscrabbledat his sleeve."Important. You must know this.The Freh-" Patel'svoice stopped.His head lolled back, his eyesstaredunseeing into the lingstert own. Then his colorlesslips movedsoundlessly, and Riesreadhis lastwords:"Savemy family." He stareddown at the dead man in his arms for a moment longer.Then he laid the headgentlyback down on the Indian carpet and stoodup. The assassin still stood,knife in hand, gapingsh-rpidlyat the result of his heachery.Riestook a stepforward,and the alien bolted,scrambling out the windowin his turn. He glancedback one more time at the body,feedinga growing rage.The brokenflasklay besidePatel,ryth runninglike a fiery oil slick overhis bloody body. The familyt privateapartmentwasat the end of a long hallwayon the third foor. Riesskiddedon woodentile polishedslickeverymorning by grinningFreh houseboys, the sameones- or theirfriendsand neigh-
Readingthe Bones
bors-who now had the blood of ChandraPatelon their hands.Never in the fifteen yearsthe human colonyhad been on Krishnahad the Freh given any indicationthey could turn into killers. The fogginessof the hangoverhe'd experiencedearliercameback, cloudinghis thoughtsasthe shockingclarityof Patel'smurderfaded.He could usea drink*but he knewhe had to staysobernow. The DepCom'sbedroom door stoodajar, and he heard the skreek of trunks being draggedacrossthe woodenfoor, the thud and thump of the family'sfranticpacking.He knockedonceto announcehis presence, then went insidewithout waiting for a reply. Three-year-old|ilan, the Patels'slate-inlife child, satin a heap of scarlet and turquoisepillows on the huge bed, silently clutching a vivid shrffedtoy.He'd alwaysthought therewassomethingfey aboutthis child who'dbeenborn on Krishna.The olderdaughterwasaddingher weight to her mother'sasthey tried to closean overstuffedtravelingchest.Lita's eyeswere deepbrown fleckedwith gold, and when shed finishedgrowing out of her awkwardyearshe imaginedshed be asexoticasa tiger.For now,shewasa moodyteenager,unpredictableasa cat. "Danyo."NayanaPatellookedup and spottedhim. "l can't find a boy to help us.Give me a hand with this." "Respect,Mem, but we haveto get out now. Leaveit." pleated Shestaredat him, fussingabsentlyat the long, elaborately gown."I can't go without-" He grabbedthe woman'selbow and turned her towardthe door. The youngerdaughterwailed. But the older daughtersnatchedat his sleeve,and he sawscarlet,long-nailedfingers. "Don't touch my mother!"the girl ordered. He removedher handsfrom his sleeve."We don't havetime to waste." Mem Patel'seyeswidened asshe caughtsight of the blood on his headhad rested."Chandra?"shewhispered. handswhereher husband's Color drainedout of her darkfaceleavingit gray. He wasafraidshe'dbreakdown helplesslyif he gaveher the truth. But she obviously guessedthe news was bad. She clapped a heavily Then sheturned ringedhand overher mouth, stifing her exclamation. backto the bed,braceletstinkling,and swepther youngerchild up. The toddler whimpered asthe stuffedtoy fell out of her arms.The big case she'dbeen packingforgottennow, the woman movedto the door.
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Lita scowled,pushinga loosestrandof copperhair back up on her - head.He watchedher gab up a smailercasethat had beenon the floor by the bed,feelingthe heatof her dislike.,,Whatareyou,Darryo?,, she?once 'Monk asked. or fairy?Do you evereyenlookat women?,, How closeshed come to the truth; sincehis wife'sdeath,he hadnt been with a woman. Lita followedher motherto the door. "Wait." He steppedin front of Mem patel and looked cautiously aroundthe opendoor. The upstairshallwaywasdeserted,the greathouse silent,giving no hint of the carnagehe'd witnesseddownstairs.A senseof wronirresssuffusedthe place' The stairweilreadingup to the rooftop ra, ,t fr-,"oppositeend of the hallwayfrom the main staircase. No roomsopenedoffthe hall at this point, no balconiesor evenwindowsthat opened,and if they werechallengedherethey'dbe cornered. As the fugitivesmoveddown the hall, a row of holo-portraits of former Deputy commissionerswatchedgrim-faced, white-robedmen and women in ceremonialsaris,whose most serious threat during their tenureon lGishnahad beenthe uphordingof Hindu customsin tte face of Freh indifferenceand incompetence.To *rL, eye contact with any one of them wasenough to activatecircuits that wourd deriver,rrifp"t, of wisdomin the subject'svoice.some had chosen favoriteaxiomsof othersrepeatedcherishedrinesfrom the Bhagavad cita. He {rl:T'", didn't look at them. There wasno advicemodern or rr"f,"i" tf,"y givehim; not one of them had faceda nightmare "oufa like this. "You might not want to tell Mama the truth, Danyol, Lita,s low voice said just behind him. "But you'd better soontell me or I,m not goinganywherewith you.,' He glancedback at the girlt suilen face."you don't havemuch of a choice." "Pah!Your breathstinksof liquor," shesaid. ]ilan wailedand Mem patersmotheredher chirdt faceagainsther own breast,muffing the sound.The womant eyesglitter.d riith t""rr, but sheheld her grief in silence.He shepherdei the"family untir "ro"g they reacheda door that led to the roof siairs.opening it cautiouly, he listenedfor sounds. They weredirectlyabovea small,walledgardenthe patels usedfor meditation,with a holo-stafue of Krishnain a nichesurroundedbv fow-
Reading the Bones 17 ers.It struckhim then how the Patelsclung to the things of home, how little they'd adjustedto this new life. Yet in this they were no different from the restof New Bombaycolony. A damp wind waspicking up, soughingthrough the treeson the other side of the wall. Thll and skinny,they reachedashigh as the flat roof of the Residence.The Freh called the trees"Spirit-Tiap,"the name servingto buggestagain how little he really understoodof the Freh or their language.The air was heavywith the clotted green smell of the comingmonsoon.His sinusesiingled. He steppedcautiouslyoutside.Beyondthe trees,he sawthe other wall, the one that shut New Bombayofffrom the nativetown squatting at its feet like a scruffybeggar,and south of the town, SeparationRiver. To the north and eastwasa greatchain of mountainsdropping down to foothills in the northwestwhere it was possibleto crossto the rolling sweepof grasslands where the starshipwasbased.Their only hope of safetylay in the Stcr of Calcutta'sbase. The DepCom'ssilver skipcarcrouchedon a bull's-eyepad in the centerof the roof, an oversizedmosquitoabout to launch itself into the sky.It wassmall enoughthat Mem Patel'sluggage,if he'd let her bring it, would'vemade it unbearablycrowded.He didn't need to know much aboui flying;the onboardAI would takecareof mostof it. The sooner they got on boardthe better.He beckonedto the women. His way wassuddenlyblocked by a Freh in a voluminous anklelength,orange-browngarment.Awhite silk scarf,likeall the nativeswore during the seasonof blowingspores,coveredhis face. "Thlker.Wait," the alien saidin Frehti. "No harm." Mem Patel gasped,but if the mother was scared,the wildcat daughtercertainly wasn't. "Go from our way," Lita said a high-pitched Frehti that Ries hadn'tknownshecould speak. The Freh steppedback a paceand allowedthe white scarfto slide down, revealingsallowfeaturesand one lone tattoo squigglethat began on his foreheadand ran down overone cheek.Riesrecognizedthe male alien who'dbeenin the tavernlastnighi; his namewasBorn-Bent.The Freh'sspine seemedtwisted out of alignment,raisingone shoulder higher than the other and throwing the head off balance.One eye was dull amber, the other gray."What they'dcaII back homea sport,"the
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DepCom had once commented,coming upon the malformed alien in the marketplace. "What are you doing here?"Riesdemandedin Frehti. Born-Benthad done small servicesfor him from time to time, but he'd nevertrustedthe Freh. Behind him, he heardthe child'svoicestartup againin rising a whine of protest,and the mother'surgent hushing. The Freh made a half servile,half nervousgeshrrewith his head. "Dangerhere." He becameawareof the hemor in his handsand shut his fists to still it. "What do you want with me?" The liplessmouth pulled up in an ugly caricatureof a grin. ,,1do service.Then Thlkerdo service.,, He wonderedsuddenlyifthe namethe alienscalledhim indicated respector contempt.Probablythe latter,sincemalesdidn't seemto hold conversations. "What service?" At that point,the little girl screeched loudly. "What is it, preciousone?"Mem patel askedanxiously. Born-Bentreachedinto his tentlikerobewith his bandagedhand and pulled somethingout. "Thke." His hand roseinstinctivelyto ward offattack beforehe sawwhat it was the alien held oul the sitar he'd left in the tavern. The cracked gourd that had formed the instrument'sresonatorat its basehad been replacedwith the shell of a large,nativenut. "This also." Rieslookeddown at a secondobjectthe alien laid on his palm. It seemedto be a small bone from an animal with somekind of marks scratchedon its surface;at first glance, they resembledthe scrawl of the primitive counting systemusedby the merchantsin the bazaar. Yet as he gazedat the bone, somethingstirredin him, somesenseof mystery. "What is it?" "Soul bone.Give to the mothers." He hadto raisehis own voiceoverthe soundof the child'swailing. "What mothers?Where?" "Beneaththe bones.Go. Greatdanger."
Reading the Bones 19 The lastthing he had time to do was carrya nativerelic to an alien graveyard.Riesshovedthe bone into a pocketand loopedthe carry-cord of the sitaroverhis shoulder. He turnedbackto Lita. "Get in the'car." "I don't take ordersfrom servants." "Lita!" Mem Patelscolded. "Well-he is." "Your papawishesus to go with Danyo,and so we will." The girl scowledbut turned towardthe vehicle. He took the still shrieking,red-facedchild from her mother.filan pummeledhis arms with her fists. Mem Patelsuddenlyseemedto understandthe causeof her child's distress."Where is it, sweetheart? Tell Mama." pointed back toward the open door at the top of the narrow filan stairwell. His skinprickled.Fora momenthe thoughthe'dheardthe rumble of voicesrising up the stairwell,the echo of tramping feet. He listened. Nothing. "We haveto leave,Mem. Now!" The older girl was alreadyin the skipcar;sheleanedback out the door, holding her arms out to take her sister.He lifted the child up to Lita'swaiting arms,then turned to help the DepCom'swidow NayanaPatelwasrunning back towardthe stairwelldoor to fetch the child's toy, one hand clutching the ridiculously ornate skirt above her knees.Lita screamed.He lunged after Mem Patel,but Born-Bent grabbedhim, pinning his arms.The Freh wassurprisinglystrongfor his smallsize. "Thlker!" The alien said urgently."You understandhow words As Nayana Patel reachedthe door, another alien appeared,his bodynakedbut his facescarvedin white.Riescaughtthe prismaticglint of a three-sidedknife. Mem Patelscreamed,the sound dwindling away into a gurgle asbright red arterial blood spurtedhigh, hitting the lintel asshefell. "Mamal" Lita wailed. Two more Freh spilled out onto the roof, steppingcarelesslyover the downedwoman.
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He threw his weightagainstthe sport.His headspun dizzily,but he caughtBorn-Bentoflbalanceand almostbrokefree. Born-Bentpunchedhim full in the stomach. His kneesbuckledunderhim and air rushedout of his lungs.The alien draggedhim acrossthe roofand shovedhim like a sackofvegetablesthroughthe doorof the skipcar.Inside,the childt deafeningnoise echoedroundthe confinedmetalspace.His belly scrapedpainfullyover the ridgedfoor. Lita'slong-nailedfingersscrabbledat his arm, pulling him in; her red hair had comeloosefrom the clip, and long curls spilled overher face. He glancedout the door again, iust in time to seeBom-Bent go down underthe flashof a blade.
il The skipcarwasflying low over leafy SpirirTiap treetopsglowing olive by storm light. High crestswhipped past only centimetersaway. Lita Patelsatin the pilott seat,frowning out the forwardport at the horizon, wherethe gray-greenof the iungle met the iron grayof the clouded sky. She'd had the presenceof mind to get the skipcarairborne after Born-Bentshovedhim aboard. "Flying too low," he observed.His eyeswere raw and his stomach felt bruised. "Glad you'refeelingbetter." "OnboardAI-" "Overrodeit. I'm keepingus under the stormclouds." He squintedat the iungle fowing like a darkriver beneaththem' "Didn't know you knew anything about flying." "More than you, apparently."Sheturned to look at him. "You drink too much." In the watery light he sawsmudgesunder her eyeswhich were bloodshotas if she'd been crying. Her red hair had come completely loosenow,tumbling overher shoulders. And suddenlyhe knew that one of the thingsabouther that irritatedhim somuch wasthat her hair wasthe samerich color ashis young wife'shad been.Looking at this half-grownvixentriggeredpainful mem-
the Bones 2l Reading ories of his lost, sweetYv. The soonerthey reachedthe baseand he could hand thesetwo overto somebodyelsethe better. His headfelt asif it had beenhollowedout; the soundof his own voicewhen he spokeboomedand echoedinsidehis skull. He leaned forwardand punchedup the'car'sautomapand studiedit. The terrain betweenNew Bombay and the basewas hilly and wild; their route passedovera ridge thick with unbrokenjungle,a tapestryin vermilion and umber. "Danyo, I expectyou to explain- " "Then adviseme. I've beentrying to raiseCalcutta'sbase,but I get no response," Even with the starshipgone, there should be a skeletonmaintenancecrew left behind. He deactivatedthe map. "Tiy again." Sheleanedforwardand keyeda commandinto the pad.Nothing happened."Why don't theyanswer?Is somethingwrong?" but decidednot to sharethem.Ahead, He consideredpossibilities a iaged spikeof lightning streakedout of the black cloudsand racedto the ground. After a moment, shesaidin a whisperthat couldn't hide the shakinessof her voice,"Tell me the truth now, Danyo. My father'sdeadtoo, isn'the?" If they were goingto haveany chanceof getting through this, she would haveto grow up. There wasno way he could make it painless. "The Frehkilled him." She closedher eyes,and he sawher small white teeth biting her lower lip. She had her mother'sability to absorbterrible newsand not cry out. He couldnt rememberthe deathof his own parents-he'd alreadybeen on assignment for the Guild-but he knew it wasn'tunder terriblecircumstances like these.He felt therewassomethinghe ought to sayto her but couldn't think of anything appropriate. They skimmedoverthe wind-churnedtreetopsin silenceagainfor a few seconds.Rain spatteredin a crazy staccatoon the forward port. They'd be lucky to make it to the basebeforethe storm caughtthem. Finally,he saidlamely,"I'm sorry." Shestaredresolutelyahead."We haveto getto the Calcutta naw." He hadn't beenableto weepafterYv'sdeath.Like Lita, he'd found
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no time for grief. Instead,he'd taken the way past the pain of living through a bottle of whatevera planet offered.But that had been just anotherkind of lie. "The ship isn'tat the baseright now." "Not there?Then-" Shedidn't getto finish her thought.The little skipcarshudderedas if hit by a giant fist, rolled tail over nose,and headedstraightdown for the forestfoor. When he opened his eyesagain, he was dangling upside down from the seatwebbing,the foor of the skipcarabovehis head,Branches pokedtheir wayin through brokenports.A long iaggedspikeof what was supposedto be shatterproofplastiglass waspoisedabovehis neck. It took 'car him a moment to figure out that the musthavebeencaughtin a tree that had brokentheir fall. What the hell'rewegoingto do now? The silencemade him nervous.Supportinghis weightwith one hand on a strut,he wriggledcautiouslyround until the glassno longer threatenedto impalehim. Now he could seethe pilot'sseat. Empty. He craveda shotof zyth to steadyhis nerves,but he knew he was goingto haveto do this alonefrom now on. The thoughtscaredhim. Then he abandonedcautionand twistedin the web until he could see the back.Alsoempty.If they'dbeeneiected"You're conscious,"Lita said,leaning in the window, carelessof splintered glass. the He stared upside down at her. "l thought you might've been killed." "You don't havethat much luck, Danyo."Her expression, wan beof her words. neaththe coffee-brownskin, gavethe lie to the bravado "We must'vebeen struck by lightning." He wonderedif the onboard AI had been badly damaged,and if it containeda self-repair Program. "l got filan out firstin casethe 'carburned." She indicatedwhere her sistersat,finger in her mouth, at the foot of a tangle of slender iungle trees.Long emeraldfronds dripped rainwateron her.
the Bones 23 Reading HenoticedthatLitahadremovedtheornateoverskirtshe'dbeen imageof wearingat homi-the thoughtbroughtback an unwelcome in serMem Patel'sskirt spatteredin blood revealingsturdybrownlegs like a viceable shorts. She carried the skirt slung over one shoulder cloak.The little strapsandalson her feet were not so practical' Hisseatwebwasjammedandittooktimetofreehimself'['ita helped,supportinghim to take tensionoff the web'sfastening' "Devi!You weightoo much,"shegrumbled' that He turned, allowinghis legsto slideslowlydown to the ceiling mo' a For was now the foor, and felt the sitar bump againsthis head' and BornPatel's, been ment he consideredleavingit behind. But it had didn't Bent had goneout of his wayto mend it and bring it back.It really the in caught had cord weigh thal much, he thought. The sitar'scarry into ,""t-*.b and had to be untangled.A lightweight iackethe'd thrown it' with his pack had snaggedon the cord too, and came beHe rolled himself cautiouslyout of the wrecked'carand stood tingled side the girl in the wet forest.Immediately,his sensitivesinuses
painfully. "filan'shungry,"Lita said."Shehasn'teatensince-" He felt heaton the backof his neck and turnedto seethe skipcar for burning. He staredat it for a moment. The forestwas too damp the fire to becomea threat,but he hadn't had time to get their belongingsout. "You see?"shesaid."Now what?" IGishna wasn'ta world that invited tourism. He knew few things aboutthe foothills other than they werewild and dottedwith small Freh lived. He'd hustedthe skipvillageswhere someof the bazaar'svendors exactlywhere it was. knowing car'sAI to get them to the basewithout Now he wascertainof only one thing: They darednot stayhere in the jungle,socloseto the chaosin New Bombay' "Now we go on foot," he said. Lita scuffeda toe in the grassthat formed a thick, waist-highcarpet under the hees,and dropsof water few off the stalks."Not much of a path.And what aboutfilan? This is overher head'" He glanced in the direction she indicated and sawthe little girl pushing h", *"y through grassthat reached her shoulders.As he watched,she stumbledand fell, disappearingunder a green wave that
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closedoverher. If sheweni off on her own, they could easilylosetrack of her. "I'll carryfilan." "Do you know what direction we should take?" He didn't, but he wasn'tgoing to admit that. Spirit-Tfaptreeshid the mountainsfrom sight,and the skywastoo overcast for him to gethis bearingsfrom the sun. If he climbed one of the trees,he'd get a better senseof which wayto go, but theseheesweretoo thin to takehis weight. He had no ideahow manyhourshad passed sincethey'dfled New Bombay.He had to do it soon,or what little daylightwasleft would be fading. He picked up the toddler and settledher on his shoulderswhere shetwined her fingersin his hair,leaningher headdrowsilyagainsthis. She was heavy,but at least she'd given up that awful screaming.He wasn'tusedto children,and he'd neverhad much contactwith this one in New Bombay;she'dstayedmostof the time in the nurserywith the familyt personalservants. "Be carefulwith my sister,"Lita warned."She'sveryupset." He glancedat the oldergirl. It wasn'tthe firsttime he'd noticedher interpretingfor her silentsibling."Doesn'tshespeakfor herself?" "Why should she?My mother spoiledher. And the amahsdid everythingfor her. Everybodyaround her did the talking." Three waslate for a child io begin talking, he thought.All healthy humanbabieswereborn with impressive linguisticskills.)ilan shouldbe conveyingher thoughtswith somefuency by now,not relyingon others to do it for her. a streamrushedby,hiddenin the denseundergrowth, Somewhere chatteringurgentlyto itself.The sharp,clearscentof waterlay like a descantoverthe darkernotesof wet soiland thick plant-life.Enormousmahung from vinesthatclimbedthe treetrunks; gentaand scarletblossoms smaller,acidyellowflowerslit up the shadows beneaththem. Cloudsof eyelessinsectswhirred by; guided only by the smell of the flowers,they blundered constantly into the humans' faces. He pushed his way through the high grassand Lita followed. "These sandalsarerubbing my feet,"shecomplainedat one point. He wouldn'thavebelievedthe brutal carnagethey'dleft behind in the Residencewas the work of Freh if he hadn't seenthem himself. Somethinghad causedthe normallyplacidaliensto riseup againstthe humans.If they'dbeenharboringdeepresentmentagainstthe colonists
Reading the Bones 25 alltheseyears,they'ddonea goodjob of hidingit. He tried to remember if he'd eversensedangeror evenreluctancein the nativebehavior,but all the imageshe conjuredup were of bland, incurious,passivefaces. "Youunderstand how wordsmake."Born-Benthad beenwrong;he didn't understandat all. There wereobviouslyhuge gapsin his knowledgeof how Frehti operated.He wishedhe could takethe problem back to the Guild, let his old teachersplaywith it. He imaginedthem ashe'd knownthem in his youth.MagistraEiluned,old alreadywhen he'd first come to the Mother House, and Dom Houston, who'd believed that everylanguageservedonly to disguise.WasFrehti disguisingsomething he should know?In memory he sawthem gatheredround the seminar table while the warm green smell of summer flowed through tall windowsand cuckoosspokefrom sunlit apple orchards. A stifed exclamationat hissidebroughthim back.Lita had caught one of her fimsy sandalsin a wiry grassstrand.He put out a hand and steadiedher. When the sandalwassettledback on her foot, sheglancedup at "Do him. you haveanyideawhatcausedthat. . . that. . . whathappened backthere?" Her voicewavered,but he could tell shewasdeterminednot to let him seeher terror.Hair in disarray, clothingstreakedand tom, shewas, afterall, hardlyout of childhoodherself. "Time to talk aboutit later,"he said. Somethinghad happenedin the native tavern. Born-Benthad tried to give him a message and perhapsbeen killed for it. Then the DepCom had tried to sharesomethinghe'd learned.Again,something important enoughfor a man to wastehis dying breathtrying to communicate.Rieshad a senseof hugepiecesof informationlacking,questions without answers.Until he understoodthe deadly puzzle, he and the DepCom'schildrenwerein mortal danger. When they'd gone a few hundred metersthrough the denseundergrowth,he found what he waslooking for. An old Spirit-Tfapwith a thick, gnarledtrunk shovedits headup through the canopyformedby its youngerneighbors.He let the child and the sitarslidegentlydown to the wet grass.filan clung to his leg for a moment,staringup at him wideeyed,but she madeno sound.He wasbeginningto find the child'ssilenceunnerving. "Wait herea minute."he said."Okav?"
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filan didn't answer. "What're you doing now? Lita askedas he began to climb. She seemedto have pulled herselftogetheragain."You'll never make that, Danyo.You'reout of shape." The smoothtrunk wasslick from the rain but free of the clinging vines.Near the top, the main trunk split into three,and he could go no furtheraseachthin limb bent underhis weight.He satin the securityof this three-prongedY, blood pounding in his temples,leaningout precariously to gaze overthe surroundingforest. The rain had stoppedand the sun had alreadyset,leavinga diffuse glow in the bankedcloudson the horizon.To his left, the storm had cleared,and he saw the first faint sparkof the constellationthe Freh called "The Thief." Below it, a white smear,a tail end of the home galaxythat the Freh knew as"sorrow-Crossing,"gleamedfaintly. Somewhere down that softwashof light, a small blue planet orbited a sun too insignificantto be visiblethis far away. He looked away.Fugitives couldn't afford the luxury of being homesick. They were on the slopeof one of the foothills,a gentle risethat he hadn't noticed as they'd trudged through the thick iungle' He gazed acrosscanyonschoked with dark vegetationand sawSeparationRiver, glowing like a pewter ribbon in the twilight, winding acrossthe alluvial plain. He thought of his first impressionsof Krishnaasthe shuttle ferrying him down from the starshipcamein through the atmosphere:a lush green planet laced with shining waterways,signsof squalidhabitation appearingonly afterthe shuttlelanded. In the foreground, downslope,he noticed a number of hees seemedto be leaning crazily,and he realizedhe wasstaringat the skip cart crashsite.Then his attentionwaspulled backto the distanthuman settlementon the banksof the river. It seemedasif it were illuminated. As he stared,it eruptedin a fountain of fame that turned the bluffs crimson.New Bombaywason fire. "How much longer areyou goingto stayup there?" It wascompletelydark on the forestfloor when he slid back down the tree again,but his eyesretainedthe afterimageof flame' The Dep Com had thought dangerwould come from the wild Mules, yet it was the placid Freh who'd rebelled,and that wasmore ftightening' 'Well, did you find which way we haveto go?"
Readingthe Bones
27
"I think so." No sensepassingon to her what he'd learnedfrom the AI of carnivoreson Krishna.fu if to underlinehis concern,the leatheryblack shapeof a huge nightbird slippedbetweenthe treesand sweptpasthis shoulder.He heardthe slapand creakof iis featherless wings. And he heardsomethingelse.Somethingmore menacingthan a wild animal. "What?Danyo,why'reyou pushingme?" "Up there."He jerkedhis chin at the treehe'd justclimbeddown. 'We'll wait up there till itt light." "But I don't climb hees.And whataboutJilan?" He shovedthe hesitatinggirl towardthe tree."Get your foot up on that bole there.Then the other.Keepgoingl"He slungthe sitaroverhis shoulder,grabbedthe child up and held her closeto his chestwith one hand, reaching into the tree'sdarknessfor a handhold with ihe other. The fieldpackdug into his hip asthe child claspedher legsaroundhim. Lita seemedto pick up his urgencyand sheclimbed quickly.He followed,burdenedby the child and the sitar,which he couldn't leave behind in the dampgrass.It bangedinto his shoulderbladeswith each movement.Scaredby the ascent,the little girl madeit worseby clinging tightly to his hair. Lita'sfoot slippedtwice on the damp trunk and struck his fingers,almostknockinghim off. The child struggled,and he had a hard time hangingon to the slipperybark. "Staycalm!" he commanded. Shewhimperedbut stoppedstruggling.Lita had now reachedthe Y where he d stoppedearlier; he pushed the child up into her downstretchedhands.Relievedof Jilan'sweight, he scrambledup after her. He heardthe harshintakeof Lita'sbreathassheturned towardthe plain of SeparationRiver.The entire skyto the south and eastwaslit by the lurid glow of the fire, and under it the wet leavesof the forestcanopy gliiteredredlyasif they'dbeendrenchedin blood. Belowthem, the forestsuddenlyfilled with screams-the crashof bodiesrunning blindly throughundergrowth-a high-pitchedkeenrng that broughtthe hairsup on his neckand arms.A suddensmelllike putrefzing fleshroseup to his nostrils. "Merciful Lord IGishna!"Lita exclaimed,her handsclaspedover her nose."What is it?" At the foot of the tree that shelteredthem, a naked,spindly legged
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creature,its corpse-whiteskin hanging in folds like a toobig overcoat hastilythrown overspikesof underlyingbone,wrestleda plump Freh female to the ground.The Freh shriekedand thrashedabout asthe other alien coveredher. Riescould seeher fistspummeling the larger alien's shoulders-a male, he could seeits elongatedpenisand scrotalsackand he heard the streamof scolding she gavevent to in her birdlike voice.The male madeno soundin reply. This wasthe firstMule he'd everseencloseup, and he wasstunned by the height and emaciationof the alien.The powerfulreekof their vio lent mating roseup in a thick cloud till he thought he would vomit. Then it wasover.The Mule stoodup, his long, horselikeheadhrrning slowly,the overlargeearspricked as if they were listeningto sounds out of human range.Then he vanishedwraithlike into the trees.A mo. ment later,the Freh femalepickedherselfup from the ground,brushed leavesand dirt off, then strolledawayasif nothing had happened. It made no sense.The Freh and the Mules were separatespecies; whatwashappening? thatwasobviousat a glance.Had he misunderstood Lita wascrying now. The mask of arroganceand precociousness that markedthe teenagerin the bazaarthis morning had droppedaway. The youngerdaughterstaredup at him, her eyeswide with fright, her handsgrippingthe front of his iumpsuit. "Shelookedlike one of |ilan'samahs,"Lita saidin a wobblyvoice. "What're we goingto do, Danyo?" "We'll stayup herefor the night. In the moming, we'll makeplans." He put one arm around each of them, drew them closeto sharea little warmth, and thought aboutwhat she'diust said.The girl obviously didn't share her mother's boastthat she couldn't tell one Freh from another. The lurid glow in the skyoverNew Bombaygraduallyfaded.The storm had blown overfor the time being, leavinga skybright with alien The planet had no constellationsand the white hail of Sorrow-Crossing. companionin its orbit round its sun; IGishnat night skywasperpetually moonless.He lookeddown. Now the wet leavesmirroredthe fierce glitter of stars. When it waslight againin the morning, he'd try to rememberinformation browsedin the computer'slibrary about edible plants and roots. One prbtein-rich, red-browntuber the nativesroastedover hot
the Bones 29 Reading coals,he'd tastedin the bazaar.The Freh usedthe husksto makethe dye they favored for their own robes.If he could find some tomorrow it would solvethe food Problem. Somethingdug into his ribswherethe child clungto him. He took Born-Bent'ssoul bone out and examinedit curiously.It wasabout the size and width of his own index finger, and in the starlight its surface gleamedalmostasthough it weretranslucent.He ran his finger overthe symbolscratchedon it, but it yieldedno secretsto him. The motherswhoeverand whereverthey were-would know what to do with it, the Freh had said.If he survivedlong enoughto find them. After a while, the girls slept,but he remainedawakeand watchful for a long time, listeningto the soundsof fight and evasionand bestial rutting that camefrom all directions,punctuatedwith an ominous animal roaring that brought to mind the chilling sights and sounds of jungle life he'd found in the AI's library. He sleptfitfully. Shortly beforedawn, he dreamedYv wasdrowning in SeparationRiver. She waswearingthe sky-bluedressshe'dworn ontheir weddingday,and her outstretchedhandsimplored him to help while he stoodon the other bank, unableto reachher' When he woke, his head had the sticky, cobweb-filled feeling he knew well, a cloggeddullnessthal qth causedand only zyth could remove. His musclesiumpedand trembledthis morning.Fire raceddown the nerve paths,and sweatbroke out on his brow in spite of the cool morning. He felt weak, drained, ready to give up, desperatefor the courageqth could.givehim, evenif it didn't last. The foresthad dissolvedin a pearl-whitemist that dripped offthe leaves.He lookeddown at filan, still nestledin the crookof his arm. She wasawake,gazingupat him, thumb in mouth, her face puffy and tearstreaked.This wasn'tpart of my Guild oath! But for the child s sake,he had to pull himself together. Lita waskneelingin the tall grassin the graylight, emptyingsomething out of her skirt, which she'dusedasa basket.Wisps of fog drifted slowlyoverthe ground. She glanced up at him. "I found breakfastwhile you were still snoring."
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He wouldn't give her the satisfactionof seeingher barbs strike home. He let the sitar slide down until it waslow e'olgh to drop safely into her outstretched hands.Then he grasped |ilan wittLoneshakyhand and with the other loweredhimself down to standbesideLita. The little girl wriggledfree and clutchedher sister'sarm. Lita pulled her sister down to sit on the groundclosebesideher, then indicateda mound of thumbnail-sized, darkpurpleberries. "The houseboyssometimesbrought us berries,,'she said. ,,They lookeda bit like these." He picked one out of the mound and raisedit cautiouslyto his nose,then broke the berry open with a fingernailand gazedat the honeycombof tiny segments surroundinga smallovalseed."This one's okay." He handedit to her and pickedup another. "You mean you're going to do that with each one?" she asked, her disbeliefobvious."But they all camefrom the samebush.If oneh okay- " "Three kinds of berriesall grow on one bush. They all look alike on the outside.The one I gaveyou is female,safeto eat.Another kind containsthe male chromosomes, a kind of red dustthat will makeyou sneezeand your stomachcramp,but it won't kill you.The third is sexually neuter.It's designedto kill the plant'senemiesthat mistakeit for one of the othertwo." Sheclappedher handsoverher mouth. "But I wassohungry,and theylooked- Danyo,I alreadyateone!" "Doesyour stomachhurt?" Sheshookher head. "You werelucky. Next time, wait for me." "I wasonly tryingto help,"shesaidin a smallvoice. He satcrossJegged on the wet ground and sniffed,split, and sorted the berries,discardingmostof them, stoppingto sneezefrequently.Both sisterswatchedhim work. Finally he took a berry from the smallestpile and- to reassureLita - put it with greatshowinto his own mouth. Then he turned that pile overto her. "Those you can eatsafely." "You'reonly goingto eatone berry?" "I'm not hungry."
Reading the Bones 37 He didn't tell her that zTfhwasdistilledfrom the poisonousform of theseberries,made safeonly after a long period of fermentation,and perhapsnot eventhen. Hunger for qth roseup from his bowelslike a starvedbeast,all clawsand teeth,overwhelminghis bodyt needfor food. Fora momenthe consideredsavingthe dangerous berries.If he put one under his tongue,suckedit, didn't chewHe stoodup abruptlyand walkedawayfrom temptation. While the children atetheir meagerbreakfast,the sun roseand the mist graduallymelted off the grass.A fallen tree trunk provideda place to sit. He unslungthe sitarfrom his shoulder,settledit in his lap, and beganto explorethe stringswith a hand that wouldn't stoptrembling. The native nut that had replacedthe crackedgourd changedthe resonance,and he compensated for it asmuch ashe could.He reallyneeded a wire plectrurnto pluck the strings,but that hadn'tbeen in his pocket when Born-Bentreturnedthe lostinstrumentto him. His fingernailswerestill cakedin the DepCom'sblood.He wiped his hand cleanin the wet grass. Lita came over to sit besidehim as he finished.Her red hair tangledoverher shoulders,and pink juice from the beniesstainedher mouth. filan wasdrawingon a patchof bareground,usinga piece of dry grassshe'dpulled from the forestfloor. Absorbedby her work, the child paid no attention to them. The two looked nothing alike, he thought. Lita would be asvoluptuousasher motherbut tallerwhen shematured; the child waselfin-facedand seemeddestinedto be smalland delicate. "That wasmy father'ssitar,"Lita said. "Yes." "Playsomething." He picked out an old songhe'd learnedasa student,a lament for time pastand homelandlost,like a thousandsimilar dirgessung in different languagesover the millennia by humans who'd been explorers and wanderers sincethey emergedfrom the primal ocean. "Sad.It remindsme of Earth." He setthe instrumentdown on the groundbesidehim. "I neverlearnedto play. I think it would've pleasedmy father if I had." she ran one fingertip down the length of a string."I've been away solong, it'shard to rememberEarth, let aloneIndia. Havevou everbeen to India?"
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He shookhis headand stoodup, workingon tensionin his neck and shoulders. "one thing I rememberis a white housein the mountains,near the headwatersof the Ganges.we lived there in the summertime.we had peacocks and monkeysin the gardens-" She brokeoff. He watchedher staringinto the d.istance, the rising sun illuminatinghalf her face,highlightingthe darkcheekbones sothat sheseemeda bas-relief carvingof a younggoddess on a templewall. In the silence,he bentdownand rehievedthe sitar,slidingan arm through its carry-cord."Time to move on." After a while shesaid,"You must'vemet lotsof aliens." 'A number.They'renot all pleasedto meetHomo sapiens.', she scrambledto her feet and took her sister'shand. They stepped out through tough, wiry grassthat grew up to the height of the childt head.He took Jilan from Lita and swungher up onto his shoulders.The child graspedthe neck of the sitar as she rode, which didn't preventit from banginghis backbut tightenedthe carry-cordasit passedacrosshis throat. Lita walkedbesidehim. "How did you know about the be'ies?" "There wasa wealth of information in the AI's library.your father seemedto be the only personin New Bombaywho wasinterestedin it." Shewassilentfor a moment,then shesaid,"you don'tlike me very much, do you?" "Not important. I haveto get you to safety." "Well, maybe it's mutual." She halted, staringat the starkpeaks, bonesshroudedin funerealgray mist. "I hate this planet. Especially thoseugly mountains." He glancedup without slowinghis pace."The Maker'sBones?" Shecaughtup with him again."And why do they havethat name? Do the Freh believein a god calledthe Maker?Is he supposedto be buriedup thereor what?" "I haven'tseenany evidencethe Freh havea god." "How can that be?All primitiveraceshavegodsor goddesses." Beforehe could answer,somethingcrashedthrough the undergrowthaheadof them. He seizedLita'sarm and pulled them all down behinda tall clump of the bushes.|ilan whimperedand pressed her face againsthis chest.
the Bones 33 Reading The noisegrewcloser,and now they could hearsnuffiing-growling-keening"What is it?" Lita whispered,her breathwarm at his ear' Three figuresemergedfrom the trees,a tall Mule male with deepset eyesand two male Freh, one a iuvenile,wrappedin ragsand still showingthe distinctiverolls of adolescentneck fat. The Mule tackled the nakedadult Freh and wrestledhim to the ground.They rolled over and both and overin the grass,the Mule grunting,the Freh screeching, closeto the poundingeachother,at one point coming so dangerously sweat and the humans'hiding placethat Riessmelledthe Freh'ssour rancidodor of the Mule. The Mule appearedto be irying to sink long fangsinto the Freh's armswhile the iuvenilestoodby, shrilling and gesturingwith his fourfrom the starvedlook of fingeredhands.Rieswould neverhaveguessed the Mule that he would be so strong,but he wasobviouslygetting the betterof the sturdierlookingFreh. As abruptly as the sexualencounterhad ended last night, this fight ended.Now the combatantsseparated,not looking at each other, When A long moment passed. satup, and brusheddirt off themselves. he finally stood,the Mule's thin armswere aslong ashis legs;Riessaw the bonesclearlythrough the skin asif the alien werea walkinganatomy demonstration, The Freh turned unblinking eyesin the direction of the hidden humans,but far from signalingdefeat,there wassomethingthat seemed glutted and satisfiedin that expression.There was some unexplained connection here, some clue he was missing that would explain the bizarre interaction between thesetwo speciesthat he d witnessedlast night and today,but he had no ideawhat it could be. Through all this, the fuvenile continued to wail. Suddenly,the Mule seemedto becomeawareof the noisefor the first time. With a roar that was almost too deep to come from such a sunken chest,he now turned on the youngerFreh.At first Riesthoughi he meantto kill the iuvenile, but he sawthat the Mule's intention wasto drive him away.The juvenile took a stepback,his eyeslargewith fear,armsflapping ineffectually in front of his face.The Mule lungedforward. Then, to Ries'sastonishment,the adult Freh joined the chase.At this, the iuvenileturned and ran.The Mule and the adult Freh both ran
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afterhim. The soundsof the chasegraduallydied awaybehind them and the silenceof the forestreturned.Riesblew breathout, releasingtension. "I want to go home!" Lita clutched her little sister. He sighed."New Bombayburned lastnight. you sawthe fire." "Not New Bombay.Earth." He didn't think anyof them had much chanceof everseeingEarth again. Warm rain pelted them without ceasing,and soddenblind bugs crashedagainsttheir facesand hands.He'd given his light jacketto Lita, who wascarryingher sisteron her back;both of them huddledunderit. Their hair hung limp and wet overfacesstreakedwith mud. Lita's flimsy sandalshad disintegratedin the rain, and now shewore his boots,lashed around her ankleswith vinesto preventthem from falling off. His own feet were protectedonly by sockswith strips of hee bark to fortify the soles,alsosecuredwith vines;leavesjiggledfestivelyasthey walked.The tropical white jumpsuit he'd put on yesterdaymorning was now filthy and ripped. Lita seemedin better spiritsthis morning. He heardher murmur* ing to her sister,telling her how closethey were to the calcutta's base, how soonthey'dbe there.Maybe he'd had the sameoptimisticresiliency when he washer age;he certainlydidn't now.He trudged,headdown, waterpouring down his back. His empty stomachprotestedconstantly and his tired musclesached.His nervesshiveredwith need,and it was hard to stop thinking aboutzyth. one shot of it would be like grabbing powerlines in his barehands,electricityracingacrossthe connection, burning,energizing. It would be somuch easierto giveup, lie down,sunenderI am a channel.. . . Throughme flowsthe meaningof the lJniverse.. . . The words of the lingster'smantra rose unbidden in his mind, dragginghim backfr om the abyss.Firstwasthe Wordand I am itscanier. He had to go on. Therewasno choice;the Guild had seento that. The Guild had brandedhim, and therewasno removingthe markfrom his soul. Alien alcohol washis attemptto breakthe bond and it had failed, just asit had failed to takeawaythe pain of Yvt death. He swattedinsectsand movedon. He wasglad for the small relief being of rid of the youngerchild for a while, and not justbecauseof the
the Bones 35 Reading burden of carryingher extraweight on his back.)ilan'scontinuingsilencewasunnerving.she didn't respondto anythinghe saidto her. He had no ideawhatto do abouther. If Yv had lived, he wondered,would shehavewantedchildren? One of them would'vehad to leavethe Guild sincethe Guild discouragedchild-raisingby its lingsters.Would shehavedone so gladly?Could he haveacceptedher decision,whateverit might'vebeen?A memory surfaced:Shelay under him in a groveof giant,singingfernson an exotic world, the first time they'd madelove; the wild red hair spilled over her eyesin shadowthe colorof moss,a sprinkling her small,firm breasts, nose. He ached to realizethere were things her over of rosy freckles abouthis youngwife he hadn'thad time to learn. Underneath his thoughts,like an evil mantra, the need for 4'th pulsed.He should'vegatheredthe berries.He could go back-iust a small detour- it took all his fadingshengthto preventhis feetfrom leaving the pathand turningback. FirstwastheWord.. . The depth of his need for rythterrified him' He had to escapethis nightmareaddiction beforeit wastoo late, and abstinencewasthe only wayto ftee himself. The iungle gaveway slowly to the sparservegetationof the hill country; treeswere not so towering here, their leavessproutinghigher up the trunk. And the grassno longer grewso tall. With a sigh of relief, Lita put her sisterdown on the ground. They heard it first: an insistentmurmur like farawayhaffic, growing to an animal roar.Then the ground slopedunder their feet and they came out suddenly from the forest to stand on a bank where trees tumbled down a ravine to the west.Through the bare branchesthey glimpsedwater,an emeraldcascadeflashingover the rock face in fie subduedlight and racing awaythrough the undergrowth.One of the many hibutaries of SeparationRiver with its headwatersin the mountain rangethey were skirting, it lay directly in their path, too wide and fowing much too fastfor them to cross. His mind woozywith fatigue,he staredat it, trying to remember the automaphe'd consultedbeforethe skipcarcrashed.There shouldn't havebeena riverthat sizeanywherenear.How had he gonewrong? "What do we do now?"Lita asked,her voice husky.
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It wasa fair question.New Bombaywasgone.The calcutta'sbase wasprobablydesertedbut better than nothing if he could've been certain he could find his way acrossthis country. which apparentlyhe couldn't. Then he thought of something."you speakFrehti." ,,Well, A spotof colorcameand wenton her high cheekbones. I've learneda little." More than a little, l'Il wager,he thought."Do you rememberwhat the Freh sportsaidto usaswe left the Residence?" Shefrowned."somethingabouthis mother?', "Not his mother.'The Mothers.'I think it'sa title." 'Well, wheredo we find them?" "Underthe bones,"the misshapenalien had said,and hed imag_ ined a graveyardof somesort.But now he realizedit meantthe Makert Bones,the sharptoothedmountainsto the north. They'dbeenheading northwestwhen the skipcarwent down, crossingthe foothills to get to the base.They neededto changecourse. "Northeastand uphill, I think." "Up there?"sheasked,her voicefull of skepticism. "Could be our only hopefor help." "Who's to saythese'Mothers'willbe friendly?The restof the nativesaten't." "We don't havea lot of options." Sheheaveda deepsighfor his benefit."How far?" "Far enough." He gazedup at the distantpeaks.Perhapsa twoday journey on foot,maybelongerbecauseof the child. The rain wasbad enoughhere wherethe thinning heesstill providedsomeshelter.Up on the ridge, they would be exposedto the full force of monsoonwinds and torrential rain, and the cold of high altitude at night. It would takeall his strength to get them through this, but he had no shengthanymore.They needed-deserved-a farbetterguide. Lita was righq whether the Mothers would shelter them was doubtful, but he couldn't think of an alternative.And there wasnobodv elsearoundto help them. He selecteda peak shapedlike the broken tooth of a asa referencepoint, then lifted Jilan off her sister'sback. "Let's get moving," he said.
Readingthe Bones
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IU For the next two daysthey madeslowprogressoverruggedground' keepingthe distinctivelyshapedpeak in sight at all times' The land ,loj.d"rt".ply up throughthe bouldersand rockyoutcropping;the tall' tropical gro*it, of tn. y.tr,gt.floor gavewayswiftly to low, wind-battered t ee,witl sharpneedlesinsteadof leaves.cold rain sleeteddownall day. The ground beneath their feet turned to mud, slowing their progress
further. "We'll take a break here." He indicated an isolated clump of stuntedSpiritJTrapsthat seemedas lost and out of place asthe human fugitiveson thesehigh slopesand in almostasmuch dangerof not surviving. They huddled togetherin the meagershelter,watching the rain. Lita leaned back againsta knobby trunk and closed her eyes;after a while,her regularbreathingtold him sheslept.He neededsleeptoo,but the constantitch of his craving for zyth preventedhim from finding it. wasnothing filan seemedunableto sleep.He studiedher.There dull or retardedaboutthe eyesthat gazedbackat him, and he knewshe He wasn'tdeaf.Then why didn't she talk like a normal three-year-oldZ all like seemedto rememberhearing her exploring pre-speechsounds human children, trying out the full rangeavailablebe{oresettlingon the ones selectedby the languagethat would become their native tongue to the and forgettinghow to makethe others.But shehadn't progressed nextstage. "Baby," he said softly, so as not to wake Lita. "Thlk to me' Say: 'Ries.Hello, Ries."' He soundedridiculousto himself.It gavehim a suddenrespectfor motherseverywherewho providedmodelsfor their children to learn languagefrom. The little girl staredat her handsin her lap' "Tly'Hello, Llta."' Nothing. He ponderedfor a moment, made anotherdecision' "Tdq'na,"he said.Food,in Frehti. Her dark eyesficked briefly over him. Not much, but more reaction than he'd got for Inglis.Encouraged,he tried again. "Yati. How about that one?Yati. Mama." She blinked at him and he fearedfor a moment she wasgoing to cry.Idiotl he thought.why bring up bad memories?But she'dobviously
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grownboredalready;shebeganto hacepatternsin the mud with her fingers.Not surprisingthat shereactedto Frehti,he decided.She'dprobably had more interactionwith her alien amahsthan she'dhad with her parents. His musingswere interruptedby a bout of sneezing.His nosewas constantlyon fire with invadingspores.The DepCom'sdaughtersdidn't seemto be asbotheredby the phenomenon;Lita sneezedoccasionally and rubbed her eyes,filan's nosewas runny, but neither one wasseriously affected.His immune systemwas challengedmore than theirs. The AI had wamed aboutrythaddiction'ssideeffects,but he hadn't paid attention,at first arrogantlycertain none of it wasevergoing to happen to him. And later,not caring. After a while, Lita woke up, and they continued their iourney. Along the way,he kept his gazeonthe ground,searchingfor signsof the nuhitious tuber that would solve one of their problems,not daring to venturefar offthe path he d setfor fear of getting them further lost. He didn't find any. Their secondnight out, he had betterluck and found a sheltered placebetweena iumble of huge boulderswherehe could light a small fire to dry their clothes.That night he alsofound the last of the edible berriesfor their supper,but not enoughfor all three.Even with his share added to hers, the child whimpered from hunger, her face wan and pinchedwith dishess. It wasn'thunger that sentthe spasmthrough his body,and it took all his willpower not to put one of the poisonberriesunder his tongue. lust one-How could one hurt?-You'd feelso much better-the seductive voiceinsidehis headpleadedand caioled.Youcouldhandleone. His handsshooksobadlyashe handedLita her shareof the berries that shenoticed. "l(s qth, isn'tit?You needsome." He satdown on the other sideof the fire from her. "Who told you that?" "Mama said you wete an incurable drunkard. She said it was a scandalthe Guild sentyou to us"' 'A lot of thingsyour mother neverunderstood'" "She saidit wasgoodwe didn't haveto paythe Guild too much for your servicesbecauseyou were squanderingall your sharein the native taverns."
Reading the Bones 39 "None of her business whatI did with my money." "My father alwaysdefendedyou when they argued,did you know that?" He felt too sick to be angry."l don't want to hear any more. Get somerest." "Well, don't go and die on us during the night,will you?" Shelay downand coveredherselfand her sisterwiih his jacketand wassoonsleepingsoundly.He staredat the little fire till the fames flickeredout. It took him a long iime beforeangerand needboth subsided, allowinghim to fall asleepfor a little while too. The third night, they were not so lucky. After a long, exhausting daywhen at timeshe despaired of finding a way aroundthe huge bouldersin their path while the child cried constantlyfrom hunger,they campedout on stony ground on a windsweptridge where even the thornybushescouldn'ttakehold. The rain held offwhen the sun went down,but it wasbitterlycold and he found nothingto burn. For a long time afterfilan had closedher eyes,he heardthe soft muffied soundof Lita weeping.After the girl finally fell asleep,he sat stifflybesidethem, everymusclein his bodyachingfrom physicalexertion, his nervesvibratingwith a desperatecraving for zyth that wouldn't let him sleep. It wastime he facedthe truth. He didn't know thesemountains. He had no clearideawherehe wasgoing.He wasincapableof looking after himself;how could he hope to take care of thesetwo children? only a fool would takeseriouslynativesuperstitions about "sours"and "Mothers" who might or might not exist.How could they help him even if theydid?He'd madea bad decision.They should'vehied to getacross the river to the base.There wasno way they would survivethis ordeal, and just as he felt he'd been indirectlyresponsiblefor yv's death,he would now be to blamefor the deathof the DepCom,schildren. He pulled Born-Bentt bone out of his pocketand peeredat the symbolcarvedon it. Disgusted,he flipped ihe bone into the darkness. He heardit glanceoffa rock. Then he lay down,and immediatelydistinguished the uncomfortable lump of the fieldpackfrom the sharystonesdigginginto his ribs. Even now, he couldn't violatehis training and throw the thing away.He hadn't thought so much about the Guild in years,and now he could
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hardlygetit out of his mind. It rodeon his heartbeatand slidthroughhis veins;he wasasaddictedto the Guild ashe wasto zyth.He couldi't lift his handswithout its lawsspringingup in his path. He had neverhated the Guild sofiercelynor neededit somuch. He shiftedthe packso it wasn'tdirectrybeneathhim, and closed . his eyes.At once,all the useless, stupid,shamefulscenesout of his past sprangvividlyto his mind. The opportunitiesthe Guild had givenhim that he'd wasted,his constantfailure to live up to the lingsteJcode, the way ultimatelybetrayedyv, he relivedthem all. Darithoughts skitfre'd teredthrough his brain, tormentinghim late into the nighi. He camesuddenlyawakejust beforesunup,consciousof someone bendingover him. His skin crawledas he forced himself to bear the silentscrutinywithout flinching.whoever it wascould'vekilled him as he sleptbut hadn't.Besidehim, he courdfeer smail body,wedged firan's betweenhim and her sisterfor warmth.Both girlswerestill sleeping. He hearda suddenintakeof breathabovehim. cautio"rtu, t ",titted his eyesand lookedup. A pudgy,adult male Freh knelt overhim, layeredin the familiar ankle-length,orange-browncloth. The Freh'shead wasturned, tilted as if he were listening to some sound coming from the direction of the iaggedpeaksthat loomedwhite assnowthis morning in cold predawn Iight,Iookingmore like the fangsof a beastthan bones. Then the alienbecameawarethe human wasawake,and his head swiveledback in alarm.Riesstaredat him. one half of the Freh'sface wascoveredwith an ugly red blotch that spreadfrom just belowthe hairline to well belowthe chin. The nosewastwistedand warpedoff-center, a defect that pulled one eye down with it and trapped the nictitating membranehalfwayoverthe eyeball. The Freh scrambledto his feet, keeninganxiously.Something slippedout of his fingers.Riessatup. Now he could seethat behind the maletherewasa femalegesfuringto him. "What do you want?"he saidin Frehti. At the soundof his voice,Lita wokeup. She took one look at the Freh and shrieked.The Freh stumbledawayin obviouspanic. The female clutchedhis arm and hobbledbesidehim, half pulring her companion,half beingdraggedalongby him.
Reading the Bones 47 "Devi!" Lita said."I've neverseensuchan ugly one." The nativewasanothersport,only the secondhe'd seen. The child was awakeand whimpering now. Lita stoopedand picked her sisterup. "fue we just going to let them gelaway?" The two Freh werescramblingup a rockyincline towardthe nearest peak. He watched their awkwardprogress;they seemedto know wheretheyweregoing.And if they could do it, socould humans. "No. We'regoingto follow them." "filan can'tgo much fartherwithoutfood." As he bent down to retrievethe sitar,somethingcaughthis eye, The bonelay out in the openwherethe alienhad droppedit. He picked it up; a crack obliteratedpart of the markings.He droppedit back in his pocket. Lita took two shufflingstepsforwardwith her sisterperchedon one hip. The girl'sexhaustionwasapparentin the slump of her shoulders,her pinched expression.He caught up with her and took )ilan from her. "l'll carry my father'ssitar,"Lita said. They stumbledforwardsilently for a while, no energyleft over for talk, while the land roseinexorablybeneaththeir feet. The rising sun brought no warmth, and the dazzleit struckfrom the barepeakshurt his eyes.At leastit had stoppedraining,and his nose seemeda little lesssore.Lita had shut her eyesagainstthe fiercelight and walked blindly, clinging to his arm. He squintedthrough lowered eyelids,his visionnanoweddown to the point wherehe felt asif he were sleepwalking. With hisfreehand,he adjustedthe waythe fieldpackrode at his waist.One good thing had come from so much exerciseand so little food: his belt fit loosernow than it had a few daysago. Yetin spiteof his exhaustionand the pressingneedfor food, he felt betterin spirit than he had in a long time. Miraculously,his mind was clearand pure asspringwaterthis morning.The self-hatred of the night beforeseemedto have burned away;possibilitiesspun in the bright air like butterflies in the apple orchardsat the Mother House.He looked deepinto his beingandfound it miraculouslyfreeof the demonthat had bound him for solong. He took a deepbreath.He might not havea coherentplan for their survival,but for the first time since chandra patel's murderhe knew hope.
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It was such a ludicrous emotion under the circumstancesthat he laughedaloud.In the thin air of this high altitude,the laughtersoon turned to gaspingfor breath. "Come not nearer." The Frehti words cut short his amusement.Shielding his eyes againstthe sun with one hand,he peeredat the small,bent figureof an old Freh femalestandingdirectly in his path. His heartjumpedwith the realization:an old female. brown garmentof somecoarse,woven Shewore a long, shapeless material,the hood thrown backfrom her lined facerevealingthin, graying fur on her head. Shewasholding a three-edgedFreh knife readyto Belatedly,he set shike, reminding him powerfully of Patel'sassassins. him. Lita her and behind down, pushing filan "Name yourself,"the old female said."Tell what you seekhere." "I am RiesDanyo.I seekthe Mothers." "You havefound. I am called First-Among-Mothers'" The word she used was Na-freh'm1a, ar'd,he heard a common root in it, but she didn't give him time to think about it. She gestured with one clawlikehand, and they were suddenlysurroundedby three more hoodedfigureswho had come uP on his blind side where they'd been hidden in sun dazzle.All three canied the viciouslooking tripleedgedknives. Beforehe could react,the little girl wastakenfrom his grasp.Seeing one of the hoodedfigureslifting her sister,Lita yelled and kicked at her own captors.Ries'sarmswere seizedand rapidly bound to his sides; his nosefilled with the powderyscent he associatedwith old age,and somethingdanker,an undergroundsmell that clung to their robes. Every one of their captors,he saw,wasbent, wrinkled, gray-furred, skinny-necked,and female.It would've been funny, he thought, a gang of old alien femalesstrugglinguphill with a furious human teenagerand a wailinghuman child, if he could'vebeensuretheywouldn't resortto using thoseknives. First-Among-Mothersheld up one hand, cutting off Litat noisy protest."Little one saferhere than Danyo." "Why is Danyo not safewith the Mothers?"he asked. She stoppedabruptly in his path and he almost fell. One of the other females yanked his bonds, pulling him upright. First-Among-
Reading the Bones 43 Mothers'sface wasan arm'slength awayfrom his. In spite of the situation, he wasfascinatedby this closeview. There was nothing here of the blandnessthat had marked every Freh'sfeahrreshe'd seenuntil now, yet she was no sport. The round, amber eyes,curdled with age till they resembledmilky opals,held a depth of intelligencethat wasunmistakable.He readangerin them, but alsoa touch of humor in the lines at their edgesasif shelaughedat herself for a role she wasplaying. Somethingin her expressionseemedto saythis wasall an elaboratejoke.The effectwasso human that he felt convincedhe could read her basicgoodwill.It wasalmostimpossible not to anthropomorphizeand think of her asan old woman. He knew instantly to distrusthis naive reaction.He'd forgotten a lot of the Guild's teachingsoverthe years,and disobeyedmore, but this stayedin his mind: The closerto human an alien appeared,the more , difficult it wasfor a human to readits intentions. "Danyo male," First-Among-Mothers said. "But Danyo not Freh," he countered. Sheconsideredthis for a moment."No trusthere." At that, they all resumedtheir uphill journey. The old Freh females urged the humans to hurry with kicks and slapsand the occa-
sionalwamingprickfromthetip of a knife,thoughhe noticedthatthey wereeasieron Lita than they wereon him. He felt like Gulliver capturedby the Lilliputians. It waspastnoon when the party haltedin the shadowof the broken peakhe'd usedasa bearing. "1n," First-Among-Mothers said. The femalesescortingLita and |ilan went aheadthrough a naruow openingin the rock. He did ashe wastold, and found himself at the top of a flight of stepscarvedinto rock walls.Torchlight made shadowsleap on the walls. "Down." He went down. The stepsopenedup into a cavem,broadand high-ceilinged,with rough-hewnpillars supporting balconiesthat overhung shadowyside aisles.The stonefloor was coveredwith a layer of rushes,and plainly woven hangingsgaveprivacy to different areas.While it was still cool
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down here,it wasseveraldegreeswarrnerthan the air outside,for which he wasgateful. But he wasmostrystuck by its resembrance to the monasticdesignof the refectory,the ordestbuirding of the Guildt Mother House.The cavernlackedonrymodernmeansoflighting and windowsto look out on high mountainsratherthan be buried beneath them ashere. A Iongwoodentable down the centercompletedthe resemblance. OId femalessat togetheron stone benchesin groups of two or three, all wearingthe samekind of homespunrobes.Th. ,".n. wasarmost reassuringin its domesticity,until he noticed the glitter of a knife tucked in one old crone'sbelt. They were staredat with a good dearof open-mouthedcuriosity, but unlike just about everyFreh he'd ever come in contact with. these old femalesdidnt grin in the presenceof humans.It wasarways an odd sensationto be staredat as a human on an alien world, one hed had manytimesbut nevermanagedto get usedto. Suddenlywhen he least expectedit, the tableswould be turned and he'd perceivehimself asthe alien in the crowd,the man far from home. From somewherein the vastcavecame the aroma of food being prepared.The smell madehis kneesbuckle with hunger.Now he was pushed back againstone of the columns. He resistedand a female slappedhim acrossthe mouth, making him tasteblood. His thighs encountereda hard edge,and he slumpedawkwardlyonto a narroi stone benchwhile one of the alienssecuredhis armsto the column. He wassuddenlyawareof how firthy and repursivehe must seem, more like a wild man than the neatlydressedcolonistsof New Bombay with their emphasison hygiene. He could smell his own sweat,sour from daysof not bathing. Acrossthe way,he sawLita and Jilan seatedat a long woodentable whereFirst-Among-Mothers satwith them. There seemedto be no menacein the alient actionstowardthe girls.He testedthe bonds;they were flimsy enoughthat he could burst free if he had to, but he ,rr" oniy orr" exit from the cavethat would leadup to the ground,the one they'dcome down. Soon other females appearedcarrying large pots made from gourdslike the one Born-Benthad usedto mend the Depcom's sitar; they beganladling the contentsout into clay bowlsto servethe girls.He, apparently,wasnot going to be given food.
the Bones 45 Reading As if she sensedhis thought, Lita turned and glanced at him. "Danyo hungerstoo," shesaidin very clear Frehti. leanedforward and gazedat Lita. "No male First-Among-Mothers eatshere but the kipiq." Sheuseda word Rieshad neverheardbefore.In spiteof his stomach'sprotestsand the presenceof danger,he was excited.He felt an adrenalinerushat the unfolding revelationof mystery.While the form of usedrangedfrom the simpler,chirping utFrehti First-Among-Mothers terancesof malesin the marketplaceto more complexconstructions,he knew that no lingsterencounteringit would questionthe high sentience quotient of the speaker.He had difficulty following it at times, accustomed ashe wasto the male form of the language. And he understoodnow why thosefirst lingstershad been so mistaken in their judgment:They'd forgedinterfacewith the wrong sex. "Danyo is a.. ." Lita struggledbut didn't find a word for it in Frehti. " . . . a lingster." Lightheadedfrom hunger, he almost laughed, rememberingan but hasno sexlife? Alingster. old studentioke: Whcf comesin two sexes glancedat him. "The tale arrivesbeforethe First-Among-Mothers and speaksour words." male.A vragimcomesfrom Sorrow-Crossing "I am vragim too," Lita said,iutting her chin sfubbornly. It surprisedhim to find the girl arguingin his defense.There were a lot of things about her that he still didn't understand.Her handling of Frehti was one; the DepCom's daughterused the new word as confidently asif shed alwaysknown what it meant. got up and cameoverto him. First-Among-Mothers "Vragim. Lingster," she said. If she'd been human he would've read contempt in her tone, but he must resistmaking connectionsthat might not be thereat all. "And do you know how wordsmake,asthe tale is told to me?" He blinked, hearing Born-Bent'svoice in memory, "You understand how wordsmake."He jumped suddenlybetweenthe known and the hidden, the leap of faith everylingsterperformedat somepoint, the lucky guessthat wasalsoone of humankind'smostbasictoolsfor learning language. "l bring the kipiq's soul home for the Mothers to make words with," he said.
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The effectin the stonecavernwaserechifying. Every Mother set down her work or her food and stared.others crowded in from roomsoff the main hall till therewereat leastforty ord Freh femaresgapingat him, round-eyedas owls.A long silencefollowed, broken o'ly"bi n? of the child's bowl; filan seemedthe onry one in "Uu", the cavernnot affected by his words. He closedhis eyesfor a secondagainsthis body,s weakness,seek_ ing strengthto prevail in the battre or.,'iils he sensedhad been set in motion. First-Among-Mothersheld out her hand, palm up, and he was startledby her look of almostdesperate desire. "Give." ..No.,' She thought about that for a moment, then turned and snapped . _ her fingers.A bent figurehobbredquicklyforward *a ,raiJin, bona, holding his arms'Another foilowedwith a bo*t fuil of the thick stew. So shethought shewasgoingto bribe him with food? His stomachinsistedit wasa fine idea. First-Among-Motherswaited while he wolfed the contentsdown . without tasting.A second bowl appeared, and he devoured that too, barelynoticing how rich and spicyit wasthis time. when the third bowrful arrived,he wasableto eatwith a semblance of mannersthat would,ve been acceptablein the Guild's refectory. First-Among-Mothersgesturedto the gathered femaresand they moved silently away.He sawone old alien carryingJilan,and Lita following them. The main cavernemptied slowlyout." "Now," First-Among-Mothers said."we makethe wordstogether.,, He followed her through a row arch at the far end of the big cavern,and cameto a smallercave.The light was dimmerhere,and iitoot a moment for his eyesto adjust.when they did, he sawthe Motherswaiting silentlyin a circle.His breathcaughtin his chest. The old alienshad shippedoffand discarded theirshapeless robes. The flickering light of wax tapersgrowedon naked flanksand fleshress touching with silverthe grayfur on their heads, slidingpastbony T*!r: shouldersand spillingoverfat, shriveledbreasts. one emaciatedfemare turned her backto him, and he sawclearlyknobs of vertebraeand sharp
the Bones 47 Reading asribs, though bladesof bone outlined under the skin that he identified Although Freh ihey didn't appearto be assembledin the human plan' their trunks and females'faceswere nevertattooed,decorationcovered Primitive, by the stanall four limbs in scrolls,swirls,leaves,and vines. and power' the dardsof high civilizationsin the fum, but full of energy tattooswere dark purple, the color of zyth berries' old womenHe'd neverseena roomful of nude women,let alone they seemed it wasnext to impossiblenot to think of them as women; species* than more human unclothed,asif spiritwasmore important They wore their yearswith dignity and a but he felt no awkwardness' kind of patientbeautylike a ring of wise elder goddesses' on the Now First-Among-Mothersalso dropped her garmcnts seemed Nakedness floor, kickingthem impiiently againstthecavewall' straighterthan theirs to make h.r"gro* taller than the others,her body fur still partly dark' though ,,o 1""r,slack and wrinkled, her gray head Like"theothers,herbodywascoveredinintricatepurpledesigns.The circleopenedto let her through' beganto move Shewalkedslowlyclockwiseinsidethe ring' which on the ground incounterclockwisearound her. There wassomething wascircling, an irregusidethe ring, a centerthat First-Among-Mothers the samewidth and irrly rhrp.i*osaic formedby smallbones,all about To one side' there length oi th" orr" Born-Beni had entrustedto him' beenwell overtwo *"i-" ,"u.rrl haphazard,smallerpiles.There must've hundredbon"ri.rthepattern,butitlookedunfinished'withmany the processof being spacesand gapsinterrupling whateverdesignwasin formed. her cirSome kind of religious ceremony'he guessed'watching rhythm on the stone cling slowly,her bare feet marking an intricate the pattern' raisedher floor. Then she stopped,caught"p a bottt ftom tapers'light' sweeping arms,and beganto gesture.Her handscaughtthe somekind of in a broadarcaboveher head.Sheseemedto be inscribing openedher mouth ephemeralcalligraphyon the air' As she did so, she her lead' performing ,r,d ,"r,g or," ,rot". Now all the Mothers followed unison' the singingtone in the loopingarm movements, pirst-Among.Mothersrepeatedthis with eachof the bonesin hrrn, while' the group markingeachwith a differentsound'Then, aftera long malformedmale Freh fell silent, the outer circle openedagain,and the
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who'd stoodover Ries on the mountain appeared.The kipiq, who was naked too, enteredthe circle humbly, shuffiing forward over the stone foor on bare kneesand holding one hand high abovehis head.In it, Riessawanothersmallbonelike the one in his pocket. Now a low, animal hum brokethe silence,risingquicklyin pitch and volume. The sound becamealmost deafeningin the confined space,then stoppedabruptlyasthe kipiq reachedthe centerof the ring. He took his time choosinga placeto setthe bone he carried.In the silence,First-Among-Mothers squattedto seeit. The kipiq remainedon his knees,headbowed. Sheexaminedthe bone,holdingit close,turning it, shiftingits position, exchangingit with others.At times she seemedto changeher mind and returneda boneto its originalposition,removinganotherthat had now apparentlybecome lessdesirableand tossingit on the outer piles.Whateverthesedecisionsmeant,Riessensedthey wereof the utmost importanceto the assembled Freh.At lastsheput a hand on the kipiq's shoulderand the ring of Mothersgavea long drawn-outsigh. First-Among-Mothersturned, and Ries could see her owl eyes glowingin the light from the nearesttaper.Sheheld up the kipiq'sbone. Now he sawit had marksscratched on it, like the one in his pocket.Then accompanied by anotherelaboratehand movementaboveher head,she sangout a clear,distinctsyllable.As shedid so,the Mothersfollowedher arm movementsand repeatedthe soundafterher like children performing rote learning.It remindedhim suddenlyof how, hundredsof years agoon Earth,Chinesechildrenhad learnedby hacingthe characters of their languageon the air. The revelationof what she wasdoing stunnedhim. First-AmongMothers wasreadingthe bones. But thesecouldn'tbe completewords,he realizedin a greatrush of comprehension, not evenmorphemes,the smallestunitsof meaning. The Freh had no written language.Shewastaking the first step,inventing a systemof codifyingthe phonemes,the individualunits of sound. From the gatheredbonesat her feet, shewaschoosingthe bestsymbols to beginwriting her language. It wasobviousfrom what he'd observedthat not just any shapeon a bonewould do. Creatinga written languagewasa sacredjob, not one to be completedhastily.Throughme flowsthe meaningof the universe.
Reading the Bones 49 He thought First-Among-Mothers would understandthe Guildt philos ophyverywell. Runes,hieroglyphs, logograms, ideograms, pictograms, alphabets, humanshad tried them all throughlong millenniaof experimentation. The Guild taughtlingstersin a few yearswhat had takencenhrriesto unlock, the secretsof thesescripts.All but the main one: how they had comeinto beingin the firstplace.He'd alwayswonderedwhataccidents of chanceand intelligencehad causedearlyhumansto take the first step,associating soundswiih symbols,then developingthem into script. And from that to go on to write lawsand poems,shoppinglistsand equationsthat guidedstarshipsacrossthe darknessof spaceto a world that still stoodon the threshold. The Guild itselfwith all its researchhadn't been able to answer that question,not evenfor one Terran language.A greatwaveofexhilarationwashedoverhim. He waswitnessingan alien racesetout on that mysteriousjourney.Yet he could also see First-Among-Mothershad a long wayto go beforethe symbolsshewascollectingwereusable. After a while, she fell silent.The kipiq shuffiedback out of the circle into the shadowsat the edgeof the cave.Rieswasawareof her gaze on him now. It washis turn. The bone containingthe symbolBorn-Bentfound sovital he calledit his "soul"mustbe addedto the collectiongrowingat The ring of old femalesgazedat him, the feet of First-Among-Mothers. waitingpatiently.But evenin his exciiedstate,a senseof human pride restrainedhim. He wasnot goingto removehis clothes,nor would he enterthe circle on his knees.If the MotherswantedBorn-Bent'ssoul. they would haveto take it his way or not at all. Consciousof the weightof a shareddestiny,human and Freh,he walkedsolemnlyforwardin the silenceand leaneddown, placingthe bone in a vacantspaceFirst-Among-Motherssquatted,peering at the bone as she had donebefore.Now shereachedfor it, squintingin the glimmeringlight. For a long time shestudiedthe symbolscratchedthere.Then her hand droppedslowlyto her side. She stoodand facedRies,her expression bleak. "Broken,"First-Among-Mothers said."The soul is gone." Around the ring, old Mothersbeganto wail.
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ry "Think about the waste,"Lita said to him. "The tragedy,as the Mothersseeit." The girl had been his only visitorsincea group of femaleshad draggedhim off to a small niche in a corridor off the main cavern and barredthe entrancewith a stronglatticeof woodenbrancheslashed with vines.The alcovehad probablybeen a vegetablestoragearea,he from the lingeringsmells. guessed Lita passeda cup of waterthrough the lattice gateand he took a sip. In her other hand she held a slim taperthat made deep shadows jump in his cell. He felt exhausted; all emotion and energ, had been suckedout of him. It washard to estimatethe passage of time in this darkness,but he guessed a dayhad passedsinceFirst-Among-Motherst ceremonialreading of the symbolson the bones.While he'd been stuckhere,contemplating the consequences of one moment of bad temper, Lita had apparentlybeen deep in conversationwith First-Among-Mothers. Her abilityshouldn'thavebeensuqprising. She'dbeenabouteight nine or when the family cameto Krishna,an agewhen children still learnedlanguages with someease,and shemust'vebeenexposedto the more complex forms used by the house servantswho were largely female.She'djust neverlet him seeevidenceof it. "Freh males don't conhibute to the work. Except the kipiq, of course,and not too manyof them makeit to adulthood." "I imaginenot," he agreed,thinking of the day he and the DepCom had encounteredBorn-Bentin the bazaar.In his experienceof culturesof the fum including earlyhuman, such deformitieshad usually signaleda shortlife for the child born with them. "Do you understandhow seriousthis is, Danyo?"Her facein halfshadow,she looked as if she were thinking about leavinghim alone again."The racedoesn'tuselanguagelike humans.Freh maleshavea very simple version. Sort of like Kitchen Frehti. Without the Inglis words,of course." He had the absurdfantasyhe wasbackat the Mother Housetaking an examaboutpidginsand creoles."lt's uncommonto find sucha wide divisionin ability betweenthe sexes."
Reading the Bones 51 "The femalesare muchbetterat it! But the big thing is, up here, yearafteryearfor a long time, the Mothers'vebeen working on finding a wayto get the languagewritten down." "You'velearnedan impressive amountin sucha shorttime." "Wbll," shesaid,softeningher tone a little, "l might'vemisseda few things. I'm not really perfect in Frehti yet. Anyway,every Mother who managesto comeup here conhibutessomething.And the one who is'First-Among-Mothers'puts it all together." "Why aresymbolsfrom the sportsso important?" "The kipiq," she corrected,"are male. First-Among-Mothers says the languagemust balancebetweenmale and female or the race will evenfuallydestroyitself.But regularmalesdon't uselanguagewell, and kipiqsusuallydon't surviveto be adults,sotheydon't getverymany male symbols.So when the one you broughtwasbroken,they wereupset." It was as if he could hear First-Among-Motherstwords echoing through Lita's,and he had the sensethat the Freh meant somethinghe couldn't fathom yet. "The Mothersbelieveif they can write the languagedown, they'll havea chance to preventsomethingbad from happening.Do you understand,Danyo?Can you follow this?" "Does she saywhy there are no old males up here, only old females?" "She said it wasthe-the-oh, a word I don't understand.Sem -something." yai "Sem yaji nuq," First-Among-Mothers said.Shehad cometo stand in the shadowsbehind Lita. "Tell me in other words,wordsI can understand,"he said,switching to Frehti. "Sem yaji nuq. No other words."She turned to Lita and said kindly,"The little one callsyou." Lita went away,taking the taper with her. In the darkness,he was awareof First-Among-Mothers's soft breathing. "No male comeshereexceptthe kipiq who bringshis soulbone," shesaid."Now I mustkill you." He wassuddenlyexasperated "Exwith her mysteriesand evasions. plain the death of these children's father, and maybe I can help you
speedup thework."
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"You bargainwith me?" "Yes,I bargainwith you." Shehesitated,thinking it over.Then shesaid,"He learned about semyaji nuq." "I do not understandthosewords!Use others.,, "l havenot your skill." "You acceptedmy bargain." Her voice rosein anger."He knew aboutThose-who-Have-GoneOver.You call them Mules, but that is your word, not ours.,, He peeredthroughdarkness, wishinghe could seeher expression. Lingsterslearnedto usevisualcluesas well as aurar onesto decipher meanings."SomethingI iust leamed. . .,, patel had ,,What said. is this connection,so importanta man mustdie for knowing it?,, "You havethe answeryou sought.Keepyour word.,, If so,he thought,it wasan answerhe didn,tunderstand, but he was apparentlynot going to get any further explanation at the moment. "I have seen many worlds, First_Among_Mothers, spoken many languages.You are not the first peopleto wrestle with this problem.,, Shewassilent for solong he beganto think shed gor," Th.n "rry. shesaid,"In the marketthey cail you Tnrk"r. But you Jannot herp with this." "You havenothing to loseby letting me try.,, He hadthe feelingshewasreadinghisface,asif her mirkyold eyes could seein the dark.Then he heardher sigh. "We havea saying .Bonedefeat,bonJ, but stone outlives.,I think perhapsyou arestone." "Let me look at the bones,First_Among_Mothers.,, In the darkness, he heard her sricethe vineshordingthe lattice with her knife. He squattedon the stonefoor, examiningthe bone pattern,while First-Among-Mothers held a tapersohe courdsee.The air wasthick and fragrant with the incense smell of tapers,making his eyes1,.^f H. frowned,-concentrating.Somewherein the main cavern, he heard the soundsof the sitar:Lita picking out tunesto soothe her sister. He staredat the symborson the bones.The fine etching had been coloredwith a dark, rustyink that might very weil have been brood.He
the Bones 53 Reading Spreadout bewasawareof an almostreligiousquality to the moment' the birth of a writing fore him on the rough stonefloor of the cavewas vision of its speakers' system,a script that could capturea languageand moment' a such tireirworld. No modernhuman had everwitnessed bandageand bloody its in hand Then he rememberedBorn-Bent's heexaminedthebonesmorecarefully.Theywereallasimilarlength he wassureofit' The and shape,and all ofthem had oncebeenfingers' medium on which it ap,ymbolis* of the Motherst taskbeganwith the the that thesealiens-iudged simpleaboriginesly i""r"a. He wasawed them of that many human colonists-caredso much about a proiect at First-Amongup glanced couldn't possiblyeven comPrehend'He Mothers. ..EachMothergivesone,,'shesaid'..ExcepttheFirst.Shegivesall beforeher death'One bYone'" werefour-fingered' Sheheld up her handsfor his inspection'Freh He countedthreefinthreeforwardanJ a flexiblefourth belowthe palm' one from the right' An gersgoneout of eight,two from the left hand and as interfaceand asdanlfpnrf" forgediJlood, a rih:al asdemanding on thisworld' He g.*ur, he thiought,giventhe primitivestateof medicine beenhis rihral' iuond"r"d if he could'vefound the courageif it had "The "The work has taken many' many years"' she told him' makeup our language' shapesmust be iust right to hold the soundsthat is the work of the First to Noi .u"ry one that iJ given is accepted'It choose." continue' Aiter a Shegesturedwith the taper,indicatinghe should bonesasif shetoo was while, shelquatted besidehim and gazedatthe dripped wax on the seeingthem for the first time' Forgotten,the taper ffoor.
and lovingly inSomeof the symbolshe examinedwere carefully scribed;othersresembledthefirstscratchingsofachild.Champollion might have felt lightseeingan Eg,ptian cartouchefor the first time cuneiforminscrip he"dJd like ihis, he thought,and Niebuhr copying asconnections manner tionsmay havecaughthis breathin iustthe same becameclear.RiesDanyo,drunkardandfailedGuildlingster'wasbecoming part of the galaxy'shistory' tiny exqutsrt"rry of th" finger bonescarried obviouspictograms' even at first glance of obiectsfrom the ite glyphs that were s-uggestive
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world of the writers,though he knew better than to supposethe picture necessarilygavethe meaningof the sign any more nr" it had in Eg,p tian hieroglyphs.Others b-orewhat,o" semanti" ,y_bolr, abstractrepresentationsof the soundsor"pp"r.ntly pr.r,ti, and these delicatery carvedlogogramshad an austerebeautyof their own. Mixed systemswere not unprecedented;Earth had seenseveral, mostnotablythe Egrptian and Mayan scripts. He wasn'tparticurarrysurprised to find one evolving here. But eventually all tie tr.,g,rrg., of Earth had found it mo-reco-nv_enient to adopt arpiabets.The nnip-ulem wasnot the mix of symborsfor sounds and grlphs for whole words, but that there were still far too many choices here at present.Some would needto be eliminated. First-Among-Mothers touched his shoulder."l will tell the sound of eachone." Then shebeganessentiallyto repeatthe ceremony he d witnessed earlier.One by one shepicked up the to'er rrrd pro.rourr""d the sound that went with it, but whereearliershehad sung thesephonemesaspart of a venerableceremonywith the assembled Mothers,now shewascontent justto vocalize. Almost immediateryhe rearizedthe impossib'ity of workingthis y1y..Ilwas like trying to catch one drop out of a sheam of ,rt"i. H. didn't have the staminato sustainthis concentration for very long. He neededto imposesomekind of order. Not for the first time sincehe'd fed New Bombay he thought with regretof the AI left behind. sorting and identifying so many arifn signs without help wasa dauntingtask.But there'd beenlranslatorsand inter_ preterslong before thered been lingsters, before computerstoo; n*" earlypioneershad workedunderprimitiueconditions. '1 need wet clay. And somethingto mark with, like a cloth mer_ . chantkeepingtally." made no reply to the request,and he won_ _ _First-Among-Mothers deredif the ideaof reducingher exartedgorr to humb]e chy seemedrike sacrilegeto her. If so,she? haveto get Jsed to it; humaniiyt profound_ est lawshad first been scratchedin clay. she set the tape, on the floor and clappedher hands.A moment latei, a figure appearedin the cave,s low archway'First-Among-Motherssaid som"ething ir, ,apid Frehti and the Mother withdrew.They waitedin silence.
Reading the Bones 55 After a while, the Mother camebackwith a lump of clay the size of his fist,clammyfrom the storagebin. He took it and flattenedit out, stretchingit into a tablet he could useto makea syllabicgrid to plot the signsof written Frehti. The work progressedslowlyover a number of hours;he lost track how many. Thice, First-Among-Motherssent for more tapersand refreshment.He drank watergratefully,and splashedsomeon his face to ward off drowsiness, but in spiteof his recenthunger he couldn't eat. Gradually,he familiarizedhimselfwith the symbolsso that similarities and repetitionsbeganto appear,and togetherthey weededthe redundanciesout. Over and overagain,shepatientlyrepeatedthe soundsthat accompaniedglyphsand logograms.It wastediouswork. "lt goestoo slowly,"First-Among-Mothers commented. Shewasright. It wasan enormoustaskand would takedaysat this rate,possiblyweeks.The earlyscholarson Earth had spentyearsunraveling the secretsof cuneiform or Linear B; if he didn't want to spend that much time here in this cavehe neededto find someway to speed thingsup. In this fieldpackthere wasa way. He touched it now, still safeon his belt; since he'd arrivedon IGishna, thered been no occasionto use it. In it, there were two sequencesof drugsthat lingstersusedin interface.The alpha sequence consistedbasicallyof sophisticatedneurotransmitters that increased alertnessand enhancedthe lingster'sability to work at high speed,especiallyat suchroutinetasksas analyzing,cataloging,and memorizing. He'd usedthem manytimeson otherworlds,alwayswhen workingwith an AI that also monitored the dosage;he knew how effectivethe alpha sequencecould be. That had all been a long time ago,beforehe'd begun poisoning himself with zytft. No way of telling if there'd be a drug interaction,or how severe.He hadn't had any of the Krishnan liquor for severaldays; perhapsthat would lessenthe danger.And if not? "Anothertime," Magister Kai'svoicesaidin his memory,"yoltmaynotbesolucky."In all his career,he'ddoneverylittle to makethe Guild proudof him, and much he wasashamedof. This wasa risk he had to take. "I can makeit go faster,"he said.
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He tookout the rackof smallplastivials and thoughtaboutthe pills they contained.First-Among-Mothersgazedsteadilyat him, her round eyesluminousasa nocturnalanimal'sin the taperlight. She'daskedno questionssincehe'd begunstudyingthe bones,evenwhen he disturbed the carefulway she'dlaid them out, acceptingthat whateverhe did it would advanceher work.He hopedhe could rewardher faith. He shooktwo smallbrown ovalsonto the palm of his hand,then swallowedthem. Within seconds,he felt the suddenjolt of the alpha drugsstreamingthroughhis veins.Thoughtsspedthroughhis brain too fastfor wordsto catchthem; his visionsharpened till microscopicdetails spranginto vivid display,and he could see individual hairs on FirstAmong-Mothers'shead even in this dirn light, the wrinkles on her face like the pathsof long-dryrivers. Somethingelse,too, somethingdifferent this time, something flickeringat the backof his mind, disappearing when he turned his attention to it. Then it vanishedin a greatrush of endorphinsthat lifted and tossedhim like a cork. The work went faster.Connectionsseemedsuddenlyilluminated jumped out at him, were considfor his recognition,correspondences ered, and First-Among-Mothersindicated her choices,which he then recorded.A workableFrehti alphabetbeganto emergeon the claytablet. "One soundis missing." His nervesjumped at the sound of her voice.Absorbedby the work,he'dlostawareness of his surroundings and againhe wasconfused by the passage of time. Disoriented,he gazedat the last of the tapers burning low, flickeringin ihe draft shecausedasshestoodup from the work. He squintedthroughthe waveringlight at the neatchart he'd inscribedon the clay tablet,sixty-seven symbolsthat bestrepresented the consonants,vowels,and diphthongsof First-Among-Mothers's language, chosenfrom the drawingson the assembled bones. 'A smallsound,"shecontinueddreamily."Not oftenused.But the very highestof all. I havewaiteda long time to find its symbol." "What sound is that, First-Among-Mothers?" In answer,she formed a small 0 with her mouth and allowed breathto comesighingthrough;he could seeher curledtonguealmost touching her lips, shapingthe sound.What emergedwasa diphthong
Reading the Bones 57 with an initial labial,a singingtone as if ii camefrom a flute. She repeatedit for him twice more. A small scuffing noisebehind them drew First-Among-Mothers's attentionand shefell silent. "l - I am sorry,First-Among-Mothers," Lita saidnervouslyin Frehti from the shadowsin the archway."Mysisterwanderedoff-and I just found her. I will take her away." "Do so." Forthe firsttime, he wonderedwhat First-Among-Mothers's life was like beforeshecameup here to live beneathihe Maker'sBones.Had she workedin the bazaarfor a cloth-merchantmate,or had shecleanedand cookedin a human residence? Had shebornechildren,and wereany of them male. and if so. did she everthink of what had becomeof them? First-Among-Motherswaited until the sounds of the children faded.Then she inclined her head towardthe small pile of bonesremainingon the stonefloor, urginghim backto work. He glancedat them, seeingonly duplicationsof symbolsthat had alreadybeenassigned or obviousclumsilydrawndiscards. Therewasno signleft overthat could correspondto the new soundshe'djust made. Sheraiseda hand and he wasawareof the missingfingers.'A holy sound.Not one Thlkerhearsin the market.It is Wiu, The White Bird. You will not find its sign there amongthe ordinaryones.It is a male sound, and a kipiq should give it shape.Now, Thlker-from-SorrowCrossingmustreplacethe kipiq'ssoulthat he lost." The high moodof the alphasequence desertedhim asfastasit had come on. Catalogingthe symbolson the boneswith her help wasone thing; that was no different from the regular duties lingstersoften performedfor their employers. Deliberatelyaddinga human elementto an emergingalienalphabetwasanother. It wassucha temptinglysimplething sheaskedof him: one sign, justone,from all the possibilities he'dencounteredin human history,or from any of the worldsalongthe fum for that matter.But eventhat little gift would be interferencefrom one culture in anothert development, and evenminor interferencewasstrictlyforbidden.Nothing good ever came from violating this rule, however much the people of the lessadvancedculture wantedit. Like all lingsters,he'd swornan oathto respectthat prime prohibition.
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"l cannotdo it," he said.,,1am sorry." "Why can you not?,' "I cannot give you a sign that has its roots on the other side of Sorrow-Crossing. Nothing good would come from such a gift.,, "I wish the work compretedbeforemy death, Thrker,;shesaid,her ,,And voiceascalm asif shediscussedthe price of a bolt of silk. I do not havemuch time. You will do it or you will die. I will give you one day,s turning to decide." Tho Mothers had appearedas if they'd been waiting for her command,and takenhim backto his alcoveprison. Alone in the darknessonce again,exhausted,his thoughts drifted. First-Among-Mothershad poseda dilemma for him. To giie her what shewantedhe must violatehis oath. Never in his rife had he knowingry done anything big or small that would arterthe natural destinf oirny or the alien raceshe'd come in contactwith. But to die for the sakeof that oath now meant he must violatethe promisehe'd made chandra patel to protect his family. If he died, the girls had no hope of ever reaching the Calcutta'sbase. Which was more important, interference in a developing cul_ ture-such a tiny touch at tha! just the one symbor-o, theiuferi'g and perhapsdeath of the Depcom's children? How would the Guild decide? "Danyo." He iumped at the soundof her voice.without knowing the boundary, he'd drifted from thought to sreep.This time Lita hadn't brought wateror a taper. "Danya,somethingkwrongwith Jilan.Sheseemsveryhot and_,, 'As you may havenoticed,I'm a prisonerhere." "Devi! Why don't you just open the door and walk out?,, He heardthe soundof the lattice gateopening. "How stupid you are sometimes,Danyo. I could tell as soon as I , touched it they hadn't lashedthe lattice together again.. If First-Among-Mothers had ailowedihe opportunityfor him to escape,then it wasbecausesheknew there wasnowherehe could escape to, with or without Lita and her sister.The thought frushated him; he didn't like being defeatedby an ord Freh femare,lu"r, orr. so obviousry intelligent.
Reading the Bones 59 "Now will you comeand seefilan?" He felt Lita's impatient hand on his arm, tugging him through the open gate;he let her guide him through the darknessuntil light seeped into the corridor from the central cavern. "l don't knowwhatgoodI can do. I'm not a medic." "Keep to the wall just to be safe.No senseletting them seeyou out here." "Maybe the food didn't agreewith her." "She'sbeen eatingFreh food all her life. Thatt all the amahsever made for her after they stoppedwet-nursingher. She never touched whatMama and I ate.Do hurry up!" on a wide stonebench cushionedin |ilan wassittingcross-legged bright silk. Thpersburned in a sconcefixed to the cavewall aboveher head.In their yellow light, he sawcolored clay beadsstrungon a thong, a crude doll madeof wood and coveredin fur, toyshe'd seenFreh children play with under the stalls in the bazaar.filan was making marks with a cut reed on a small lump of clay the size of a cloth merchant's tally. By the uneven flamelight, he could see her pixie face looked flushed.He laid a handon her cheekand felt howwarmit was.Lita bent quickly to wipe salivafrom the corner of her sister'smouth. "l've beengivingher water." "Good." "What elseshouldwe do?" The child didn't look too sickto him. Then he becameawarefilan wassayingsomething,very softly, almost under her breath, over and over again. No, not saying, singing- But not that exactlyeither.He felt chilled. Possibilityshivered up his spine,movedlike the touch of a featheracrosshis nerves.He knelt quicklyon the pad besidethe child, who immediatelystoppedvocalizing. "Baby,sayit againfor me," he said."Please?" "What is it?" Lita asked. filan stucka thumb in the cornerof her mouth and staredwideeyedat him. "Wheret the sitar?Get it for me." Lita scrambledawayand wasbacka moment laterwith the instrument. He ran his fingersoverthe five melodystrings,searchingfor the right notesthat describedthe pitch valuesof Frehti: G shaqp,A, B flat, B.
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filan seemedto be listeningintently.Encouraged,he let his fingerswander among thesefour tones,the drone stringshumming under the impromptu melody. "What're you doing, Danyo?" |ilan openedher mouth and sanga note. Not B, he realized,somewherein betweenB and C, a fattened C. native nut alteredthe toneshe produced,fitting the soundsof the The languagebetter than the original gourd. He quickly adiustedthe tuning pegsto reflect the subtly differentharmonicsof the semitone.Now she gaveshapeto the sound.His handsshookashe realizedwhathe washearhad pronouncedfor him: Wu. ing, the diphthongFirst-Among-Mothers "Danyo?" "Get First-Among-Mothersand meet me in the cave with the bones." He hookedthe sitar over his shoulder,grabbedup the clay block and the writing utensilin one hand,and tuckedthe child under the other arm. He felt her cheekburning againsthis ashe ran backto the cave. New tapers fickered in the small cave, eerily lighting the disturbed pattern he and First-Among-Mothershad left behind. He set filan down on the stonefoor. Silent again,she gazedup at him, her breathingheavyand quick. "This won't take long, baby." "Children inventlanguage,"the Guild taught.Why not the alphabet too, or at leasta small part of it? The child was as closeto a pure sourceas he waslikely to find. Her parentsmight've come from Earth, but she wasborn on Not-Here-the planet'salien name wassuddenly more appropriatethan the one the colonistshad given it-and shed neverspokena word of Inglis.It wasa near-perfectcompromise.As long acceptedit. asFirst-Among-Mothers "Have you changedyour mind, Talker?" The clouded eyesgleamedlike mother-of-pearlin the taper light when he turned to faceher. She stoodvery erect,almostastall as Lita. He chosehis wordswith care."l offer a compromise,First-AmongMothers." "No more bargaining.Only one solution. Make the sign to hold that last,holiestof sounds." "l cannotgive you the sign you desire.It is not my gift to give and
tlre Bones 61 Reading would only bring you evil. InsteadI offer a child from sorrow-crossing but born on Not-Here. A vragim from her mother'swomb, but nourishedwith a Freh mother'smilk. Let this child makethe sign"' First-AmongMothersgazedskepticallyat him in silence' "The syrrbol you want from me," he saidgently,"would be male' but it would be alien to your world. What I offer now is better. Tiust here." He waitedfor severallong momentsmore' She saidnothing, but she didn't specificallyforbid the attempt either. He took the sitar and plucked the flattenedc with the nail of his right forefinger.The child g"r.d ,tp at him, thumb in mouth. Shewasdrooling again' "Come on, baby,"he coaxed."Singfor me'" He plucked the note again. She removed the thumb from her mouth and copiedthe semitonethe sitarsang' HeheardthesmotheredgaspofsurprisefromFirst-Among. gave Mothers,and asthe note died awayhe soundedit again.The child pure voice voiceto the diphthonga secondtime, and this time her small wasioined by the old woman'slarget,mellowerone' He laid his palm fat acrossthe strings,cutting off the vibration. clay The child g"zed ,rp at him. He setthe sitar down and held out the tablet to her. "Draw the sound,)ilan," he said'"Draw Wiu here, in the clay'" she took the tablet and the stylusfrom him and staredat them for a moment, then beganto draw.Apart from the child's laboredbreathing there wasno soundat all in the cave.From time to time she smoothed overwhat she'ddone and beganagain.Finally,she held the tablet up but and tilted her head,examiningit. Then sheheld it out, not to him, to First-Among-Mothers. Over the child's head,her sistershothirn a startledlook' squatteddown and took the tabletreverently First-Among-Mothers asif it wereholy, peeringat it in the dim light. Shetook her time. Then, in a softvoice,shesaid,"l acceptthe lastsign'" He let the breathhe'd been holding comesighingout in a whoosh of relief. Leaningforward,he peeredat the symbolthe child had drawn. The clay tabletleld the crude, stick figure of a bird. He discovered that where a moment before he'd been chilled, now he was sweating heavily.
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First-Among-Motherslaid the tablet down and took the child's hand in both her own, closingher fingersoverit. "But it mustbe written on bone." Lita got the significancefirst. "You can't cut a finger offmy sisterk hand.I won't let you!" She threw herself at First-Among-Mothers,almost knocking the Freh and the child over. didn't appearupsetby the outburst;instead, First-Among-Mothers shesmiledat Riesoverthe angrygirl'shead,a terrifying rictus grin from that almostliplessmouth. Thkingthe childt hand had been an act of provocation,showinghim who held the powerhere. 'A child's sign,a male'sbone togethercompletethe work." Shereleasedthe child and stoodswiftly. Her hand came up with the threeedgedknife glittering in it. His visionseemedclouded,splittingthe light from the knife into a rainbow of fire that stunghis eyeballs.The universewasfull of wonder and beauty,the Guild taught,but it alsoheld much that waspainful and hadlearnedhundredsof cruel.The firstlessonEarth'searliestastronauts yearsago wasthat spaceoffered sufferingas well as glory. The faint of heart amongyou, the Guild warned its young students,shouldstayat home. It wasa small sacrificesheaskedof him, and far betterhim than the child. Humanshad been given an exha finger,asif long agoNature had foreseenthis momentand the needfor one of her childrento help another.He would think of it aspaymentfor the privilegeof witnessing the birth of a written language;no otherlingstercould saythat. His head achedwith the burdenof suchknowledge. overthe mountainsto 1{nd in return, will you give us safepassage base?" the starship's "We will guide you to your people,Thlker." "Take |ilan awaynow," he saidto Lita. "No, Danyo!We'restayingright herewith you." First-Among-Mothersnodded as if their presencetoo was an acceptablepartof the ritual.Sheheld out her handto him, and hesitantly he put his left hand in it. For the first time in dayshe thought how good a shotof qth would be to steadyhis nerves. Shedrew him down until both of them wereon their kneeson the
the Bones 63 Reading foor in a circle of goldenlight. with one hand,shepositionedhis on the stone.The other raisedthe knife. At the last moment, he found a center of calm within. He didn't finch asthe knife descended' The weatherwascold and clearasthey crossedoverthe stonysummit of the Maker'sBones.It wasstill two hours before dawn, and alien constellationsblazedabovethem in a forevermoonlesstky. H" stopped to gazeat the brilliant river of light that wasthe home galaxy,SorrowCrossing.Somehowthe name seemedto fit better here, in the farthest ,.a"h oith" fum, than "Milky Way." Dark sky and high altitude combined to makea magnifyinglens of the thin air; he squintedat the enormous treasureof starsspilled acrossblack space,half convinced he could distinguishthe one dim pinpoint of light from all the restthat was Earth'sSol. Lita touched his arm and he startedwalking again.First-AmongMothers had given them food for the iourney,and she'dsentalong two femaleswho knew the mountain pathsasguides'The group movedpurposefully,not wastingbreathon conversation.From time to time a creainto ture chirruped sleepilyfrom an unseennest,fooledby their passage thinking it wasmorning. Gradually,the pageantryoverheadfaded,and a breezecame uP followed by the first raysof Not-Here'sstar.Within the hour, the sun shonefiercelydown on them; therewaslittle heatin it yet,but he started to sweatagain.The air had the clean, clear smell of sun-warmedstone, and it wasmercifully free of spores,but he had difficulty breathingand stumbledoften on the unevenground. Below them on one sideof the ridge, the land sweptdown a hundred kilometersto the valley of SeparationRiver and the alluvial plain wherethe human colonyhad been.The othersidefell lesssteeplyto the golden sweepof grasslandand the starshipbase' From up here, the planet appearedsuddenlynew, asif he'd nevel seenit before,more exthe first day he'd landed. Knowotic than his memory of its strangeness ing someof its secretsmadeit morealien,not less. He felt light-headed,an a{tereffectof the wound to his left hand that still throbbed,and the fact that he'd had no desireto eatmuch in the daysthatfollowedthe readingof the bones.Lita scoldedhim for his lack
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of interestin food, but he wasrelievedto be free of both the promptings of hunger and the needfor zyth. First-Among-Mothershad bandagedthe wound herself,stopping the blood by packinga nativemossinto the spaceleft by his severedfinger, then wrappingit securelyin layersof silk. While he still lay on the bed wherefilan had played,he'd seenthe Mothersreverentlypreparing a small cauldron of boiling water into which they'd addedherbsto boil his fesh offthe bone so the childt symbolcould be inscribedproperly on if his headstill rangwith the soundof their chanting. For a moment his mind teeteredbetweenpastand present,then First-Among-Motherstfaceroseup beforehim asshe'dstoodby his bed. "I am well pleasedwith the work,"she'dsaid.And he'd argued,"But mysteriesremain.Tell me why languagebelongsto Frehfemalesbut not Freh males.""Hdveyou forgottenwhat Freh means?"She held up one of her remaining fingers.He'd never really thought about the literal meaning of a word he'd usedso casuallyfor two years.He guessed,"One? First?" Then he knew: Those-Who-Come-First. The memory fadedand he staggeredagainstone of the Mothers. him, her old eyespeeringinto his asif asShegrabbedhis arm,steadying sessinghis ability to continuethe journey.The two Freh femaleshad caughttheir long skirtsup over bony kneesand wore animal-skinboots lacedabovetheir ankles.The levelof their ener$/surprisedhim; olo as theyseemedto be,they'dbeentakingturnscarrying|ilan on theirbacks overthe unevenground. But at that moment the child skippedbesidethem, gathering pebblesand flowers along the way, and chattering in Frehti like any three-year-oldwho'd been born on this world. Since that first sound uttered over the bones, she hadn't stopped babbling in First-AmongMothers'slanguage.As if a wall had been breached,he thought, allowing the child to expresseverythingshe'dsavedup for just this moment. Yet it was just anotherirony of the human experienceon this world that the child had found her native tongue at the very moment when shemust leavethe companyof thosewho spokeit. "Are you all right, Danyo?" Lita asked,coming alongsidehim. "We could restfor a few minutes." He couldn't restuntil he'd fulfilled his promiseand broughtthe DepComt daughtersto the safetyof the starshiptbase.
the Bones 65 Reading Lita'scool hand touchedhis forehead."You'reveryhot'" He attempteda ioke."Teething.Like filan'" He rememberedLita visitinghim soonafterhis donation-aword he could dealwith without self-pity.She'dtried to distracthim from the pain in his hand with gossip:The Mothers were busypracticingwriting direction; the girl had out the alphabet under First-Among-Mothers's laughed,Jescribingtheir first clumsyattempts.Shealsotold him filan had cut a late molar and her feverhad gone away' "Let me look at your hand again.Maybeit'sinfected'" 'Antibiotics at the base." "Danyo," the girl said,"stop trying to be such a hero all the time'" she stalkedoff aheaddown He staredat her, uncomprehending. his eyes, and his head dazzled the rough path. The ferocious sun throbbedagain. he'd "What has this to do with Those-Who'Have-Gone-Over?" "onl7 . "We qreoneond tlle sdme,"she'dsaid, askedFirst-Among-Mothers you do not seeit Yet." He thought about her wordsnow as he stoodon the path, one wasnot hand pressedto his chest,catchinghis breath.Metamorphosis in the orion Arm; humanshad encountered uncommonamongspecies it more frequentlythan they'd found sentienceon the worldsthey'd visited. Even on Earth, caterpillarsturned into butterfliesand tadpolesbeWhy shouldn'ta pudgy camefrogswithout anyonebeingtoo suqprised' Freh transforminto a gaunt Mule? And if it only happenedto one sex,it would still be no strangerthan a hundred other quirks and tricks of Yetbutterfies weren'tproneto do Mother Naturehe'd seenelsewhere. violenceon caterPillars. "There is more to it than that," he'd argued, thinking of FirstAmong-Mothers'surgent need to write the languageo.g.t."some secrets ,u*aii hiddununtil theirtime comes,"lheold Freh had replied."Andwill "If we both live,Talker'" youtell me then, First-Among-Mothers?" An hour later-two hours?Three?He seemedto havelostthe ability to keep hack of time-the party stopped.They'd reachedan overlook, the iand falling perhapstwo hundredmetersstraightdown a cliff. Spiralsof dust rosein the heat, and the view beforehim shimmered hazily as if it were underwater.A vastplain spreadout beforethem, an enormousvalleystretchinglike a lakeof grassto a rangeof mountainson
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the misty horizon. Huge flocks of bright-skinned,featherlessbirds rose and fell over gold-greenfields, and the sweetsmell of the grasslands drifted up on the warm air. Sweatstartedout on his foreheadand neck, instantlyevaporating, and he sneezedonce.He squintedthroughwateringeyesinto brightness at the goalthey'dstruggledto reachfor solong, the end of their iourney. "There,"one of the Motherssaid,pointing. "The Sfcr of Calcutta'sbase.lseeit!" Lita said. "We go no further,"the secondMother said. "We can makeit from here,can'twe, Danyo?" He nodded and wished he hadn't as the sparklingworld spun aroundhim. Drunk withoutzyth,he thought. One Mother handedLita the sitarshe'dbeen carrying,the other gaveher packageoffood to the girl. "Youarestone,"oneof them saidto him, touchinghis headgently' Stonewasa much morehumble positionto aspireto than rock,he thought. Then both of them startedback up the path. He knew they were anxiousto rejoin the frenzyof work goingon in the cave,writing out the historyof their racein orderto preserveits memory.And perhapsput an What excitement end to violencein somemannerhe didn't understand. there'dbe in the Mother Housewhen this storygot backto ihe Guild. He could almostseethe Head-whoever it would be now-summoning the teachersand the seniorstudents"You reallyarefeverish,"Lita said. "I'll getyou there.Don't worry." Shestaredat him. "You'Ilgetus there?" For the next few minutes she was distractedby the antics of her backand forth acrossthe path,chasingsmall little sisterwho scampered flying creaturesinto the thickets.He wasable to direct all of his strength into putting one foot in front of the other insteadof having to spendit making conversation.For somereason,going downhill was more difficult and took concenhation. The gleamingwhite domesand communicationtowersof the starbasegrew steadilybigger as they followed Ihe zigzagg,ingpath, but the heat increased,slowing their progressso that the nearer they came to the valleyfoor the longerit seemedto be taking.It didn't seemto bother the two girls,but he found it harderand harderto lift his feet.
Reading the Bones 67 "No use,"he said,aftera while. "l can't go anyfarther." "We're almostthere."Lita adjustedthe sitar over her shoulder. "Look. only aboutanotherhundredmetersto the perimeter.I can see the gateand the guardhouse." He slumpeddown by the side of the path. filan came skipping back and gazedat him, a sprayof crimsonwildflowersin her fist.The small bloomswere the color of the blood that spurtedfrom his hand when First-Among-Mothers's knife descended.He put his bandaged hand up to supporthis head,which seemedto weighmore than he remembered. The child openedher mouth and sang,"Wir!," a noteaspure asa birdt. "Please,get up," Lita saidurgently."I can't carry you." "You go. I'll wait here." "They'll be ableto help you down there.Youjustneedsomegood human pharmaceuticals. . ." As shestareddownat him, the hot breezerisingfrom belowteased the copperyhair and brought its faint scentlike woodsmoketo his nose, sothat for a momenthe had the illusionhe waslookingat yv. Solong ago.He'dfallenin lovewith the wayYv'slong hair lifted in the warm wind, the hair with its smokyperfumethat bewitchedhim. He could seeher clearlyin memory,sittingin the shadeof a treewhen he'd first seenher, her arm aroundone of that worldt younglingswho was teachingher to namethe fowersthatsurroundedthem.Thoughhed alwaysbeen sharplyawareof his aliennesson each world he'd visited,yv had alwaysseemedat home. Then he knew one questionwas answered:yv would,ve wanted children.And he would'vecometo lovethem, too. If felt goodjustto sit hereand think abouthis wife. "There. I can seea guard."Lita stoodon tiptoe and wavedher arms excitedly."Oh, he doesn'tseeus. But I'll go get him, and then somebody'llcomebackfor you." filan put her bouquetof wildflowersin his lap and their perfume wasso rich it madehis headspin. Shedancedawayfrom him into the light, her slight figure shatteringin a myriad diamond points that hurt his eyesto watch. She seemedmore an elementalspirit of this worrd thana humanchild, and he recognizedin thatonescintillatingmoment that there were mysteriesthat were not given to him to understand.
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"You'll be all right?" Lita asked."lt won,t takevery long." "Yes.Go." Shehesitatedfor a momentlonger,then Ieaneddown and kissed him quicklyon the cheek."when we getbackto Earth,Ries,"shesaid, "I'm goingto becomea lingster,like you." He put his hand up to touch his cheek and found it wet with his own tears. The DepCom'sdaughtersran down the path to the base,the Dep com s sitarbouncingon the olderdaughter's back.The running figures becamesmallerand smaller.Then a tall figure emergedfrom ii-,.-gatehouse and hurried towardthem. Ries watchedtill the radiancefoiced his eyesclosed. when he openedthem again,his wife wasstandingin the wildflowersat the edgeof the path, hair spilling like fame overher shoulders. Shewaswearingthe sky-blueweddingdress. Yv held out her armsto him, welcominghim home.
LostGirts JANE YOLEN
of America" the "HansChristianAndersen Caltedatternativel'y and"the Aesopofthe twentiethcentury"(NewYork (Newsweek) bookaunovelist'chitdren's Yotenis a storytetter, Times),Jane and authorof morethan 200 booksfor thor, poet,ptaywright, chitdren,youngadutts,andadutts' Ms. Yolen'sbooks,poems,and storieshave won so many awards,they cannotatt.be tisted' but include:the Catdecott MagaineRead' Award,the Rhysting.an Asimov's Nebul,a Medaf., Award ers' PotLaward,WortdFantasyAward,a NationatBook Award' Kite Gotden the Awards, threeMythopoeic nomination, Medal' the Christopher Award, Book Award,Jewish the Skyl.ark Award' Charlotte the Award, of JewishLibraries the Association fromsuchdiversegroups awards etc. Shehassix body-of-work the universitiesof Minas the CathoticLibraryAssociation, Libraries'andthe New nesotaand KeeneState,the Oktahoma FicfionAssociation' Science EngLand beenmadeinto tetevisionshows'audio have Herwritings and one futt-tengthmoviebooks,theatrical presentat'ions, Aithmetic, starringKirstenDunst' TheDevil's Herstoryhereearnedhera secondNebuta'
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"It isn'tfairr"Darlacomplainedto her mom for the third time dur_ ing their bedtime reading.She meant it wasn'tfair that wendy only did the houseworkin Neverlandand that peterpan and the boysgot to fight Captain Hook. "Wbll, I can't changeiq" Mom said in her even, lawyervoice. "That's iust the way it is in the book.your argumentis with Mr. Barrie, the author,and he'slong dead.ShouldI go on?,, "Yes.No. I don't know,"Darrasaid, coming down on both sidesof the question,assheoftendid. Mom shruggedand closedthe book, and thatwasthe end of the . night'sreading. Darla watchedimpassivelyas her mom got up and left the room, snappingoff the bedsideramp as she went. wher, she crosedthe door there wasjust a rim of light from the hail showing around three sidesof the door, makingit look like somethingout of a sciencefiction movie. Darla pulled the coversup over her nose.Her breath made the space feel like a little oven. "Notfair atalli'Darla saidto the dark,and shedidn't justmeanthe book.Shewasn'tthe leastbit sleepy. But the housemade its comfortablenight-settring noisesaround her: the whispersof the hot air through th" u.r,ir, the ticking lleathy of the grandfatherclock in the hall, the soundoithe maprebranch,rlir"hscratchingagainstthe clapboardsiding. They were a familiar luilaby, comforting and soothing.Darra didn't mean to go to sreep,but shedid. Either that or she steppedout of her bed and wakJ through the closeddoor into Neverland. Thkeyour pick. It didn't feel at all like a dreamto Darra.The details weretoo exact. And shecould smel/things.she'd neversmelledanything in a dreambefore. so Darla had no reasonto berievethat what happe"nedto her next wasanythingbut real. One minute she had gotten up out of bed, heading for the bathroom, and the very next shewassliding down the trunk Jf a very large, smoothtree' The trunk wasunrike any of the mapres in her yard being a kind of yellowish color. It felt armostslippery under her hands and smelled like bananasgone srightrybad. Hei nightgown made a sound like wftooosftassheslid alons.
LostGirls 77 When shelandedon the ground,shetrippedovera largeroot and stubbedher toe. "Owl" shesaid. "Shhh!" cautionedsomeonenearher. She looked up and sawtwo boysin matching raggedcutoffs and she said,wonderingat the T:shirtsstaringat her. "Shhh! yourselves," sametime who theywere. But it hadn'tbeenthoseboyswho spoke.A third boy,behind her, tappedher on the shoulderand whispered,"If you aren'tquiet,He will find us." Sheturned, readyto askwho Hz was.But the boy,dressedin green tightsand a greenshirt and a rathersilly greenhat, and smellinglike freshlavender,held a fingerup to his lips.They wereperfectlips.Like a moviestar's.Darlaknew him at once. "Peter,"shewhispered."PeterPan." He sweptthe hat off and gave her a deep bow. "Wendy," he countered. 'Well, Darla,actually,"shesaid. "Wendy Darla,"he said."Give us a thimble." She and her mom had read that part in the book already,where Petergot kissand thimble mixed up, and she guessedwhat it was he reallymeant,but shewasn'taboutto kisshim. Shewasmuch too young to be kissingboys.Especiallyboysshe'djustmet.And he had to be more a man than a boy,anyway,no matter how young he looked.The copy of PeterPan she and her mother had been readinghad belongedto her grandmotheroriginally.Besides,Darla wasn'tsureshe liked Peter.Of course,shewasn'tsureshe didn'tlike him. It wasa bit confusing.Darla hatedthingsbeingconfusing,like her parents'divorce and her dad'snew youngwife and their twins who were-and who weren'texactly-her brothers. "I don't havea thimble," shesaid,pretendingnot to understand. "l have,"he said,smiling with persuasive boyishcharm. "Can I give it to you?" But shelookeddown at her feetin ordernot to answer,which was how she mostlyrespondedto her dad thesedays,and that wasthat.At leastfor the moment.She didn't want to think anv further ahead.and neither.it seemed.did Peter.
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He shruggedand took her hand, draggingher down a path that smelledof moldy old leaves.Darla wastoo surprisedto protest.And besides,Peterwaslots shongerthan shewas.The two boysfollowed.When they got to a large dark brown tree whoseodor reminded Darla of her grandmother'swardrobe,mustyand ancient,Peterstopped.He let go of her hand and jumped up on one of the twistedrootsthat werelooped overand aroundone anotherlike woodysnakes. Darlawassuddenlyreminded of her schoolprincipal when he toweredabovethe studentsat assembly. He wasa tall man but the daishe stoodon made him seem eventaller.When you satin the front row,you could look up his nose. Shecould look up Peter'snosenow.Like her principal,he didn't look so grandthat way.Or so threatening. "Heret where we live," Petersaid,his hand in a largesweeping motion. Throwing his headback,he crowedlike a rooster;he no longer seemedafraidof makingnoise.Then he said,"You'll like it." "MaybeI will. MaybeI won't,"Darla answered, talkingto her feet again. Peter'sperfect mouth made a small pout as if that weren't the responsehe'dbeenexpecting. Then he jumpeddown into a darkspacebetweenthe roots.The otherboysfollowedhim. Not to be left behind,in casethat roostercrow really had called somethingaw{ul to them, Darla wentafterthe boysinto the darkplace.Shefound whattheyhad actually gonethroughwasa doorthat wasstill slightlyajar. that wound The door openedon to a long, even darkerpassage into the very centerof the tree;the passage smelleddamp,like bathing suitsleft still wet in a closet.Peterand the boysseemedto know the way without any need of light. But Darla wasconstantlyafraid of stumbling and shewasgladwhen someonereachedout and held her hand. Then one last turn and there wassuddenlypleniy of light from hundredsof little candlessetin holdersthat.werescrewedright into the living heartof the wood.By the candlelightshesawit wasPeterwho had hold of her hand. "Welcome to Neverland,"Petersaid,asif this weresupposedto be a big surprise. Darla took her hand awayfrom his. "It's smallerthan I thoughtit would be,"shesaid.This time shelookedright at him. Peter'sperfect mouth hrrned down again."It's big enoughfor us," he said.Then asif a suddenthoughthad struckhim, he smiled."But too
LostGirls 73 small for Him." He put his back to Darla and shouted,"Let's have a party.We'vegot us a new Wendy." Suddenly,from all cornersof the room, boyscame tumbling and stumblingand dancing,and pushingone anotherto get a look at her. They wereshockinglynoisyand all smelledlike unwashedsocks.One of them madefart noiseswith his mouth. Shewonderedif any of them had taken a bath recently.They were worse-Darla thought-than her Stemplecousins,who were so awful their parentsnevertook them anywhereanymore,not out to a restaurantor the moviesor anlplaceat all. "Stopit!" shesaid. The boysstoppedat once. "I told you," Petersaid."She'sa regularWendy,all right. She'seven given me a thimble." Darla'sjaw droppedat the lie. How could he? She startedto say"I did not!" but the boyswere alreadycheering went unheard. soloudly her protestations "Tink," Peiercalled, and one of the candlesdetacheditself from the heartwoodto flutter around his head, "tell the Wendyswe want a Welcome Rast." The Wendys?Darla bit her lip. What did Petermeanby thatt The little light flickeredon and off. Akind of code,Darla thought. She assumedit wasthe fairy Tinker Bell, but she couldn't reallymake out what this Tink looked like exceptfor that flickering, fluttering presence.But asif understandingPetert request,the flicker took off toward a black cornerand, sheddingbut a little light, few right into the dark. "Good old Tink." Petersaid. and he smiled at Darla with such on both sidesof his mouth. practice,dimplesappearedsimultaneously "Whatkind of food..." Darlabegan. "Everythingparentswon't let you have,"Peteranswered."Sticl] bunsand tipsycakeand Butterfingersand browniesand. . ." The boys gatheredaround them, chanting the namesas if they werethe lyricsto somekind of song,adding,". . . appletartsand gingerbreadand chocolatemousseand trifle and. . ." 'And and sugarhighs,"Darla saidstubbornly."My stomachaches dad'sa nutritionist.I'm only allowedhealthyfood." Peterturned his practiceddimpled smile on her again."Forget your father.You're in Neverland now, and no one need ever go back homefrom here."
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At that Darla burst into tears,harf in frushationand harf in fear. she actuallyliked her dad,asweil aslovedhim, despite the fact that hed left her for his new wife, and despitethe fact of the twins, who wereactually adorableaslong asshedidnt haveto rivewith them. The thought that she'dbeen caughtin Neverlandwith no way to refurn wasso awful, shecouldn'thelp crying. Petershruggedand turned to the boys."cirrs!" he said with real disgust. 'AII Wendys!"they shoutedbackat him. Darla wiped her eyes,and spokeright to peter. ,.My name is nof Wendy,"shesaidclearly.,.It'sDarla." Peterlooked at her, and there was nothing nice or laughing or youngabouthis eyes.They weredarkand cold ,nd u.ru u.ru oid. Darla shivered. "Here you?ea Wendy,"he said. And with that, the darkplacewhereTink had disappeared grewin_ creasinglylight, as a door openedand fifteen girls trais piled high with cakes,cookies,biscuits, buns, andlther"rriiing kinds"of gooai", marchedsinglefile into the halr.They werered by a tail, tr."l.ipr",y girl with brown hair that fell straightto her shoulders. The room suddenlysmelled overpoweringly of that sickly sweet_ nessof childrent birthdaypartiesat schoor, *he' th.i, mothersLro,rght in sloppycupcakesgreasywith icing. Darla shuddered. "welcome Feast"shoutedthe boywho wascrosest to the door.He madea deepbow. "Welcome Feast!,,they all shouted, laughing and gathering arounda greatcentertable. Only Darla seemedto notice that not one of the Wendys was smiling. The Feastwent on for ages,becauseeachofthe boyshad to stand up and give a little speech.Of course,most of them only said,.,Wel_ come' wendyl" and "Glad to meet your" before sittingdown agairr.A few elaborateda little bit more. But petermore than -Jd" up fori with a long,ramblingtalk aboutduty and dessertand how no oneiovedth.m out in the world Aboveasmuch ashe did here in Neverland,and how the cakesprovedthat.
LostGirls 75 The boyscheeredand clappedat eachof Peter'spronouncements, and threw bunsand sconesacrossthe table at one anotherasa kind of punchration.Tink circled Peter'sheadcontinuouslylike a crown of stars, thoughsheneverreallysettled. did But the girls,standingbehind the boyslike banquetwaitresses, foot, looking alternately apnot applaud.Ratherthey shiftedfrom foot to prehensiveand bored.One, no more than four yearsold, kept yawning behinda chubbyhand. After a polite bite of an appletart, which shecouldn't swallowbut spitinto her napkin,Darla didn't eventry to pretend.The little pie had been much too sweet,not tart at all. And eventhough Peterkept urging her betweenthe welcomesto eat something,she iust couldn't. That smallrebellionseemedto annoyhim enormouslyand he stoodup once again, this time on the tabletop, to rant on about how some people lacked gratitude,and how difficult it wasto provide for so many, especially with Him about. Peterneveractuallylookedat Darla ashe spoke,but sheknewand everyoneelseknew-that he meant shewas the ungratefulone. That botheredher some,but not as much as it might have.She even found herselfenjoyingthe factthat he wasannoyed,and that realization almostmadeher smile. When Peterendedwith "No more Feastsfor them with Bad Atti' tudesl"the boysleapedfrom their benchesand overturnedthe big table, mashingthe remainingfood into the floor. Then they all disappeared, diving down a variety of bolt-holes,with Tink after them, leaving the girlsalonein the big candlelitroom. "Now seewhat you'vedone,"said the oldestgirl, the pretty one with the straightbrown hair. Obviously the leader of the Wendys,she wore a simple dark dress- Iike a uniform, Darla thought, a schooluniform that'sbadlystained."lt's goingto takeforeverto getthat stuff off the foor. Agesand ages.Mops and buckets.And nothing left for us to eat." The other girls agreedloudly. "They mad,ethe mess,"Darla saidsensibly."Letthem clean it upl That'show it's done at my house." There wasa horrifiedsilence.For a momentnone of the girlssaid a word,but their mouthsopenedand shut like fish on beaches.Finally the littlest one spoke.
76
NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 "Peterwon't'ike it." "Well, I don't 'ike Peterl" Darla answeredquickly. "He's nothing
but a long-windedbully." "But," saidthe little Wendy,"you gavehim a thimble." She actually said"simble." "No," Darlasaid."Peterlied. I didn't." The girls all seemeddumbstruck by that revelation.Without a word more, they beganto clean the room, first righting the table and then laboriouslypicking up what they could with their fingersbeforeresorting,at last,to the dreadedbucketsand mops.Soonthe placesmelled like any institution after a cleaning,like a schoolbathroomor a hospital corridor, Lysol-freshwith an overcastof pine. Shaking her head, Darla just watched them until the littlest Wendyhandedher a mop. Darla flung the mop to the floor. "I won't do it," she said."It's not fair." The oldestWendycameoverto her and put her hand on Darla's shoulder."Who evertold you that life is fair?"sheasked."Certainly not a nawy, nor an upstairsmaid, nor a poor man trying to feed his family." "Nor my da," put in one of the girls. She waspale skinned,sharp nosed,gaptoothed,homelyto a fault. "He allassaidlife wasa crapshoot and all usn'sgot wassnake-eyes." "And not my father,"said another,a whey-faced,doughyJooking "He usedto alwayssaythattheworld didn'theathim right." eight-year-old. "What I mean is that it's not fair that they getto have the adventuresand you getto cleanthe house,"Darla explainedcarefully. "Who will clean it if we don't?" Wendy asked.She picked up the mop and handedit backto Darla."Notthem. Not ever.So if we want it done,we do it. Fair is not the matterhere."Shewent backto her place in the line of girlsmoppingthe floor. With a sigh that waslessa capitulation and more a show of solidarity with the Wendys,Darla picked up her own mop and followed. When the room wasset to rights again,the Wendys-with Darla following closebehind*tromped into the kitchen, a cheerless, windowlessroom they had obviouslytried to makehomey.There werelittle stick dolliesstuckin everypossibleniche and hand-paintedbirch bark sisnson the wall.
LostGirls 77 CAMEM.And another: SMILE,one sign said,You AREoN CANDIED in A third, very childish script, read:WENDYS AREWONDERFUL. wENDYS AREwtNERs.Darla wonderedidly if that was meant to be wtNNsnsor but shedecidednot to ask. wHINERS, Depressingasthe kitchen was,it wasredolent with bakerysmells that seemedto dissipatethe effectof a prison. Darla sighed,remembering her own kitchen at home, with the windows overlooking her mother'sherb gardenand the rockerywhere four kinds of heatherfloweredtill the first snowsof winter. The girlsall satdown-on the floor,on the table,in little bumpy, woody niches.There were only two chairsin the kitchen, a tatty overstuffedchair whosegold brocadedcoveringhad seenmuch better days, and a rocker.The rockerwastakenby the oldestWendy;the other chair remainedempty. At last,seeingthat no one elsewasgoingto claim the stuffedchair, Darla satdown on it, and a collectivegaspwent up from the girls. "Att Peter'schair,"the littlestone finallyvolunteered. "Well, Peter's not hereto sit on it," Darlasaid.But shedid not relax backagainstthe cushion,just in casehe shouldsuddenlyappear. "l'm hungry, Wendy," said one of the girls, who had two gold braidsdownto her waist."lsn't thereanythingleftto eat?"Sheaddressed the girl in the rocker. "You arealwayshungry,Madja,"Wendysaid.But shesmiled,and it wasa smileof suchsweetness, Darlawasimmediatelyremindedof her mom, in the daysbeforethe divorceand her dad'snew wife. "So you do havenames,and not justWendy,"Darlasaid. They lookedat her asif shewerestupid. "Of coursewe havenames,"saidthe girl in the rocker."I'm the only one truly namedWendy.But I've been here from the first. So that's what Petercalls us all. That's Madja," she said,pointing to the girl with the braids. "And that's Lizzy." The youngestgirl. "And that's Martha, Pansy,Nina, Nancy,Heidi,Betsy,Maddy,foAnne,Shula,Annie,Corrie, Barbara.. ." Shewent around the circle of girls. Darla interrupted."Then why doesn'tPeter- " "Becausehe can't be botheredremembering,"saidWbndy."And we can'tbe botheredremindinghim." 'And itt all right," said Madja. He has so much elseto worry about.Like - "
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"Him!" They all breathedthe word togetherquietly,as if sayingit aloudwould summonthe horrorto them. "Him? YoumeanHook,don'tyou?"askedDarla."CaptainHook." The look theygaveher wascompoundedof angerand alarm.Little Lizzy pul her handsoverher mouth asif shehad saidthe name herself. "Well, isn't it?" "You are an extremelystupid girl," saidWendy.'As well asa dangerousone."Then she smiledagain-that luminoussmile-at all the othergirls,excludingDarla,asif Wendyhad not justsaidsomethingthat was both rude and horrible. "No., darlings,how many of you are as hungryasMadja?" One by one, the handswent :up,Lizzy'sfirst. Only Darla kept her hand down and her eyesdown aswell. "Not hungry in the slightest?"Wendy asked,and everyonewent silent. Darla felt forcedto look up and sawthat Wendy'seyeswere staring at her,glitteringstrangelyin the candlelight. It was too much. Darla shiveredand then, all of a sudden,she wantedto get back at Wendy,who seemedas much of a bully as Peter, only in a softer,sneakierway.But how to do it? lnd then she recalled how her mom saidthat telling a storyin a very quiet voice alwaysmade a jury lean forward to concentratethat much more. Maybe, Darla thought, I could try that. "l remember. . ." Darla beganquietly.". . .I remembera storymy mom readto me about a Greek girl who wasstolenawayby the king of the underworld.He trickedher into eatingsixseedsandsoshehad to remain in the underworld six months of everyyearbecauseof them." The girls had all gone quiet and were clearly listening. It works! Darla thought. "Don't be dhft,"Wendy said,her voiceloud with authority. "But Wendy,I rememberthat story,too," saidthe whey-facedgirl, Nancy,in a kind of whisper,asif by speakingquietly shecould laterdeny havingsaidanything at all. "And I," put in Madja,in a similarlywhisperyvoice. "And the fairies," saidLizzy. She was much too young to worry aboutloud or soft,so shespokein her normal tone of voice."lf you eat anythingin their hall, my mum allassaid.. . you neverget to go home again.Not ever.I missmy mum." Quite suddenlyshebeganto cry.
LostGirls 79 "Now seewhat you've gone,"saidWendy,standingand stamping her foot.Darlawasshocked.She'dneverseenanyoneoverfour yearsold do such a thing. "They'll all be blubbing no1l,,rememberingtheir folks, even the ones who'd been badly beaten at home or worse.And not a stickybun leftto comfortthem with. You-girl-oughtto be ashamed!" "Well, it isn't my fault!" saidDarla, loudly, but shestood,too' The thought of Wendy towering over her iust now made her feel edgy and evena bit afraid."And my nameisn't girl.l* Darlal" They glaredat one another. fust then therewasa brilliant whistle.A flashof light circled the kitchen like a dementedfirefly. "It's Tinkl" Lizzy cried,clappingher handstogether. It,S the signal.'Larm!'Larm!" "Come on, you lot," Wendy cried. "Places,all." She hrrned her backto Darla,grabbedup a soupladle,and ran out of the room. Each of the girls picked up one of the kitchen implementsand followed.Not to be left behind, Darla pouncedon the only thing left, a pair of silversugartongs,and poundedout after them. They didn't go [ar, just to the main room again.There they stood silentguardoverthe bolt-holes.After a while - not quite fifteen minutes, Darla guessed-Tink fluttered in with a more melodic all clearand the boysslowlyslid backdown into the room. Peterwasthe lastto arrive. "Oh, Peter,we were soworried,"Wendy said. The other girls crowded around. "We were scaredsilly," Madja added. "Weepers!"cried Nancy. "Kneesall knocking,"added)oAnne. "Oh, this is reallyfoo stupidfor wordsl" Darla said."All we did was stand around with kitchen tools.Was I supposedto brain a pirate with these?"She held out the sugartongsasshespoke. The hush that followed her outcry was enormous.Without another word, Peterdisappearedback into the dark. One by one, the [,ost Boysfollowedhim. Tink wasthe lastto go,fickering out like a candlein the wind. "Now," saidMadja with a pout, "we won't even get to hear about the fight. And it's the very bestpart of being a Wendy." Darla staredat the girls for a long moment. "What you all need,"
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shesaidgrimly, "is a backbonehansplant."And when no one responded, she added,"lt's clear the Wendysneed to go out on strike." Being the daughterofa labor lawyerhad its advantages. Sheknew all aboutshikes. "What the Wendysneed,"Wendv respondedsternly,"is to givethe cupboardsa good shaking-out."She pattedher hair down and looked 'round."Turningon her heel, at Darla."But first,cupsof teaall daggers she startedback towardthe kitchen.Only four girls remainedbehind. LittleLizzy crept overto Darla'sside."Whatt a strike?"sheasked. "Work stoppage," Darla said."Signsand lines." Nancy,Martha, and |oAnne, who had alsostayedto listen,looked equallypuzzled. "Signs?"Nancysaid. "Lines?")oAnnesaid. "Hello. . ." Darla couldn't help the exasperationin her voice' "What yeardo you all live in? I mean,haven'tyou everheardof strikes? WatchedCNN? Enduredsocialstudies?" "Nineteenfourteen,"saidMartha. "Nineteenthirty-three,"saidNancy. "Nineteen seventy-two,"said|oAnne. "Do you meanto saythat none of you are. . ." Darla couldn't think of what to call it, so addedlamely,"new?" Lizzy slipped her hand into Darla's. "You are the onliest new Wendy we'vehad in years." "Oh," Darla said."I guessthat explainsit'" But shewasn'tsure' "Explains what?" they asked.Before Darla could answer'Wendy calledfrom the kitchen doorway,"Areyou lot coming?Tea'son." she did not soundasif shewereincludingDarla in the invitation' Martha scurriedto wendyt side,but Nancyand foAnnehesitated a moment beforeioining her. That left only Lizzy with Darla' 'ines?I be a "Can I help?" Lizzy asked'"For the signs.And the so." goodworker.Even Wendy saYS "You'remy only. . ." Darla said,smiling down at her and givingher little hand a squeeze."My onliestworker.Still, asmy mom alwayssays, Startwith one,you'rehalfwaydone'" Lizzy repeatedthe rhyme. "Start with one, you're halfway done' Startwith one. . ." "fust rememberit. No needto sayit aloud,"Darla said'
LostGirls 81 'ike the Lizzy looked up at her, eyeslike sky-bluemarbles."But I waythat poem sounds." "Then 'ike it quietly. We have a long way to go yet before we're readyfor any chants."Darla went into the kitchen hand-in-handwith Lizzy,whoskippedbesideher, mouthingthe wordssilently. FourteenWendysstaredatthem.Not a onewassmiling.Each had a teacup- unmatched,chipped,or cracked- in her hand. 'A long wayto go where?"Wendyaskedin a chilly voice. 'A long waybeforeyou can be free of this yokeof oppression,"said Darla. Yokeof oppression wasa favoriteexpressionof her mothert. "We arenot yoked,"Wendysaidslowly."Andwe arenot oppressed." "What's o-ppressed?" askedLizzy. "Made to do what you don't want to do," explainedDarla, but she nevertook her eyesoffof Wendy."Tleatedharshly.Ruled unjustly.Governedwith cruelty."Thosewerethe three definitionsshe'dhad to memorize for her last social studiesexam. She never thought she'd ever actuallyget to usethem in the real world. If shethought suddenly,fhrs world is real. "No one heatsus harshlyor rulesus unjustly.And the only cruel onesin Neverlandare the pirates,"Wbndy explainedcarefully,asif talking to someonefeeblemindedor slow. None of the other Wendyssaid a word. Most of them staredinto their cups,a little-Darla thought- Iike the way I alwaysstaredown at nry shoeswhen Mom or Dad wantsto talk about somethingthat hurts. Lizzy pulledher hand from Darla's."l think it harshthat we always have to clean up after the boys."Her voice wastiny but still it carried. 'And unjust,"someoneput in. "Who said that?" Wendy demanded,staringaround the table. "Who dareslo saythat Peteris unjust?" Darla pursedher lips, wonderinghow her mom would answer such a question.She wasabout to lean forward to saysomethingwhen JoAnnestoodin a rush. "I saidit. And it is unjust. I cameto Neverlandto get awayfrom that sort of thing. Well. . . and to get awayfrom my stepfather,too," she said."I mean, I don't mind cleaningup my own mess.And even someoneelse's,occasionally. But. . ." She sat down as quickly as she
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had stood,lookingaccusinglyinto her cup, asifthe cup had spokenand not she. "WeII!" Wendy said, sounding so much like Darla's home ec teacherthat Darla had to laughout loud. As if the laugh freedthem, the girlssuddenlystooduP one afteranother,voicingcomplaints.And aseachone rose,little Lizzy clappedher handsand skippedaroundthe table,chanting,"Startwith one, you're halfwaydone! Startwith one, you're halfwaydone!" Darla didn't saya word more. She didn't haveto' She iust listened asthe first trickle of angryvoicesbecamea streamand the streamturned into a flood.The girlsspokeof the boys'messand beingunderappreciatedand wantinga largershareof the food.They spokeabout needingto go outsideeveryonce in a while. They spokeof longingfor new stockings and a bathing room all to themselves,not one sharedwith the boys, who left rings around the tub and dirty underweareverywhere.They spoke of the long hours and the lack of fresh air, and Barbarasaid they really could use everyother Saturdayoff, at least.It seemedonce theystartedcomplainingthey couldn'tstop. Darla'smom would haveunderstoodwhat had iust happened,but Darla was clearly as stunned asWendy by the rush of demands'They staredat one another,almostlike comrades. The other girlskept on for long minutes,eachone stumbling over the next to be heard,until the room positivelyrockedwith complaints. And then, assuddenlyasthey had begun,theystopped'Redfaced,they all satdown again,exceptforLizzy,who still caperedaround the room, but now did itwordlesslY. Into the suddensilence,Wendy rose'"How could you' ' '," she began.She leanedover the table, clutching the top, her entire body trembling. "After all Peterhasdone for you, taking you in when no one elsewanted you, when you had been tossedasideby the world, when you'd been crushedand corruptedand canceled'How couldyort?" Lizzy stoppedskipping in front of Darla. "ls it time for signsand 'inesnow?'sheasked,her marble-blueeyeswide' Darla couldn'thelp it. Shelaughedagain.Then sheheld out her arms to Lizzy, tvhocuddled right in. "Time indeed,"Darla said.she looked up at wendy. "Like it or not, Miss Management,the Lost Girls aregoingout on strike."
LostGirts 83 Wendy sat in her rocker,armsfolded,a scowlon her face. She lookedlike a four-year-oldhavinga tempertantrum. But of courseit was somethingworsethan that. The girls ignored her. They threw themselvesinto making signs with a kind of manic enerS/ and in about an hour they had a whole rangeof them, using the backsof their old signs,pagestorn from cookbooks,and flattenedfour bags. WENDYS WON'TWORK,one read. ESUALPt"{YFOREQUALWORK, went another.My NAME'S Nor wENDy!saida third, and pRssHAIRISoNLY pRIRa fourth.Lizzy's signwasdecoratedwith stick figurescarryingwhat Darla took to be swords,or maybe wands.Lizzyhad spelledout-or rathermisspelledout-what becamethe girls'marchingwords:wEAIN'T MIZ.PI.{YST. LOST,WE,RE JUST It turned out that foAnne wasmusical.She made up lyrics to the tune of "YankeeDoodle Dandy" and taught them to the others: We ain't lost,we'reiustmisplaced, The outsidefoe we'venewr faced. Give us a chanceto fight and win And we'II be sureto keepNeverlandneat asa pin. The girls arguedfor a while over that lastline, which Betsysaidhad too many syllablesand the wrong sentiment,until Madia suggested, rather timidly, that if they actuallywanteda chanceto fight the pirates,maybe the boysshouldtakea turn at cleaningthe house."Fair'sfair," sheadded. That got a cheer. "Fair's fair," they told one another, and Patsy scrawledthat sentimenton yet anothersign. The cheer causedWendy to get up grumpily from her chair and leavethe kitchen in a snit. Shemust havecalledfor the boysthen, becauseno soonerhad the girlsdecidedon an amendedline (which still had too many syllablesbut felt right otherwise)And you can keepNeverlandneat as a pin! -than the boyscould be heard coming back noisily into the dining room. They shoutedand whistled and bangedtheir fists on the table, calling out for the girls and for food. Tinkt high-pitchedcry overuode the noise,piercing the air. The girls managedto ignore it all until Peter suddenlyappearedin the kitchen doorway. "What's this I hear?"he said,smiling slightly to showhe wasmore
amusedthan angry.somehowthatonly madehis faceseemboth sinister and untrustworthy. But his appearance in the doorwaywaselectrifying.For a moment not one of the girls could speak.It wasas if they had all taken a collective breath and were waiting to seewhich of them had the courageto breatheout first. Then Lizzy held up her "We're going on she said brightly. 'i{nd what, little Wendy,is that?"Peterasked,leaningforwardand speakingin the kind of voicegrown-upsusewith children.He pointedat her sign."ls it. . ." he saidslyly,"like a thimble?" "Silly Peter,"saidLizzy,"it's signsand'ines." "I seethe signs,all right," said Peter."But what do they mean? WENDYS woN'T WORK. Why, Neverlandcountson Wendysworking.And I count on it, too. You Wendysare the most important part of what we havemadehere." "Oh," saidLizzy,turning to Darla,her faceshiningwith pleasure. "We'rethe mostestimportant. . ." Darla sighedheavily."If you are so imporlant,Lizzy,why can't he rememberyour name?If you're so important, why do you have all the work and none of the fun?" "Right!" cried |oAnne suddenly,and immediatelyburst into her song.It waspicked up at once by the other girls.Lizzy, caughtup in the music, beganto march in time all around the table with her sign.The others,still singing,fell in line behind her,They marchedoncearound the kitchen and then right out into the dining room. Darla was at the rear. At first the Lost Boyswerestunnedat the sightof the girls and their signs.Then they, too, got caught up in the song and began to pound their handson the tablein rhythm. Tink flew aroundand aroundWendy'shead,flickeringon and off and on angrily,looking for all the world like an electric hair-cuttingmachine. Peter glared at them all until he suddenlyseemedto come to someconclusion.Then he leapedonto the dining room table, threw backhis head,and crowedloudly. At that everyonewent deadsilent. Even Tink. Peterlet the silenceprolongitselfuntil it wasalmostpainful. At last Darla and,throughher, all the girls."What is he turnedand addressed
LostGirls 85 it you want?"he asked."What is it you truly want?Becauseyou'd better be careful what you ask for. In Neverland wishesare granted in very strangeways." "lt's not," Darla said carefully,"what I want. It's what they want." In a tight voice,Wendy cried out, "They neverwantedfor anything until she came,Peter.They neverneededor asked.. ." "What we want. . ." foAnneinterrupted,"is to be equals." Peterwheeledabout on the table and stareddown at foAnne and she,poor thing, hrrnedgrayunder his gaze."No one is askingyou," he saidpointedly. "We want to be equalsl"Lizzy shouted."To the boys.To Peter!" The damburstagain,and the girlsbeganshoutingandsingingand cryingand laughingall together."Equal. . . equal.. . equal.. ." Even the boystook it up. Tink fickered frantically,then took off up one of the bolt-holes, emergingalmost immediatelydown another,her piercing alarm signal so loud that everyonestoppedchanting, except for Lizzy, whoselittle voiceonly trailedoffafter a bit. "So," saidPeter,"you want equalsharein the fighting?Then here's your chance." Tink's light wassputteringwith excitementand shewhistled nonstop. "Tink saysHook'sentire crew is out there, waiting.And, boy! are theyangry.Youwant to fight them?Then go ahead."He crossedhis arms overhis chestand turnedhis faceawayfrom the girls."l won't stopyou." No longer graybut now pink with excitement,foAnne grabbedup a knife from the nearestLost Boy."I'm not afraid!"shesaid.Sheheaded up one of the bolt-holes. Weaponless,Barbara,Pansy,and Betsyfollowed right after. "But that'snot what I meant them to do," Darla said."l mean, weren't we supposedto work out somesort of compromise?" Peterturned back slowlyand lookedat Darla, his face sternand unforgiving."I'm PeterPan.I don't haveto compromisein Neverland." Wendyreachedup to help him offthe tabletop. The othergirlshad alreadyscatteredup the holes,and onlyLizzy wasleft. And Darla. "fue you coming to the fight?" Lizzy askedDarla, holding out her hand.
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Darla gulped and nodded.They walked to the bolt-hole hand-inhand.Darla wasn'tsurewhatto expect,but theybeganrisingup asif in somesort of air elevator.Behind them one of the boyswaswhining to Peter,"But what are we goingto do without them?" The lastthing Darla heard Petersaywas"Don't worry. There are alwaysmore Wendyswhere they camefrom." The air outsidewas crisp and autumny and smelledof apples. There wasa full moon,orangeand huge.Harvestmoon,Darlathought, which wasodd sinceit had beenspringin her bedroom. Ahead she sawthe other girls.And the pirates.Or at leastshe saw their silhouettes. It obviouslyhadn'tbeenmuch of a fight.The smallest of the girls-Martha, Nina, and Heidi-were alreadycapturedand riding atop their captors'shoulders.The others,with the exceptionof foAnne, were being carried off fireman-style.foAnne still had her knife and shewasstandingoff one of the largestof the men; she got in one goodswipebeforebeingdisarmed,and lifted up. Darla wasjust digestingthis when Lizzy waspulled from her. "Up you go, little darlin',"camea deepvoice. "Wendy!Wendy!" Lizzy screamed. Darla had no time to answerher beforeshe,too, wasgatheredup in enormousarmsand cartedoff. In lesstime than it takesto tell of it, they were through the woods and overa shingle,dumpedinto boats,and rowedout to the pirateship. There theywerehauledup by ropesand- exceptfor Betsy,who struggled sohard shelandedin the waterand had to be fishedout, wrung out, and then hauledup again- it wasa silentand well-practiced operation. The girls stoodin a huddle on the well-lit deck and awaitedtheir fate. Darla was glad no one said anything. She felt awful. She hadn't meantthem to cometo this.Peterhad beenright.Wishesin Neverland weredangerous. "Here come the captains,"saidone of the pirates.It wasthe first thing anyonehad saidsincethe capture. He must mean captain, singular, thought Darla. But when she heardfootsteps nearingthem and daredto look up, therewere,indeed, two figures coming forward. One was an old man about her grandfather'sage, his white hair in two braids,a three-corneredhat on his
LostGirls 87 head.Shelookedfor the infamoushook but he had two resularhands, thoughthe right one wasclutchinga pen. The othercaptainwas.. . a woman. "Welcometo Hook'sship,"the womansaid."l'm Mrs. Hook.Also known asMother fane.Alsoknown asPirateLil. AlsocalledThe Pirate Queen. We'vebeen hoping we could get you awayfrom Peterfor a very long time." Sheshookhandswith eachof the girlsand gaveLizzya hug. "l need to get to the doctor,ma'am,"saidone of the pirates."That little girl . . ." he pointed to foAnne ". . . gaveme quite a slice." foAnne blanchedand shrankback into herself. But CaptainHook only laughed.It wasa heartylaugh,full of good humor."Good for her.You'regettingcareless in your old age,Smee,"he said."Stitcheswill remind you to stayalert.Peterwould havegot your throat,and evenhere on the boat that could take a long while to heal." "Now," saidMrs. Hook, "itt time for a good meal.Pizza,I think. With plenty of veggieson top. Peppers,mushrooms,carrots,onions.But no anchovies.I haveneverunderstoodwhy anyonewantsa hairy fish on Iop of pizza." "What's pizzaT"askedLizzy. "Ah. .. somethingyou will love, my dear,"answeredMrs. Hook. "Things never do change in Peter'sNeverland,but up here on Hook's ship we movewith the times." "Who will do the dishesafter?"askedBetsycautiously. The crewrustledbehind them. "l'm on dishesthis week,"saidone,a burly,ugly man with a black eyepatch. 'And I," saidanother.Shewasasbig asthe ugly man, but attractive in a rough sort of way. "There's a duty rosteron the wall by the galley,"explained'Mrs. Hook."That'sship talk for the kitchen.You'll get usedto it. We all take tums, A pirateship is a very democraticplace." "What's demo-rat-ic?"askedLizzy. They all laughed."You will havea long time to learn,"saidMrs. Hook. "Time movesmore swiftly here than in the shrffy confines of a Neverlandtree.But not soswiftly asout in the world. Now let'shavethat pizza,a hot bath,and a bedtimestory,and then tomorrowwe'll try and answeryour questions."
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The girlscheered,|oAnneloudestof them all. "l am hungry,"Lizzy added,as if that were all the answerMrs. Hook needed. "But I'm not," Darla said."And I don't want to stayhere.Not in Neverlandor on Hookt ship.I wantto go home." CaptainHook cameoverand put his goodhand under her chin. Gently he lifted her faceinto the light. "Fatherbeatyou?"he asked. "Never,"Darla said. "Mother desertyou?"he asked. "Fat chance,"saidDarla. "Starving?Miserable?Alone?" "No. And no. And no." Hook turned to his wife and shrugged.She shruggedback,then asked,"Ever ihink that the world wasunfair, child?" "Who hasn't?"askedDarla,and Mrs. Hook smiled. "Thinking it and meaningit are two very differentthings,"Mrs. Hook saidat last."l expectyou must havebeen aw4ullyconvincingto havelandedat Peter'sdoor.Never mind, havepizza wilh us, and then you can go. I want to hear the latestfrom outside,anylvay.You never know what we might find useful.Pizzawasthe lastreallyusefulthing we learned from one of the girls we snaggedbefore Peterfound her. And that-l cantell you-has beena majorsuccess." "Can't I go home with Darla?"Lizzy asked. Mrs. Hook knelt down iill she and Lizzy were face-to-face."l am afraidthat would make for an awful lot of awkwardquestions,"shesaid. Lizzy'sblue eyesfilled up with tears. "My mom is a lawyer,"Darla put in quickly. 'Awkward questions areher specialty." The pizza wasgreat,with a crust that wasthin and delicious.And when Darla awoketo the ticking of the grandfatherclock on the hall and the clapboardsidthe soundof the maplebranchscritch-scratchingasainst felt a lump at her feet, pizza mouth. was still in her She ing, the tasteof the raisedup, and sawLizzy fastasleepunder the coversat the foot of the bed. "l surehope Mom is asgood as I think she is," Darla whispered. Becausetherewasno goingbackon this one- fair,unfair,or anywhere in between.
ThirteenWaysto Water ROGERS B R U C EH O L L A N D
BruceHollandRogershaspubtishedboth popularand literary fiction, inctudingsciencefiction, fantasyand horrorstories, mystery, fiction.In atl he hassotdmorethan sevandromance entyshortstories.Rogers haspublished two poetrychapbooks: Breathingin the U/orld(Phase& CyclePress)and Talesond DecIarotions(TroutCreekPress/Dog RiverReview). Rogerswon the Nebutafor Best Noveletteof 1996 for "Lifeboaton a BurningSea"anda secondNebulafor this tale. Hewasa 7994nomineefor the EdgarAllan PoeAwardfor his mysterystory,"Enduring as Dust."In 1989he wonfirst prizein the Writersof the FutureContestfor his darkfantasystory,'A Branch in the Wind." Rogersholdsan M.A.in Engtishtiteraturefromthe University of Cotorado. After he finishedhis degree,he stayedon for years four to teach ctassesin Americanliterature,creative writing,sciencefiction, and cottegecomposition.He and his wife, HotlyArrow now live in Eugene, Oregon,wheresheis a psychotogy professor at the Universityof 0regonand he devoteshis energiesfutt time to writing.He sometimes teaches seminars in creativityandconducts privatefiction-writing workshops.
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1. With Btood When fack Salter was seventeen,two other guys held his arms while Bull Wilson punchedhis face.Three times.Hard. "You stayawayfrom Diane," Bull said."Don't eventalk to her." Later, on the riverbank,fack washedthe blood from his face and thought, I'll neverforgetthis.I will neverforgive.
2. BecauseSheAsksIIim To When Diane Wilson comesto |ack this time, it isn't out of the mistsof fantasy.She comesin a BMW, and she'sher real self,a woman almostfifty. He'ssittingunder the overhangof his tin roof when shedrivesup. The blue Beemerlooks shangeon the gravelroad that generallysees WV bugsor beat-upHondasor more often no haffic at all. Diane wears a suit and jacket.She goesfrom crisp to wilted the minute she getsout of the car'sair-conditioning.He puts his book down but doesn'tstand. "lack)'shesays. He nodsbut can think of nothing to saythat won't seemlike a forNot, How'veyoubeen? mula. Not, Thisis a surprise. The silencegows betweenthem. He thinksit is shangeat his ageto At lastshetellshim, "l needyour help, fack'" feelthis sortof awkwardness. "My help,"he says. 'Actually," shesays,"Bull needsyour help." He could laughthen. He could shakehis head.He could say,The sonof a bitchyou manied needsmy help?Br:/.insteadhe folds his hands and says,"Tell me." "He's down by the river," she says."He's been there for days.I looked and looked, and when I found him, he told me it was for the water.So he could drown." "I don't understand,"|ack says. "I don't either."Shebeginsto cry. He doesn'tstandup, go to her, embraceher. He lets her stand there, wet-faced,hugging herself, shaking,until she is finished. She opensher purseand takesout a tissue. "Why don't you call the police?"
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9t
"l guessyou won't do it," shesays. "l didn't saythat." "lf I call the police,they'll hospitalizehim. We'vebeen through that once.The doctorscan't do anythingfor him. The headaches come right back,and he hatesme for doing that,for handinghim overlike that asif he d donesomething." "What headaches?" She tellshim, then, aboutthe clusterheadaches, a dozenattacks some days that make Bull Wilson stalk the floor, wail, beat his fists againsthis heador his headagainstthe wall. Like fire in his head,like a bladein his skull boring in, diggingand scraping. Like guilt. No, not guilt. Bull Wilson would neverfeel guilty. )acksays,"Why me?" "He talksabout the war. Not to me. But to men-his friendsor evenstrangers who find him thereby the river.He tells his war stories. And you werethere." 'A lot of men in town werethere." "But you . . . I iusthavethis feelingaboutyou.About the kind of personyou are.Bull's friendscan't help him. They don't know what to do." 'i{nd I will?" Shelooksat him long and hard."Maybe." fack nodsthen.He wondersif sheknowswhathe did in the war,if she knows that she is askinghim to do it again, thirty yearslater. Although this won't be the same.This will be altogetherdifferent,if he can do it at all. He says,"I'll hy."
3. Under the Gottonwoods He finds Bull Wilson just where Diane sayshe'll be, crouched among the blackberrybramblesalong the riverbank,in the shadeof blackcottonwoods. Bull still wearshis tie, hasn'teven loosenedit, but three nights of sleepingbesidethe willamette haveleft mud stainson his suit.His hair is a mess.Bull'seyesarered.Veinsshowon his blisterednose. Even so, when fack makeshis way through the poison oak, Bull
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meetshim with a blue gazeso steadythat |ack thinks for a moment that this will be easy,that he'll just say,asif they wereold friends,Comeon, Bull.I*t's go home,and reclaim him. But the gazeis morethan steady.Bull stares.He staresbeyondlack. If he knowswho fack is, he givesno sign. A thin chain is wrappedaround Bull's hand like a rosary.A fiftycalibershelldanglesfrom the end. "Hey,Bull," fack says. "Ghosts,"Bull whispers. Then he says,"They won't leaveme."He his fist and shouts,"They won't fuckingstop!" poundshis foreheadwith He grimaces,keepshitting himself. |ack sitsdown, not too close,and watchesthe greenchurn of the Willamette, waitsfor Bull's headacheto pass.He waitsfor Bull to saythe next thing he will say.
4. Downhill When |ack Salterwasa boy,his fathershowedhim the mountains' the big timber of the Cascades, Siskiyous, They hiked the rain-soaked Mountains.And his fathertaughthim that if he the scrubbySheepshead waslost, he shouldgo the way that watergoes.He shouldfollow a slope to a stream,follow the streamto a river, follow the river to safety.
5. lethe They werefar north of the DMZ, two folly Green Giantshovering abovethe treetops.They'd had to wait for their Skyraiderescortto fly up from Da Nang. That gavethe NVA time to locate the pilot, set a trap' As the Skyraiderscircled,fack rodethe cabledown, found his man in the underbrush,loaded him onto the litter. when the two of them reachedthe helicopterdoorway,the enemyopenedup. A rocketseemed to passharmlesslythrough the rotors, but heary rounds clapped the armor,or piercedit. The folly Green startedto pitch and rock.As she climbedaway,shewasburning.fackstrappeda parachuteon his injured man. donnedone himself.
ThirteenVfaysto Water 93 When the helicopterexploded,the blastthrewfack out the open door.His parachuteopenedjustabovethe trees. fack'searswereringing sobadlythat when the Pf for the otherfolly Green camedown to get him, he couldn't hearwhat the man wassaying, could barelyhearthe thunderingof the engineswhen the second bird hoistedhim up, carriedhim away. His crewmateswere gone,along with the man they'dcome for. Quick asthat. When his head cleared,he thought, I can forgiveanything. I can forgetanything.
6. Underthe FutlMoon The Willamettehasrolled on for a few minutes,and Bull hasn't spokenagain.But now he says,"The first action I sawwason the night of a full moon."He letsthat sentencerest."We went out on an ambush. The dikesof the rice paddywereslippery.We were careful,trying not to fall down.Quiet." Bull watchesthe river, but fack thinks he must be seeingsomething else. "We walkedthroughthe village.Eyeson us.I felt them. Now and then, the moon appearedin the rice paddies.The sergeantwith the starlightscopesaid,realsoft,'There!'And he spreadus out. Theseguys werewalking right towardus, towardthe village,and when the sergeant poppedoffthe firstrounds,the restof us joinedin." Bull falls silent.|ack waits.And goeson waiting until Bull says, "We went forward.Two bodies,and a third guy,shot up, who beggedfor his life. The sergeant saidno dice.He said,You."' Bull tapshis chest."l did a fuckinggoodjob. Had to wraphim like meatto takeback.We alwayshad to takethem backunlesswe had the lieutenant.Only officerscould confirm. Carryinghim back,I felt him Bull shakesthe chain,the danglingcartridge. "ln here.There wasmud on my bootsfrom the paddies.I cleaned it off, put it in here.Mud from the placewhereit happenedwould keep him from following me, would keep him out of my dreams.And it
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worked. It worked like a charm. After every ambush,every firefight, I would scrapea little mud, and they couldn'tcomeafterme."
7. Names fack'sfather taught him to fish. By the time he wasfourteen,fack had takentrout out of the RogueRiverand steelheadfrom the Umpqua; he'd stoodhipdeep in the Deschutes,fishedthe fohn Day in the shadow of the Umatilla Mountains.Everykid in his classknew wherethe Co' lumbia was,knew the Willamette flowed through their town, but fack knew Bully Creek, the Sprague,Crooked fuver, and the Applegate.He could drawthem from memory,and he knew how it wasto standin their waters. Naming the riverswasthe firstthing. Secondwasnaming the rocks they flowed over: granite,schist,basalt.Then he learnedthe namesof the birdsthat sharedthe river with him: osPrey,greenheron, greatblue. betweenpine and fir, hemlockand spruce, He learnedthe differences could tell the Scoulerwillow apartfrom the Mackenziewillow. Nameswere powerful,like incantations.He'd tried using them to weavea spell around Diane Dailey,teachingher, in walksalong the river, the namesof thingsshe'dgrown up neverreallyseeingbecauseshe didn't havethe names. Names were so important that when the C-r3o flying him to itsfocus: QuangTii cameunderfire,the dull dreadof his trainingfound to trying were and days, for two He hadn't been in the country PeoPle kill him. He waslost.He knew the namesof nothing. On his first mission, sianding in the helicopter doorway, he watchedriverspassbelow.But which rivers?He lookedout at the iungle, and the only name he had wasgreenHe knew that he'd neverfind his wayhome if he didn't know where he was.He studiedthe map in the briefing room,leamedthe shapesand namesof the Cam Lo River,the Ia Drang, the Mekong,and the Ma' As for the jungle, no one on basecould tell him the namesof anythingbut bamboo.He bought booksby mail order,felt exposeduntil they came, and at lastbeganto learn:Mangrove.Rubberttee.Banyan.Stranglerfig' He learnedthe differencebetweenbambooand Tonkin cane'
ThirteenWaysto Water 95 Knowing the nameswasprotection.When the cable loweredhim into the iungle to find an iniured pilot, he'd look on the way down for somethinghe knew the name ofi Blackleaf.Scarletbanana.And sometimeshe'd see,coiledin the branchesand staringat him asif it knew his name,a reticulatedpython. He would gethome.
8. Thunderfor Rainfatt Every man who camehome differentwasdifferentin his own way. fack traded the thunder of the helicopter'stwin enginesfor the sound of rain rattling a tin roof. It was not so different from where he might have endedup without the war, exceptthat the spruceand pine, the fir and hemlock of home meant more to him now, were more precious.He couldn'tlive in town or work in town,but neededhis solitude. He spentmostof his iime readingor lookingacrossthe valeat a standof Douglasfir and the crowsthat glided over.When he neededwork, he did odd iobs. Bull came home hungry, haded the jungle rains for the roar of chain saws.It wasnot so differentfrom where he might haveended up without the war, exceptthat he washarder now, more aggressive. One summer,he supervisedthe crewsthat clear-cutthat standof Douglasfir.
9. In a Boat "It wasthe monsoon,"Bull says."No wayto get anywherebut boat or helicopter,sotheysentus up this river in flatbedboats,one squadto a boat.All charlie neededwaspatience.The ambushthat got us was from both banksof the river.And they had snipersin the trees. "I tried to get my rifle up, startreturningfire like we weresupposed to do in an ambush.But I noticed that two guysin my squadwere dead, and the thing I keptthinking was,'shit. How am I goingto get dirt out of a fuckingriver?'Becauseit wasn'tjust the enemydead.your own dead would follow you if they could." fack waits,then asks,"What did you do?"
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soonaswe wereclear,I tookoffmy helmetand dippedit in the 'What the fuck?'But I had it. Muddy river.The corporalin our boatsays, dried, I scrapedit for a few lining a lot. When the need water.I didn't flakes." He shakesthe cartridgeagain. "I keptthem here,and theyleft me alone.For years.For years!But They want me dead.And now it's wearingoff. I get theseheadaches. deadis betterthan the headaches." "How do you know itt the ghosts?" "They tell me. I hearthem." Sofack listens,but hearsonly the river.
10. ShatlWeGatherat the River? |ack met the protestersdown by the river becausehe didn't want to makehis speechat the accessgate.They'd be too keyedup. He wouldn't havetheir attention. "Rememberthat the loggersaren'tour enemies,"he said."Notice what you're carryingin your hearts." His beardwasgray.He was,by now,an elder of the movementand could saythesethings without seemingnaive. ,.These men havefamilies.They havechildren to feed.They think of you as the enemy becausethis is the only life they know' You may think you seeonly anger.You may hear only angry words' But they're Even if theyhateyou. Evenif afraid,and theydeserveyour compassion. they do hateful things." Then he led them back up the slope,onto the logging road,up to the gate.As they chainedthemselvesby the wrist or by the neck, he pointed out the orangeand yellow chanterellespushingup through the spongysoil in the shadowsof the old-growthDouglasfirs. It wasimportant, he said,to know the namesof things. For a long time therewasonly the soundof the wind in the treetops. "Wouldn't it be funny," someonesaid, "if they iust didn't come today?" But half an hour later, one of Bull wilson's logging crewsarrived, with an escortof statepolice.
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11. With a Gift fack watchesthe river a momentlonger.He getsup. He sitscloser to Bull. Closer,but still not too close.And he says,"You'vegot it wrong. You'vegot it backward." Bull looksat him, seemsto know for the firsttime who he is. ..itt "The mud and dust you havecollectedthere," fack says, not protection." Bull unclencheshis fist,drawsthe cariridgeto his palm,considers. "The ghostsarein there,"fack says."you broughtthem with you." Narrowinghis eyes,Bull says,"How wouldyou know.,'Now fack is surethat Bull recognizes him, knowswho he is, who he usedto be. "l know,"fack says."l justdo." Bull loosenshis tie. /ack takesthat asa goodsign,sayssoftly,,,Let 'em go." so Bull wilson unscrewsthe container,the hollowed-outshell and casing.A few flakesofdust fall. "Let the riverhavethem,"fack says.He isn'tsurehe'sright. In any case,he doesn'texpectany immediatesign.But when Bull throwsit all into the willamette, shell,dus! casing,and chain, ]ack feelssomething changein the air, asif the river hasdrawna breath. The air getsunstable.Light moves.Jacksmellsa hint of cordite,of rottenfish,of greendecay.Then he can seethem,in blackpajamasand uniformsof the NVA. In u.s. fumy junglefatigues.The outiinesof dead men, the baresthintsof memory,standingin the river. Bull seesthem, too. old buddiesand old enemies,unreconciled, made of thirty-year-oldfear. No other miraclehappens.|ack doesn'texpectone, althoughhe feelshe is waiting for something.The ghostsare waiting,too.
12.A WomanIs a Bodyof Water Over the years,the womenfack loved,the womenwho stayedfor longeror shortertimes under his tin roof, were of a certain,ori. Th.y still wore tiedyed or grannydresses, strungtheir own beads.None of them shavedtheir legs.They ateorganic,or vegetarian, or vegan.Some
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of them saidwildly delusionalthingsabout Republicanson one hand and witcheson the other. On somenightswhen sucha womansleptbesidehim, or on other nightswhen |ack sleptalone,Diane would come to him. The Diane of of the springof 1968.But she'dbe mixedwith the Diane he seventeen, had sometimesseenwith her husbandat public hearings,a womanstill trim, carefullypackaged,running a businessof her own. Or so he'd guessed.He neverspoketo her. He inventedthe detailshe didn't know. Shewould come,this Diane who wasmany Dianes,and offerher breaststo his mouth, the curve of her thighs to his hands'He would strokehimself,feelingthe crisp sheetsof her bed. Hot summernights, he would feel the breezeof air-conditioningthat madeher shiverevenas his penetratingfingersmadeher archand moan. He would glideinto her, filling her, mergingthe river of his blood with hers. Wiping the stickinessfrom his belly with the sheet,he would alwaysfeel empowered,relieved, ashamed.The fantasyrooted him in many things he wantedto be free of. Revenge.Old injuries. New enmities.Christ,evenairconditioning.
13.Mist Rain drums so loud on fack'stin roof that the first sign he has of Diane is the soundof her cardoorclosing.He openshis doorbeforeshe canknock. yellowbootssmearedwith she'swearingblue jeansand a sweater, the mud of his driveway.She has left the car running, lights on, windshield wipers gliding silently from side to side. "Thank you," she says. "l don't supposehe'saltogetherwhole'" "Who everis?"Diane laughs."He'sbetter.He'sso much better'" The rain lets up a bit and the wipers begin to squeak'Diane watcheshis face, and he watchesher watching. He wants something, and sheseemsto know that,but he doesn'thavea namefor what it is that he wants. As shesays,"If there'sanything I can . ' . ," fack says,"It bothersme that. . ."
ThirteenWaysto Water 99 Shewaits.He says,"l knowwho Bull is.We'll neverbe friends,but I know who he is." He looksat her, dropletsof rain in her hair. "I want to know who you are.Who you havebecome." Shecould takethisthe wrongway.But shesays,..Let'sgo for a drive.', They follow the rain-slickhighwayinto town. fack twice thinra he is about to say,I neverstoppedwantingyou. He doesn'tsayit. "l groworchids,"Diane tellshim. "lt startedasa hobbywhen the girls werelittle, but it tumed into a businessby the time Raewasin high school." fack laughs. "What?"Diane asks. But he only shakeshis head. Shesays,"Rememberhow you hied to impressme with the names of hees?" "I remember." Now it'sher turn to be silent,to leavehim wondering. There is no signon the greenhouse. |ack hasbeenby herebefore, seenthe glassroofs,and neverimaginedthat Dianeownedthem.Inside, the air is hot and moist.fungle air, but sweeter.Someof the flowersare spottedor shiped. one is patternedwith gold and rust and white. The ornatepetalsremindfack of lace. "Fascination," she says."New Moon. Flirtation. peter pan." She catcheshis eye.Sheis tryingnot to laugh."Madonna.Dos pueblos.virginia Night. Nikki." He laughs,and he followsher amongthe tables,beneaththe lights and mistingrods,acceptingher gift.
From ForeverPeace J O EH A L D E M A N
JoeHaldeman burstuponthe science fictionscenein 1975with a closetyobservednovelof hardtimesin an intersteltarwar of vast proportions,TheForeverWor.It madehis reputation, wonhimthe Hugo,Nebula, andDitmar(Austratia) awards, and framedhis centralconcerns. In 1997he repeatedthis success vnthForever Peacaa thematicsequelsetin 2043.Thenovelfotlows"sotdierboys," indestructible war machines run by remote controlby soldierssafetyfar away.Thisis a logicalextension of currentAmerican casuatty-minimizing strategy, whichdiminishesdomestic opposition to foreignengagements whiterelying on ever-evotvi ng technotogy. Thenovelis largerin its concernsthan TheForever War,ranging into theoreticalphysicsand sketchingin a thoroughty betievabte worldlessthan a centuryhence.Writtenwith Hatdeman'slaconicgrace,it is thoroughty enjoyabte. I haveprobabtyknownJoe tongerthan anyonein the fietd, ashe andI werephysics studentsat the University of 0kl.ahoma together.Weneverspokeof science fictionas I remember, and Joe wassoonoff to Maryland andthen Vietnam,wherehe was severelywounded.0nly whitestowtyrecovering did he begin
702 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 Hisfictionreflectsa wryinsightinto our writingfor publication. darkerfaces,with a shrewdness in fiction;Hatdeman uncommon hasearnedhisviews.
It was not quite completelydark, thin blue moonlight threading down through the canopyof leaves.And it wasnevercompletelyquiet. A thick twig popped,the noisemuffed under a hear,yweight.A male howler monkeycameout of his drowseand lookeddown. Something moveddown there, black on black. He filled his lungs to challengeit. There wasa soundlike a pieceof newspaperbeingtorn. The monkey'smidsectiondisappearedin a dark sprayof blood and shreddedorgans.The bodyfell heavilythroughthe branchesin two halves. Shut up! This placeis an Wouldyou lay off the goddamnmonkeys? ecologicalpreseme.My watch,shut up, Thrgetpractice. Black on black it paused,then slippedthrough the iungle like a heavysilentreptile.A man couldbe standingtwo yardsawayand not see it. In infraredit wasn'tthere.Radarwould slitheroffits skin. It smelledhuman fleshand stopped.The preymaybethirty meters upwind, a male, rank with old sweat,garlic on his breath.Smell of gun powderresidue.It testedthe directionof the wind and oil and smokeless circledaround.The man would be watchingthe path. So backtracked, comein from the woods. It grabbedthe man'sneckfrom behindand pulledhis headofflike an old blossom.The bodyshudderedand gurgledand crapped.It eased the bodydown to the groundand setthe headbetweenits legs. Nice touch.Thanks. It pickedup the man'srifle and bent the barrelinto a right angle. It lay the weapondown quietly and stoodsilent for severalminutes. Then threeother shadowscamefrom the woods,and they all convergedon a small woodenhut. The walls were beatendownaluminum cansnailed to planks;the roof wascheapglued plastic. It pulled the door offand an inelevantalarmsoundedasit switched on a headlightbrighterthan the sun. Six peopleon cots,recoiling. "-Do not resist,"it boomed in Spanish."-You are prisoners
Peace 103 FromForever of war and will be treatedaccordingto the terms of the GenevaConvention." "Mierda.'A man scoopedup a shapedchargeand threw it at the light. The tearing-papersound was softerthan the sound of the man's bodybursting.A splitsecondlater,it swattedthe bomb like an insectand the explosionblew down the front wall of the building and flattenedall the occupantswith concussion. The blackfigureconsideredits left hand.Only the thumb and first finger worked,and the wrist madea noisewhen it rotated. Cood reflexes. Oh, shut up. The other three shapesturned on sunlightsand pulled off the building'sroof and knockeddown the remainingwalls. The peopleinsidelooked dead,bloody and still. The machines beganto checkthem,though,and a youngwomansuddenlyrolledover and raisedthe laserrifle she'dbeenconcealing.Sheaimedit at the one with the broken hand and did manageto raisea puff of smokefrom its chestbeforeshewasshredded. The one checkingthe bodieshadn'tevenlookedup. "No good,"it 'i{l said. dead.No tunnels.No exoticweaponsI can find." 'Well, we got some stuff for Unit Eight." They turned off their lights and spedoffsimultaneously,in four differentdirections. The one with the bad hand moved about a quarter mile and stoppedto inspectthe damagewith a dim infraredlight. It beatthe hand againstits sidea few times.Still, only the two digitsworked. Wonderful.We'll haveto bring it in. So what would you havedone? Who'scomplaining?l'll spendpart of my ten in basecamp. The four of them took four different routesto the top of a heeiess hill. They stoodin a row for a few seconds,armsupraised,and a cargo helicoptercamein at heetoplevel and snatchedthem away. Who got the secondkill there?thought the one with the broken hand. A voice appearedin all four heads."Beruymaninitiated the response.But Hogarthcommencedfiring beforethe victim was unambiguouslydead.Soby the rules,they sharethe kill." The helicopter with the four soldierboysdangling slipped down
tO4 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 the hill and screamedthroughthe night at treetop ness,easttowardfriendly Panama.
total dark-
I didn't like Scovillehavingthe soldierboybeforeme. You haveto monitor the previousmechanicfor twenty-fourhoursbeforeyou take it over,to warm up and becomesensitiveto how ihe soldierboymight have changedsinceyour lastshift.Like losingthe useof threefingers. When you're in the warm-upseatyou're iust watching;you're not jackedinto the restof the platoon,which wouldbe hopelessly confusing. in platoon also nine the in rotation, so other soldierboys We go strict the havereplacements breathingovertheir mechanics'shoulders. wherethe replacementhasto sudYou hear about emergencies, denly take over from the mechanic. It's easyto believe.The last day would be the worstevenwithout the addedstressof being watched.If you're going to crack or havea heart attackor stroke,it's usuallyon the tenth day. Mechanicsaren'tin any physicaldanger,deepinsidethe Operations bunker in Portobello.But our deathand disabilityrate is higher than the regularinfantry.It's not bullets that get us, though; if's our own brainsand veins. It would be rough for me or any of my mechanicsto replace peoplein Scoville'splatoon,though.They're a hunter/killer group, and we're "harassmentand interdiction,"H & I; sometimesloaned to Psychops. We don't oftenkill. We aren'tselectedfor that aptitude. All ten of our soldierboyscame into the garagewithin a couple of shellseased minutes.The mechanicsiackedout and the exoskeleton even and women, men little old out like climbed open.Scovilletpeople though their bodieshad been exercisedconstantlyand adjustedfor faYoustill couldn'thelp feelingasif you'dbeensittingin the tiguepoisons. sameplacefor nine days. I jackedout. My connectionwith Scovillewasa light one' not at all like the near-telepathythat links the ten mechanicsin the platoon. Still, it wasdisorientingto havemy own brain to myself. We werein a largewhite roomwith ten of the mechanicshellsand like fancybarberchairs.Behindthem,the wall wasa ten warm-upseats, huge backlit map of costa Rica,showingwith lights of variouscolors wheresoldierboyand fyboy units wereworking.The other wallswere
Peace 105 FromForever coveredwith monitorsand digitalreadoutswith jargonlabels.Peoplein white fatigueswalkedaroundcheckingthe numbers. Scovillestretchedand yawnedand walkedoverto me. "Sorryyou thoughtthat lastbit of violencewasunnecessar,v. I felt the situationcalledfor directaction."God, Scovilleand his academic airs.Doctoratein Leisurefuts. "Youusuallydo. If you'dwarnedthem from outside,theywould've had time to assess the situation.Surrender." "Yesindeed.As they did in Ascensi6n." "That wasone time." We'd lost ten soldierboysand a flyboy to a nuclearboobytrap. "Well, the secondtime won't be on my watch. Six fewerpedrosin the world."He shrugged."l'll go light a candle." "Ten minutesto calibration,"a loudspeaker said.Hardly enough time for the shellto cool down.I followedScovilleinto the lockerroom. He wentto one end to getinto his ciwies;I wentto the otherend to join my platoon. "|ulian. You want to do me?" Sarawasalreadymostlyundressed. Yes,like mostof our malesand one female,I did, asshewell knew, but that'snot what shemeant.Shetook offher wig and handedme the razor.Shehad threeweeks'worthof fine blond stubble.I gentlyshaved off the areasurroundingthe input at the baseof her skull. "That lastone waspretty brutal," she said."scoville neededthe bodycount,I guess." "lt occurredto him. He'selevenshortof makingE-8.Good thing they didn't comeacrossan orphanage." "He'd be buckingfor captain,"shesaid. I finishedher and shecheckedmine, rubbingher thumb around the jack."Smooth,"shesaid.I keepmy headshavedoffduty, thoughit's unfashionable for black men on campus.I don't mind long bushyhair, but I don't like it well enoughto run aroundall daywearinga hot wig. Louis cameover."Hi, fulian. Give me abuzz, Sara."Shereached up - he wassixfeetfour and Sarawassmall- and he wincedwhen she turned on the razor. "Let me seethat,"I said.His skinwasslightlyinflamedon one side of the implant. "Lou, that'sgoingto be houble. You should'veshavedbefore the warm-up."
106 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 "Maybe. You gotta choose."Once you were in the cageyou were there for nine days.Mechanicswith fast-growinghair and sensitiveskin, like Saraand Lou, usuallyshavedonce,betweenwarm-upand the shift. "It's not the first timei' he said."I'll get somecreamfrom the medics." Bravoplatoon got along pretty well. That wasa partly a matter of chance,sincewe wereselectedout of the pool of appropriatedrafteesby body sizeand shape,to fit the platoont cagesand the aptitudeprofile for H & L Five of usweresurvivorsof the originaldraftpick:Candiand Mel aswell asLou, Sara,and me. We'vebeen doing this for four years,working ten dayson and twenty off. It seemslike a lot longer. Candi is a grief counselorin real life; the restof us areacademics of someshipe.Lou and I arescience,SaraisAmericanpolitics,and Mel is a cook."Foodscience,"socalled,but a hell of a cook.We gettogether a few times ayearfor a banquetat his placein St.Louis. We went togetherback to the cage area. "Okay, listen up," the loudspeaker said."We havedamageon unitsone and seven,sowe won't calibratethe left hand and right leg at this time." "So we needthe cocksuckers?" Lou asked. "No, the drainswill not be installed.If you can hold it for forty-five minutes." "I1l certainlyhy, sir." "We'll do the partial calibration and then you're free for ninety minutes,maybetwo hours,while we setup the new hand and leg modulesfor fulian and Candi'smachines.Then we'll finish the calibration and hood up the orthotics,and you'reoffto the stagingarea." "Be still my heart,"Saramurmured. We lay down in the cages,working armsand legsinto stiffsleeves, and the techs jackedus in. For the calibrationwe were tuned down to aboutten percentof a combatiack,so I didn't hear actualwordsfrom anybodybut Lou - a "hello there" that waslike a faint shoutfrom a mile away.I focusedmy mind and shoutedback. The calibrationwasalmost automaticfor thoseof us who'd been doing it for years,but we did haveto stopand backup twice for Ralph,a neo who'd joined us two cyclesagowhen Richardstrokedout. It wasjust a matter of all ten of us squeezingone musclegroup at a time, until the red thermometermatchedthe blue thermometeron the heads-up.But until you're usedto it, you tend to squeezetoo hard and overshoot.
^FromForeverPeace t07
Afteran hour theyopenedthe cageand unjackedus.We couldkill ninety minutesin the lounge. It washardly worth wastingtime getting dressed,but we did. It was a gesture.We were about to live in each other'sbodiesfor nine days,and enoughwasenough. Familiaritybreeds,as they say.Somemechanicsbecomelovers, and sometimesit works.I tried it with Carolyn,who died threeyearsago, but we could neverbridgethe gap betweenbeing combat-facked and being civilians.We tried to work it out with a relator,but the relatorhad neverbeen jacked,sowe might aswell havebeentalkingSanskrit. I don't know that it would be "love" with Sara,but it's academic. She'snot reallyattractedto me, and of coursecan't hide her feelings,or lack of same.In a physicalwaywe'recloserthan any civilianpair could be, sincein full combatjack we arethis one creaturewith twenty arms and legs,with ten brains,with five vaginasand five penises. Somepeoplecall the feelinggodlike,and I think therehavebeen godswho wereconstructedalongsimilarlines.The one I grewup with wasan old white-bearded Caucasiangentwithout evenone vagina. We'd alreadystudiedthe orderof battle,of course,and our specific ordersfor the nine days.We weregoingto continuein Scoville'sarea,but doing H & I, making thingsdifficult in the cloud forestof CostaRica.It was not a particularlydangerousassignment,but it wasdistasteful,like bullying, sincethe rebelsdidn't haveanything remotelylike soldierboys. Ralph expressedhis discomfort.We had sat down at the dining tablewith teaand coffee. "This overkillgetsto me,"he said."That pair in the treelasttime." "Uglyi'Sarasaid. "Ah, the bastards killed themselves," Mel said.He sippedthe coffeeand scowledat it. "Wb probablywouldn't havenoticedthem if they hadn'topenedup on us," "It bothersyou that theywerechildren?"I askedRalph. 'Well, yeah.Doesn'tit you?"He rubbedthe stubbleon his chin. "Little girls." "Little girlswith machineguns,"Karensaid,and Claude nodded emphatically. They'dcomein togetherabouta yearago,and werelovers. "l've been thinking about that, too," I said."What if we'd known theywerelittle girls?"They'd beenaboutten yearsold, hiding in a tree house.
108 Nebula Awards Showcase 2000 "Beforeor aftertheystartedshooting?"Mel said. "Even after,"Candi said."How much damagecan they do with a machinegun?" "They damagedme prettyeffectively!"Mel said.He'd lost one eye and the olfactoryreceptors."They knew exactlywhat to aim for." "lt wasn'ta big deal,"Candi said."You got field replacements." "Felt like a big deal to me." "l know. I wasthere."You don't exactlyfeel pain when a sensor goesout. It'ssomethingasstrongaspain,but there'sno word for it, "l don't think we would'vehad to kill them if theywereout in the open," Claude said."lf we could see they were iust kids and lightly armed.But hell, for all we knew they wereFOs who could call in a tac nuke." "ln CostaRica?"Candi said. "It happens,"Karensaid.It had happenedoncein threeyears.Nobody knew where the rebelshad gotten the nuke. It had costthem two were in when they werevaporized,and towns,the one the soldierboys the one we tookapartin retaliation. "Yeah,yeah,"Candi said,and I could hear in thosetwo wordsall shewasn'tsaying:that a nuke on out positionwould iust destroyten machines.When Mel flamedthe treehousehe roastedtwo little girls,probably too young to know what they were doing. Therewasalwaysan undercurrentin Candi'smind, whenwe were lacked.Shewasa goodmechanic,but you had to wonderwhy shehadn't been given some other assignment.She was too empathetic,sure to crackbeforeher term wasup. But maybeshe was in the platoonto act as our collectiveconscience.Nobodyat our levelknewwhy anybodywaschosento be a mechanic, and we only had a vagueidea why we were assignedto the from platoonwe got.We seemedto covera wide rangeof aggressiveness, Nobody though. like Scoville, anybody Candi to Mel. We didn't have who got that dark pleasureout of killing. Scoville'splatoonalwayssaw more action than mine, too; no coincidence.Hunter/killers-they're definitelymore congenialwith mayhem.Sowhen the GreatComputer platoongetsthe kills in the Skydecideswho getswhatmission,Scoville's and oursgetsreconnaissance. grumbledaboutthat.A confirmedkill Mel and Claude,especially, wasan automaticpoint towardpromotion, in pay gradeif not in rank,
Peace 109 FromForever whereasyou couldn't count on the PPR-Periodic PerformanceReabout view-for a dime.Scoville'speoplegot the kills, so theyaveraged you could twenty-fivepercent higher pay than my people. But what spendit on? Saveit up and buy our wayout of the army? "So we'regonnado trucks,"Mel said,"Carsand hucks." "That's the wordi' I said."Maybe a tank if you hold your mouth right." Satelliteshad picked up someIR tracesthat probablymeant the rebelswerebeingresuppliedby smallstealthedtrucks,probablyrobotic or remote.One of thoseoutburstsof technologythat kept the war from beinga totallyone-sidedmassacre. I supposeif the war went on long enough,the enemymight have too. Then we could havethe ultimate in something:tensoldierboys, million-dollarmachinesreducingeachotherio funk while their operators sathundredsof miles away,concentratingin air-conditionedcaves. Peoplehad written aboutthat, warfarebasedon attrition of wealth ratherthan lossof life. But it's alwaysbeen easierto makenew livesthan venues,som€ new wealth.And economicbattleshavelong-established not. as allies political and somenot, asoften among Well, what doesa physicistknow about it? My sciencehas rules reality to reality.Economicsdescribes and lawsthat seemto correspond after the fact, but isn't too good at predicting. Nobody predicted the nanoforges. told us to saddleup. Nine daysof truck-stalking. The loudspeaker All ten people in )ulian Classt platoon had the same basic or RemoteInfantryCombat Unit: a huge suit weapon-the soldierboy, of armor with a ghost in it. For all the weight of its armor, more than half of the RICUT masswasammunition.It could fire accuratesniper roundsto the horizon, two ouncesof depieteduranium, or at close rangeit could hosea streamof supersonicflechettes.It had high explosiveand incendiaryrocketswith eyes,a fully automaticgrenade launcher,and a high-poweredlaser.Specialunits could be fitted with chemical,biological,or nuclearweapons,but thosewereonly usedfor reprisalin kind. (Fewerthan a dozennuclearweapons,smallones,had beenused in twelveyearsof war. A large one had destroyedAtlanta, and although the Ngumi denied responsibility,the Alliance respondedby giving twenty-fourhours' notice, and then leveling Mandellavilleand Seo
110 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2000 Paulo.Ngumi contendedthat the Alliancehad cynicallysacrificedone non-strategiccity so it could have an excuseto deshoytwo important ones.)ulian suspected they might be right.) There were air and naval units, too, inevitably called fyboys and sailorboys,eventhough most fyboys werepiloted by females. All of fuliant platoonhad the samearmorand weapons,but some had specialized functions.fulian, beingplatoonleader,communicated directly and (in theory) constantlywith the companycoordinator,and throughher to the brigadecommand.In the field,he receivedconstant input in the form of encryptedsignalsfrom fyover satellitesas well as the command stationin geosynchronous orbit. Every order came from two sourcessimultaneously,with different encryption and a different hansmission lag,so it would be almostimpossiblefor the enemyto slip in a boguscommand. Ralphhad a "horizontal"link similarto fulian's"vertical"one.As platoonliaison,he wasin touchwith his oppositenumberin eachof the other nine platoonsthat madeup Bravo.They were"lightly jacked"the communicationwasn'tasintimateashe had with othermembersof the platoon,but it wasmore than just a radiolink. He could advisefulian asto the otherplatoons'actions and evenfeelings,morale,in a quick and directway.It wasrarefor all the platoonsto be engagedin a singleaction, but when they were,the situationwaschaoticand confusing.The platoonliaisonsthen wereasimportantasthe verticalcommandlinks. One soldierboyplatooncould do asmuch damageasa brigadeof regularinfanhy.They did it quickerand moredramatically, like hugeinvinciblerobotsmovingin silentconcert. They didn't use achral armed robotsfor severalreasons.One was thatthey could be capturedand usedagainstyou; if the enemycould cap hrre a soldierboythey would just havean expensivepiece of junk. None had everbeen capturedintact, though;they self-destruct impressively. Another problem with robotswasautonomy:the machine has to be ableto functionon its own if communications arecut off.The image, aswell asthe reality, of a heavily armed machine making spot combat decisionswasnot somethinganyarmywantedto dealwith. (Soldierboys had limited autonomy,in casetheir mechanicsdiedor passedout. They stoppedfiring and went for shelterwhile a new mechanicwaswarmed up and jacked.)
Peace 111 from Forever The soldierboyswere arguablymore effectivepsychologicalweap ons than robotswould be. They were like all-powerfulknights,heroes. a technologythat wasout of the enemy'sgrasp. And they represented The enemy did use armed robots,like, as it hrrned out, the two tanks that were guardingthe convoyof trucks that fulian's platoon was of the tankscausedany trouble.In both cases sentto destroy.'Neither they were destroyedas soon as they revealedtheir position by firing. Twenty-fourrobottrucksweredestroyed,too, aftertheir cargoshad been examined:ammunitionand medicalsupplies. After the lasttruck had beenreducedto shiny slag,the platoonstill had four daysleft on its shift, so they were flown back to the Portobello sincethe basecamp,to do picketduty.That could be prettydangerous, basecamp washit by rocketsa couple of times a year,but most of the time it wasno challenge.Not boring,though- the mechanicswereprotecting their own lives,for a change. Sometimesit took me a coupleof daysto wind down and be a civilian again.There wereplenty of jointsin Portobellowilling to help ease the transition.I usuallydid my unwindingback in Houston,though.It waseasyfor rebelsto slip acrossthe borderand passasPanamanians, and if you got taggedasa mechanicyou werea prime target.Of coursethere were plenty of other Americansand Europeansin Portobello,but it's possiblethat mechanicsstoodout: paleand twitchy,collarspulled up to hide the skull jacks,or wigs. We lost one that way last month. fuly went into town for a meal and a movie.Somethugspulled offher wig, and shewashauledinto an alley and beatento a pulp and raped.She didn't die but she didn't recover,either.They had poundedthe back of her head againsta wall until the skull fractured and the jack came out. They shovedthe jack into her vaginaand left her for dead. So the platoon wasone short this month. (The neo Personneldeliveredcouldn't fit fuly's cage,which wasnot surprising.)We may be shorttwo nextmonth:Samantha, who isArlyt bestfriend,and a little bit more, was hardly there this week. Brooding, dishacted,slow. If we d been in actual combat she might have snappedout of it; both of them werepretty goodsoldiers- betterthan me, in termsof actuallyliking the work-but picket duty gave her too much time to meditate,and the
712 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 truckassignment beforethatwasa sillyexercise a flyboycould havedone on her waybackfrom somethingelse. We all tried to give Samanthasupportwhile we were jacked,but it wasawkward.Of coursesheand fuly couldn't hide their physicalattractionfor one another,but theywereboth conventionalenoughio be embarrassed aboutit (theyhad boyfriendson the outside),and had encouragedkiddingasa wayof keepingthe complexrelationshipmanageable.There wasno banternow,of course. She had spent the pastthree weeksvisiting Arly every day at the convalescent center,wherethe bonesof her faceweregrowingback,but that wasa constantfrustration,sincethe natureof her injuries meant theycouldn'tbe jacked,couldn'tbe close.Never.And it wasSamantha's nah:reto want revenge,but that wasimpossiblenow.The five rebelsinvolvedhad been apprehendedimmediately,slid through the legalsystem, and werehangeda weeklaterin the public square. I'd seenit on the cube.They weren'thangedso much as slowly strangled.This in a country that hadn't usedcapitalpunishmentin generations,beforethe war. Maybe after the war we'll be civilized again.That's the way it has alwayshappenedin the past. fulian usuallywentstraighthometo Houston,but not when his ten dayswere up on a Friday.That wasthe day of the weekwhen he had to be the most social,and he neededat leasta day of preparationfor that. Everydayyou spentjacked,you felt closerto the othernine mechanics. There wasa terriblesenseof separation when you unjacked,and hanging aroundwith the othersdidn't help.What you neededwasa dayor so of isolation,in the woodsor in a crowd. |ulian wasnot the outdoortype,and he usuallyjustburiedhimself in the universitylibrary for a day.But not if it wasFriday. He could fly anlwherefor free,soon impulsehe went up to Cambridge,Massachusetts, wherehe'd done his undergraduate work. It was a bad choice,dirty slusheverywhere and thin sleetfalling in a constant sting,but he grimly persistedin his questto visit everybar he could remember.They werefull of inexplicablyyoungand callowpeople. Harvardwasstill Harvard;the dome still leaked.Peoplemade a point of not staringat a blackman in uniform. He walkeda mile through the sleetto his favoritepub, the ancient
Peace 113 FromForever Plough and Stars,but it was padlocked,with a card sayingBAHAMA! tapedinsidethe window.So he squishedbackto the Squareon frozen feet,promisingto simultaneously getdrunk and not losehis temper. There was a bar named after fohn Harvard,where they brewed nine kindsof beeron the premises. He had a pint of eachone,methodically checking them off on the blotter, and flowed into a cab that decantedhim at the airport.After six hours of off-and-onslumber,he flew his hangoverback to HoustonSundaymorning,followingthe sunrise acrossthe country. Backat his aparimenthe madea pot of coffeeand attackedthe accumulatedmail and memos.Most of it wasthrowawayjunk. Interesting letterfrom his father,vacationingin Montanawith his new wife, notfulianb favoriteperson.His motherhad calledtwice abouta moneyprob.. lem, but then calledagainto saynevermind. Both brotherscalledabout the hanging;they followedfulian's"career"closelyenoughto realize that the womanwho'dbeenattackedwasin his platoon. His actualcareerhad generatedthe usualsoftsiftingpink snowfall of irrelevantinterdepartmental memos,which he did have to at least scan.He studiedthe minutesof the monthlyfacultymeeting,jusi in case somethingreal had been discussed. He alwaysmissedit, sincehe was on duty from the tenth to the nineteenthof everymonth.The only way that rnight have hurt his careerwould be jealousyfrom other faculty members. And then there was a hand-deliveredenvelope,a small square "f ." He sawa cornerof it and pulled it out, underthe memos,addressed pink slipsfluttering,and ripped open the flap, overwhich a red fame had beenrubber-stamped: it wasfrom Blaze,who fulian wasallowedto call by her real name,Amelia.Shewashis coworker,ex-advisor, confidante,and sexualcompanion.He didn't say"lover"in his mind, yet,becausethat was awkward,Amelia being fifteen yearsolder than him. Youngerthan his father'snew wife. The note had somechat about the fupiter Project,the particlephysicsexperimentthey wereengagedin, includinga bii of scandalous gossipabouttheir boss,which did not aloneexplainthe sealedenvelope. "Whatevertime you get back,"shewrote,"come straightover.Wake me up or pull me out of the lab. I need my little boy in the worstway.You wantto comeoverand find out whatthe worstwayis?" Actually,what he'd had in mind wassleepingfor a few hours.But
t74 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2000 he could do that afterward.He stackedthe mail into three piles and droppedone pile into the recycler.He startedto call her but then put the phonedown unpunched.He dressed for the morningcool andwent downstairsfor his bicycle. The campuswas desertedand beautiful, redbudsand azaleas bloom under the hard blue Texassky.He pedaledslowly,relaxingback into reallife,or comfortableillusion.The moretime he spentjacked,the harder it wasto acceptthis peaceful,monocularview of life as the real one. Ratherthan the beastwith twenty arms;the god with ten hearts. At leasthe wasn'tmenstruating anymore. He let himselfinto her placewith his thumbprint.Ameliawasactually up at nine Sundaymorning, in the shower.He decidedagainst surprisingher there.Showers weredangerous places- he had slippedin one once, experimentingwith a fellow clumsyteenager,and he wound up with a cut chin and bruisesand a decidedlyuneroticattitudetoward the location(andthe girl, for that matter). So he iust sat up in her bed, quietly readingthe newspaper,and waitedfor the waterto stop.Shesangbits of tunes,h"ppy, and switched the showerfrom fine sprayto coarsepulseand back.Juliancould visualize her thereand almostchangedhis mind. But he stayedon the bed, fully clothed,pretendingto read. She cameout towelingand startedslightlywhen she sawfulian; "Help! Theret a shangeman in my bed!" then recovered: "I thought you liked strangemen." "Only one."Shelaughedand easedalongsidehim, hot and damp.
GenreandGenesis: A Discussion of Science Fiction'sLiteraryRole J O N A T H ALNE T H E M GORDON VAN GELDER G E O R GZE EBROWSKI D A V I DH A R T W E L L B I L LW A R R E N
In 1998JonathanLethempubtished intheVillaget/oiceandthe New YorkReviewof ScienceFidion a provocativeessayon the literaryreputationof the sciencefiction genre,andthe rootsof its presentpredicament. Manydisagreed with him. In myintroduclionto this bookI takea somewhat differentpath,andfotl.owing Lethem's cogent piece,I haveaskedseveratmajorcriticalfiguresto rendertheir arguments. Gordon VanGelder is botha bookeditorfor St. Martin's Pressand editor of TheMogazineof Fantasyond Science Fidion;his pieceappeared therein sl.ightty differentformasan editoriat.GeorgeZebrowski is a wetl-known writerand former editor of the NebulaAwardsvotumes.DavidHartwettis senior editorat TorBooksandoneof the mostprominent anthologists in the field'shistory;his remarks aredrawnfrom his speechat the banquetwherethis votume's awardsweregiven. Bit[Warren is a notedcriticof fitmandtetevision science fiction. Hisremarks goto the heartof the mismatch betweenwritten SF and its visualforms. Because we are mosttyknown throughfilmsandTVproduced by thosewho knowLittl.eof the genre'sliteraryforms(exceptto loot them for ideas,of courss a now universalpractice),we shoutdunderstand the genre,s
116 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 uniquelyschizophrenic rote in popularculture:negtectedin books,triumphant in the visual. The treatmentof sciencefiction has been uniqueamong genresin this century-reflecting,I think, a deepfearin the conventional titerarycultureboth of scienceandof the future itsel.f.I hopethis setectionwitl give a crosssectionof responses, and depicthow the genreis understanding both its ownpastandits futureprospects.
Why Can'tWeAtt Just Live Together? A Visionof GenreParadiseLost J O N A T H ALNE T H E M ln ryy Thomas Pynchon'sGravity'sRainbowwas awardedthe Nebula, the highesthonor availablein the field once known as "Science Fiction"-a term now mostly forgotten.From our current perspective,the methods and approachesof the so-called"SF Writers" seemso centralto the literatureof our cenfurythat the distinctionhas no value,and the historicalfact of a separategenre is a footnote,of scholarlyinterestat best. Notoriouslyshy,PynchonsentbelovedcomedianLenny Bruceto acceptthe awardin his place.. . Sorry,iust dreaming.In our world Bruceis dead,while Bob Hope lurcheson. And, though Gravity'sRainbowreallywasnominatedfor the 1973Nebula, it waspassedoverfor Rendenouswith Rama,by Arthur C. Clarke,which commentatorCarterScholzrightlydeemed"lessa novel than a schematicdiagramin prose."Pynchon'snominationnow stands as a hidden tombstonemarking the death of the hope that sciencefiction wasaboutto mergewith the mainstream. That hope wasborn in the heartsof writers,who, without any parfrom the largerliteraryworld, for a little while ticular encouragement draggedthe genreto the brink of respectability.The "New Wave" of the sixtiesand seventieswas often worddrunk, applyingmodernisttechdollops niqueswilly-nillyto the old genremotifs,addingcompensatory of alienationand sexualityto characterswho'd barelyshedtheir slide
GenreandGenesis177 rules.But the New Wavealsomadepossiblebookslike SamuelDelanyt Dhalgren,Philip K. Dick'sA ScannerDarkly, UrsulaLe Guint The Dispossessed, and Tom Disch's 334,work to standwith the bestAmerican fiction of the r97os-labels,categories, and genresaside.In a seizureof Fabulation," ambition,SF evenflirtedwith renamingitself"Speculative silly and deadright. a lit-crit term both pretentiously For what makesSF wonderful and complicatedis that mix of speculation and the fabulous:SF is both think-fiction and dream-fiction.For the first sixty-oddyearsof ihe century American fiction wasdeficient in exactlythosequalitiesSF offeredin abundance,howeverinelegantly. While fabulistslike Borges,Abe, Cortazar,and Calvino flourished abroad,a strain of literary Puritanismquarantinedimaginativeand surrealwriting from respectabilityhere.Another typical reflex,that antiintellectualism which dictatesthat novelistsshouldn't pontificate, extrapolate,or theorize, only show andfeel, meant the novel of ideaswas for decadesprettymuch the exclusivedomainof, um, Norman Mailer. What'smore, a reluctancein the humanitiesto acknowledge the technocratic impulse that was transformingcontemporaryculture left certain themesuntouched.For decadesSF filled the gap,and during those decadesit added characterization,ambiguity, and reflexivity,evolving towardsomethinglike a literarymaturity-or at leastthe abilityto throw up an occasionalmasterpiece. But a funny thing happenedon the way to the revolution.In the sixties,just as SFt bestwritersbeganto beg the questionof whether SF might be literature,Americanliteraryfiction beganto opento the modes it had excluded.Writerslike DonaldBarthelme,RichardBrautigan,and RobertCooverrestoredthe placeof the imaginativeand surreal,while otherslike Don Delillo and JosephMcElroy beganto contendwith the emergenttechnoculture.William Burroughsand ThomasPynchondid a little of both. The result wasthat the need to recognizeSF'saccomplishmentsdwindled away.Why seekin thosegaudypaperbacks what wasreadilyavailablein reputablepackages? Why tangle with claims of legitimacyfor a legion of disenfranchised writerswhen they carriedan awkwardlegacyof pulpy techno.advocacy? So what followedwasmostly criticalreiection,or indifference. Meanwhile,on the other sideof the genreghettowalls,a retrenchmentwasunderway.A backlash.Thoughthe stakesaren'tnearlyascrucial,
118 Nebula Awards Showcase 2000 ii's hard not to seeSF'sattemptat selfliberationastypical of other equality movementswhich peakedin political shen$h aroundthe sametime, then retreatedinto identity politics.Raring the lossof a distinctiveoppc. sitionalidentity,and bitter overlack of accessto the Ivory Tower,SF took a stepbackward,awayfrom its broadestliteraryaspirations. Not that SF of brilliance wasn'twritten in the yearsfollowing,but with a few key excep tions it wasoverwhelmedon the shelves(and awardballoh) by a reactionary SF asartisticallydire asit wascomfortinglyfamiliar. '8os In the cyberpunkwastaken asa sign of hope, for its verve,its polish, its sensoryalertnessto the way our conceptionsof the future had changed.But evencyberpunk's bestwritersmostlypeddledsuryrisingly macho and regressive fantasiesof rebellion as hanscendence-and verve and polish were thin meat for those who recalled the mature depths of the best of the New Wave. Aty*"y, cyberpunk'sbest were of adophotocopies by gelled-and-pierced quicklyswampedthemselves, lescentpowerfantasiesthat were alreadyvery,very old. Which bringsusto today.Where,againstall odds,SF deservingof greaterattention from a literary readershipis siill written. Its relevance, though,sincethe collapseof the notion that SF shouldand would convergewith literature,is unclearat best.SF s literarywritersexistnow in a nor commerciallyviable.Their work twilight world,neitherrespectable while much of SF'spromise in bookstores, drownsin a seaof garbage is realizedelsewhereby writerstoo sawy or obliviousto bother with the stigmatizedidentity. SF'sfailure to presentits own bestface,to win proper respect,was never so hagic as now, when its stren$hs are so routinely preempted.In a literary culture where Pynchon,Delillo, Barthelme,Coover,]eanetteWinterson,AngelaCarter,and SteveErpowers,isn'tthe divisionmeaningless? icksonareascendant But the literary traditionsreinforcingthat divisionare only part of the story. of SF asseriouswritAmongthe factorsarrayedagainstacceptance ing, none is more plain to outsidersthan this: the booksaresofucking ugly. Worse,they're all ugly in the sameway, so you can't distinguish Sadly thosemeantfor grown-upsfrom thosemeantfor twelve-year-olds' us brings enough, that confusion is intentional, and the explanation backagainto the mid-seventies.
GenreandGenesisltg It's now a commonplacein film criticismthat GeorgeLucasand StevenSpielbergtogetherbrought to a crashinghalt the most progressiveand interestingdecadein Americanfilm sincethe thirties.What's eerieis that the sameduo arethe villainsin SF'stragedyaswell, though you might want to add a third-|. R. R.Tolkien.The vastpopularsuccessof the imageryand archetypespurveyedby thosethree savantsof children'sliteratureexpandedthe marketfor "Sci-Fi"-a cartoonified, castrated,and deeply nostalgicversionof the budding literature-a thousandfold. What had beena negligible,eccentricpublishingniche, permittedto go its own harmlessway,wasnow a potentialcashcow. (Rememberwhen StarTrekwasresurrected overnight,a moribundTV cult suddenlyat the centerof popularculture?)As stakesrose,marketersencampedon the territory-for a handycomparison,recallthe cloningof Grunge Rock after Nirvana. Bookswere producedto meet this vast,superficialnew appetite,rotten books,millions of them-and fine books wererepackagedto fit the paradigm.Out with the hippie-surrealistbook jacketsof the sixties,with their promise of grown-up abstractionsand ambiguities.In with thatleadenand literalstylesoperfectlyabhorrentto the literarybookbuyer.The golden mean of an SF jacketsince 1976 looks,well, exactlylike the original posterfor StarWars.Men of the fufure were once again thinking with their swords-excuse me, lightsabers. This passiveselloutwould makemore senseif the typicalwriter of literarySF had achrallymadeany moneyout of it. Insteadthe act is still too often rewardedwith wagesresemblingthoseof a poet-an untenuredpoet, that is. Other obstacles to acceptance remainhiddenin the cultureof SE, ambushes on a roadno one'staking.Alongwith beinga literarygenreor mode,SF is alsoan ideologicalsite.Anyonewho'svisitedis familiarwith the "home huths"-that the colonizationof spaceis desirable;that rationalismwill prevailoversuperstition;that cyberspace hasthe potential to transformindividualand collectiveconsciousness. Thnglingwith this inheritancehasresultedin work of genius- BarryMalzbergtarnishing the allure of astronautics, |. G. Ballard gleefullyunravelingthe presumptionthat technologyextendsfrom rationalism,famesTiptree |r. (n6eAlice Sheldon)replacingthe body and its instinctsin an all-toodisembodieddiscourse. But the pressureagainstheresycan be surprisingly shong,reflectingthe emotionalhungerfor solidarityin marginalized
120 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 groups.For SF can alsofunctionasa clubhouse,wheremembersshare the resentments of the excluded,and a defensivefondnessfor stories which thrivedin twelve-year-old imaginations but shrivelon firstcontact with an adult brain. In its unqualifiedlove for its own junk stratumSF may be aspostmodernasFredericfameson's dreams,but it'salsoassentimental about itself asan Elks Lodge,or a family. Marginality,it should be said, isn't alwaysthe worst thing for artists.Silence,exile,and cunningremaina writert allies,and despised genreshavebeena plentifulsourceofexile for generations oficonoclastic Americanfictioneers.And sure,hipsteraudiencesalwaysresentseeing their favoritecult item growtoo popular.But an outsiderart courts preciousself-referentiality if it too stronglyresistsincorporation.The remnantsof the jazz which refusedthe bebop transformationare those guysin pinstripesuitsplayingDixieland,and the separate-but-unequal SF field,preeningoverits lineageand fetishizingiis reiecpostseventies soundsan awfullot like Dixieland-as refined,ascalcition, sometimes fied, assweetlyirrelevant. If good writing is neglectedbecauseof genre boundaries,so it goes-good writing goesunread for lots of reasons.The shameis in what'sleft unwritten, in artistsinternalizing prefudiceas crippling selfdoubt.Great art mostlyoccurswhen creatorsare encouragedto entertain the possibilityof their relevance.Might a Phil Dick havelearned to revisehis first drafts insteadof flinging them despairinglyinto the marketplace if TheMan in theHigh Castlehad beenrecognizedby the literarycritics of 1964?Might anotherfive or ten fledglingPhil Dicks have appearedshortly thereafter?We'Il never know. And there are artistic costs on the other side of the breach as well. Consider Kurt Vonnegut,who, in dodgingthe indignitiesof the SF label,apparentlyrenouncedthe iconographicfuel that fed his bestwork. model of SF'srelationto the larger What would a less-preiudiced enterpriselook like?Well, nobodylikesto be labeledan experimental writer,yet experimentalwriting f ourishesin quietpocketsof the literary landscape-and,howeverlittle read,is grantedits place.When claims aremadefor the wider importanceof this or that experimentalwriter Dennis Cooper,say,or Mark Leyner-those claimsaren'trebuffedon SF could askthismuch: that groundsthat are,quiteliterally,categorical.
GenreandGenesis721 its more hermeticor hardcorewritersbe respectedfor pleasingtheir smallaudienceof devotees, that its risingstarsbe givena fair chanceon the main stage.What'smissing,too, is a "Great Books"theoryof postr97o SF-one which asserts a shelfof Disch, Ballard,Dick, Le Guin, Delany and RussellHoban, )oannaRuss,Geoff Ryman,Christopher Priest,David FosterWallace,plus bookslike PamelaZoline'sTheHeat Death of the Universe,Walter Tevis'sMockingbird,D.G. Compton'sThz ContinuousKatherineMortenhoe,Lawrence Shainberg'sMemoriesof Amnesia,Ted Mooney'sEasyTiavelto Other Planets,MargaretAtwood's Handmaid'sTaIe,andThomasPalmer'sDreamScienceasthe standard. Sucha theorywould alsohaveto pusha lot of the genre'sself-enshrined but archaic"classics"ontothe junkheap. Tomorrow'sreaders,born in dystopiancities, educatedon computers,and steepedin mediarecursions of SF iconography, won't notice if the novelsthey read are set in the future or the present.Savvythemselves,they won't care if certain charactersbabbletechno-jargonand othersdon't. Someof thosereaders,though,will graduatefrom a craving for fictions that flatter and indulge their fantasiesto that preciousap petite for fictions that provoke,disturb, and complicate by a manipulation of thosesamenarrativecravings.They'll learn to appreciatethe difference,say,betweenTery McMillan and Toni Morrison,between Tom Robbinsand ThomasPynchon,betweenRogerZelaznyand Samuel Delany-distinctionsforevertoo elusiveto be made in publishers' categories, or on booksellers' shelves. Of course,short of a utopian reconfigurationof the publishing, bookselling,and reviewingapparatus the barrier-though increasingly contestedand absurd-will remain.Still, we can dream.The 1973Nebula Awardshouldhavegoneto Cravity'sRainbow,the 1976awardto Rcfner'sStar.Soonafter,the notion of "sciencefiction" oughtto havebeen gentlyand lovinglydismantled,and the writersdispersed: children'sfantasistshere, hardware-fetish thriller writers here, novelizersof filmsboth-real-and-imaginaryhere. Most important, a raged, handful of heroicallyenduringand ambitiousspeculativefabulatorsshould have embarkedfor the rocky realms of midlist, out-of-categoryfiction. And there-don't wake me now, I'm fond of this one-they should have beenwelcomed.
2000 122 NebulaAwardsShowcase
Respectability VA GORDO N NG E L D E R Unlike a lot of SF fansI know,I'm neithera first nor an only child. My older brother had been around for three and a half yearswhen I camealong,and he neverlet me forgetthat fact.As per the rules of The Official Older SiblingHandbook(I'm surethat such a book exists,I iust know it, but rule numberone is thatyoungersiblingscan nevereversee it). Nothing I did everimpressedmy brother.WhateverI saidor did, my brotherhad alreadyseenor donebetter. As I grew up, I recognizedthat I couldn't win this game, so I stoppedtrying so hard to impresshim. And that, of course'waswhen I all along. he'd beenimpressed discovered various critics credit the birth of sciencefiction to Mary Shelley, EdgarAllan Poe,fulesVerne,H' G. Wells,or Hugo Gemsback,but no' that SF is older than realistic,"mainstream"ficboJy yet hassuggested tion. fu RobertKillheffer pointsout in his column this month, SF is like many other contemporarygenresin that it maturedin the pulps during the earlypart of this century. when is it ever going to realizeit can't win the gameof trying to impressthe mainstream? My lament this month is brought on by an article in the |une VitlageVoiceLiterarySupplementby fonathanLethem.In "Close EnThe SquanderedPromiseof ScienceFiction," fonathanar"orrnl"rr' guesthat sciencefiction missedits opporhrnity in the r97osto bring down th. genrewalls and mergewith the mainstream.He usesthe fact that futhur C. Clarke'sRendepouswith Ramabeat out Thomas Pynchon's Gravity'sRainbowfor the 1973Nebula Award asa tombstoneto markthe point wheresciencefictionblew its chance' I considerfonathanone of the mostwidely and well-readpeopleI know-it's scarcelya coincidencethat he contributesthis month's"Curiosities"column,sincehe hasbeensteeringme towardgoodbooksfor years.But I think he'soff targethere. produced fonathan'smain argumentis that SFs rg6osNew wave The Darkly, scanner in the early rgToslike Dhalgren, A masteqpieces and 334,and as a result of thesebooksit stoodpoisedon Dispoisessed, the brink of literary acceptability.Then:
GenreandGenesis723 iust as SF'sbestwritersbeganto beg the questionof whether SF might be literature,Americanliterary fiction beganto open to the modesit had excluded.Writers like Donald Barthelme, RichardBrautigan, and RobertCooverrestored the placeof the imaginativeand suneal,whileotherslike Don DeLiIIo and losephMcElroy beganta contendwith the emergent technoculture.William Burroughsand ThomasPynchon did a little of both. The resultwasthat the needto recosnize SF'saccomplishments dwindledaway. The result,says|onathan,is that SF'sliterary writers existnow in a twilight world, neitherrespectablenor commerciallyviable.Theirworkdrownsin a sea of garbagein bookstores, while much of SF'spromiseis realized elsewhereby witers too savvyor obliviousto bother with its stigmatizedidentity. fonathangoeson to wishthat: the notion of"sciencefiction" ought to havebeengently and lovinglydismantled,and the writersdispersed: childrensfantasistshere,hardware-fetish thriller writershere,novelizersof here.Mostimportant,a ragged films-both-real-and-imaginary handful of heroicallyenduringand ambitiousspeculative fab_ ulatorsshouldhaveembarkedfor the rockyrealmsof midlist, out-of-category fiction. Okay,let me saynow that aestheticallyI'm very sympatheticwith fonathan- in fact,I proposedsomethingsimilaron a conventionpanerin 1992,only to have Barry Malzberglecture me for iwenty minutes.,,1 furned my back on sciencefiction in 1976,,, declaredBarry,..andI was wrong.The genreis biggerthan us;we areherebecauseof it." Having spentfour yearsin ivy-coveredacademichalls and ten yearsat a mainstreampublishereditingbooksin this so-calledtwilight world, I agreemostlywith Barry nowadays. Todaythe term "sciencefiction" encompasses so much that I'm leery of generalizingabout it, but indulge me. of all the genres,SF is fundamentallythe most radical-unlike mysteriesor romancesor
724 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 it canrewriteall the rules,or makeup the rulesasit goesalong. westerns, (lndeed,JonathanLethem'sAmnesiaMoon is a goodexampleof a book that playsfair with the readerbut changesthe rulesin midstream.)As fohn W. Campbellalwaysargued,it hasthe widestscopeand the most it intimidatesmanyreadfreedomof anyliteraryform,and consequently ers.A sciencefiction novel can challengea readerin waysno other novelcan. In a New Yorkerreviewcirca r99o,fohn Updike arguedthat SF relies on spectaclefor its entertainmentvalue, and asAristotle taught us, I think it'sfoolspectacleis the mostbaseof all ariisticgoals.Personally, is form of populat a This genre SF. spectacular nature of ish to deny the literature;its inherentgoalis to entertain(unlikemuch mainsheamfiction). Some people will foreveradopi the attitude espousedby fohn and priUpdikeand look down on SF becauseit remainsa story-driven marily popularart form. Thosepeopleseemto be the oneswhoserespectfonathanseeks,if I understandhim correctlywhen he refersto "literaryrespectability." When I hearthosewords,I think of greenpastureson the other sideof with fonathan.For the fence.They markthe exactspotwhereI disagree one thing, asI've statedmanytimesin many places,thingsare not bet ter in the mainsheamthan they are in the genre.Indeed,they'regenerally worse:"the rocky realms of midlist, out-of-categoryfiction" are the one placewherebooksget ignoredmost.I oncesaton a panelwith William Tiotter, whose first novel Winter Fira was published handsomelyin thoserockyrealms."How manyreviewsdid you get?"I asked. "Well, we got the trade reviews,and the Timesreviewwasokay."When I askedif he got any otherreviews,he said,"Yes,therewasone otherinDeathrealm." are evenworse.It would be improper The commercialprospects for me to citesalesfiguresand such,but I believethatthe careersof such novelistsasfackWomack,]onathanCarroll,and |ack Cadywould have founderedon thoserocky shoresafter two or three novelseach were it not for the genreand genreeditors.I could go on. I could citethe careers of mainstreamnovelistsIhat have peteredout becausenobody would publishtheir third or fourth books,but to keepthis shortI'll limit myself to pointing out the ironic fact that someof the writersfonathannamesas
GenreandGenesis725 "ascendantpowers"in our "literaryculture" don't sell nearlyaswell as do fonathan'sown books.Tiust me. I've seenthe figures. Enough aboutthe grass-is-greener syndrome;everywriter is prone to someenvy.It'san occupationalhazard.what I reallywantto address is this notion of "literaryrespectability." I havegraveproblemswith it. Perhapsin ry73it meantsomethingdifferent,but herein rgg8,it'smore than forty yearsafter such American masterpieces asA Canticlefor I*ibowitz and Fahrenheit45t were born in ihe SF genre,thirty-plusyears sinceDanielM. Keyesilluminatedthe human conditionwith help from a mousenamedAlgernon,more than a quarterof a centuryafterJ. G. Ballardcrashedinto the literaryfield and Harlequinlet loosethosejelly beans.The sciencefiction field hasfosteredand grownnumeroussuch workswhoseliterarymeritsare,to my mind, incontrovertible. In light of the evidencethey provide,I think that any critic who summarilydismissessF is guilty of literarybigotry,prejudgingthe fiction by the color of its cover.(Pleasenote that I'm not questioninganyone'sright to read whateversuitstheir tastes.But, I think that a critic who dismisses an entire categoryof fiction- any category - shouldn'tkeepa closedmind.) And who reallyneedsArchie Bunker'srespect? At leastmy older brotherkept an open mind, but peoplelike someeditorsat the Newyork TimesBookReviewobviouslydon't, and I seeno virtue in seekingtheir approval. I do think /onathanLethem'sright in pointing out that the SF genreno longermeanswhat it usedto mean.The sF publishingcategory hasn'tentirelykept pace with the iastesof American readers.A Iot of writersand readersare stuck in the iwilight becausepublishing doesn'tknow the right wayto put the two together(and the few effortsat doingso,suchasDell's"cutting Edge"tradepaperbackline aboutfour yearsago'neverreallygot a chance).But I think the answerlies in shifting the boundariesof the genre,not in knockingthem down. Let me end with onebrief anecdote.In college,I studiedwith novelistStephenwright (M3t, GoingNative)and I still run into him occasionally.Lasttime I sawhim, we got on the subjectof how nice it was that stevenMillhauserwon the Pulitzer prize, and stephen-who is wonderfully opinionated-started sounding off about the pulitzers. "Did you know that thosebastards at columbia wourdn'tgivethe prize
2000 Showcase 126 NebulaAwards to Cravity'sRainbow?The iudgesall wantedit to win, but the awardadministratorswere afraid of it, so they gaveit to somethingsafe., . some Civil War novel,I think." In point of fact, Michael Shaara'slovely novel The Kller Angels won the Pulitzer in 1975(EudoraWelty'sThe Optimist'sDaughter won in 1973,and no award was given in 1974).But if there'sany huth to claim,and I believethereis,arewe to concludethatthe mainStephen's streammissedits opportunity to mergewith SF?Or should we iust decide that we'redifferentfrom our big brother and get on with life?
and Literary Bigots Gatekeepers ,
G E O R GZEE B R O W S K I
The community of sciencefiction writers and readerscan take pride in two things. One is the body of novelsand short fiction, now going back more than a century,which is consideredof permanentvalue(we'll call it the canon). Another is the claim that SF is a literatureof ideas,and that thinking, both scientificand philosophical,is the centerof it' Lett considerthe "canon"ideafirst.In orderto havesucha body of work, in which a novel likeThe StarsMyDestinationby Alfred Bester, to take an example that is agreedupon by even the most oppositely minded individualsin the field, may be consideredone of the permanent works,one must start with a set of measuringsticks,accordingto which the work succeedsor fails.These measurescan clearlybe discanon. cernedin the agreed-uPon a different set of valuesfor greatscience with start But one might fiction-ones of thoughsrlnessand ideas,and aboveall the demand that..thinking,'be presentin a work-and come up with a perhapsunfamiliarcanon.One might evengo on to askwhich values"should"one hold, and evenwhetherthis questioncan be usefullyasked' I have often attempted to make such a "canon of ideas and thought" and been quite surprisedto realizethat the acceptedcanon existsas part of a literary socialsystem,which we are free, if we think for to reiect. ourselves,
GenreandGenesis727 More on the abovelater. Criticismand reviewingalsoexistaspart of a socialconventionof comment,commercialstruggle,and cultural shuggleover turf-who will saywhat is what and who is who-and that thesegatekeepers work to preventfreeand independentjudgmentamongboth readersandwriters(though they may deny it), by putting forwardcertain kinds of valuemodelsto be admiredand copied,just asan organismtDNA strivesto project itself into the fuhrre. At the end of theseconsiderations one may cometo the conclusion that one is free to follow not "what is" but "what should be," and that "what should be" is a diversityof things. How much of a field of action is there in all fiction, in the SF novel;how much possibility,how many value-modelsyet undiscovered, how many one-of-a-kindmodels?All thesekinds of searchingquestions should be necessary to the sciencefiction reader,and to the writer engagedin the enterprisethat is perhapsmore ambitious than anyone realizes,so important that its still wide-openway cannot b. ,deq,rately discussed without serioustheorizing.certainly the purely literary "pproachmustfail, becauseit will hold up aesthetics overthe demandsof originality and thought, and it almostalwaysrefusesto discussthe ..experience"of readingan individualauthor,whosefleetingmagicmay escapeone readerand not another,and whose,,way,,mayoutweighall otherconsiderations for a largegroupofreaders. Nabokovonce saidthat he dividedalr noversinto thosehe wished he'd written and thosehe had written.At first this seemssilly,but why should any writer admit to the virtuesof a book he knowsis great,a part of the canonaccordingto law,but which he cannotappreciate? There are thosewho seemto casta wide net and appreciategreatvariety,but they do recallthe "girl who liked all the boys,"or the "boy who chased anythingin skirts." A good theoreticianwill carveup the map into the varietyof good books,asthey existevenin territoriesforeignto him. He can thei say that theseare the discoveredwaysof being good and give them a salute; but, if he is ambitious,he will headoff for partsunknown.He will include,but he will alsosearchthe frontier. Recentdiscussions about SF have rostthe simplicityof truthful observationand statement,and appearto justify whatever'aparticular
2000 Showcase t28 NebulaAwards But in factthe authoror readerhappensto be doingin the marketplace. its critical potenespecially theoreticalquestionsabout SF'spossibilities, a long time ago,but aresimplybeingigsuccessfully tial, wereanswered nored by people unwilling to think rigorously.Discussionsabout SF havelost their senseof reality-both of SF'spropersubiectmatterand its mannerof publication. You can learn the insightsachievedby SF'sbesttheoreticiansby rote, and even find that the catechismis supremelyflexible and open when you encounterthe difficultiesof practicingit. "Sciencefiction is aboutthe human impaci of future changesin scienceand technology," Asimov wrote with cogency,echoingthe conclusivethought of campbell, Blish, Tenn, and later taken up by Lem to great outcry by the ,,humanimpact"makesit fiction,the "changes,"whether damned.The theybe strictlyof scienceor technolory,makeit SF Youcan iustgo with the changesand the human impact, if you like, which broadensit all inclusively. The questionI often askis: if one is going to write Sfl why not go ihe distance?why waier it down?why not learn all the neededscience, all technologr,and thinking to do the work?Well, you don't haveto do and that to ','iil ,"ie.tcefiction,a colleagueoncetold me with a smile' behind the ideafilled me with horror,becausecontent the assumptions impact and actuai thought are the heart of SF.Think about the human ou, human experienceof scienceand itsphilosophical of science, "bo.,i (andphilosophicalmeansnothingmorethan the effortto consequences of actuallythink aboui subiectmatter in a rigorousway-the birthright or you don't is all that everyhuman being:you eitherthink successfully means). the wordphilosoPhical Thinkofthemassivebodyofscienceanditsphilosophyasagreat dramatic, attractoraroundwhich we wordsmithscircle,thinking of the aswith the earlyinsuddenlythereis an expansion, humanpossibilities. flation of the universe,or the iump to blastocystin an organism-and from there the work beginsto growand acqtrirecharacter' FreemanDysonhaswritten that greatworksof science Einstein's equations,Goedelt Proof,the descriptionof black holes-are alsoworks the qualitiesof uniqueness'beauty'and unof art, becausethey possess describingan imaginaandbecausetheyareconshuctions expectedness, tiongreaterthanourown_nafure's'Heisdescribingthewellspringofall
GenreandGenesis729 greatS[ the growingbody of knowledgeand theory in a hundred different arenasthat is the propercenhal sun of S[ aboutwhich we should think criticallyand writeof hopefuland fearfulpossibilities for our kind. That'sall thereis to if but try to do it. Discussions of S[ because they rarelystari ai genuine"first things,"exhibit a povertyof assumptions,makingthe speakers havelerswho plan their departurefrom the middle and then attemptthe journeywhosestartingpoint is impossible and the chanceof arrivingnil. The agonyis that well thoughtand well written beatsbrilliantly written and badlythought.Is the contentmore important?yes-but try not to ignore the literarygraces;one would not wish to eatthe effortsof a greatchefoffthe floor.But significancedoesnot lie in a mandarincultivation of graceover content.we don't haveto deliberatelyignore the literaryvirtues;but therewill be writersof greatthoughtanj -inor literary skills.fught now we havemore of the skilledov"i the thouehful. So how to get there?Avoid fashionsand think for yourJerf,a-"y from the homogenized fiction of workshops and credentials. To startone musttry, then one mustwork at it. one mustthink, not only be a eood writer.one must be readyto hold the love of sF's posibiliiies complishmentabovepopularity.A hard road-which is why "r,L"all the otherroadsaretakenso often.This is not advicethat financialsurvivo^ wishto hear.It is a call to accomplishment thatwasmadeby JamesBlish and othersin pasttimes,andwhich theydid not alwaysheedthemselves. "Did you everadmirean empty-headed writer for his style?"Kurt Vonnegutonceasked.we do it all the time, unfortunately;but the new wrinkle in SF'sdiscussion groupsis thatwe now haveempty-headed theoreticianswho fail to startat the beginningbeforethey gropethe elephant. The theoreticalanswersto the confusionsof criticslike fonathan Lethem or the exhaustionof Thomas Disch have been stated definitivelyby GregoryBenford:". . . the quantityof fine written SF has never beenhigher. . ." To know ihis one mustgo out and examinethe produc_ tion of severalyears,somethingthai many critics do not seemto do; instead,ihey rely on their unscholarlyimpressions, which may be years old. Benfordcontinues,"The advanceof hard sF afterthem (the New Waveof the '6osand '7os)usedweaponrytheyhad devised. . .,'But_,At the of SF the experienceof science.This makesthe genre
2000 Showcase 130 NebulaAwards finally hostile to. . . fashionsin criticism, for it values its empirical ground.. . . SF novelsgive us worldswhich are not to be taken asmetaphors,but as real.We are askedto participatein wrenchinglyshange events,not merelywatch them for cluesasto what they'rereally about. 'realismof the future' and so doesnot take its surrealism SF pursuesa which is easilyconfusedwith it. The neat, unlike much avant-garde social-realistfollowersof fameshave yet to fathom this. The Mars and starsand digitaldesertsofour bestnovelsare,finally,to be takenasreal, asif to say:life isn'tlike this, it is this." That Gravity's Rainbowlost to Rendeoous with Rama in the ry77 Nebula voting is significanttodayonly if we understandthat the subtletiesof eachnovel lay in vastlydifferentworlds,and that they eachresonatedwith a very differentdatabasewithin their supportivereaders.Yet the proponentsof Pynchon reactedwith literary bigotry, ignoring the fact that Pynchon'svery nominationwasa tribute (quite somethingto an of outsiderto SF circles),and spokeof Clarke with the derisiveness Clarke's as an oxymoron. British Cinema French critics referringto rich subtletiesthat belong to SF and to science,but novel possesses which existbehind a screento the insufficienilyprepared(who simply do not know how to read Clarke). It is a gracefulpiece of writing, and bearsrereading.It triesnot to existin its time,but looksbeyondtemporal as doesall of clarke'swork. "Throughoutthis century, provincialisms, conventionalliterahrrepersistentlyavoidedthinking about conceptually alteredtomorrows,and retreatedinto a realistpostureof fiction of eversmallercompass,"writes Benford.It is to this degreethat watereddown letters,and SE oftensowell written,continuesto emulatecontemporary match for a to be by which it fails, along with its theoreticaldefenders, the writersand thinkersof hard S[ who unlike their detractorshavewillingly learnedfrom all the examplesaroundthem, who do not repudiate the pastbut seeinto it (we are all time travelers,are we not?) questioningly,askingwhat it wasthat madesenseto the readersof the time, rather than reducingit to nonsensewith present-blindedeyes' There is anothercanonof SF in thiscentury,outsidethe territories and literary bigots,whosefirst aim is to hold the of today'sgatekeepers powerof sayingwho'swho and what'swhat,with moneyor with insistent iordr. It is a c"r,on that speaksonly from its pages,to readerswho read and think for themselves,free of critics and reviewerswho PresuPPose
GenreandGenesis131 everythingand thus skewunfetteredreactions.Unknown to eachother, thesereaders, manyof them writers,havemadea list,to which theyadd yearly.Itcannotbe collatedinto one lis! exceptby Borges,who cannot and would not showit to us.And I wish I had that list. I showedthis essayto a sci-fiwriter who livesdown the sheetfrom me, figurativelyspeaking. 'Well, whatdo you think?" 'Are you kidding?It's too hard to do, what you're asking." "So whatdo you do instead? What do you use?" He shrugged."Other Sf;,whereit,sall predigested.,' "Don't you feel any shame?" "Nah, it'sall rockand roll. I'm a star.I getthe moneyand the girls." 1\nd you'rehrppy with that?" "Yeah,I am." "Really?"I asked. "ltt all I learnedto do." 'And it's too late now?" "Yeah,it'stoo late.Look,you,rea nice guy.But what do you want from me, anyway?To makeme look bad?" 'Well, no, I'm sorry.you do thatyourselfin the eyesofpeoplewho think." "Look, my readersreadwith their gut, not with their brains.I know it looksbad. . . somakeme somenew readers." "who madethem that way?"rasked.when he failed to answer,I said,"Of course,you'refreeto write whateveryou please,except that you may not be doingthat.You may be writing what someone unknownto you, or the marketplace's demandfor entertainment,has taught you, without you eventhinking about it. And when you make a toke' effort to think aboutit, you startyour argumentsofar alongthat your premise is virtuallyyour conclusion.That'snot thinking.It'srepeating ttrepremise,followinga recipe,beggingthe question." "Sciencefiction is not about thinking. It's about fiction-and style.Ideasarea dime a dozen,andthinkine is a bore." "well, then all is givenaway,ail is rostlrhe lootersfrom the media areat the gatesof SF city, but it hasarreadydestroyeditserf from within, havingfed itselftoo long on its own inheritance.New sF citv can rise
2000 Showcase 732 NebulaAwards knowledgebase,not weavingever only by reflectingan ever-expanding more finely spunversionsof hand-medownideasand themes." "fue you fuckingserious?" he asked. "Look. Imaginingsarelike linesof credit.They cango on for some in the activitythere time by borrowingfrom eachother.But somewhere mustbe an inflow of real money.In scienceand sciencefiction that inflow comesin the form of new observationsand experiments-or the imaginingsgrow and are shoredup only within their own framesof reference,with diminishinghold on the world outside.The resultis bankruptcyin the financialworld,failedtheoriesin science,and trivialityin sciencefiction." "But it sells!" "Only becausenot enoughreadershaveseenwhat'sbeen done' by abolishingbacklists." That'saccomplished "So?A bookyou haven'treadis new to you." "Fine, if money is all you want. How about the accomplishment? It's the sameeven if it's neverpublished,just like the high iump record no one can evertakeawaYfrom You'" "Yeah,yeah,yeah.Get real." ,,Get real?Literature'sgreatcreativegenrehasto get real and give awayeverythingto get published?" "You force me to sayyes.T. S. Eliot, I think, once saidthat man can't standtoo much reality' I need a drink. Happy now?" And I knewthat it had costhim to write againstthe grain'
GoodNewsabout$Fin BadPubUshingTimes;or, Growth,Change,and the Preseryationof Quatity in the Literatureof Genre G.HARTWELL DAVID This evening is a celebrationof many successes'and we have ih. future of sciencefiction and fantasyoptimistically. causeto "ppro".h I remind both the nomineesand thosewho wish they'dbeen nominated late that therearemore awardsfor SF and fantasythan everbeforein the '9os,and in more placesin the world too, even one recentlyheld in a the Eiffel Tower-and accordingto Norman Spinrad,we might have
GenreandGenesis133 Nebula ceremonythereone day.And evenoutsidethe genre,we have had somepleasantsurprisesin recentyears-a PEN-Westbest novel awardto Molly Gloss'sTheDazzleof Day, surelythe mostprestigiousliteraryawardyet given in the United Statesto an SF novel.We havealso in our communitya Macfuthur grantwinner,OctaviaButler.So to refamousline, deliveredwhen acceptingan award verseJerryPournelle's for another writer, awardsand awardnominationswill help get you throughtimesof no money. Books After the 1995consolidationof North Americanwholesaledistributors, which wasthe biggestdistributiondisaster to hit United Statesmagazinesand paperbackbookssinceihe demiseof the AmericanNew Companyin 1957,thereareSF and faniasygenrelinesat fewer companies,and evenfewersalesforces.While a greatdeal of time and energyhassofar beenspentdevelopingelectronictextretrievalsystems and bookselling, thesearenot yei significanteconomicforcesin SF and fantasy,exceptin sellingusedand rarebooks- it seemsthereis a great demand for out-of-print material.Also, little or no editing occurs with original materialpublishedthrough the Internet,so that readersmay experienceonline the delightsand horrorsof the slushpile, without the interventionof editors,copy editors,or eventlpe designers. However,nearlyeverySF line now hasa hardcovercomponentthat is essential to its publishingprogram.While fewerbooksin our genreswill be publishedin massmarketpaperbackthis yearthan last,a trend accelerating since1995,more fantasyand SF is appearingin hardcoverthan everbefore,evenmorethan in the boom yearsof the r98os. I havebeen working for the last decadeor so to help Tor, my employer,build the largestSF andfantasyhardcoverline in the historyof SF publishing,and now Tor alonepublishesmorehardcoverSF in a season than the wholeindushydid a little overa decadeago.This trendbegan in the earlyr98osand hasnow changedthe field socompletelythat SF is no longerprincipallydriven by massmarketsales.This is the biggesteconomic and publishingchangesincethe later95os,when the dominance of the magazinesgavewayto the paperbacks. The lion'sshareof the best booksin SF eachyearis now publishedfirst in hardcover. - theygetreThis is goodfor the field.Hardcoversare"realbooks" viewed,preservedon library shelves,are not disposable the way magazines and paperbacks are, or at leastthe way they are outsideof the
734 Nebuta Awards Showcase 2000 genre.Hardcoversare sold in bookstores,mainly, and are kept on bookstoreshelvesfor months,sometimesyears,until they are sold or remaindered.Paperbacks have a short saleslife in bookstores, and an even shorter one on racksin aiqportsand drugstoresand newsstands.They regularlyget usedup and discardedafter only a few readings.And most magazinesare sold for a week or a month and, if sold,are thrown away after a month or two. Peopleoutsidethe field perceiveSF and fantasyas more adult,moreserious,and higherclassif it is in hardcover. Meanwhilethe ScienceFiction Book Club is expanding,buying more titles per month, adding more money into the profit calculations in SF and fantasypublishing,and the club selectsprimarily from the maybe youngerreaders, pool of hardcovertitles.The chiefbeneficiaries who do not otherwisebuy many,or any,hardcovers. Of coursea largenumber of new booksand reprintsof older books are now releasedin tradepaperback.The contractionof the backlistin massmarketpaperbackshasbeen going on for more than twenty years, at the sametime asthe frontlist hasbeen growing,but that combination of trends is slowing considerablyas the superstoresstock backlist in depth while the frontlist shrinks.Tiade paperbackshave come to the forefrontasthe economicalway to reprint after a hardcoveredition and enlargethe readership,and to makea profit on a saleof a few thousand copiesin caseswhereyou cannotprint a massmarketedition-either becauseyou haveno massmarketslot or becausethe proiecteddistribution in massmarketis not profitable.Of courseyou can alsoreprint a classicwork. (At leasttwo new classicslines in hade paperbackare ap pearing this year, one in the United Kingdom and one in the United and that is States.)Or you can launch a new writer in hade paperback, is perceived trade paperback The now regularity happeningwith some asthe moreliteraryform of paperbackpublishing,the mediumin which the cutting-edgeliterary fiction of the mainsheamis published. The coversof the hardbaclsand tradepaperbaclaareon the whole sophisticatedand deliberatelyliterary,not the traditionalillushation we in the genre have been used to for decades.This strateryseemsto be working well, in part becauseit is aimed at adults,and adults,not teenIn the faceof agers,buy the maiority of hardcoversand tradepaperbacks. Gallup polls and other publishedmarket researchin the r99os,no one can supportthe claim that SF is still a literaturefor kids. Most SF and
GenreandGenesis135 fantasytodaysellsto an adult audience;the tlpical buyer is over thiriy, and gettingolder.This is why somuch effort in recentyearshasbeenput into Readingfor the Future, and into publishingspecificallyyoungadult SF-we want to regainthe young SF audiencethat the field outgrewin the r97osand r98os.It is ironic that the tradepaperbacksof todayin SF look more like the Ballantinebooksof the r95os,when fuchard Powers did all the covers,than they look like contemporarymassmarketSF. And yet to the bestof my knowledgeeverySF line is experiencing with their leadbooksin massmarket.The hugecomcontinuingsuccess paniesthat now do massmarketdistributionwant to sell leadseffectively, without the distraciionsof smallerbooks.So there is an upsideto the massdistributionconsolidation,namely that the top booksby established writers can be distributed more efficiently and often in greater numbersthan ever before.We may disagreewith this principle, and nearlyeveryeditorI knowdoes,becauseit solimitswhatelsecanbe pub. lishedin the massmarket,but it certainlybenefitsthe top writersin all fieldsand their publishers. So if you area first novelistand you manageto sell your first novel, you aremuch more likely to be publishedin hardcover,which meansa more enduringbook,more reviews,and soon. If you arean established writerwhosebooksarepublishedasleadtitles,more copiesof them will be sold.And if you area writerin midcareerwhosebookswerepublished in the midlist but who wasshakenout in the recentshakeoutsin the marketplace, thereis an increasinglycompetentsmall-press movement that hasincreasingly sophisticated technologicaltoolsand is lookingfor goodbooksto publish. Many of you are readersof the NerllYorkReviewof ScienceFiction, which I publish,whoseeditorialpolicy is to discussthe strengthsand weaknesses of good books.We ai the NYRSF find six to ten books a month to discuss,and do not feel we succeedin coveringall the good booksavailableto review,so it is clearto me that the field is producing an abundanceofgood books. Short Fiction In recentyearsI havebeen doing an annualYear's Besf SF volume for HarperPrismand so have had a chance to read widelyin shortfiction. I can sayconfidentlythat the newsis goodthere. In the major magazines the qualitycontrolis excellent;competentprofessionaleditingis nearlyuniversal,whateverthe editorialtaste.While
136 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 the original anthologiesare usuallynot asgood asthe averageissueof one of the magazines,they still constitutea significantmarketand have supportedan abundanceof genrewriting this year. So a lot of shortfiction is gettingpublishedprofessionally, making writers'reputationsand growingname recognitionfor them. A significant thoughsmallerproportionof the shortfiction is gettingpublished in reprintanthologies, a form that hasalwaysunderpinnedthe field.Although generallyavoidedby the major housesthesedays,reprint anthologies crop up frequently in the late r99os,thanks to book clubs, small presses that havebenefitedenormouslyfrom the new electronic technologies, and book chains(someof which are now instantremainder publishers). genremagThere arefewercopiesof fewerprofessional azinesthan ever,but more SF and fantasyanthologiesand collections arebeingpublishedin moreplaces. It is in shortfiction thatthe smallpressis makinga particularlysignificant contribution in recent years,both in the growth of semipro' fessionalmagazinessuch as Interzone,On Spec, and Eidolon and in the continuing publication of single-auihorcollections, a form that wastaken over in the r98osby small-presspublishersfrom fukham to Ziesing,someof whom areactuallythriving. We will all feel the absence of |im Turner, whose nearly thirty yearsof editorshipat fukham and then Golden Gryphon showedwhat a fine editorcould accomplishin put many to shame,and the small press.|im's tasteand professionalism gavehis peersa standardto live up to. Postmodern Pubtishing anat SD Speculativefiction-at least out of genreinto the mainstreamthat part of it attemptingto escalate hasneverbeen healthier,althoughmuch of it is publishedcompletely outsidegenremarketsby publishersand editorswho are under the impressionthat they are publishingcontemporarynongenrefiction. And perhapsthey are. Examplesare Mary Doria Russell'snovels,|onathan Lethem's recent work, and the Four Walls Eight Windows publishing fiction is subiectto the ups and downsof the program.But speculative cold world of the mainstreamliterarymidlist,wherea much higherpercentageof bookslosemoneythan in genre. The hallmarkof suchpublishingprograms(andI supposeI should include the tradepaper reprintsfrom Vintage) is that, somewhatlike Hollywood,they makelittle effortto distinguishbetweenfantasyand SE,
GenreandGenesis737 in part becausethey seeno difference.This meansquality control is basedentirelyupon the prosestyleand literarymarketingsignalsgeneratedby the text. Postmodernis the cool thing to be just now. So a lot of writersof real talent who are more comforiableoutsidegenrepublishing-for example,Karenfoy Fowler,William Gibson,famesMorrow, fackWomack,PaulDi Filippo,and OctaviaButler-are findinghomes in nongenrelistsand yet still stickingwith the socialfield of Sfl appearing at conventionsand so forth. Some of them are in the room today. Genrevirtuessuch asconsistentworld building or scientificverisimilitude are somewhatirrelevantto the marketingof their works now, but genresubculturesupportstill underpinsmuch of their careers' The importantthing for us is thattheydo not reiectgenresupport. From TennesseeWilliams to Kurt Vonnegut to Donald E. Westlake, with genreSF and fantasyand then writershavestartedout associated left-that's not new.Theser99oswritersarestickingaround.We always knew that top-notchscientistsin the mainsheam(Eric Temple Bell, NorbertWiener, SheldonGlashow,Marvin Minsky,and many others) paid attentionto Sfl, and still do-Freeman Dyson is goingto be ScienceGuestof Honor at a convention(VikingCon)nextyear-but now someof our more ambitiouswritersaregettingmainstreampublication and attentionwithouthavingto denyus (in the Biblicalsense). The mainstream,at leasta little bit, is joining us. Sure,thereare postmodernwriterswho appropriateSF asiustansomeself-consciously other pop culture repositoryof collage-makingmaterial,but they arenot terribly important on the literarysceneor relevantto SF and fantasy. More significant,therearea lot of literarywriterswhosework,had it paid a little more attention to genre attitudesand virfues such asverisimilitudeandplotting,would havefallensolidlyin the genre.And sometimes does-Russell's first two novels,The Spanow and Children of Cod, are more closelyrelatedto genreS[ without being labeledso by the publisher,than someworksthat appearwearingthe genretrademark.Last yearfohn Updike,GoreVidal, and otherspublishednovelsthat wereby the leadingliteveryusefulstandardSF.And VintageContemporaries, erarytradepaperbackline in the United States,havingreprintedalmost all of the worksof Philip K. Dick is now doingAlfred Bester,Theodore Sturgeon,and ThomasM. Disch'sSF-as literature.As a consequence lessacademicattentionis paid to SF and fantasyasa discretegenrein
138 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 the late r99osthan therewasin the r97osor r98os,but the attentionis of higherquality.The genrelabelis lessstigmatizing than it usedto be,and more worksare talkedabout for their ideasand execution.There is now an academicestablishment, severaljournals,many seriousSF courses, and fewershallowcoursesthat merelyuseour genreto teachscienceor religion or whatever.Many academicsdo not sharethe goalsand attitudesof SF writersor of the SF community,but they now recognizethat thosegoalsexistand often takethem into accountwhen discussingwritersand works.And the SF communityhasspawnedits own academics: SamuelR. Delany,foanna Russ,Brian Stableford,fohn Kessel,Kim StanleyRobinson,Damien Broderick,F. Brett Cox, andAndy Duncan. In differing waysthesecritics are influencing the way our literature is taughtand studied. But that's a topic for another day. Tonight we have considered growthand changeand the preservationof quality in the marketplaceas a preludeto celebratinghigh excellenceand achievementin the SF and fantasy literahrre of the recent past. Tonight is the eve of the greatest mediaeventof the decadein SE,whetherthat invokesthe new StarWars film, theYzKproblem,orthe tum of the millennium itself,and while we all anticipateriding the next big waveinto the future, it is fitting that we stopfor a momentand honor the literaturethat is the sourceof all the cultural spinoffsand the wellspringof imagesthat feedsthe media.
the Truth aboutSci-FiMovies,Revealedat Last B I L LW A R R E N Growing up in a small town on the Oregon coast,I felt isolated from the peoplearoundme, and immersedmyselfin sciencefiction. I loved the books (though rarely read the magazines,since, or so I I lovedcomic thought,all the goodstuffwouldwind up in anthologies), bools-and I lovedthe movies,too.Later,I encounteredsciencefiction fandom, and then "prodom" aswell, assumingthat I would meet others who loved all three of thosesourcesof my greatchildhood and adolescent joy. I waspuzzledthat while I often met peoplewho liked comic booksand movies,or booksand comics,or sometimeseven booksand movies,I virtually never encounteredanyonewho loved all three. The
GenreantlGenesis139 and scorn'sometimesbecause movieswere often viewedwith contempt they weren'tlike written sciencefiction' concerned'it wasakin to That baffied me, becauseasfar asI was pizza' Both food' to be sure' complaining that watermelonwasn't like very naturethat I wasmystified both fun to eat-but so differentin their did' They wereboth in evenbotheredto comparethem' I never ;;il in the form of scienceficone broad category:popular entertainment plots were similar, I never iJr,, ,r,d that was about it. Even when .r'""gt,.oftheclich6..thebookisbetterthanthemovie.''Themovie of the book being be likethe book,but it wasn'tto me a matter *"yl* particular' rathernarrowaubetier, irtstthatthe book wasintendedfor a different' more generalaudidience,and the movie wasintendedfor a can sometimesdrive friends ence.I still feel much the sameway'which todistraction.Sure,IknewthalTheDaytheEarthstoodStillwasbetter thanTheDaytheWorldEnded,butlwantedtoseebothofthem.Ididn't than either were like writexpecteitheito be any more like each other basedon a published ten SE evenif The Day the Earth StoodStill was becauseit wasbetter cinSF story.It wasbetter than the Corman movie SF' ematically,notbecauseit wasmorelike written for failing to be Some people considerthat attacking SF movies likeSFbooksisaholycrusade;whilevictorymayneverbeachieved'the fiction' To me' this battle hasto be continued for the honor of science impliesthattheythinksciencefictionfans/readersandwriterssomehow upset that Holly'rvood own sciencefiction. It's less a matter of being more of a senseof makesbad sciencefiction moviesnow and then, but and not useit in indignation,moral outrage:how dare lheyuseour stuff waysthat we aqProve. both fans While there aremanypeoplein the sciencefiction field' sciencefiction films and pros,who understat'dmouits and who iudge than books'too many o., ah. samebasisthey iudge other movies,rather "The book wasbetter than the simply don't get this distin:tion at all' they don't mean that asa book' the book was *oui"," th.y .lri--and can be directly better than the movie wasaSa movie,They think the two compared. Butexceptinaverylimited,essentiallypointlesssense'theycan't be.It'snotjustamatterofthebasicdifferencesbetweenthetwomedia we respond (a book doesn'thavea musictrack,for example)'but of how
140 Nebula Awards Showcase 2000 to the two. For one thing, readinga book is generallya solitaryexperience;watchinga movie,under ideal circumstances anyway,is a group experience,and this distinctionnot only affectshow we respondto the work itself, but how the creatorsare able to evokeresponses. Even the greatestcomedieswork better- are funnier-when viewed with a responsiveaudiencethan while alone.The sameis true of thrillers,mysteries,musicals,etc. Suspensecan be heightenedwhen you're in a groupthat is respondingin much the samemannerasyou. In a book, we can read back over earlier materialwithout any trouble;excepton homevideo,moviesareperceivedlinearly;we haveto takethem astheycome,or not at all-and this is built into how movies areconstructed.It makesnot lessnarrativecomplexity,but complexityof a differentorder.Also,with movies,it's(usually)not a matterof reaching for the lowestcommon denominator,but broadeningthe experience, this is the same to mostof the audience.Sometimes, makingit accessible -but Dark City is sophisthing; it's hard to find subtletyin Armageddon of needsof the acmost the iicatedand intelligent,while still satisfying tion crowd. Moviesarenot the sameasbooks,but theyarenot inhinsicallyinferior to books,unlessyou tautologicallybelievethat writing is the ultimateart form. Moviesare not intendedto competewith or to supplant books,not eventhe onesthey'rebasedon.A friend onceasked|amesM' Cain how he could let Hollywood ruin his books.Cain said that the booksweren'truined;theretheywere,right thereon the shelf.. . . There are some who want, almost desperately,to believe that Hollywood makes"sci-fi" but, say,Larry Niven writes sciencefiction. The troubleis that this "sci-fiis bad sciencefiction" definitionexistsexclusivelywithin SF fandom,and not eveneveryfan goesalongwith it. To the world at large,"sci-fi" Ineans"sciencefiction," good and bad, plausible and im-, spaceopera and diamond-hardsciencefiction. But you'll find still,on the Internet,in letters,somefanzines,and elsewhere, just an not Tiuth, Revealed "sci-fi" as offered the narrowerdefinition of opinion. (You can make the eyesof ihesepeopleturn into little pinwheelsby pointing out that the term wasaPParentlycoinedtwice, quite independently:once by Forrest|. Ackerman,and once by RobertA. And iustlike Ackerman,when Heinlein,who usedit in correspondence. he usedthe term, Heinlein meant"sciencefiction.")
GenreandGenesis741 Sometimes,this shiftsinto a belief that it's the scientific implausibilitiesthat makesciencefiction moviesbad (eventhough,for example, "Cavorite" doesn'tmakeWells'sThe FirstMen in theMoon a bad novel). At leastone companywasstartedthat, for a fee,would vet scriptsfor sciof greaterscientificverisimilitude. entificblundersand offeralternatives The foundersof the companyweregenuinelysurprised,evenhurt, that and directorsare Holllwood didn't givea damn.Evenbad screenwriters awarethat beingscientificallyaccuratewon't makea moviebetter-except for a tiny segmeniof the population,who, if they all stayedaway from the movie,wouldn't makethe tiniest dent in the box-officeresults. On the otherhand,with somemovies-in rygS,Soldierwasa goodexthe fact that the ample-the lack of scientificaccuracyunderscores movieis bad in mostotherways,too. The bottomline in Hollywoodis,of course,money.This isn'tevil, it's a simple fact of economiclife; thosewho rail againstHollywood are tryingsomehowto hold it to a higherstandardthan otherbig businesses. But that'swhat it is: a big business. A new versionof WhenWorldsColIide,basedon the novel rather than the GeorgePal movie, might well have resultedin a very good film-but would it have made as much money as the god-awfulArmageddon?Armageddonwas a much more tough-as-nails surefirebet, with BruceWillis playinghis usualsmart-ass, role, a director whoselast film (The Rock)had done very well, and a loud, noisyapproachthat included far more specialeffectsthanWhen WorldsCollide would have.Deep Impact, which was more like When Worlds Collide than it was like Armageddon,didn't do as well as Armageddon.And the idea is to make money. To understandwhy Hollywood ends up making the choices it does,you haveto think like a Hollywood executive.Not only doesthis meandecidingon the projectmostlikely to makethe mostmoney-to hell with any considerations of quality- but thereareaspectsof pissing "suit" too.As a contests, you want your movieto makemoney,but also moremoneythan your rival makes. And there'smore, too. I once askeda screenwriter(TerryRossio) who'svery sawyaboutwritten sciencefiction - readit all the time growing up - justwhy it is that moviesaresorarelybasedon written science fiction. He said that it was a very good question,and there wasa very
142 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 long answer,but the short answerwasthat the kind of peoplewho grow up readingsciencefiction don't becomeshrdioexecutives. They might well becomemovie writers,directors,specialeffectsexperts,even producerssometimes-but they don't run the studios. And it's the peoplewho do run the studioswho decidewhat gets filmed. They don't gef out-of-the-ordinary material,and assumethe audiencesdon't, either, so they don't produce musicalsor Westernsanymore. They don't understandthe appealof sciencefiction or horror (beyond"boo!"),so they financespoofsof S{ horror,superheroadventures,etc.,becausethey do understandcomedy,and can't quite understand why anyone would take this kind of thing seriously.(Warngrs executivesunderstoodfoel Schumacher'sapproachto Batman, but nevercould figureout the more seriousdirection.)Sobudgetconsiderations,lack of familiarity,and ignorancecombine to cut back on the numberof SF movies. Don't think sciencefiction novelsare being singledout to be ignored.The moviebusiness haschangedoverthe years.In the r93osand '4os, peopleovertwenty-onemadeup mostof the moviegoingaudience. Movies were often basedon booksand playsnot so much becausethe ticket buyerswerefamiliar with them, but becausethey appealedto the As time passed, samedemographics. astelevisioncamein, and aspeople income, thosemoviesaimed at got more disposable under twenty-one kidstendedto makemoremoney-sometimesa lot moremoney-than thoseaimed at adults.Movies basedon novelsand playsdeclinedin number; when a novel is filmed today, often it's somethingalong the list linesof a Tom Clancythriller, while the restof eventhe best-seller goesunfilmed (thoughsomeof them end up asTV miniseries). In short,hardlyany booksarebeing filmed thesedays,becausethe targetaudiencedoesn'treadbooks,and becausethe booksthat arewritten don't tell the storiesthat this audiencewantsto see.Like many genthis is,of course,only generallytrue. eralizations, In the lasttwentyyears,sciencefictionbecameredefinedasa subsetof the actionthriller.The audiencedoesn'tmakea major distinction between, say,Lethal Weapon4 and Armageddon;they're both action thrillers,and that one happensto be sciencefiction simplymeansit will havemore specialeffectsin it. Which, of course,is anotherproblem: specialeffectsare goddamnedexpensive.Why, they can sometimescost
GenreandGenesis143 asmuch ashalf of Jim Carrey'ssalary-maybeevenmore-for a movie on the scaleof the SF/actionthrillerstoday. So a filteringprocessis built in: evenif you'reone of the raresuits who readsand likes sciencefiction and who wantsto film Heinlein or Asimovor Gibsonor Niven or Bearor whoeverwon the lastNebula,you still have to answerto your bosses.Your movie is going to cost somewherebetweeneightyand a hundredmillion dollars;eitheryou go the star route (like Armageddon)or the wow-look-at-these-effects route (like Deep lmpacf), but you haveto be sureyou're going to havea return on that money,or you'll be out of work a week after the movie flops at the box office. (And "flop" is a relative term; despite making about two hundredmillion dollarsworldwide,Armageddonwas considereda bit of a financialdisappointment,in ratio of costto profit.)And you reluctantly put asideyour dreamprojectof filming VernorVinge, and, sighing,hy to figure a way to fit LeonardoDiCaprio into a big splashyspaceadventure-short on brainsbut long on actionand thrills. Of course,studiosshouldtakebiggerchanceson sciencefiction as well asin otherareas,and like anyonewho lovesS$ I havemy own list of booksI think would makeentertainingand profitablemovies.This article isn't a defenseof Hollywood;it's a regrettableexplanation. On the other hand, in the last few years,there has been an increasingnumber of attemptsat filming sciencefiction "the right way" (i.e.,like any otherseriousdramaor adventure).Sometimes, the results aren'twhat SF fansand readerswanted-SfcrshipTroopersis a casein point. I happento like the film but many othersdidn't, and the film was a box-officefailure-not becauseit didn't "live up to Heinlein,"but becausethe intentionsof directorPaulVerhoevendidn't match the expectations of the general audience.The Postman,basedon the novel by David Brin, has becomethe latestbad-moviewhipping boy, although, likeTroopers,it's a much better movie than its detractorsclaim. (ln this case,it would haveto be.) AndContact,while more highly regardedthan thosetwo, alsowas felt to be lacking in some regard,although it was extremelyfaithful to Carl Sagan's novel.Bob Zemeckisclearlyunderstands sciencefictionhis approachto time havel in the Backto the Future movieswasasstringent as any hardcoreSF fan could want-and he knew exactlywhat kind of moviehe wasmakingin contact.lt wasmadein a more direct
144 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 style than StarshipTroopers(which tried a Europeanapproachof playing it straightand satiricat the sametime), and waslessclutteredand ambitious thanThe Postman,and yet there wasa lack here,too. But despitethe claimsof some,in thesecases,whatever's wrong with the movieshaslittle or nothing to do with their beingsciencefiction. Any mistakesthat were made were the samekind you'd find in non-sciencefiction movies-and actually,thesethreefilms weremore honestlyconceivedthan an audience-manipulating melodramaIike,say, Stepmom,Today,thereare very few obstaclesin Hollywoodto filming sciencefiction,aslong asa profit is visible.And ascomputergraphiceffectsimprove,they'll becomecheaper,which will allow slightlymore marginalprojectsto be tackled. But don't expectthe membersof SFWAto suddenlybecomesquillionaires;mostwritten SF is still too "esoteric"in the eyesof the people guardingthe big stacksof money.The doorhasbeencrackedjusta little; Asimoy'sBicentennialMan is beginning production as I write. And Hollywooddoesrecognizethe name of Philip K. Dick. (He seemsan unlikelychoice,sinceso manyof his storiesconsistof internalactionthe thoughtprocesses of the hero- but he dealta lot with paranoia,and but is proficientat that'san attitudeHollywoodnot only understands, translatinginto movieterms.) I suspectthat on the average, SFWA membersarea bit more hip to the moviejive than an equivalentsectionof the generalpopulacemight be, but still they're mostly awareof the big-scalepichrres-simply becausethoseare the projectsneedingthe biggestpublicitypushes.Even so, how many recognizedThe Truman Show as sciencefiction? (Fans did, asit wasnominatedfor a Hugo.)And how manyhad evenheardof Dark City?Thesewere the two bestand most intelligent sciencefiction moviesof 1998;what it lackedin originality,The TrumanShowmore than madeup in style,wit, and compassion,and such a thorough develwith metaphoricalinteropmentof its themethat it practicallyseethes pretations.(Those who think the movie should have continued after Tfumangoesthroughthe doorsimplydon't understandwhatthe movie wasabout.) Dark City was a PKDick-like tale of paranoia,carefully worked out; initially, things are very weird, but the movie offersone revelation after another,until by the end, what hasseemedto be a wildly stylized
GenreandGenesis745 fantasyis revealedasa pretty shaighforwardsciencefiction tale. Yes,it's verypulpish,like a bookDick might havedoneashalf of an Ace Double Novel, such as Dr. Bloodmoney.Bd itt honest, it sticks to its own premisesvery carefully,and is a very satisfyingproduction all the way around. The yearhad a few TV tie-ins,from a low of Losf in Spacethrough an okayStarTiek:lnsunectionto a modesthigh o{TheX-Files.And there someokay wasthe usualjunk-some reallybad (DisturbingBehavior), creative it, with all (Deep most of as Faculty), Rising,The itwas for what The greathugehulking megaProin the middle (Phantoms). endeavors, ductionsin the SF arenawereno betterthan thoseoutside;Armageddon wasthe worstof the lot, while Godzilla,cursedwith a moronic script,did scenes.Soldier manageto featurea few impressivemonster-on-the-loose was just anotherhackneyedattemptto retell Shanein anothervenue, with a particularlyfoolishbackground. Until the suitswho neverread sciencefiction, and have a hard time gettingit now,are out of the way,or producersand directorsknowledgeableaboutsciencefiction get a lot more clout than they currently have,theresimplyisn't goingto be filmed sciencefiction with someof the sophisticationand intelligenceof the bestwritten SE,at leastnot films.If you wantto enioythesemovies,follow amongthe big-budgeted lie there and think of England. advice: Victoria's Queen But thingsaregraduallychanging.Gattaca,in rgg7,wasn'texactly hard Sfl but its sciencefictionalpremisewastightly linked to the characters- the storywasall of a piece. Stylistically,writer/directorAndrew Niccol blundered,but he'san especiallygoodwriter, shownagainin his well-structured,very thorough script for The Truman Show. David Twohy is anotherwriter/directorto payattentionto; he had nothing new out in 1998,but his TheAnival of the yearbefore,while familiarand routine in its SF elements,treatedthem with respectand evenwit. Dark City playswith classicSF themeswith respect,authority,and intelligence.Yes,thissortof thing hasbeendonein written SF for years, but theret no reasonto expectfilmed SF not to headdown somewelltroddenpaths.SF readershaveno right to expectmoviesto leapahead to the place written SF has reached at the turn of the millennium. Changestakeplace,but they iakeplaceslowly,and sometimesin unexpected venues.The Matrix of rygg is an action-adventuremovie that,
746 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 when all trappingsare strippedaway,is about a band of superheroesout to savethe world from itself.The sciencefiction elementsarefamiliar to SF readers,but new to SF moviegoers, and again,writer-directors the wachowskibrothersknow the literatureaswell asthe moviesand comrc books. Moviesarea massmedium;written SF- for the mostpart- is not, and neverwill be.To hold massentertainmentup to the standards setby literaturecreatedfor a smallergroupis a mistake,whetherit'ssciencefiction, iazz,or commercialart. There are a lot of good moviesthat arescience fiction; don't make the mistakeof demandingthat they also be goodsciencefiction- or rather,don'tassumethat"goodsciencefiction" is anythingmorethan a perspective, a viewpoint,onethatworksfor you, but doesn'tnecessarilywork for thosewho buy movie tickets.
Winter Fire AY . LANDIS GEOFFRE
Dr. GeoffreyLandisworksfor NASA.He hetpedbuild the 5ojournerroverthat exptoredMarsin 7997.I haveworkedwith him,co-authoring a paperon howto find wormho[es, andin recentresearch on the dynamics of sendingsailsdrivenby microwavebeamsout into the solarsystem.He is a wide-ranging to his credit. intelligence with awards andan adroitstorytetter, Thestoryto fottowis a rathersternlookat ourspecies andwhat witl al.ltoo probabtyoccurin the next century-moreconflict looks,up ctose,worsethan meaningtess. that increasingty
I am nothing and nobody;atomsthat havelearnedto look at themselves;dirt that haslearnedto seethe aweand the maiestyof the universe. The day the hover-transports arrived in the refugeecamps,huge windowlessshellsof titanium floatingon elechostaticcushions,the day facelessmen took the raggedlittle girl that wasme awayfrom the narrow, blastedvalley that had once been Salzburgto begin a new life on anothercontinent:that is the hue beginningof my life. What camebefore then is almostirrelevant,a sequenceof memoriesetchedas with acid into my brain, but with no meaningto real life. SometimesI almost think that I can remembermy parents.I rememberthem not by what was,but by the shapeof the absencethey left
2000 Showcase 748 NebulaAwards behind.I rememberyeamingfor my mother'svoice,singingto me softlyin I cannotrememberher voice,or whatsongsshemight havesung, |apanese. but I remembersovividlythe missingof it, the hole thatsheleft behind. My fatherI rememberasthe lossof somethinglargeand warm and infinitely shong,prickly and smellingof-of what?I don't remember. Again,it is the lossthat remainsin my memory,not the man. I remember rememberinghim asmore solidthan mountains,somethingeternal;bui in the end he wasnot eternal,he wasnot evenasstrongasa verysmallwar. I lived in the city of music,in Salzburg,but I rememberlittle from before the siege.I do remembercaf6s(seenfrom below, with huge tables and the legs of waitersand faceslooming down to ask me if I would like a sweet).I'm suremy parentsmust havebeen there, but that I do not remember. And I remembermusic.I had my little violin (althoughit seemed solargeto me then),and musicwasnot my secondlanguagebut my first' later, I thoughtin musicbeforeeverI learnedwords.Evennow,decades when I forgetmyselfin mathematicsI ceaseto think in words,bui think directlyin conceptsclearand perfectlyharmonic,so that a mathematical proof is no more than the inevitablemaiestyof a crescendoleading to a final, resolvingchord. I have long since forgottenanything I knew about the violin' I havenot playedsincethe da,v,when I wasnine, I took from the rubble of our apartmentthe shatteredcherry-woodscroll.I keptthat meaningless pieceof polishedwoodfor years,sleptwith it clutchedin my hand every night until, much later, it was taken awayby a soldier intent on rape' ProbablyI would havelet him, had he not been so ignorant asto think might be a weapon.coitus is noihing more my one meagerpossession than the naturalact of the animal. From songbirdsto porpoises,any male animal will rapean availablefemalewhen givena chance.The acexcept,perhaps,asa chanceto contemplatethe tion is of no significance of any impersonalmaiestyof the chain of life and the meaninglessness individual'swill within it. When I wasfinally taken awayfrom the city of music, three years laterand a cenhrryolder,I ownednothing and wantednothing.There wasnothingof the city left.As the hoveriettook me away,iustone more in a seeminglyendlessline of raggedsurvivors,only the mountainsremained,hardly scarredby the bomb cratersand the detritusthat marked
WinterFire 149 wherethe castlehad stood,mountainslookingdown on humanitywith the gazeof eternity. My real parents,I havebeen told, were roustedout of our apartment with a tossedstick of dynamite,and shot as infidelsas they ran through the door, on the very first night of the war. It wasprobablyfanaticsof the New Orihodox Resurgencethat did it, in their first round of ethnic cleansing,althoughnobodyseemedto know for sure. In the beginning,despitethe dissolutionof Aushiaand the fall of the federationof free Europeanstates,despitethe hatetalk spreadby the disciplesof DraganVukadinovi6,the violentcleansingof the Orthodox church, and the rising of the Pan-Slavicunity movement,all the events all throughzro8,few peoplebelievedthere that coveredthe news-nets would be a war, and those that did thought that it might last a few months.The dissolutionof Austriaand easternEuropeinto a federation of free stateswasviewedby intellectualsof the time as a good thing, a recognition of the impending irrelevanceof governmentsin the posttechnologicalsocietywith its burgeoningsky-citiesand prosperingfreetradezones.Everyonetalkedof civil war,but asa distantthing; it wasan awful mythical monsterof ancienttimes,one that had been thought dead,a thing thatatepeople'sheartsand turnedthem into inhumangargoylesof stone.It would not come here. Salzburghad had a largepopulationof Asians,once themselves refugeesfrom the economicand political turmoil of the twenty-firstcenfury, but now prosperouscitizenswho had lived in the city for overa cenhrry. Nobody thought about religion in the Salzburgof that lost age; nobody cared that a personwhosefamily once came from the Orient might be a Buddhistor a Hindu or a Confucian.My own family,asfar asI know,had no religiousfeelingsat all, but that madelittle difference to the fanatics.My mother, suspectingpossiblehouble that night, had sent me over to sleepwith an old German couple who lived in a building nextdoor.I don't rememberwhetherI saidgood-bye. fohann Achtenbergbecame my foster-father,a stockyold man, beardedand foreversmellingof cigarsmoke."We will stay,"my fosterfatherwould often say,over and over."It is our city; the barbarianscannot drive us out." Laterin the siege,in a grimmer mood,he might add, "Thev can kill us.but thevwill neverdriveus out."
Showcase 2000 150 NebulaAwards The nextfew monthswerefull of turmoil, asthe OrthodoxResurgencetried, and failed,to take Salzburg.They were still disorganized, more a mob than an army,still evolvingtowardthe killing machine that they would eventuallybecome.Eventuallythey were driven out of the city,dynamitingbuildingsbehind them, to ioin up with the Pan-Slavic fumy rolling in from the devastationof Graz.The roadsin and out of the city werebarricaded,and the siegebegan. For that summerof zrog,the first summerof the siege,the life of the city hardlychanged.I wasten yearsold. There wasstill electricity, and water,and stocksoffood. The caf6sstayedopen,althoughcoffeebecame hard to obtain, and impossiblyexpensivewhen it was available, and at tirnes they had nothing to servebut water. I would watch the pretty girls, dressedin colorful Italian suede and wearing ornately carvedLadakhi iewelry,sholling down the streetsin the evenings,stopping to chat with T:shirted boys,and I would wonder if I would ever growup to be aselegantand poisedasthey.The shellingwasstill mostly far away,and everybodybelievedthat the tide of world opinion would soonstopthe war.The occasionalshell that wastargetedtowardthe city causedgreat commotion, people screamingand diving under tables evenfor a bird that hit many blocksaway.Later, when civilianshad become targets,we all learned to tell the caliber and the traiectory of a shell by the soundof the songit madeasit fell. After an explosionthereis silencefor an instant,then a hubbubof wallscollapse,and peoplegingerly crashingglassand debrisasshattered touch eachother, iust to verify that ihey arealive.The dust would hang in the air for hours. TowardSeptember,when it becameobviousthat the world powers werestalemated,and would not intervene,the shellingof the city began hoverand thin in earnest.Tanks,evenmodern oneswith electrostatic into the narrow coilgunsinsteadof heavycannons,could not maneuver mountain valalleysof the old city and were stymiedby the steep-sided crushedflat, invaded, were leys.But the outersuburbsand the hilltops and left abandoned. I did not rcalizeit at the time, for a child seeslittle, but with antiquated equipment and patched-togetherartillery, my besiegedcity clumsilyand painfullyfoughtback.For everyfifty shellsthat came in, one wasfired backat the attackers.
WinterFire 75t There wasan internationalblockadeagainstsellingweaponsto the but that seemedto makeno difference.Their weaPonsmay Resurgence, not have had the most modern of technolory, but they were far better than ours. They had superconductingcoilgunsfor artillery,weaPons shapedslugs-we called them birds-that that fired aerodynamically maneuveredon twistedarcsastheymoved.The birdsweresmall,barely largerthan my hand, but the metastableatomic hydrogenthat filled them held an incredibleamountof explosivepower. Our defendershad to rely on ancient weapons,guns that ignited chemical explosivesto propel metal shells.These were quickly disassembledand removedfrom their positionafter eachshot,becausethe enemy'scomputerscould backtrailthe trajectoryof our shells,which had only crudeaeromaneuvering, to directa deadlyrain of birdsat the guessed position.Sincewe werecut offfrom regularsupplylines,each shell wasprecious.We weresuppliedby ammunitioncarriedon mules whosetrailswould weavethrough the enemy'swoodedterritory by night andby shellscarriedoneby oneacrossdangerous territoryin backpacks. But still, miraculously,the city held. Over our headsthe continuous showerof steelerodedthe skyline.Our beautiful castleHohensalzburg wassandpapered to a hill of bare rock; the cathedraltowersfell and the debrisby slow degreeswaspounded into gravel.Bells rang in sympathy with explosionsuntil at lastthe bells were silenced.Slowly,erosionsoftenedthe profilesof buildingsthat once definedthe city'shorizon. Even without looking for the craters,we learnedto tell from looking at the heeswhich neighborhoods in them. Near had had explosions a blast, the city's hees had no leaves.They were shakenoff by the shockwaves.But none of the treeslastedthe winter anyway. My stepfathermade a stoveby pounding with a hammer on the fendersand door panelsof a wreckedautomobile,with a pipe madeof copperfrom rooftopsand innumerablesoftdrink cans.Floorboardsand furnifure were broken to bits to make fuel for us to keep warm. All throughthe city,stovepipes suddenlybristledthroughexteriorwallsand throughwindows.The fiberglass sidesof modernhousingblocks,never designedfor such crude heating,becamedecoratedwith black smoke trails like unreadablegraffiti,and the city parksbecameweirdly empty lotscrossedby windingsidewalks that meanderedpastthe craterswhere the heeshad been.
2000 152 NebulaAwardsShowcase fohann'swife, my foster-mother,a thin, quiet woman, died by being in the wrong building at the wrong time. She had been visiting a friend acrossthe city to exchangechat and a pinch of hoardedtea. It might just aseasilyhavebeen the building I wasin wherethe bird decided to build its deadlynest.It took someof the solidity out of )ohann' "Do not fall in love,little Leah,"he told me, many monthslater,when our liveshad returnedto a fragilestability."lt hurtstoo much." ln addition to the nearly full-time iob of bargainingfor thosenethat could be bargainedfor, substitutingor improvisingthose cessities and sheltersanystorthat could not, and hamsteringawayin basements ablefoodthat couldbe found,my stepfather )ohannhad anotheriob, or He would disappear, slowly. I only learnedthis perhapsan obsession. for days.One time I followedhim asfar asan enhanceto the sometimes ancientcatacombsbeneaththe bird-peckedruinsof the beautifulcastle Hohensalzburg.When he disappearedinto the darkness,I dared not follow. When he returned,I askedhim aboutit. He wasshangelyreluctant to speak.When he did, he did not explain,but only saidthat he was workingon the molecularstill, and refusedto sayanythingfurther,or to let me mentionit to anyoneelse. As a child I spokea hodgepodgeof languages;the English of the that my parthe Frenchof the EuropeanUnion,the fapanese foreigners, entshad spokenat home,the book-Germanof the schools,and the Austrian Germanthat wasthe dominanttongueof the cultureI lived in. At home we spokemostlyGerman,and in German,"Still" is a word that meansquietude.over the weeksand monthsthat followed,the ideaof a molecularstill grew in my imaginationinto a wonderfulthing, a place that is quiet evenon the molecularlevel,far differentfrom the booming soundsof war. In my imagination,knowing my stepfatherwasa gentle man who wantednothing but peace,I thoughtof it asa reversesecret weapon, something that would bring this wonderful stillnessto the to the wonderfulmolecularstill, eachtime world.When he disappeared I would wonderwhetherthis would be the time that ihe still would be ready,and peacewould come. And the city held. "salzburgis an idea,little Leah,"my stepfather neverpeck |ohann would tell me, "and all the birdsin the world could standfor will Salzburg souls. and in our it awav.for it lives in our minds
WinterFire 153 as long as any one of us lives.And, if we ever abandonthe city, then Salzburghasfallen,evenif the city itselfstill stands." In the outsideworld, the world I knew nothing of, nationsquarreledand werestalemated with indecisionoverwhatto do. Our city had been fragilely connectedto the westernhalf of Europe by precarious roads,with a seriesof tunnelsthroughthe Alps and long arcingbridges acrossnarrow mountain valleys.In their terror that the chaosmight spreadwestward,they dynamited the bridges,they collapsedthe tunnels.Not nations,but individualsdid it. They cut usofffrom civilization, and left us to survive,or die,on our own. Governments had becomeincreasingly unimportantin the erafollowing the openingof the resources of spaceby the free-tradezonesof the new prosperity,but the hading consortiathat now ruled America and the far eastin the place of governmentshad gainedtheir influence only by assiduously signingawaythe capacityto makewar,and although the covenants thathad securedtheirformationhad eroded,thatone prohibition still held. Only governmentscould help us, and the governments tried negotiationand diplomacy as Dragan Vukadinovi6 made promisesfor the New Orthodox Resurgenceand broke them. High above,the ownersof the sky-citiesdid the only thing that they could,which wasto denyaccess to spaceto eitherside.This keptthe war to the ground,but hurt us more than it hurt the armiessurroundingus. They, after all, had no need for satellitesto find out wherewe were. To the east,the Pan-Slavicfumy and the New Orthodox Resurgencewere pounding againstthe rock of the Tenth Crusade;farther souththey were skirmishingoverborderswith the IslamicFederation. Occasionallythe shellingwould stopfor a while, and it would be safeto bring hoardedsolarpanelsout into the sunlightto chargeour batteries- the elechicgrid hadgonelong ago,of course- and huddlearound an antique solar-powered televisionsetwatchingthe distantnegotiating teamstalk about our fate. Everybodyknew that the war would be over shortly;it wasimpossiblethat the world would not act. The world did not act. I remembertakingbatteriesfrom wreckedcarsto usea headlight, if one happenedto surviveunbroken,or a taillight, to allow us to stayup pastsunset.Therewasa concoctionof boiledleavesthatwe called"tea," althoughwe had no milk or sugarto put in it. We would sit together,
2000 Showcase Awards t54 Nebuta enjoyingthe miracle of light, sippingout "tea,"perhapsreading,perhaps justsittingin silence. With the destructionof the bridges, Salzburghad become two cities, connectedonly by narrow-beammicrowaveradio and the occaseriesof beams sionalforayby individualswalkingacrossthe dangerous stretchedacrossthe rubble of the Old StoneBridge.The two Salzburgs were distinct in population,with mostly immigrant populationsisolated in the modernbuildingson the eastsideof the river,and the old Aushianson the west. It is impossibleto describethe Salzburgfeeling, the aura of a sophisticatedancient city, wrappedin a glisteninglypure blanket of snow, under siege,faced with the daily onslaughtof an unseenarmy that seemedto havean unlimited supply of coilgunsand metastablehydrogen. We were neverout of range.The Salzburgshide wasrelaxedonly when protectedby the coverof buildings or speciallyconshuctedbarricades,breakinginto a jaggedsprint over a stretchof open ground, a cobbled forecourt of crossroadsopen to the rifles of sniperson distant hills firing hypersonicneedlesrandomly into the city. From the deadly steelbirds,therewasno protection.They could fly in anywhere,with no warning. By the time you heard their high-pitched song,you were alreadydead,or, miraculously,still alive. Not eventhe nightswere still. It is an incrediblesight to seea city cloaked in darknesssuddenlyilluminate with the blue dawn of a fare sent up from the hilltops, dimming the starsand suffirsingcoruscating light acrossthe glitteringsnow.There is a curious,ominousintervalof qui.t, th" buildingsof the city draggedblinking out of their darknessand displayedin a fairy glow,nakedbeforethe invisible gunnerson their disthe birdswould beginto sing.They ta'i hilltopr.Within thirty seconds, might land a good few blocksaway,the echo of their demiseringing up do*n the valley,or they might land in the streetbelow,the explosion "rrJ sendingpeoplediving under tables,windowscavingin acrossthe room. They could, I believe,havedestroyedthe city at any time, but that did not servetheir purposes.Salzburgwasa prize.Whether the buildingswerewhole or in partsseemedirrelevant,but the city wasnot to be, simply obliterated. in April, as buds startedto bloom from beneaththe rubble, the city woke ,rp, a.rd we discoveredthat we had survivedthe winter. The
WinterFire 755 diplomats proposedpartitioning the city between the Slavsand the Germans-Asiansand otherethnicgroups,like me, beingconveniently ignored- and the termswereset,but nothingcameof it excepta ceasefire thai wasviolatedbeforethe daywasover. The secondsummer of the siegewasa summerof hope. Every weekwe thought that this might be the lastweekof the siege;that peace might yet be declaredon termsthat we could accept,that would let us keepour city.The defenseof the city had openeda corridorto the outsideworld, allowing in humanitarianaid, black-marketgoods,and refugeesfrom other partsof the war.Someof the peoplewho had fled before the siegereturned,although many of the populationwho had survived the winter used the opportunity to flee to the west. My foster-father, though, sworethat he would stayin Salzburguntil death.It is civilization, and if it is destroyed,nothing is worthwhile. Christiansof the Tenth Crusadeand Turksof the IslamicFederation fought side by side with the official troopsof the Mayor'sBrigade, sharingammunitionbui not command,to defendthe city.High above, citiesin the skylookeddown on us, but, like angelswho seeeverything, theydid nothing. Cafbsopenedagain,eventhosewithoutblack-market connections that could only servewater,and in the eveningsthere were nightclubs, the music booming even louder than the distant gunfire. My fosterfather,of course,would neverlet me stayup lateenoughto find out what went on in these,but once,when he wasawaytendinghis molecular still, I waitedfor darknessand then crept through the sheetsto see. One bar wasentirely Islamic Rderation Tirrks,wearinggreenhrrbansand uniformsof darkmaroondenim,with spindlyrailgun-launchers slung acrosstheir backsand knivesand swordsstrung on leatherstraps acrosstheir bodies.Each one had in front ofhim a tiny cup ofdark coffee and a clear glassof whisky.I thought I wasinvisiblein the doorway,but one of the Turks,a tall man with a pockedfaceand a darkmustachethat droopeddown the side of his mouth, looked up, and, without smiling, said,"Hoy, little girl, I think that you are in the wrongplace." In the nextclub,mercenaries wearingcowboyhats,with blackuniforms and fingerlessleather gloves,had parked their guns againstthe walls beforesettling in to pound down whiskyin a bar where the music wassoloud that the beatreverberated acrosshalf the city.The one closest
2000 Showcase 156 NebulaAwards to the door had a shavenhead,with a spiderweb tattooedup his neck, and daggersand weird heraldicsymbolstattooedacrosshis arms.When he lookedup at me, standingin the doorway,he smiled,and I realized that he had been watchingme for sometime, probablyeversinceI had faceof appeared.His smilewasfar more frighteningthan the impassive the Tirrk. I ran all the wayhome. In the daytime, the snap of a sniper'srifle might prompt an exchangeof heavymachine-gunfire, a wild, rattling soundthat echoed crazilyfrom the hills. Small-armsfire would sound, tak, tak, tak, answeredby ihe singingof smallrailguns,tee,tee.Youcan'ttell the source of rifle fire in an urban environment;it seemsto comefrom all around. All you can do is duck, and run. Later that summerthe first of the omshowedup, firing a beamof pure energywith a silencesoloud niblasters that tiny hairsall overmy body would standup in fright' Cosmetics,babymilk, and whiskywerethe mostprized commoditieson the blackmarket. I had no ideawhat the war wasabout.Nobody wasable to explain could understand;few evenbothered it in termsthat an eleven-year-old to try. All I knew wasthat evil people on hilltops were trying to destroy everything I loved, and good men like my foster-fatherwere trying to stopthem. I slowlylearnedthat my foster-fatherwas'aPparently,quite important to the defense.He nevertalked about what he did, but I overheard other men refer to him with termslike "vital" and "indispensable,"and thesewords made me proud. At first I simply thought that they merely meantthat the existenceof men like him, proud of the city and vowing neverto leave,werethe core of what madethe defenseworthwhile. But laterI realizedthat it mustbe more than this.There werethousandsof men who loved the citY. Toward the end of the summer the siegeclosedaround the city again.The armyof the Tenth Crusadearrivedand took overthe ridgetops fumy and the OrthodoxResur;Jrt or,. valleyto the west;the Pan-Slavic genceheld the ridgesnextto the city and the territoryto the east.All that I,rtr*. the shellsof the Tenth Crusadearcedoverour headstowardthe pan-slavs,and beamsof purple fire from poPup robotswith omniblasters would fire back.It wasa goodautumn; mostlyonly strayfire hit the civilians.But we werelockedin place,and therewasno wayoul
WinterFire 757 There wasno placeto go outside,no placethat wassafe.The sky had becomeour enemy.My friendswere books.I had loved storybooks when I had beenyounger,in the part of my childhoodbeforethe siege that eventhen I barelyremembered.But fohann had no storybooks; his vastcollectionof bookswereall forbiddingthings,full of thick blocksof densetext and incomprehensiblediagramsthat were no picture of anything I could recognize.I taughtmyselfalgebra,with somehelp from |ohann,and startedworkingon calculus.It waseasierwhen I realizedthat the mathematicsin the bookswasjustan odd form of music,written in a strangelanguage.Candleswereprecious,and so in orderto keepon readingat night, fohann madean oil lamp for me, which would burn vegetableoil. This wasnearlyaspreciousascandles,but not soprecious asmy needto read. A still, I had learnedfrom my reading-and from the black market-was a devicefor making alcohol, or at leastfor separatingalcohol from water.Did a molecularstill makemolecules? "That's silly,"fohann told me. "Everything is made of molecules. Yourbed,the air you breathe,evenyou yourself,nothing but molecules." In November,the zoo'slaststubbornelephantdied.The predators, the lions,the tigers,eventhe wolves,werealreadygone,felledby simple lack of meat.The zebrasand antelopeshad gone quickly,somefrom starvation-induced illness,somekilled and butcheredby poachers. The elephant,surprisingly,had beenthe lastto go, a skeletalapparitionstubbornly surviving on scrapsof grassand bits of trash,protectedagainst ravenouspoachersby a continuousguard of armed watchmen.The watchmenprovedunable,however,to guardagainststarvation.Some people claim that kangaroosand emus still survived,freed from their hutchesby the shelling,and could be seenwanderingfree in the city lateat night.sometimesI wonderif theysurvivestill, awkwardbirdsand boundingmarsupials, hiding in the foothillsof theAustrianAlps,the last survivorsof the siegeof Salzburg. It was a hard winter. We learned to conservethe slightestbit of heat,so asto stretcha few sticksof firewoodout overa whole night. Typhus,dysentery, and pneumoniakilled more than the shelling,which had resumedin force with the onsetof winter. )ust after New year, a feverattackedme, and there wasno medicineto be had at any price. Johann wrappedme in blanketsand fed me hot watermixedwith saltand
2000 Showcase 158 NebulaAwards a pinch of precioussugar.I shiveredand burned, hallucinating strange things,now seeingkangaroosand emus outsidemy little room' now imagining myselfon the surfaceof Mars, stranglingin the thin air, and and then foating then instantlyonVenus,chokingin heatand darkness, in interstellarspace,my body growing alternatelylarger than galaxies, then smallerthan atoms,floating so far awayfrom anything elsethat it would take eonsfor any signalfrom me to everreachthe world where I had beenborn. Eventually the fever broke, and I was merely back in my room' shiveringwiih cold, wrappedin sheetsthat were stinkingwith sweat,in a city slowlybeing poundedinto rubble by distantsoldierswhosefacesI had neverseen,fighting for an ideologythat I could neverunderstand. It wasafter this, at my constantpleading,that |ohann finally took me to seehis molecular still. It wasa dangerouswalk acrossthe city, illuminated by the glow of the MarionetteTheater,setafire by incendiary bombstwo d^y, b.fot.. The still washidden belowthe city,fartherdown eventhan the bomb shelters,in catacombsthat had beencarvedout of rock overtwo thousandyearsago.There weretwo men there,a man my stepfather'sagewith a white mustache,and an even older VietnameseGerman man with one leg, who saidnothing the whole time' TheoldermanlookedatmeandsaidinFrench,whichperhapshe one'" thought I wouldn't understand,"This is no place to bring a little "She asks many questions'"He loh"nn replied in German, "I showher'" shrugged, *The and said, wantedto other said,still in French,"she couldn't understand."Right it was then I resolvedthat I would make myself understand,whatever in, taking critically, at me that they thought I could not. The man looked yours'anyno doubt, my straightblack hair and almond eyes'"She'snot way.What is sheto You?" "She is my daughter,")ohannsaid' with The molecularstill wasnothing to look at. Itwas a room filled thouand curtains of black velvet,doubled back and forth, thousands little well, "l,ook said. sandsof metersof blackness."Hete it is," )ohann Leah,for in all the world,you will neverseesuchanother'" Somewheretherewasafanthatpushedairpastthecurtains;I past'The foor could feel it on my face,cool, damp air movingsluggishly darkness'I of the room was coveredwith white dust, glisteningin the
WinterFire 759 reacheddown to touch it, and |ohann reachedout to still my hand. "Not to touch,"he said. "What is it?" I askedin wonder. "Can't you smellit?" And I could smell it, in fact, I had been nearlyholding my breath to avoid smelling it. The smell wasthick, pungent, almost choking. It made my eyeswater."r\mmonia,"I said. 'Ammonium nifohann nodded,smiling. His eyeswere bright. hate,"he said. I was silent most of the way back to the fortified basementwe sharedwith two other families.There must havebeen bombs,for there were alwaysthe birds,but I do not recall them. At last,just beforewe cameto the river, I asked,"Why?" "Oh, my little Leah,think. We are cut offhere. Do we haveelectrical generatorsto run coilgunslike the barbariansthat surroundus?We do not. What can we do, how can we defendourselves? The molecular still sortsmoleculesout of the air. Nitrogen,oxygen,water;this is all that is neededto makeexplosive,if only we can combine them correctly.My molecular still takesthe nitrogen out of the air, makesout of it ammonium nitrate,which we useto fire our cannons,to hold the barbarians awayfrom our city." I thoughtaboutthis.I knew aboutmoleculesby then,knew about nitrogen and oxygen,although not about explosives.Finally something occurredto me, and I asked,"But what aboutthe energy?Where does the energycomefrom?" )ohannsmiled,his facealmostglowingwith delight."r\h, my little Leah,you know the right questionsalready.Yes,the energy.We havedesignedour still to work by usinga seriesof reactions,eachone usingno more than a gnat'swhisker of energy.Nevertheless,you are right, we must needsstealenergyfrom somewhere.We draw the thermal energy of the air.Butold man entropy,he cannotbecheatedsoeasily.To do this we needa heatsink." I didn't know then enoughto follow his words,soI merelyrepeated his wordsdumbly:'A heatsink?" He wavedhis arm, encompassing the river, flowing darkbeneath a thin sheetof ice. '?{ndwhat a heatsinkl The barbariansknow we are manufacturingarms;we fire the proof of that back at them everyday,
2000 Showcase 160 NebulaAwards but they do not know wherelAnd here it is, right beforethem, the moarmsfactoryof all ofAustria,and theycannot tive powerfor the greatest seeit." Molecular still or not, the siegewent on. The Pan-Slavicsdrove backthe Tenth Crusade,and resumedtheir attackon the city. In February the armiesenteredthe city twice, and twice the raggeddefenders drovethem back.In April, once more, the flowersbloomed,and once more,we had survivedanotherwinter' It had been monthssinceI had had a bath; therewasno heat to wasteon merewater,and in any case'therewasno soap'Now, at last,we could wash,in waterdrawn directlyfrom the Salzach,scrubbingand diggingto get rid of the lice of winter. we stoodin line for hourswaitingfot a day'sration of macaroni, into the city,and hauled the humanitarianaid thathadbeenair-dropped enormousdrums acrossthe city to replenishour stockpileof drinking water. Summer rain fell, and we hoardedthe waterfrom rain guttersfor air. later use.All that summer the smell of charred stonehung in the of concrete Bullet-riddledcars,glitteringshardsof glass,and fragments from and cobblestonecoveredthe streets.Stone headsand gargoyles city. the blastedbuildings would look up at you from odd cornersof and tunnelsunder the city were filled out with matBasements and camp bedsas makeshiftliving quartersfor refugees,which tresses icy becamesweatyand smellydurlngsummer'for all thattheyhad been flew in, cold in winter. Above us, the ground would shakeasthe birds and plasterdustfell from the ceiling' I wasgrowinguP. I had readaboutsex,and knew it wasa nahrral and conpart of the p"rtt.r'lf iif., the urging of chromosomesto divide quer the *oda. I tried to imagine it with everybodyI saw'from |ohann actuallybeto prrring soldiers,bui couldn't evermake my imagination packed lievein it. Therewasenoughsexgoingon aroundme-we were desperation' of out togethertightly,and humansunder stresscopulate wasenough o,it of bor.dom, and out of pure instinct to survive'There myself' to I saw what to see,but I couldn'tapplyanythingof beI think, when I *", u"ry young,I had somebeliefthat human The ings were special,somethingmore than iust meat that thought' been had I ,i""g., unielenting tutor, taught me otherwise'A woman "
WinterFire 761 with on one day,cuddled in her lap and talking nonsense,the next day wasout in the street,bisectedby shrapnel,reducedto a lessonin anatomy.If therewasa soul it wassomethingintangible,somethingso fragile that it could not standup to the gentlestkissof steel. Peoplestayedalive by eatingleaves,acoms,and, when the humanitarianaid from the skyfailed, by grinding down the hard centersof corncobsto makecakeswith the powder. There were developmentsin the war, although I did not know them. The Pan-Slavicfumy, flying their standard of a two-headed dragon,turned againstthe triple crossof the New Orthodox Resurgence, and to the eastthousandsof squarekilometersof pacifiedcountryside turnedin a dayinto flamingruin, asthe formeralliessavaged eachother. We couldseethe smokein the distance,a hugepillar of blackrisingkilometersinto the sky. It madeno differenceto the siege.On the hilltopsthe Pan-Slavic Army drove off the New Orthodox Resurgence,and when they were done,the gunsturnedbackon the city.By the autumnthe siegehad not lifted, and we knew we would haveto faceanotherwinter. Far over our heads,through the everpresentsmokewe could see the lights of freedom,the glimmering of distantcitiesin the sky,remote from all of the trouble of Earth. "They haveno culture,"fohann said. "They havepower,yes,but theyhaveno souls,or theywould be helping us. Aluminum and rock, what do they have?Life, and nothing else. when they haveanotherthousandyears,they will still not havea third of the realityof our city.Freedom,hah.Why don't they help us,eh?" The winter wasslow frozenstarvation.one by one, the artillery piecesthat defendedour city failed,for we no longerhad the machine shopsto keepthem in repair,nor the toolsto makeshells.One by one the viciousbirdsfired from distanthilltopsfound the homesof our guns and rippedthem apart.By the middle of Rbruary we wereundefended. And the birds continuedto fall. sometimesI accompanied )ohannto the molecularstill. over the long monthsof siegetheyhad modifiedit sothat it now distilledfrom air and waternot merelynitrate,but finishedexplosivereadyfor the guns, tonsper hour. But what goodwasit now,when therewereno gunsleft for it to feed?of the eight men who had given it birth, only two still sur, vivedto tend it, old oneJeggedNguyenand fohann.
2000 t62 NebutaAwardsShowcase One day Nguyen stoppedcoming.The placehe lived had been hit, or he had been struckin transit.There wasno way I would ever find out. There was nothing left of the city to defend,and almost nobody ableto defendit. Eventhosewho werewilling werestarvedtoo weakto hold a weapon. AII through February,all through March, the shelling continued, despitethe lack of return fire from the city. They must haveknown that the resistancewas over. Perhaps,fohann said, they had forgotten that there wasa city here at all, they were shelling the city now for-no other theywereshellingus as reasonthan that it had becomea habit.Perhaps a punishmentfor havingdaredto defythem' Through April, the shelling continued' There was no food' no heat,no cleanwater,no medicineto treatthe wounded' When fohann died it took me four hours to remove the rubble demolftom his body, pulling stonesawayas birds falling around me I was north. isheda buildi.jrta.ding a block to the eastand two blocks There surprisedat how light he was,little more than a featherpillow. back him wereall full' I placed *", .,o placeto b,r.y hi-; the graveyards rubble wherehe had lain, crossedhis hands,and left him buried in the of the basementwherewe had spentour livesentwined' I movedto a new shelter,a tunnel cut out of the solid rock below huddled the Mtinchsberg,an artificialcavernwherea hundredfamilies a parking in the dark, *"iting for an end to existence'It had once been on the stone garuge.Themoisturefrom three hundred lungscondensed ceilingand driPPeddown on us' therewas At last,atthe end of April, the shellingstopped'For a day alleysto no were There quiet, and then the victoriousarmy came in'
baffletheirtanksnow.Theycamedressedinplasticarmor'facelesssol their backs; dierswith railgunsand omniblastersthrown casuallyacross fumy' the two' they came flying the awful standardof the Pan-Slavic One of them musthavebeen headeddragonon a field of blue crosses' of Bratislava' Dragan Vufadinovi6, Dragan the Cleanser,the Scorpion were the them with one. butin their armor I coulJ not know which had been negodiplomats,explainingto all who would listen that peace would agreeto we that tiated, the war rv", ou"r, and our part of it was leaveour city and moveinto camPsto be resettledelsewhere'
Winterfire 163 Would the victorswrite the history?I wondered.What would they say,to justifytheir deeds?Or would they,too,be left behindby history,a minor faction in a minor eventforgottenagainstihe dramaof a destiny working itself out far away? It wasa living tide of raggedhumansthat met them, draggingthe crippledand woundedon improvisedsledges. I found it hardto believe that there could be so many left. Nobody noticed a dirty twelve-yearold girl, small for her age,slip away.Or if they did notice,wherecould shego? The molecularstill wasstill running.The darkness, the smellof it, hidden beneatha ruined, desertedSalzburg,wasa comfort to me. It alone had been steadfast. In the end the humanswho tended it had turned out to be too fragile,but it had run on, alone in the dark,producing explosives that nobodywould everuse,filling the cavernsand the dungeonsbeneatha castlethat had once been the proud symbolof a proud city. Filling it by the ton, by the thousandsof tons,perhapseven tensof thousandsof tons. I broughtwith me an alarm clock, and a battery,and I satfor a long time in the dark, rememberingthe city. And in the darkness,I could not bring myselfto becomethe angel of destruction,to call downthe cleansingfire I had sodreamedof seeing broughtupon my enemies.In orderto surviveyou mustbecometough, )ohann had once told me; you mustbecomehard.But I could not becomehardenough.I could not becomelike them. And so I destroyed the molecularstill, and fed the piecesinto the Salzach.Forall its beautyandpowerit wasfragile,and when I had done therewasnothing left by which someonecould reconstructit, or even understandwhat it had been.I left the alarmclock and the battery,and ten thousandtonsof explosive, behind in the catacombs. Perhapsthey are there still. It was,I am told, the mostbeautiful,the mostcivilizedcity in the world. The many people who told me that are all dead now, and I rememberit only throughthe eyesof a child, lookingup from belowand understanding little. Nothing of that little girl remains.Like my civilization,I haveremade myselfanew.I live in a world of peace,a world of mathematics
2000 Showcase 164 NebulaAwards But,like the first rethe openingof the new renaissance. and sky-cities, ihis one wasbirthedin fire and war' naissance, I will nevertell this to anybody.To peoplewho were not there,the storyis only words,and they could neverunderstand'And to thosewho werethere,we who lived throughthe long siegeof Salzburgand somehow cameout alive,thereis no needto speak' In a verylong lifetime,we could neverforget'
Iethe W A L T E JRO N W I L L I A M S
writermostof his hasbeena professional WalterJon Wittiams had written eartier in his career.His [ife, and historicalnovets talentsin settingand characterhaveservedhim wettin both in suchnovets science fictionandfantasy,and his imagination as Hardwired showeda prodigious rangeof sheerinventionin about the near future. thinking novelhimsetf-talt,musHelookstikethe heroof a historica[ cular,bearded in a handsome way.He[ivessouthof Atbuquerque l/ilitliams is widetytiked andhasan unfuitingty sunnydisposition. in the5Fcommunity, andonewonders sometimes whyhedid not become a potitician-except,of course, that he hasgoodtaste. its discussion of Hisstoryherecaughtmyattentionbecause goesfar beyondthe ctich6ddiscourse of ctoningparticutarty mainstream thinking,andindeed,ringschanges uponeventhe ideasthat havebeendepictedin the SFliteraturefor advanced Asan identicaltwin, I havewatchedthe ferventmordecades. alizingaboutctoningwith a skepticaleye; manydo not seem to reatizethat twins area commonbiotogicalstrategyamong mammats, and coutdbe an instructivecasefor the earnest "ethicists"of the present.In anycase,Williams's dramais grippingin its own right.
Showcase 166 NebulaAwards 2000 for the return iourney.He had Davouthad himselfdisassembled alreadybeen torn in half, he felt: the remainder,the dumb beaststill alive,did not matter.The Captainhad ruled, and Katrin would not be brought back.Davout did not want to spendthe yearsbetweenthe stars in pain, confrontingthe gapingabsencein his quarters,surroundedby the quiet sympathyof the crew Besides,he was no longer needed.The terraformingteam had done its work, and then, but for Davout, had died. Davoutlay down on a bed of nanoand let the little machinestake him apartpieceby piece,turn his body,his mind, andhis unquenchable longing into long stringsof numbers.The nanomachinescrawledinto his brain first,mapping,recording,and then shut down his mind piece by piece, so that he would feel no discomfortduring what followed, or suffera memory of his own body being taken apart. Davouthopedthat the nanoswould shutdown the pain beforehis failed,sothat he could rememberwhat it waslike to live consciousness withoutthe anguishthat wasnow a part of his life, but it didn't work out ebbed,he wasaware,evento the last that way.When his consciousness fadingof the light, of the knife-bladeof lossstill buried in his heart. The pain wastherewhen Davout awoke,a wailing voicethat cried, He found a pure contraltokeenof agony,in his first dawningawareness. silhouwallpaper, blue-striped bedroom, himself in an early-Victorian Crisp sheets,light streamingin ettesin ovalframes,silk flowersin vases. the window.A stranger-shoulderlen$h hair, black frock coat,cravat tied - lookedat him from a Gothic-revivalarmchair.The man carelessly held a pipe in the right hand and tampeddown tobaccowith the prehensilebig toe of his left foot. "I'm not on the Beagle,"Davoutsaid. The man gavea gravenod. His left hand formed the mudra for
."Yes." "And this isn'ta virtual?" again."No." "Then somethinghasgonewrong." "Yes.A moment,sir, if you please."The man finished tamping, slipped his foot into a waiting boot, then lit the pipe with the anachronisticlighter in his left hand. He puffed, drew in smoke,
Lethe 167 exhaled,put the lighterin his pocket,and settledbackin the walnutembraceof his chair. "l am Dr. Li," he said.<Standby> saidthe left hand,the old finger positionfor a now-obsoletepalmtop computer,a finger positionthat had once meantpause,as (correct> had once meantenter,enterbecauseit wascorrect."Pleaseremainin bedfor a few moreminuteswhile the nanosdouble-checktheir work. Redundancyis frustrating,"puffing smoke,"but goodfor peaceof mind." "What happensif they find they'vemade a mistake?" "lt can't be a very largemistake,"saidLi, "or we wouldn'tbe communicatingsorationally.At worst,you will sleep for a bit while thingsarecorrected." "May I take my handsout from under the covers?"he asked. "Yes." werebrown and leathery, Davoutdid so.His hands,he observed, handssuitablefor the hot, dry world of Sarpedon.They had not, then, changedhis body for one more suitedto Earth, but given him something familiar. If, he realized,they wereon Earth. His right fingersmadethe mudra. signedLi. Davout passeda hand over his forehead,discoveredthat the fore' head,hand, and the gestureitself were perfectlyfamiliar. Strange,but the gestureconvincedhim that he was,in a vital way, still himself.Still Davout. Still alive,he thought.Alas. "Tell me whathappened,"he said."Tell me why I'm here." Li signed<standby>, madea visibleeffortto collecthimself."We believe,"he said,"that the Beaglewasdestroyed.If so,you are the only survivor." Davout found his shock curiously veiled. The loss of the other lives-friends, mostof them-stood mutedby the precedentof his own earlier,overridinggrief. It is as if the two losseswereweighedin a balance,and the Beaglefound wanting. Li, Davout observed,waswaiting for Davout to absorbthis information beforecontinuing. Davoutsigned.
Showcase 168 Nebula Awards 2000 "The accidenthappenedsevenlight-yearsout," Li said."Beagle beganto yawwildly, and both automaticsystemsand the crew failed to correct the maneuver.Beagle'sautomatic systemsconcluded that the shipwasunlikelyto survivethe increasingoscillations, and beganto use its communicationslasersto downloadpersonalitydatato collectorsin during the reEarth orbit. As the only crewmemberto electdisassembly turn journey,you werefirst in the queue.The others,we presume,ran to nano disassembly stations,but communicationwaslost with the Beagle beforewe retrievedany of their data." "Did Katrink comethrough?" Li stirreduneasilyin his chair."1'm afraidnot." Davoutclosedhis eyes.He had losther again.Over the bubbleof in his throathe asked,"How long hasit beensincemy data hopelessness arrived?" 'A little overeight days." They had waited eight days,then, for Beagle-for the Beagleof communication. sevenyearsago- to correctitsproblemand reestablish lf Beaglehad resumedcontact,the massof data that wasDavout might havebeenerasedasredundant. "The governmenthasannouncedthe loss,"Li said."Though there is a remote chance that the Beaglemay come flying in or through the systemin elevenyearsas scheduled,we have detectedno more transandwe'vebeenunableto observeanyblueshifteddeceleration missions, torch aimedat our system.The governmentdecidedthat it would be unfair to keepsibsand survivorsin the darkanylonger." Davout signed. He envisionedthe last momentsof the Beagle,the crew being f ung backand forth asthe shipslammedthroughincreasingpendulum swings,the desperateattempts,fighting wildly fluctuatinggravityand inertia, to reachthe emergencynanobeds.. . no panic, Davout thought, Captain Moshweshwehad trained his peopletoo well for that. |ust desperation,and determination,and, asthe oscillationsgrewworse,an increasingsenseof futility,and impendingdeath. No one expectedto die anymore.It was alwaysa shock when it happenednearyou. Or fo you. "The causeof the Beagle'sproblem remainsunknown," Li said,
Lethe 169 the voice far away."The Bureau is working with simulatorsto try to discoverwhathappened." Davoutleanedbackagainsthis pillow. Painthrobbedin his veins, "The pain and loss,knowledgethat his past,his ioy,wasirrecoverable. whole voyage,"he said,"wasa catastrophe." Li signed."You terraformedand explored two worldsi' he said."Downloadsare alreadyliving on these worlds,hundredsof thousandsnow, millions later.There would have beena third world addedto our commonwealthif your missionhad not beencut shortdue to the, ah, firstaccident.. ." Davoutsigned,but only becausehis wordswould have comeout with too much bitterness. from your <Sorry>,a curt ierk of Li's fingers."There aremessages "and downloadsfrom them also.The sibsand friends of sibs,"Li said, crewwill try to contactyou, no doubt.Youneednot answerany Beagle's until you're ready." of thesemessages Davout hesitated,but the words were insistent; he gave them he asked. tongue."HaveKatrin'ssibssentmessages?" Li's graveexpression scarcelychanged."l believeso."He tilted his "Is I head. thereanything can do for you?AnythingI can arrange?" "Not now,no," saidDavout. he signed."Can I move from the bed now?" Lit look turnedabstractashe scannedindicatorsproiectedsomewhere in his mind. "You may,"he said.He rosefrom his chair, took the pipe from his mouth. "You are in a hospital,I shouldadd,"he said,"but you do not havethe formal statusof patient,and may leaveat future,aslong anytime. Likewise,you may stayherefor the foreseeable you feel it necessary." as iThank you> "Where is this hospital,by the way?" "Westfava.The city of Bandung." years. Earth, then. Which Davout had not seenin seventy-seven of of mind the scent durian, gentle fingers touched his with Memory's ocean,of mace,cloves,and turmeric. He knew he was never in )ava before, though, and wondered whencethe memorycame.From one of his sibs,perhaps?
170 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 Davout signedagain,putting a touch of finality, a kind of dismissal,into the twist of his fingers. Dr. Li left Davout alone, in his nedold body, in the room that whisperedof memoryand pain. In a dark-woodarmoireDavout found identificationand clothing, and a record confirming that his accounthad receivedseventy-eight years'backpay.His electronicin-boxcontaineddownloadsfrom his sibs than he could copewith-he would have and more personalmessages to constructan electronicpersonalityto answermost of them. He dressedand left the hospital.Whoever supervisedhis reasincludeda completeEarth sembly-Dr. Li perhaps-had thoughffi.rlly it ashe walked,making ranatlasin his internal ROM, and he accessed dom hrmingsbut nevergettinglost.The furioussun burneddown with to bearheat,and tropicalintensity,but his currentbodywasconstructed a breezeoff the mountainsmade pleasanteventhe blazing noontide. The iofil metal music of the gamelansclattered from almost everydoorway.Peoplein bright clothing, agile as the siamangof near Sumatra,spedoverheadalong treewaysand ropeways,arms and hands modified for brachiation.Robots,immune to the heat,shimmeredpast on silent tires. Davout found it all strangelyfamiliar, asif he had been herein a dream. And then he found himself by the sea,and a Pangof familiarity knifed through his heart.Home!cried his thoughts.Other worldshe had built, otherbeautieshe had seen,but he had neverbeheldfhisblue,this perfection,anlwhere elsebut on his nativesphere.Subtledifferencesin had renderedthis color unnaturalon anyotherworld. atmospherics And with the cry of familiarity came a memory: it had been Davout the Silent who had come here, a century or more ago,and Katrin had beenby his side. But Davout'sllatrin wasdead.And ashe lookedon Earth'sbeauty, he felt his world of ioy turn to bitter ashes. His fingersformedthe word unbidden. He lived in a world whereno one died,and nothingwaseverlost. One understoodthat such things occasionallyoccurred,but neverhardlyever-to anyonethat one knew.Physicalimmortalitywascheap and easy,and wassupportedby so many alternatesystems:backing up
Lethe 177 the mind by downloading,or downloadinginto a virtual realitysystemor duplicatedthe body or improved into a durable machine. Nanosystems Data slumberedin securestorit, adaptedit for differentenvironments. age,awaitingthe electronkissthat returnedit to life. Bringing a child to term in the wombwasnow the rarestformof reproduction,andbringing a child to life in a machinewomb the nextrarest. It wassomuch easierto havethe nanosduplicateyou asan adult' Then, at least,you had someoneto talk to. No one died, and nothing is ever lost, But Katrin died, Davout thought, and now I am lost,and it wasnot supposedto be this way. Fingerswailedthe grief that wasstoppedup in Davoutt throat. Davout and Katrin had met in school, membersof the last generation in which womb-breedingoutnumberedthe alternatives.Immortality whisperedits covenantinto their receptiveears.On their first meeting,attendinga lecture (Dolphus on "Reinventingthe Humbolt Sea")at the College of Mystery,they looked at each other and knew,as if angelshad whisperedinto their ears,that there wasnow one lessmystery in the world,that eachservedasan answerto another,that eachfitted neatlyinto a hollow that the otherhad perceivedin his or her soul, piecein a finely made droppinginto placeasneatlyasa butter-smooth aseasilyasa carbolicfuncteakpuzzle- or, consideringtheir interests, indole ring. an tional group nestedinto place on Their rapport was,they freely admitted, miraculous.Still young, theyexplodedinto the world, into a universethat welcomedthem. He could not bearto be awayfrom her.Twenty-fourhourswasthe absolutelimit beforeDavout'snervesbeganto beata frustratedlittle tattoo, and he found himselfconiuringa phantomKatrin in his imagination, iust to havesomeoneto sharethe world with -heneeded her there, neededthis human lensthroughwhich he viewedthe universe. Without her, Davoutfound the cosmosveiledin a kind of uncertainty.While it waspossibleto apprehendcertainthings(theusefulness of informationof cellsin the transmission of a coenocyticarrangement bearingproteinsand nuclei, the historicalsignificanceof the Yucatdnas trobleme,the limitationsof the Benardcell model in predictingthermic instabilitiesin the atmosphere),thesethings lacked n6esis,existedonly accidents.RefectedthroughKatrin, asa seriesof singular,purposeless
772 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 however,the world took on brilliance,purpose,and genius.With Katrin he could feastupon the universe;without her the world lackedsavor. Their interestsweresimilarenoughfor eachto generateenthusiasmin the other,diverseenoughthat eachwasable to add perspectiveto the other'swork. They workedin cozyharmony,back-to-back, two desks setin the sameroom. SometimesDavoutwould returnfrom a meeting, or a coffeebreak,and find that Katrin had addednew paragraphs, sometimesan entirenew direction,to his latesteffort.On occasionhe would returnthe favor.Their earlywork-eccentric, proliferatingin too many directions,toward too many specialties-showedlife and promiseand more than a hint of brilliance, Too much, they decided,for justthe two of them.They wantedto do too much, and all at once,and an immortal lifetime wasnot time enough. And so,assoonastheycould affordit, RedKatrin,the original,was duplicated-with a few cosmeticalterations-in Dark Katrin and later Katrin the Fair;and nanomachinesreadOld Davout,blood and bone and the long shandsof numbersthat were his soul, and createdperfect copiesin DangerousDavout,later calledthe Conqueror,and Davout the Silent. Two had become six, and a half a dozen, they now agreed,was aboutall the universecould handlefor the present.The wild tangleof overlappinginterestswasparceledout betweenthe threecouples,each taking one of the three most noble pathsto understanding.The eldest couplechoseHistoryastheir domain,a part of which involvedchroniof their sibs;the secondcoupletook Science;the cling the adventures the of the human mind. Any developments, Psyche, exploration third any insights,on the part of one of the sibscould be sharedwith the othersthrough downloads.In the beginningthey downloadedthemselves and plansin almostcontinually,sharingtheir thoughtsand experiences careersdespecialized lives and more a creativefrenzy.Later,asseparate veloped,the downloadsgrewlessfrequent,though there were no interruptionsuntil DangerousDavout and Dark Katrin took their first voyage to another star.They spentover fifty yearsaway,though to them it was lessthan thirty; and the downloadsfrom Earth, pulsed over immense distancesby communicationslasers,were lessfrequent,and lessfre-
Lethe t73 quently resortedto. The livesof the other couples,lived at what seemed as relevanceto their own existence, rates,wereof decreasing speeded-up dream' if theywerelivesthat dwelledin a half-remembered the fingerssigned.for the dreamturnedto savage nightmare. The sea,a perfect terrestrialblue, gazedback into Davout'seyes, frozen into his fingers. indifferentto the sadness "Your doctorsknew that to wake here, after such an absence, saidDavout'ssib,"sotheyput would resultin a feelingof anachronism," you in this Victorian room, whereyou would at leastfeel at easewith the kind of anachronismby which you are surrounded."He smiled at Davout from the neo'Gothic armchair."If you were in a modern room, But everyonecanfeel ofobsolescence. you might experiencea sensation superiorto the Victorians,and besidesone is alwaysmore comfortable in one'spast." "Is one?"Davout asked,fingerssigning. The pastand the present,he found, were alike a place of torment. "l discover,"he continued,"that my thoughtsstrayfor comfort not to the past,but to the future." 'Ah." A smile."That is why we call you Davoutthe Conqueror." "I do not seemto inhabit that name,"Davoutsaid,"if I everdid." Concern shadowedthe face of Davout'ssib' <Sorry> he signed, and then made another sign for <profoundly>, the old multiply sign, multiplesof sorrowin his gesture. "l understand,"he said. "l experiencedyour Iast download.It was.. . intenselydisturbing.I haveneverfelt suchterror,suchloss." "Nor had I," saidDavout. It was Old Davout whose image was proiected into the Gothicrevivalarmchair,the original, womb-bornDavout of whom the two sibs werecopies.When Davoutlookedat him it waslike lookinginto a mirror in which his reflectionhad beenretardedfor severalcenturies,then - Davoutremembered, severalbodiesback,once released unexpectedly that tall forehead,the fair hair, the small earsflattenedclose possessing to the skull.The grayeyeshe had still, but he could neverpicturehimlittle goatee. selfwearingthe professorial
174 NebulaAwardsShowcase 2000
"How is our othersib?"Davoutasked. "Youwill find Silent The concernon Old Davout'sfacedeepened. Davout much changed.You haven'tuploadedhim, then?" "Due to the delays,I'm thirty yearsbehind on my uploading." "Ah." "Perhapsyou should speakto him, then, before you uploadall thoseyears." "l will." He lookedat his sib and hopedthe longingdid not burn in his eyes."Pleasegive my bestto Katrin, will you?" "l will give her your love," saidOld Davout, wisestof the sibs. The pain wastherewhen Davout awokenext day,freshasthe moment it firstknifedthroughhim, on the daytheir fifth child, the planet Saqpedon, was christened.Sarpedonhad been discoveredby astronomersa couple of centuriesbefore,and named,with due regardfor tradition,afteryet anotherminor characterin Homer;it had beenmapped and analyzedbyrobot probes;but ii had been the Beagle'sterraforming team that had made the windswept place, with its barren mountain rangesand endlessdeserts,its angryradiationand furiousdust storms, into a placesuitablefor life. Katrin wasthe head of the terraformingteam. Davout led its researchdivision.Betweenthem, raining nano from Sarpedon'sblack filled its skies,they nursedthe planetto life, enrichedits atmosphere, seas,crafted tough, versatilevegetation capable of withstanding the angryenvironment.Seededlife by the tensof millions,insects,reptiles, with dark, themselves, birds,mammals,fish, and amphibians.Re-created leatheryskin and slit pupils, ashuman forms suitablefor Sarpedon'senvironment,sothat they could examinethe placetheyhad built. And-unknown to the others-Davout and Katrin had slipped bits of their own geneticsinto almosteverySarpedanlife-form.Bits of redundantcoding,mostly,but enoughsothattheycould claim Sarpedon's entireworld of creaturesastheir children.Evenwhen they werejunior terraformerson the Cheng Ho's mission to Rhea, they had, partly as a joke,partly as somethingmore calculated,populatedtheir creations with their genes. Katrin and Davout spent the last two yearsof their proiect on Sarpedonamong their children, examiningthe differentecosystems,
Lethe t75 In the end saqpetinkeringwith new adaptations. differentinteractions, don was certified as suitablefor human habitation.Preprogrammed nanosconstructedsmall towns,laid out fields,parks,and roads'The first human Sarpedanswould be constructedin nanobeds,and their minds filled with the downloadedpersonalitiesof volunteersfrom Earth.There wasno needto go to the expenseand troubleof shipping out millions of warm bodiesfrom Earth, running the risksof traveling for decadesin remotespace.Not when nanoscould constructthem all new on site. slit-eyed-emerged The first Sarpedans-bald,leather-skinned, blinking into their new red dawn.Any further terraforming,any attempts to fine-tune the planet and make it more Earthlike, would be a longterm proiect and up to them. In a splendidceremony'Captain Moshweshwe formally turned the future of Sarpedon over to its new inhabitants.Davouthad a few lastformalitiesto perform,handingcerbut the restof tain computercodesand protocolsoverto the Saqpedans, the terraformingteam, most fairly drunk on champagne,filed into the shuttle for the return iourney to the Beagle.As Davout bent over a terminal with his Sarpedancolleaguesand the Beagle'sfirst ofEcer,he could hearthe roarof the shuttleon its pad,the sustainedthunderasit climbed for orbit, the thud asit crashedthrough the soundbarrier, and then he sawout of the corner of his eyethe suddenred-goldflare . . . When he racedoutsideit wasto seethe blazingPoPpyunfolding in the sky,a blossomof fire and metal falling slowlyto the surfaceof the newlychristenedplanet. There shewas- her imageanyway- in the neo-Gothicarmchair; Red Katrin, the green-eyedlady with whom he in memory, and Old Davout in reality,had first exchangedglancestwo cenhtriesago while Dolphusexpandedon whathe calledhis "lunaforming." Davout had hesitatedabout returning her call of condolence'He did not know whetherhis heartcould sustaintwo knifethrusts,both Kaand foreverbetrin's deathand the sightof her sib, alive,sympathetic, yond his reach. But he couldn't not callher. Even when he washying not to think about her, he still found Katrin on the edgeof his perceptions,drifting throughhis thoughtslike the persistenttraceof somefamiliarperfume.
176 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 Time to get it overwith, he thought.If it wasmore than he could stand,he could apologizeand end the call. But he had to know. . . "And there are no backups?"she said.A pensivefrown touched her lips. "No recentbackups,"Davout said."We alwaysthought that, if we were to die, we would die together.Spacehavel is hazardous,after all, and when catashophe strikesit is not a smallcatastrophe. We didn't anticipateone of us survivinga catastropheon Earth, and the other dying light-yearsaway."He scowled. "Damn Moshweshwe anyway!There wererecentbackupson the Beagle,but with somanydeadfrom an undeterminedcausehe decided not to resurrectanyone,to cancel our trip to Astoreth,return to Earth, and sortout all the complicationsoncehe got home." "He madethe right decision,"Katrinsaid."lf my sib had beenresurrected,you both would havedied together." Davout'sfingers began to form the mudra, but he thought better of it, madea gestureof negation. The greeneyesnarrowed."There areolder backupson Earth,yes?" "Katrin's latest surviving backup dates from the rehrrn of the ChengHo." "Almost ninety yearsago." Though$ully. "But she could upload the memoriesshehasbeen sendingme.. . the problemdoesnot seem insurmountable." Red Katrin claspedher handsaroundone knee.At the familiar gesture, memoriesrang through Davout'smind like change-bells.Vertigo overwhelmedhim, and he closedhis eyes. "The problemis the instructionsKatrin-we both-Ieft," he said. "Again,we anticipatedthat if we died, we'd die together.And so we left inshuctionsthat our backupson Earth werenot to be employed.We reasonedthat we had two sibsapieceon Earth,and if they-you-missed us,you could simplyduplicateyourselves." "I see."A pause,then concern."Areyou all right?" "Of coursenot,"he said.He openedhis eyes.The world eddiedfor a moment,then stilled,the growingcalmnesscenteredon Red Kahin'sgreeneyes. "I've gotseventy-odd years'backpay,"he said."l supposethat I could hire somelawyers,try to get Katrint backupreleasedto my custody."
Lethe 777 Red Katrin bit her nether lip. "Recent court decisionsare not in your favor." "l'm verypersistent. And I'm cash-rich." She cockedher head,lookedat him. "Areyou all right talking to me? Should I blank my image?" He shookhis head."lt helps,actually,to seeyou." He had fearedagonyin seeingher,but insteadhe found a growing joy, a happinessthat mounted in his heart.As always,his Katrin was helpinghim to makesenseof the bitter conhelpinghim to understand, fusionof the world. An ideabeganto creepinto his mind on stealthyfeet. "l worrythatyou'realonethere,"RedKatrinsaid'"Would you like to come staywith us?Would you like us to come to fava?" "I'll come seeyou soon,"Davoutsaid."But while I'm in the hospital,I think I'll have a few cosmeticprocedures."He lookeddown at himself,spreadhis leatheryhands."PerhapsI should look a little moreEarthlike." After his talk with Katrin ended,Davoutcalled Dr. Li and told him that he wanteda new bodyconstructed. Somethingfamiliar,he said,alreadyin the files.His own, original form. Agetwentyor so. "lt is a surpriseto seeyou . . . asyou are,"saidSilentDavout. Deep-voiced,black-skinned,and somber, Davout'ssib stood by his bed. "lt was a useful body when I wore it," Davout answered."I take comfort in. . . familiar things.. . now that my life is so uncertain."He lookedup. "It wasgoodof you to comein person." 'A holographicbody," taking Davout'shand, "howeverwelcome, howeverfamiliar,is not the sameasa realperson." the hand."Welcome,then,"he said.Dr. Li, who Davoutsqueezed had supervisedin personthrough the new/old body'sassembly,had left aftersayingthe nanoswere done,so it seemedappropriatefor Davout to standand embracehis sib. The youngestof the sibswasnot tall, but he wasbuilt solidly,asif for permanence,and his head seemedslightlyoversizedfor his body.
778 NebulaAwards 2000 Showcase With his older sibshe had alwaysmaintaineda kind of formal reserve that had resultedin his being nicknamed"the Silent."Acceptingthe name,he remarkedthat the reasonhe spokelittle when the otherswere aroundis that his oldersibshad alreadysaideverythingthat neededsaying beforehe got to it. Davout steppedback and smiled."Your patientsmust think you a tower of stren$h." "I haveno patientsthesedays.Mostly I work in the realmoftheory." "I will haveto look up your work.I'm sofar behind on uploads-I don't have any idea what you and Katrin have been doing theselast decades." Silent Davout steppedto the armoire and opened its ponderous mahoganydoors."Perhaps you shouldput on someclothing,"he said."l am feelingchill in this conditionedair,and so mustyou." Amused, Davout clothed himself, then sat acrossthe little rosewoodsidetablefrom his sib.Davoutthe Silentlookedat him for a long moment-eyes placidand though$rl-and then spoke. "You are experiencingsomethingthat is very rare in our time," he said."Loss,anger,frustration,terror.All the emotionsthat in their totality equalgief;' "You forgotsadness and regret,"Davout said."You forgot memory, and how the memorieskeepreplaying.You forgotimagination,andhow imaginationonly makesthosememoriesworse,becauseimaginationallowsyou to write a differentending,but the world will not." Silent Davout nodded."Peoplein my profession,"fingersforming , "anywaythoseborn too late to rememberhow common these things once were, must view you with a certain clinical interest.I must commendDr. Li on his restraint." "Dr. Li is a shrink?"Davoutasks. A casualpressof fingers."Amongother things.I'm surehe's watchingyou very carefullyand making little noteseverytime he leaves the room.' "I'm happyto be useful." in his hand, bitternesson his tongue."l would givethosepeoplemy memories,if theywant them so much." "You can do that."Davoutlookedup in something like surprise.
Lethe 179 "You know it is possible,"his sib said. "You can download your memories,preservethem like amber,or simply hand them to someone And you can erasethem from your rnind completely, elseto experience. walk on into a new life, tabula rasa andfree of pain." His deep voice wassoft. It wasa voice without affect, one he no doubt used on his patients,quietly insistentwithout being officious' A or presentedalternatives,but which nevel, voicethat made suggestions, ever,gaveorders. "l don't wantthat,"Davoutsaid. Silent Davout'sfingerswerestill setin ."You are not of the generationthatacceptssuchthingsasa matterof course,"he said. "But this, lhis modularapproachto memory,to being, constitutesmuch of my work thesedays." Davoutlookedat him. "lt mustbe like losinga pieceof yourself,to giveup a memory.Memoriesarewhat makeyou." ashis deepvoicesounded SilentDavout'sfaceremainedimpassive "What forms a human psycheis not a through the void betweenthem. memory,we havecometo believe,but a patternof thought.When our sib duplicatedhimself,he duplicatedhis patternin us;and when we assemblednew bodiesto live in, the patterndid not change.Haveyou felt yourselfa differentpersonwhen you took a new body?" Davout passeda hand overhis head,felt the fine blond hair coverhis headhad beenbald and leathery. ing his scalp.This time yesterday, Now he felt subtledifferencesin his perceptions-his visionwasmore acute, his hearing less so-and his muscle memory was somewhat askew.He rememberedhavinga shorterreach,a slightlydifferentcenter of gravity. - no, he felt himself unchanged'He But asfor himself,his essence wasstill Davout. he signed. "Peoplehavemore choicesthan everbefore,"saidSilent Davout. "They choosetheir bodies,they choosetheir memories.They can uploadnew knowledge,new skills.Ifthey feela lackofconfidence,or feel that their behavioris too impulsive,they cantweaktheir bodychemistry to producea differenteffect.If they find themselvesthe victim of an uncompulsion,the compulsioncanbe editedfrom forhrnateor destructive their being. If they lack the power to changetheir circumstances,they
180 NebulaAwards Showcase 2000 can at leastelect to feel happierabout them. If a memory cannot be overcome,it can be eliminated." "And you now spend your time dealing with these problems?" Davoutasked. "They are not problems,"his sib said gently. "They are not synThey are part of the conThey are circumstances. dromesor neuroses. it today. They are environmental."The large, dition of life as exists impassive over eyesgazedsteadilyat Davout."Peoplechoosehappiness sorrow,fulfillment overftustration.Can you blame them?" Davout signed. "lf they deny the evidenceof their own we overcome, lives,"he said."We defineour existence by the challenges or thosewe don't. Even our hagediesdefine us." His sib nodded."That is an admirablephilosophy-for Davout the Conqueror,But not all peopleareconquerors." Davout shoveto keepthe impatienceftom his voice."Lessonsare Experienceis gained,life's Iearnedfrom failuresas well as successes. occurrence.If we deny the usesof knowledgeis appliedto subseguent experience,what is there to makeus human?" arenegative,and His sib waspatient."sometimesthe experiences so are the lessons.Would you have a person live forever under the shadowof greatguilt, sayfor a foolish mistakethat resultedin injury or death to someoneelse;or would you have them live with the consequencesof damageinflicted by a sociopath,or an abusivefamily member?Thaumaslike thesecan cripple the whole being. Why should the damagenot be repaired?" Davoutsmiledthinly."You can't tell me that thesetechniquesare used only in casesof deep trauma," he said. "You can't tell me that peoplearen'tusingthesetechniquesfor reasonsthat might be deemed trivial.Editingout a foolishremarkmadeat a party,or eliminatinga bad vacationor an argumentwith the spouse." Silent Davoutreturnedhis smile."I would not insult your intellithesethingsdo not happen." genceby suggesting Davout signed. "So how do such people mature? Change?Grow in wisdom?" "They cannotedit out everything.There is sufficientfriction and conflict in the courseof ordinarylife to provideeveryonewith their allotted
Lethe 181 portion of wisdom.Nowadaysour livesarevery,very long,and we have a long time to learn,howeverslowly.And afterall," smiling, "the average person'scapacityfor wisdomhasneverbeensolargeasall that.I think you will find that asa specieswe arefar lessproneto folly than we oncewere." Davoutlookedat his sib grimly. "You aresuggestingthat I undergo this technique?" "It is calledLethe." "That I undergoLethe?ForgetKatrin?Or forgetwhatI feelfor her?" Silent Davout slowly shookhis gravehead. "I make no such suggestion." "Good." The youngestDavoutgazedsteadilyinto the eyesof his oldertwin. "Only you know what you can bear.I merelypoint out that this remedy exists,shouldyou find your anguishbeyondwhatyou can endure." "Katrin deserves mourning,"Davoutsaid. Anothergravenod. "Yes." "She deserves to be remembered.Who will rememberher if I do not?" "l understand,"saidSilent Davout."I understandyour desireto I only mentionLethebecauseI comprehendall feel,and the necessity. he lickedhis lips,"I, too, have too well whatyou endurenow.Because," lost Katrin." " he stammered."She is-she was Davoutgapedat killed?" His sib'sfaceretainedits remarkableplacidity."She left me, sixteenyearsago." Davout could only stare.The fact, statedso plainly, was incomprehensible. "I-" he began, and then his fingersfound another thought. <What happened?> "We were together for a cenhrry and a half. We grew apart. It Nof fo us it doesn't!Davoutt mind protested.Nof to Davout and Katrin! Not to the two peoplewho makeup a whole greaterthan its parts. Not to us.Not ever.
2000 Showcase t82 NebulaAwards But looking into his sibt accepting,melancholyface, Davout knew that it had to be true. And then, in a way he knew to be utterly disloyal,he began to hope. "Shocking?"saidOld Davout."Not to us, I suppose." "It wastheir downloads,"saidRed Katrin. "Fair Katrin in particular wascarefulto edit out someof her feelingsand iudgmentsbeforeshe let me upload them, but still I could seeher attitudeschanging.And by what sheleft out. . . . I remember knowing her, I could makeguesses telling Davout three yearsbeforethe split that the relationshipwas in jeopardy." "The Silent One wasstill surprised,though,when it happened," Old Davout said."sophisticatedthough he may be about human nature, he had a blind spotwhere Katrin wasconcerned."He put an arm 'As I supposewe all do," around Red Kahin and kissedher cheek. he added. Katrin acceptedthe kisswith a graciousinclination of her head, then askedDavout,"Would you like the blue room here,or the green The greenroom hasa windowseatand a fine view of the room upstairs? bay,but it's small." "I'll take the green room," Davout said.I do not need so much room, he thought,now that I am alone. Katrin took him up the creakingwoodenstairand showedhim the room, the narrowbed of the old house.Through the window he could look south to a storm on ChesapeakeBay,blue-graycloud, bright erup tions of lightning, slantingbeamsof sunlight that droppedthrough rents in the stormto teasebright winking light from the foam.He watchedit for a long moment,then wasstartledout of reverieby Katrin'shand on his shoulder,and a softvoicein his ear. "Are there sightslike this on other worlds?" "The stormson Rheawerevast,"Davoutsaid,"like nothing on this world.The oceanareais greaterthan that on Earth, and lies mostlyin the tropics-the planetwasalmostcalledOceanuson thataccount.The hurricanesbuilt up around the equatorialbelts with nothing to stop them, sometimesmore than a thousandkilometersacross,and they cameroaring into the temperatezoneslike multi-armeddemons,sometimesone
Lethe 183 and cyclonesin their afteranotherfor months.They spawnedwaterspots vanguard,inundatedwhole areaswith a storm surgethe sizeof a small ocean, dumped enough rain to flood an entire province away... . We thought seriouslythat the stormsmight makelife on land untenable." He went on to explainthe solution he and Katrin had devisedfor the enormousproblem:hugestringsof tall, rockybarrierislandsbuilt at a wall for wind and stormsurgeto break a furiousrateby nanomachines, against;a speciesof silvery,tropical floatingweed,a flowerygirdle about Rhea'sthick waist,that radicallyincreasedsurfacealbedo,refecting moreheatbackinto space.Many speciesof deeprooted,vinelikeplants to anchorslopesand preventerosion,otherspeciesofthirstytrees,adaptations of cottonwoodsand willows, to line streambedsand break the powerofflash foods. Planetaryengineeringon suchan enormousscale,in sucha short time, had neverbeenattempted,not evenon Mars,and it had beendifficult for Katrin and Davout to sell the project to the proieci managers on the ChengHo. Their superiorshad initially preferreda different ap proach,huge equatorialsolarcurtains deployedin orbit to refect heat, squadronsof orbital beam weaponsto blastand dispersestormsas they formed, secureundergrounddwellingsfor the inhabitants,complex lock and canal systemsto control flooding.... Katrin and Davout had arguedfor a more elegantapproachto Rhea'sproblems,a relianceon organic systemsto modify the planeti extremeweatherinsteadof assaulting Rheawith macro-techand engineering.Theirs wasthe approach that finally won the support of the majority of the terraformingteam, and resultedin their subsequentappointmentasheadsof Beagle'stenaforming team. "Dark Katrin'smemorieswere very excitingto upload during that time," said Kahin the Red. "That delirious explosionof creativity! Watchinga whole globetake shapebeneathher feet!" Her greeneyes look up into Davout's."We werejealousof you then.All thatabundance being created,all that talent going to shapingan entire world. And we wereconfinedto scholarship, which seemedso lifelessby comparison." 'iA,re He looked at her. you sorry for the choice you made?You two were senior:you could havechosenour path if you'd wished.You still could, cometo that." A smile drifts acrossher face. "You tempt me, truly. But Old
184 Nebuta Awards 2000 Showcase Davout and I are hrppy in our work-and besides,you and Katrin She neededsomeoneto providea proper recordof your adventures." "Perhaps you should tilted her head,and mischiefglitteredin her eyes. askBlondeKatrin.Maybeshecould usea change." Davoutgavea guilty start:shewas,he thought,seeingtoo near,too soon."Do youthink so?"he asked."l didn'tevenknowif I shouldseeher." "Her grudgeis with the Silent One, not with you." "Well." He manageda smile."PerhapsI will at leastcall." Davout called Katrin the Fair, receivedan offer of dinner on the followingday,accepted.From his room he followedthe smellof coffee into his hosts'office, and felt a bubble of grief lodge in his heart: two two computerterminals,layersof papersand books desks,back-to-back, dust. . . he couldimaginehimselfand Katrinhere,sip and andprintout ping coffee,workingin pleasantcompatibility. he signed. His sib lookedup. "I iust senta chapterto Sheol,"he said."l was making Maxwell far too wise."He fingeredhis little goatee."The temp tation is alwaysto view the pastsolelyasa vehicle that leadsto our present grandeur.Thesepeople'ssolefunctionwasto produceus,who areof courseperfectlywiseand noble and far superiorto our ancestors.Soone assumesthat thesepeople had us in mind all along, that we were what they were working toward.I have to keep reminding myself that these and ignoranceand supeoplelived amid unimaginabletragedy,disease perstition,vile little wars,terriblepoverty,anddeath.. ." He stopped,suddenlyawarethat he'd saidsomethingawkwardDavoutfelt the word vibratein his bone,asif he werestrandedinsidea bell that wasstill singingafterit had beenstruck-but he said,"Go on." "I remind myself,"his sib continued,"that the fact that we live in a modern culture doesn'tmakeus better,it doesn'tmake us superiorto theyhad to overcomeso thesepeople- in factit enlargesthem,because much more than we in order to realizethemselves,in order to accomplish asmuch asthey did."A shysmiledriftedacrosshis face."And soa iathe. s*ug chapteris wiped out of digital existence'" "Lavoisieris looming,"commentedRedKatrinfrom her machine' "Yes,tlat too," Old Davout agreed.His Lavoisierand His Agehad won the McEldowney Prize and been shortlistedfor other awards.
Lethe 185 Davout could well imaginethat bringing Maxwell up to Lavoisief s mag isterialstandards would be intimidating. Red Katrin leanedback in her chair,combedher hair backwith her fingers."l madea few notesaboutthe Beagleproject,"shesaid."l haveother commitmentsto deal with first, of course." She and Old Davout had avoidedany conflicts of interestand interpretationby convenientlydividinghistorybetweenthem: shewould write of the "modern" world and her near-contemporaries, while he wrote of thosesecurelyin the past.Davoutthoughthis sib had the advantagein this arrangement,becauseher subjects,as time progressed, graduallyenteredhis domain,and becameliableto his reinterpretation. Davout clearedawaysomeprintout, saton the edgeof Red klatrin's 'A desk. thoughtkeepsbotheringme," he said."In our civilizationwe record everything.But the lastmomentsof the crew of the Beaglewenl unrecorded.Doesthatmeantheydo not exist?Neverexistedat all?That death wasalwaystheir state,and they returned to it, like virtual matter dyinginto the vacuumfrom which it came?" Concern darkenedRed Katrin'seyes."They will be remembered," shesaid."I will seeto it." "Katrin didn't downloadthe lastmonths,did she?" "The lasteightmonthswereneversent.Shewasverybusy, and- " "Virtual months,then. Gone backto the phantomzone." "There arerecords.Other crewsentdownloadshome,and I will see if I cangainaccesseitherto the downloads,or to their friendsand relations who haveexperiencedthem. There is your memory,your downloads." He lookedat her."Will you uploadmy memory,then?My sib has everythingin his files,I'm sure."Glancingat Old Davout. Shepressedher lips together."That would be difficult for me.Me viewingyouviewingher. . ." Sheshookher head."I don't dare.Not now. Not when we'reall still in shock." Disappointmentgnawedat his insideswith sharprodentteeth.He did not wantto be soalonein his grief;he didn't wantto nourishall the sadness by himself. He wantedto shareit with Katrin, he knew,the personwith whom he sharedeverything.Katrin could help him makesenseof it, the wayshe clarifiedall the worldfor him. Katrinwouldcomprehendthe wayhe felt.
2000 Showcase 186 NebulaAwards he signed.His frustrationmusthavebeenplain to Red Katrin, becauseshetook his hand, lifted her greeneyesto his' "lwiII," shesaid."But not now. I'm not ready." "I don't want fwo wrecksin the house,"calledOld Davoui overhis shoulder. Interfering old bastard,Davout thought. But with his free hand he signed,again,, Katrin the FairkissedDavout'scheek,then stoodback,holding his hands,and narrowedher grayeyes."I'm not sureI approveofthis youthful body of yours,"she said."You haven'tlookedlike this in-whatovera century?" "PerhapsI seekto evokehappiertimes,"Davout said. A little frown touchedthe cornersof her mouth. "That is always She stepped dangerous,"she iudged."But I wish you everysuccess." "Please comein." backfrom the door,flung out an arm. with a view of the Toulouse, in aparhnent in a small She lived All6e Saint-Micheland the rose-redbrick of the Vieux Quartier. On the wallshung terra-cottaiconsof Usil and Tiv, the Ehuscan whitewashed godsof the sun and moon, and a well coverwith a figureof the demon Charun emergingfrom the underworld.The Ehuscandeitieswere confronted, on another wall, by a bronze figure of the Gaulish Rosmerta, consortof the absentMercurius. Her little balcony was bedeckedwith wrought iron and a gay stripedawning.In front of the balconya table shimmeredunder a red anJ white checkedtablecloth:crystal,porcelain,a wicker basketof bread,a bottle of wine. Cooking scentsfoated in from the kitchen. "lt smellswonderful,"Davoutsaid. Lifting the bottle. <Why not?> wine waspoured.They settledonto the sofa,chattedof weather, crowds,fava. Davout'smemoriesof the trip that Silent Davout and his Katrin had takento the islandwere more recentthan hers' FairKatrin tookhis hand."I haveuploadedDark IGhint memories, so far as I havethem," she said."She loved you, you know-absolutely, deeply." Shebit her netherlip. "It wasa remarkablething'" <Tiuth> Davoutanswered.He touchedcool crystalto his lips,took a careful sip of his cabernet.Pain throbbed in the hollowsof his heart.
Inthe 187 "Yes."he said,"l know." "I felt I should tell you about her feelings.Particularlyin view of what happenedwith me and the Silent One." He lookedat her. "l confessI do not understandthat business." She made a little frown of distaste."We and our work and our sitYou may uploadhis memoriesif you uation grewirksome.Oppressive. Iike-l daresayyou will be able to observethe signsthat he wasdetermined to ignore." Cloudsgatheredin her grayeyes."1,too, haveregrets." "There is no chanceof reconciliation?" , accompaniedby a brief shakeof the head. "lt was over." "And, in any case,Davout the Silent is not the man he was." "He took Lethe. It wasthe only wayhe had of gettingovermy leaving him." Pure amazementthrobbed in Davout'ssoul. Fair lGtrin looked at in him surprise. "You didn't know?" He blinked at her. "I shouldhave.But I thought he wastalking about me, abouta way of gettingover. . ." Aching sadness brimmed in "Over his throat. the way my Dark Katrin left me." Scornwhitenedthe fesh about Fair Katrint noshils."That'sthe SilentOne for you. He didn't havethe nerveto tell you outright." "l'm not sure that'shue. He may havethought he wasspeaking plainlyenough-" Her fingersformed a mudra that gavevent to a brand of disdain that did not translateinto words."He kncws his effectsperfectly well," shesaid."He wastrying to suggestthe ideawithout making it clear that this washis choicefor you, that he wanted you to fall in line with his theories." Anger was clear in her voice. She rose, stalked angrily to the bronzeof Rosmerta,adjustedits placeon the wall by a millimeteror so. Turned,wavedan arm. <Apologies>,flung to the air. "Lett eat.Silent Davout is the last personI want to talk aboutright now." "I'm sorry I upsetyou." Davout wasnot sorry at all: he found this
2000 Showcase 188 NebulaAwards displayfascinating.The gestures,the tone of voice,were utterly familiar, ringing like chimesin his heart;but the style,IhewayFair Katrin avoided the issue,wasdifferent.Dark Katrin neverwould havefled a subiectthis way:shewould haveknit her browsand confrontedthe problem directly, engagedwith it until she'deither reachedunderstandingor catastrophe. Either way,she'dhavelaughed,and tossedher darkhair, and announced that now sheunderstood. "It's peasantcooking," Katrin the Fair said as she bustled to the kitchen, "which of courseis the bestkind." The main coursewasa rago0tof veal in a velout6sauce,beans cookedsimply in butter and garlic,tossedsalad,bread.Davoutwaited until it washalf consumed,and the bottle of wine mostly gone,before he daredto speakagainof his sib. "You mentionedthe Silent One and his theories,"he said' "l'm thirty yearsbehind on his downloads,and I haven't read his latest work-what is he up to?Whatb all this theorizingabout?" She sighed, fingers ringing a frustrated rhythm on her glass' Looked out the window for a moment, then conceded'"Has he mentionedthe modulartheoryof the psyche?" Davout tried to remember."He said somethingabout modular memory,Iseemto recall." ,,That's part of it. It's a fairly radicaltheory that statesihat a andabilitiesat will, ascircumstances peopleshouldedittheir personality dictate.That one morning, say,if you're going to work, you upload appropriate memories,and work skills, along with a doseof ambition, of resolution,and some appropriateemotionslike satisfactionand eagernessto solveproblems,or enduredrudgery,asthe casemay be'" Davout lookedat his plate."Like cookery,then," he said."Like this parsley." dish- veal,carrots,onions,celery,mushrooms, FairKatrin madea mudrathat Davoutdidn't recognize'<Sorry?> he signed. 'harde-har-har'"' Fin"Oh. Apologies.That one means'roughly, ger formed ,then <sarcasm>,then slurredthem together' "See?" He pouredmore wine into her glass' Sheleanedforwardacrossher plate."Recipesare fine if one wants lobeconsumed,"shesaid."survival is anothermatter.The human mind
Lethe 189 is more than just ingredientsto be tossedtogether.The atomisticview of the psycheis simplistic,dangerous,andwrong.Youcannotwil/ a psyche to be whole, no matterhow many wholeness modulesare uploaded.A psycheis more than the sum of its parts." Wine and agitationburnishedher cheeks.Convictionblazedfrom her eyes."It takestime to integratenew experience,new abilities.The modulartheoristsclaim this will be done by a 'conductor,'anartificial intelligence that will be able to judge between alternatepersonalities and abilities and upload whatever'sneeded. But that's such rubbish, I-" She lookedat the knife shewaswaving,then permitted it to return to the table. "How far arethe SilentOne and his cohortstowardrealizingthis ambition?"Davoutsaid. Shelookedat him. "I didn't makethat clear?"she "The said. technologyis alreadyhere. Itt happening.Peopleare fragmenting their psychesdeliberatelyand trusting to their conductorsto makesenseof it all. And they'rehoppywith their choices,becausethat's the only emotion they permit themselvesto upload from their supply." She clenched her teeth, glancedangrily out the window at the Vieux walls.'All haditionalpsycholoryis aimedat Quartier! sunset-burnished integration,at wholeness. And now it's all to be thrownaway..." She flung her hand out the window. Davout'seyesautomaticallyfollowedan invisible object on its arc &om her fingerstowardthe street. 'And how doesthis theory work in practice?"Davout asked."fue the streetsfilled with psychological wrecks?" Bitternesstwistedher lips. "Psychologicalimbeciles,more like. Executing their conductors'orders,docile as well-fed children, hrppy asclams.They uploadpassions-anger,grief,loss-as artificialexperiences,secondhand from someoneelse,usuallysotheycantell theirconductor to avoid such emotions in the future. They are not people anymore,they're.. ." Her eyestumed to Davout. "You saw the Silent One," she said. "Would you call him a person?" "I waswith him for only a day,"Davout said."I noticed something of a. . ." <Standby> he signed,searchingfor the word. "Lack of affect?"she interposed.'A demeanormarked by an extreme placidity?"
2000 Showcase 190 NebulaAwards he signed. "When it wasclearI wouldn'tcomebackto him, he wroteme out of his memoryi' Fair Katrin said. "He replacedthe memorieswith we went to such-andfacts-he knowshe wasmarried to me, he knows a paper-but there'snothing else such a placeor wrotesuch-and-such there.No feelings,no real memoriesgood or bad, no understanding, nothing left from almosttwo centuriestogether."Tearsglittered in her eyes."I'd ratherhe felt anything at all - I'd ratherhe hatedme than feel this apathy!" Davout reachedacrossthe little table and took her hand. "[t is his decision,"he said,"and his loss." ,,his allour loss,"shesaid.Reflectedsunsetflavoredher tearswith the color of roses."The man we loved is gone.And millions are gone with him-millions of little half-alivesouls,programmedfor happiness and unconcern."She tipped the bottle into her glass,receivedonly a sluicingof dregs. "Let's haveanother,"shesaid. When he left, somehourslater,he embracedher, kissedher, let his lips linger on hersfor perhapsan extrahalf-second.Sheblinked up at him in wine-muddledsurprise,and then he took his leave' "How did you find my sib?"Red Katrin asked' "Unhappy," Davout said."Confused' Lonely, I think' Living in a little apartmentlike a cell, with iconsand memories'" iI kno*t she signed,and turned on him a knowing green-eyed look. "Are you planning on taking her awayfrom all that?To the stars' perhaps?" "l Davout'ssurprisewas brief. He looked away and murmured, didn't know I wassotransParent." A smiletouchedher lips.<Apologies>shesigned."l've lived with so Old Davout for nearlytwo hundred years'You and he haven'tgrown so do very far apart in that time. My fair sib deserveshappiness'and you are if I wonder But you. . . if you can provideit, somuch the better' not moving too fast,if you havethought it all out'" Mouingfast,Davoutwondered'Hislifeseemedsoveryslownow' a creepingdancewith agony,eachmove a lifetime'
Lethe 191 He glancedout at Chesapeake Bay,sawhis secondperfectsunset in only a few hours-the samesunsethe'd watchedfrom Fair Katrin's apartment,now radiatingits red glorieson the other sideof the Atlantic. A few water-skaters spedtowardhome on their silverblades.He satwith Red Katrin on a porch swing,Iooking down the long greenswardto the bayfront,the old wooden pier, and the sparklingwater,that profound, deepblue that sangof home to Davout'ssoul. Red Kanin wrappedherself againstthe breeze in a fringed, autumn{olored shawl. Davout sippedcoffee from gold-rimmed porcelain, set the cup into its saucer. "I wonderedif I wasbeinguntrueto my Katrin,"he said."But they are really the sameperson,aren't they?If I were to pursuesomeother woman now, I would know I wascommitting a betrayal.But how can I betrayKatrin with herself?" An uncertain look crossedRed Katrint face. "I've downloaded them both," hesitantly,"and I'm not certain that the Dark and Fair Katrins arequitethe sameperson.Or everwere." Not the same-of coursehe knew that. Fair klatrinwasnot a perfect copy of her older sib-she had flaws,clearenough.Shehad been damaged,somehow.But the flawscould be worked on, the damagerepaired.Conquered.There wasinfinite time. He would seeit done. "And how do your sibsdiffer,then?"he asked."Other than obviousdifferencesin condition and profession?" Shedrewher legsup and restedher chin on her knees.Her green eyeswere pensive."Matters of love,"shesaid,"and happiness." And further shewould not say. Davout took Fair Katrin to Thngier for the afternoonand walked with her up on the old palacewalls.Belowthem, white in the sun,the curvedmole built by CharlesII cleavedthe Middle Sea,a thin crescent moon laid upon the perfectshimmeringazure.(Home!home!,the waters cried.) The sea breezelashed her blond hair acrossher face. snappedlittle sonicboomsfrom the sleeves of his shirt. "l have sampledsome of the Silent One's downloads,"Davout said."I wished to discoverthe nature of this artificial hanquillity with which he hasendowedhimself." Fair Kahin's lips twisted in distaste,and her fingersformed a scatologue.
2000 Showcase 792 NebulaAwards "lt was.. . interesting," Davoutsaid."There wasa shange'uncomplicatedquality of blissto it. I rememberexperiencingthe downloadof a mastersitting zazenonce,and it wasan experienceof a similar cast." "It may have been the exactsamesensation."Sourly."He may experienceand slottedit into his brain. havejusi copiedthe zen master's That's how mosf of the vampiresdo it-award themselvesthe ioy they haven'tearned." "That's a calvinisiic point of view," Davoui offered' "That happinesscan't iusthappen,that it hasto be earned." Shefrownedout at the sea."There is a differencebetweenreal experienceand artificial or recapitulativeexperience.lf that'scalvinist,so be it." Davout signed."Call me a calvinistsympathizer,then' I havebeen enoughplaces,done enoughthings,so that it mattersto me that I wasactuallythereand not living out someprogrammeddreamof life on otherworlds.I've experiencedmy sibs'downloads-livedsignificant partsof their lives,momentby moment-but it is not the sameas my liie, asbeingme. I am,"he said,leaning elbowson the palacewall, "l am myself,I am the sum of everythingthat happenedto me, I stand on this wall, I am watchingthis sea,I am watchingit with you, and no one elsehashad this experience,nol evel shall,it is ours,it belongs tous..." she lookedup at him, straw-hairflying overan unreadableexpression."Davoutthe Conqueror,"shesaid. he signed."l did not conqueralone'" "I Shenodded,holdinghis eyesfor a long moment."Yes,"shesaid. know." He tookKatrinthe Fairin his armsandkissedher.Therewasa moment'sstiffsurprise,and then shebeganto laugh, helplesspealsbursting to react,and againsthis lips. He held her for a moment,too suqprised th.r, ,h. broke free. She reeled along the wall, leaning for support againstthe old stones.Davout followed, babbling, "I'm sorry,I didn't meanto-" Sheleanedback againstthe wall. Wordsburst half-hystericalfrom unamusedlaughter."So that's her lips, in betweenburstsof desperate, what you were after!My Godl As if I hadn't had enough of you all after all theseyears!"
Lethe 193 "I apologize,"Davoutsaid."Let'sforgetthis happened.I'll takeyou home." She looked up at him, the laughtergone, blazing anger in its place."The SilentOne and I would havebeenall right if it hadn'tbeen for you-for our sibs!"Sheflung her wordslike daggers, her voicebreaking with passion."Youlot werethe eldest,you'dalreadyparceledout the world betweenyou.You wereonly interestedin psycholog,becausemy damnedRedsib and your Old one wantedinsightinto the characters in their histories,and becauseyou and your darkbitch wanteda theoryof the psycheto aid you in building communitieson otherworlds.We only got createdbecauseyau weretoodamnedlazy to do yourown research!" Davoutstood,stunned. he signed,"That'snot-" "We werethird," shecried."We wereborn in third place.We got the jobsyou wantedleast,and while you older sibswerewinning fame and glory, we were stuck in work that didn't suit, that you'd eastoff, awardedto us as if we were charity cases-" She steppedcloser,and Davout wasamazedto find a white-knuckledfist being shakenin his face."My husbandwascalledThe Silent becausehis sibshad already usedup all the words! He wasthird-rateand knew rl.lt destroyed himl Now he'spluggingartificial satisfactioninto his head becauseitt the only wayhe'll everfeel it." "If you didn't like your life,"Davoutsaid,"you couldhavechanged it. Peoplestartoverall the time-we'd havehelped."He reachedtoward her. "I can help you to the stars,if that'swhatyou want." Shebacked away."The only help we everneededwasto get rid of you!"A mudra,,echoedthe sarcastic laughteron Fair Katrint lips."Andnow therebanothergapin your life, and you want me to fill it-not thistime." her fingersechoed.The laughterbubbledfrom her throatagain. She fled, leavinghim alone and dazedon the palace the boomingwind mockinghis feebleprotests. "l am huly sorry,"Red Katrin said.Sheleanedcloseto him on the porchswing,touchedsoftlipsto his cheek."Eventhoughsheeditedher downloads,I could tell she resentedus-but I truly did not know how shewould react."
2000 Showcase 194 NebulaAwards Davout wasfrantic. He could feel Katrin slipping farther and farther away,as if she were on the edgeof a precipice and her handholds were crumbling awaybeneathher clawedfingers' .,Is whatshesaidtrue?"he asked."Havewe beenslightingthem all theseyears?Usingthem, assheclaims?" :'P.rh"ps th" hrd somejustificationonce,"Red Katrin said'"I do not rememberanythingof the sortwhen we wereyoung,when I wasuPgrowing loadingFair Katrin almosteveryday.But now,"her expression .,theseare mature people, not without resourcesor intellisevere, old, gence- I can,thelp but think that surelyafter a Personis a century any problemsthat remain arc her fatll." As he rockedon the porchswinghe could feel a wildnessrisingin him. My God he thought,I am goingto be alone' His brief daysof hope were gone' He staredout at the bay-the choppy water was too rough for any but the most dedicatedwaterof a sk"t ir-"nd felt the pain pressingon his brain,like the two thumbs practicedsadistdigginginto the backof his skull' "I wonder," he said."Have you given any further thought to up loadingmy memories?" Shelookedat him curiously."lt's scarcelytime yet'" "I feel a needio share.. . somethings'" "Old Davouthasuploadedthem' You could speakto him"' only madehim clenchhis teeth' This perfectlyser,riblesuggestion that He neededsensemadeofthings,he neededthingsput in order'and he alwhat wasnot the iob of his sib. Old Davoutwould only confirm readyknew. "I'11talk to him, then,"he said. And then neverdid' The pain wasworstat night. It wasn'tthe sleepingalone' or merely be absent, Katrin'sabsence:it wasthe knowledgethat shewould always thattheemptyspacenexttohimwouldliethereforever.Itwasthenthe eyesstaring horror fully struck him, and he would lie awakefor hours' of treminto the terrible void that wrappedhim in iis dark cloak. Fits bling spedthroughhis limbs. he I will go mad, he sometimesthought' It seemedsomething who drama could choose,as if he were a characterin an Elizabethan
Lethe 195 turnsto the audienceto announcethathe will be mad now,and then in the next sceneis found gnawingbonesdug out of the family sepulchre. Davoutcould seehimselfbeingfound outside,running on all foursand barkingat the stars. And then, asdawncreptacrossthe windowsill,he would look out the window and realize,to his sorrow,thai he wasnot yet mad, that he wascondemnedto anotherdayof sanity,of pain,and of grief. Then, one night, he did go mad. He found himselfsquattingon the floor in his nightshirt,the room a ruin aroundhim: mirrorssmashed, furniture broken.Blood wasrunning down his forearms. The door leapt off its hingeswith a heaveof Old Davout'sshoulder. Davout realized,in a vagueway,that his sib had been trying to get in for sometime. He sawRed Katrin'ssilhouettein the door,an aureate halo aroundher auburnhair in the instantbeforeOld Davoutsnapped on the light. AfterwardKatrin pulled the bits of broken mirror out of Davout's hands,washedand disinfectedthem, while his sib tried to reconstruct the greenroom and its antiquefurniture. Davout watched his spattersof blood stain the water, threadsof scarletwhirling in Coriolisspirals."I'm sorry,"he said."I think I may be losingmy mind." "I doubt that." Frowning at a bit of glas in her tweezers. "l wantto know." Somethingin his voicemadeher look up. "Yes?" He could seehis staringreflectionin her greeneyes."Readmy downloads.Please. I wantto knowif . . . I'm reactingnormallyin all this. If I'm lucid or just. . ." He fell silent.Do if, he thought. lustdo thisone thing. "I don't upload other people. Davout can do that. Old Davout, I mean." No, Davout thought. His sib would understandall too well what he wasup to. "But he'sme!" he said."He'd think I'm normall" "Silent Davout,then. Crazypeoplearehis specialty." Davout wantedto makea mudra of scorn,but Red Katrin held his handscaptive.Insteadhe gavea laugh. "He'd want me to take Lethe. Any advicehe gavewould be. . . in that direction."He madea fistof one
2000 Showcase 196 NebulaAwards hand,sawdropsof blood well up throughthe cuts."l needto know if I can standthis,"he said."If-something drasticis required'" Shenodded,lookedagainat the sharplittle spearof glass,pui it deliberatelyon the edgeof the porcelain.Her eyesnarrowedin thoughtDavoutfelt his heartvault at that look, at the familiar lines forming at the cornerof Red Katrin'sright eye,eachone known and adored' Pleasedo it,he thought desperately. "If it's that important to you," shesaid,"l will'" "Thank you,"he said. He bent his headoverher the basin,raisedher hand, and pressed with blood' his lips to the fleshbeadedwith waterand streaked It was almost like conducting an affair, all clandestinemeetings and whisperedarrangements.Red Katrin did not want old Davout to know shewasuploadinghis sib'smemories-"I would iust assoonnot he dealwith his disapproval"-andsosheand Davouthad to wait until wasgone for a few hours,a trip to record a lecture for Cavort serieson Ideasand Manners. She settledonto the setteein the front room and coveredherself roll with her fringed shawl. closed her eyes.Let Davout'smemories through her. He satin a chair nearby,his mouth dry' Though nearlythirty years few had passedsince Dark Katrin's death, he had experiencedonly a memories weeksof that time; and Red Katrin wasfoating through these or momentsthat at speed,tastinghereand there,skippingredundancies . .. seemedinconsequential. He tried to guessfrom her facewhere in his life shedwelt. The expressionof shockand horrornearthe startwasclearenough,the shuttle Lurstinginto flames.After the shockfaded,he recognizedthe discomfort her that camewith experiencinga strangemind, and flickeringacross of grief, anger' and here and there amusement; face came expressions wet with but gradually th.r" was only a growing sadness,and lashes the room to kneelby her chairand takeher hand.Her te"rJHe "rorr"d . . she took a breath,rolled her head fingerspressedhis in response. ,*ry . . he wantedto weep not for his grief, but for hers' The eyesflutteredopen.Sheshookher head'"l had to stop"'she .,I in her wide said. couldn'ttakeit-" Shelookedat him, a kind of awe
Lethe 797 green eyes."My God, the sadness! And the need.I had no idea. I've neverfelt suchneed.I wonderwhat it is to be neededthat way." He kissedher hand,her dampcheek.Her armswent aroundhim. He felt a leapof joy,of clarity.The needwashers,now. Davoutcarriedher to the bed shesharedwith his sib,and together theyworshipedmemoriesof his Katrin. "I will take you tlere," Davout said. His finger reachedinto the night sky,counted starc,one, two, three.. . "The planei'scalledAtugan. It's boiling hot, nothing but rock and desert,sulfur and slag.But we can makeit homefor ourselves and our children-all the species of children we desire,fish and fowl." A bubble of happinessfilled his heart."Dinosaurs, if you like,"he said."Would you like to be parentto a dinosaur?" He felt Katrin leavethe shelterof his arm, steptowardthe moonlit bay.Wavesrumbledunderthe old woodenpier."I'm not trainedfor terraforming,"shesaid."I'd be useless on sucha trip." "I'm decadesbehind in my own field," Davout said."You could learn while I caughtup. You'll haveDark Katrint downloadsto help. It's all possible." Sheturned towardhim. The lights of the houseglowedyellow off her paleface,off her swiftfingersasshesigned. "I havelived with Old Davoutfor nearlytwo centuries," shesaid. His life, for a moment,seemedto skipoffits internaltrack;he felt himself suspended,poisedat the top of an arc just beforethe fall. Her eyesbroodedup at the house,whereOld Davoutpacedand sippedcoffeeand ponderedhis life of Maxwell.The mudrasat her fingertipswereunreadablein the dark. "I will do asI did before,"she said."I cannot go with you, but my otherselfwill." Davout felt his life resume."Yes,"he said,becausehe was shadowand could not sign."By all means."He steppednearerto her. would ratherit be you,"he whispered. He sawwry amusementtouch the cornersof her mouth. "Itwillbe me,"shesaid.Shestoodon tiptoe,kissedhis cheek."But now I am your sister again, yes?"Her eyeslooked level into his. "Be patient. I will anange it."
2000 Awards Showcase 198 Nebuta "I will in all thingsobeyyou, madam,"he said,and felt wild hope singingin his heart. Davout waspresentat her awakening,and her hand wasin his as she openedher violet eyes,the eyesof his Dark Kahin. She looked at lifted a hand to her blackhair;and then him in perfectcomprehension, the eyesturnedto the pairstandingbehindhim, to Old Davoutand Red Katrin. "Youngman,"Davoutsaid,putiing his handon Davoutt shoulder, "allow me to presentyou to my wife." And then (wisestof the sibs)he "l bent over and whispered,a bit pointedly,into Davout'seat, hust you will do the samefor me, one daY." Davout concluded,through his surprise,that the secretof a marriage that laststwo hundred yearsis knowing when to turn a blind eye. .,1 confessI am somewhatenvious,"Red Katrin saidassheand Old Davout took their leave."l envymy twin her new life'" "lt's your life aswell," he said."Sheis you'" But shelookedat him soberly,and her fingersformed a mudra he could not read' He took her on honeymoon to the Rockies,used some of his seventy-eightyears'back pay to rent a sprawlingcabin in a high valley abovethe headwatersof the Rio Grande,where the wind rolled grandly through the pines, hawksspun lazy high circleson the afternoonther-als, and the brilliant clearlight blazedon white starflowersand Indian paintbrush.They went on long walksin the high hills, cookedsimplyin kitchen, sleptbeneathscratchytrade blankets,made love ih" "r"-p"d on crispcottonsheets. He arrangedan office there, two desksand two chairs, back-toand back. Katrin ,plti.a herselfto learningbiology,ecolory,nanotech, quantumphyri"r-the alreadyhad a goodgrounding,but a specialist's kno*l.dg. waslacking. Davout tutored her, and workedhard at catch-they did not have ing up *itt tt . latestdevelopmentsin the field. She as "New Katrin"her , i"-" for her yet, though Davout thought of would review Dark Katrin'sold downloads,concentratingon her work, the way shevisualizeda Problem. Once, openingher eyesafteran upload,shelookedat Davout and the shookher head."It's shange,"shesaid."lts me,I know it's me' but "lt's not memories wayshethinks-" shesigned.
Lethe 199 that makeus, we'retold, but patternsof thought.We arewho we are becausewe think usingcertainpatterns.. . but I do not seemto think like her at all." "It's habit," Davout said."Your habit is to think a differentway." sheconceded,browsknit. <Tiuth> "You-Red Katrin-uploaded Dark Katrin before.You had no difficultyin understanding her then." "I did not concentrateon the technicalaspectsof her work, on the wayshevisualizedand solvedproblems.They werebeyondmy skill to inteqpret-l paid more attentionto other momentsin her life." She lifted her eyesto Davout. "Her momentswith you, for instance.Which were veryrich, and veryintense,and which sometimes mademe jealous." jealousy "No needfor now." shesigned,but her dark eyeswerethoughful, and she turned away. He felt Katrin'ssilenceafterthat,an absencethatseemedto fill the cabin with the invisible,weightycloud of her somberthought.Katrin spent her time studying by herself or restlesslypaging through Dark Katrin'sdownloads. At mealsand in bed shewasquiet,meditative-perfectly friendly,and, he thought,not unhappy-but keepingher thoughts to herself. Sheis adiusting,he thought. It is notan easythingfor someonetwo centuriesold to change. "I have realized,"shesaidten dayslaterat breakfast,"that my sibthat Red Kahin-is a coward.That I am created-and the other sibs, too-to do whatshewould not, or darednot." Her violeteyesgazedlevelly at Davout, "She wanted to go with you to Atugan-she wanted to feel the power of your desire-but somethingheld her back. So I am createdto do the job for her. It is my purpose.. . to fulfill her purpose." "lt's her loss,then," Davout said,though his fingerssigned<surprise>. shesigned,and Davoutfelt a shivercaresshis spine."But I am a coward,too!" Katrincried."I am not your braveDark Katrin,and I cannotbecomeher!" "Katrin,"he said."You arethe sameperson-you aII are!" Sheshookher head."l do not think like your Katrin.I do not have her courage.I do not know what liberatedher from her fear, but ii is
Showcase 2000 200 NebulaAwards somethingI do not have.And - " Shereachedacrossthe table to clasp I simply his hand."l do not havethe feelingsfor you that shepossessed. do not-I havehied, I havehad that world-eatingpassionread into my mind, and I compareit with whatI feel,and- whatI haveis asnothing' I wishI felt asshedid, I truly do. But if I love anyone,it is Old Davout. And. . ." She let go his hand, and rosefrom the table."l am a coward, and I will take the coward'sway out. I must leave." his fingersformed, then ."You can changethat," he said.He followedher into the bedroom."lt's iust a switch in your mind, Silent Davout can throw it for you, we can love each other forever.. ." Shemadeno answer.As shebeganto pack,griefseizedhim by the throat and the wordsdried up. He retreatedto the little kitchen, sat at the table,held his headin his hands.He lookedup when shepaused in the door,and frozelike a deerin the violetlight of her eyes. - they "FairKatrinwasright,"shesaid."Our eldersibsarebastards useus, and not kindly." A few momentslaterhe hearda car drive up, then leave' his fingerssigned. He spentthe dayunableto leavethe cabin,unableto work,terror shiveringthrough him. After dark he wasdriven outsideby the realization that he would have to sleepon sheetsthat were touched with Katrin'sscent.He wanderedby starlightacrossthe high mountainmeadow, dry soil crunchingbeneathhis boots,and when his legsbeganto ache he satdown heavilyin the dust' "l dmwearyof my groaning.. . :'he thought. It wassummer,but the high mountainswerechill at night, and the deep cold soakedhis thoughts. The word l*the floated through his mind. who would not chooseto be happy?he askedhimself. It is a switchin your mind, and someonecan throw it for you' from He felt the slow,achingdropletsof mourningbeingsqueezed endure could he long how his heart, one after the other, and wondered them, the relentlessmoments,eachstrikingwith the impact of a hamblow. . . mer, eacha sfunning,percussive Throw a switch,he thought,and the hammerblowswould end' ,,Katrindeserves mourning,"he had told Davoutthe Silent,and now he had somany more Katrinsto mourn, Dark Katrin and Katrin the Fair.Katrin the New and Katrin the Old. All the Katrinswebbedby fate,
Lethe 2Ol aliveor deador merelyenduring.And so he would,from necessity, endure.. . . So long livesthis,and thisgiveslife to thae. He lay on his back,on the cold ground,gazedup at the world of stars,and tried to find the worlds,amongthe glitteringteardropsof the heavens,where he and Katrin had rainedfrom the skytheir millions of children.
TheMercyGate M A R KJ . M c G A R R Y
pubtished MarkJ. McGarry his first storyin 1.978,at the ageof twenty,fottowedby two novetsandmanyshorterworks.Hehas pubtished infrequently in the lastdecade, a time whenhe buitt a journatism careerat threeof the nation'stop ten newspapers, Newsday, the NewYorkTimes,and the Washington PosCwhere he currenttyis an assistantnewseditoron the business desk. He also servedas editor of the Bulletinof the ScienceFiction and FantasyWritersof Americafrom 1995through1998.He livesin Georgetown. 0f his novelette,he writes: The MerryGatestafted with two questions:"What'sthe worst thing that ever happenedto you?" and "What'sin Pharaoh's tomb?"Despitethe story'stortureddevelopment, I stayedclose to the oiginal concept,answeingboth questions:to the Jirct, the death of a loved one; to the second,treasuresand tenors both. Althoughmy protagonistsond I usually start out with lofly goak andhigh ideak, beforelongall wewantis to get to the end in onepiece.EvanBergstrom had hisproblems,andI had mine. Forme, writing is alwaysa wrutling match,and I get thrown
2000 2O4 NebulaAwardsShowcase
nine fallsout of ten. I did my firct workon The MerryGatein early 1989andJinishedit sixyeorslater.It wasn'ta continuous effort-I m not that slow-but beforeit wasoverI had more this thon 100,000wordsof droftsand nota. I dont recommend method,but I seemto bestuckwith it. andquick Thisworkremindsmeof high-techZelazny-sharp andstytishtybrutat.
Anyonecdn stopa man'slife, but no one hisdeath; a thousanddoorsoPenon to it. Seneca
1 They cameto the world that had died in a singlenight, the kurtikutt pentad,the Proteus,and the human pair,to the city that had lain undisturbedfor a dozencenfuries. A handful of dayswasall the kurtikutt tomb robberswould aliow Bergshomfor his work. At the end of that time the last of his remotes coursedlonely through paleyellowskies,a cold methanewind whistling acrossits wings.Through the robot'sfacetedeyes,he lookeddown on a canvaspainted in X-raysand infrared,sonarand radar,gravimetricgradientsand the visiblespectrum,to rendera cityscapeof gracefultowers, and parklandsrun riot. This was a preindushial vast amphitheaters, world,lesspromisingihan mostBergshomhad visitedin the pasteight years;still, he could havespenta lifetime in the city the Hand of God had touched. "Time to go homenow,Eran." The voicewassmalland distant,a bit of noisein the datastream, but it drew him down.He tippedone graphitewing and spiraledin, toward the plaza at the city's heart, and the black pearl set there-the place where lines of elechomagneticforce were drawn tight and the eravitationalwell becameinfinitely deep,a gateto other worlds.
TheMerqJGate 205 He sweptalong streetsfilled with evidenceof the final hours' torrune-etchedruby steles,toppled ment, pastsmashedmerchants'stalls; and broken;draft animals'skeletonsyokedto overturnedcarts;crude barricades;a pyramidalgallows,its victimt mummified remainscurled had beneaththe open hap. Acrossa hundred worlds,the progression beenthe same:the suddenonslaught,virulentpanic,scatteredepisodes of compassionor heroism,the swift descentinto chaos,the unending silence. "Evdn?"Carat voice again,this time a bit more insistent.Bergstromtriggeredthe remote'srudimentaryintelligence,instructingit to completethe descent,and slid regre6:lly from the interface.The virtual reality folded in on itself,bright colorssmearingto gray,the world spinning about him, but stronghandsbore him up beforehe could fall. "steady no% comrade,"the kurtikutts' SecondBorn rumbled from behindhim. "All right, lover?"CaraAustensaid,her voicemadehollow by her helmetand his."Youweredeepinto it." Her mitt brushedthe thick hide of his sleeve.Like his, her environmental suit was much patched, a centuries-oldsalvagejob. Through her helmet'sscarredvisor,Bergstrom sawthe fine-bonedfaceand long, butteryhair,thoseelectricblue eyes, and he smileda bit. 'All And, overhis shoulder:"Thanks." right now,"he saidhoarsely. The kurtikutt let him go, his vibrissaetwitching with some inscrutablesentiment."Sure thing, comrade,"he said, righting Berg shom'scamp chair. The brute was roughly anthropoid,two metersof densebone and musclewrappedin a thick hide. His glittery metallic robesstirredin the methanebreeze;the small,enameledshieldstrapped to the smallof his backindicatedbirth rank in the Ruhk'thmarClutch. The SecondBorn neededno environmentalsuit, only a transparent mix hangmasktailoredfor its broad mtszzleand a flaskof oxygen-argon ing from a knitted sash.Like the Vandalsand Visigoths,the kurtikutts were rugged. "Chief sayswe'realmostreadyto go,"Carasaid."He wantsto pull out in fifteen minutes."Bergshomnodded,and beganpeelingthe VR inductionpatchesfrom his wristsealsand helmet. system's The wind picked up, whistling through the broken doors and empty-eyedwindowsof the towersfronting the plaza.It setdust devilsto
2000 Awards Showcase 206 Nebuta caperingamongthe ruby obelisksplacedat intervalsalongthe perimeter of the squareand brushedclean the groovescut into its alabaster pavingstones.The pattern grewmore complextowardthe centerof the square,wherebandsof untarnishedmetal bound the Portalto the face and seemof the deadworld. Thll asa three-storybuilding, sharp-edged ingly solid,the black hemispherehummed faintly. Though the plazawaslargelyunscarred,sootblackenedthe stone walls of a low, circular building not far from the stargate.Its door was smashedand burned,the pavementoutsidebuckled from the fire'sheat. The Portalsthemselves,existinglargely outside conventionalspace, that alignedone gate but the mechanisms werevirtuallyindestructible, nor their operatorshad they Neither delicate. more with anotherwere long survivedon worldsthe Hand had touched. One of the kurtikutts' sledgessat nearby,runnersbowed under the weight of a batteredantimatter generator.The youngestkurtikutt perchedatop the vintagepowerplant, thick fingersstrokingthe control surfacesof his hand-builttuning rig. Cablessproutedfrom the device, into the Portal.Resnakingacrossthe pavementand passingseamlessly constructingthe Outsteppertechnolory was an arcanecraft, synchronizing two gatesan art. Once the Fifth Born was done, a single step would return them to Chimerine. "Evan?"Concernedgedher voice."How aboutit, love?" Bergshomtook a deepbreath,the air thick in his throat.It wasas if he could tastesomelingering poisonthrough all the layersof his environmentalsuit, could feel its chill, its holocausttaint. Foolish,perhaps... but then, iheseplacesalwaysgot to him. "My lastbird is on its way in," he said,stoopingto collect his batteredrecordinggear.Twentykilos of telefactoringsystems,iosephsonar-a modestcontainerfor a decade's work. rays,and bubblestorage "Allow me," said funior, taking the pack and Bergshom'schair underone arm. He grinned,displayinga grealmanyshaqpteeth,and set offtoward the towerwherethey had made camp. "His big brother is grumbling about our sharesagain,"Cara said after he had gone."He's disappointedwith the take and wantsto make up for it on our end. I think I can hold the line, though." "That damnedpirate." 'At least "lt wasworsewith the lastbunch," Cara remindedhim. our sleep." surethesepirateswon't hy to kill us in we can be reasonably
TheMercyGate 2O7 "Yes,"he saidflatly, "they'regraverobbers,cheats,and barbarians, but they'renot murderers." He knelt to collecthis remotes,a half-dozenrobotshe hung from his hip belt like gamebirds."There'sneverenoughtime, Cara.Reisner had a decadejustfor Nubia." "But you havea lot of gooddata,Evan." "Not enough,and I haven'tfound anywritten recordsat all - iust as carvingsthat seempurely ornamental.This city is as sophisticated ClassicalAthens,but you don't reachthat level without somesystemof writing- you needit for trade,taxation,if nothingelse." "Evan," shesaidquietly, "we'vebeen through this before.You get a glimpse of a new civilization and you want to study it down to the bones.Everyone of them hasa historyasrich asours.They eachhad a Parthenon,a GreatWall, a fesusChrist, and a GenghisKhan. Most of them had their Neil fumstrongsand Harold Mawsons.Spaceplaforms. Technolog,we could only guessat. Itt all out there,waiting Starships. lover. . . but we for you to dig it up, And you'rea good archaeologist, can't do that kind of work on our own. We can look at one problemthe most importantone, as it happens-and just do the bestwe can." "SometimesI wonderif it'sworth doing."He lookedaround."We don't havea placeto stand,Cara.Our own recordsare in pieces,and half the piecesaregone,eitherdestroyedor lockedup on worldsstill hid. . We can usethe teching behind quarantine.The Portalsthemselves. havebeendust nologybut we don't understandit, and the Outsteppers for ten thousandyearsor more.All we havearetheories,Cara- not even that.Guesses. Hunches." "You'vedone goodwork," she insisted. "We needto do more.There shouldbe somesortof commission, an agency,to sendexpeditions to everyworld the Hand smashed.. . and somekind of police corps,to keepthe vandalsout of placeslike this." He exhaledloudly. "Maybe in another thousandyears,when we've built everythingup againand peoplearen'tsoafraidof the dark." "We'll go out againin a few months,"shesaid. "Maybe."Then, his voice flatter: "You did all right, then?" "Yes..." She paused,thinking. 'A few hundredkilogramsof the usualbanglesand art objects,including someintricatestonecarvings I'm sureI havea buyerfor. Foursetsof mummifiedremains-" "I need thosefor my work," Bergstromsaidsharply.
2000 Showcase 208 NebulaAwards "And we'll have ihem recordedbefore we let them go. I know Findlay Broz will makea bid for those.We'll lelhim pay for the recording-full spectrum.Then there'sthe heary earthenwareand one of thoseruby pylons.. . . After the Chief's cut, we'll have enough left over to buy our way onto another expeditionand, say,six months' living expenses." Bergstromonly nodded.The silencebetweenthem len$hened. "Do you want me to put it all back?"Cara saidfinally. "Of coursenot." "Do you want to go back to living on your PaPersand my teaching?" "You know we can't. Not and do fieldwork." 'We'd "l do know,"shesaid."l wantedto be sureyou did." Then: better get moving.The Chief isn't in a mood to wait. And I, for one, want to gethome again." Home wasFlanders.Carat world had beensparedthe plague,but not the chaosfollowing the collapseof interstellartrade, the refugee hordesand quarantinewars,famine and revolution. It wasthe work of generationsto rebuild, and Flanders'sone universitywas not very old when Bergstromcameto it. Cara turned away,her back stiff; Bergstromopenedhis mouth to speak,then winced as his suit radio awakenedwith a crashof static. "Home again,home againl'theProteussaidacrossthe link, the emission modulatedto a crude counterfeitof Bergstrom'sown voice.He scowled. It swoopeddown from the saffron sky, took a furn around the squareand plunged toward Bergstrom,buffeting him with the wind from its featheredwings. The pinions flowed like wax, two becoming four, an eagle'swings transformingto a honeybee's.The metamoqph hovered,for now about a meter across,an amalgamof practical attributessewedup in a scalyskin.From its limitlesscatalogit had selected a sleek,sinuousbody,talonedfeet,and a narrowhead ringedwith slitted eyesand lessreadilyidentifiablesensors. "Carry?" it askedfrom a vaguelyhuman mouth. "You, no." But Bergstromtook a bulging sack from its claws' "This, yes." "Gratitude,"the Proteussaid,fatteningits lips to a sweetlysmiling cupid'sbow."Kindly refrainfrom pilferage."It flew off in a flurry of transmogrification.
TheMerryGate 2O9 "Anotherpirate,"Bergstromsaidunder his breath. "More of a magpie,I think," Cara said."But who knows?Maybe the little monsteris a top archaeologist, too,backwherehe comesfrom." Smiling sourly,Bergstromhefted the pouch and loosenedthe drawstring.Nesiled insidewasa clutch of ruby eggs,finely polished,intricatelyetched,and glowingwith somesoft internal light. The same materialasthe obelisksringing the plaza,the samerunes.They would, he knew,fetcha fair price on the blackmarketsof a dozenworlds. Throat tight, he lookedawayand sawthe squareasit had been,the towersgleamingin the sun,the rubystelesglittering,standingtall above the throngsmilling aboutthe plaza.The peopleweresmalland fragile, with smooth, translucentskin, long arms and long, many-fingered hands, huge, dark eyeswidely set in elongatedskulls, slitted noshils, small,Iiplessmouths.He heardtheir voiceson the wind, a gentlekeening, like the soundofcicadasacrossa distance. "The creaturedoeshave a weaknessfor shiny things,"he said, handingthe bagto Cara."I haven'tseenthesebefore." Shelookedinside."I have,"shesaid."ln someof the towers.The uppermostrooms." They had gone into the towersto die, most of them-foor after foor of withered,childlike corpses,fleshso souredby the Hand that it wastoxic evento corrupting microorganisms.A thousandtowers,a million rooms,legionsof carcasses in this one city,and the sameall across the planet-acrossa hundredplanets. "l left them,"shesaiddully."I justdidn't wantthem." Bergstromtook the pouch from her. "It's all right," he said. He followedher acrossthe plaza,frowning. Tiash lay scatteredaround the tower where they'd lived the past week, a tapered cylinder two hundred meters tall, its weatheredfacadethe color of old bone.A portableairlockwascementedroughly acrossthe entrance;rubberyfabric sealedthe windowson the ground floor.The othertwo sledges weredrawnup outside,onepiled high with Ioot, the other with their equipmentand the remainingstores. funior lookedup as they approached,then went back to lashing down their gear.Without a word, Cara walked over to supervise.Bergstrom watchedher a moment, his mouth set,beforehe cycled throueh the airlock.
2000 2tO NebulaAwards Showcase The room on the other sidetook up mostof the first floor. Beneath the rubbish scatteredunderfoot,inscribedtiles createdcomplexpatterns;thin, gracefulcolumnspoured upwardinto a vaultedceiling.A dozenlampsfloatedabout the chamber,proiectingwan heatand a dull The bloodyglow fell acrosstwo of the kurtikuttsas red luminescence. theybroke down the atmosphereplant. They workedsideby sideand in stoicallyefficient.Caracalledthem The silence,perfectlycoordinated, Thins, though the Third Born outweighedhis youngerbrother by at leasttwentykilograms. The pressurizedshelterBergstromhad sharedwith Cara satin the and rolled into a neatbundle. He settledonto it, far corner,Collapsed crackedopen his helmet faceplate,and took a shallow breath: healy, shockinglycold, stinkingof methaneand the kurtikutts'vinegarreek. A shadowfell acrosshim. "Your mateher treasurefound, and we ours as well," said a voice so deep he felt it in his bones."And you, Beergstromm?" "l found what I waslooking for," he saidfatly' "Clues to how the Hand came,and why. Whether it will come again." The FirstBorn toweredoverhim, a wall of scarredleatherdraped hung from the silversashknotted in elaboraterobes.A ieweledscabbard hand restedidly on the bladehhilt. at his waist;one big, seven-fingered His thick armswerebare,cordedwith muscleand old scars.More scar tissueran like a river down one sideof his head,acrossthe hollow right eyesocketand along his throat. His remainingeyewaslike an opal, unblinking,unreadable. "Dusty words,and dust,"the First Born growled'"Your mate'streasureis more of my liking." "When the Hand reachesfor you," Bergstromsaid,"seeif it will take a bag of gold instead." The kurtikutt glared,then threwbackhis headand laughed,a coyote howl that sentshiversdown Bergstromtspine."lf the Hand comes," the First Born said,"I will send it to you, your sharptongue to cut it, Beergstromm." He grimaced.cara had wantedto buy their way onto one of the kurtikuttsi expeditionsfor years.The Ruhk'thmar pack had been work and buyingcoordinates ing the fringesofthe shadowtradefor decades, from corrupt operators,moving their loot through the Poital """.rs
TheMercyGate 277 black marketsof a dozenworlds,and stayingclearof both the syndicates and local authorities.They had no backers,no brokers,no permanent baseof operations.Cara had finally caught up with the Chief a month ago, in a dive called The CadaverDog, not far from the stargateon Chimerine.Sooneror later,all the piratescameto Chimerine. Behind him, the airlockcycledwith a wheezeand a gaspof cold methane.Caracamethrough,then )unior. "Your mate knowsof value,"the First Born said."The Hand may comeagain-but sheand I will be of wealthin the meantime,hey?" Cara pulled off her helmet, gavethe brute a sour glance,and barkeda handful of wordsin the kurtikutts'language.The First Born glowered. "Privatejoke," Cara explainedto Bergstrom.She smiled up at the kurtikutt."You'rein a big hurry-up,Chief, but yourlittlestbrotheris taking all dayto align the Portal.How abouta remedy?" The First Born considered."His assI will kick." he decided.He lumbered towardthe airlock. Cara touchedBergstrom's arm. "This won't take long," she said. "Shortyjustdoesn'tknow when to stopfussing." "Better that than we end up scatteredacrossthe Arm. Teamsdo go out and nevercomeback." "That's not us, lover." He took her hand."I am an idiot,sometimes." "Oh, you arenot. Sometimes." The FourthBorn brushedpast,pushinga cart stackedwith components of the atmosphereplant. His brother followed, carrying their shelter.After they had cycled through the airlock, Cara looked around the empty room and squeezedBergstrom's hand. "Be a gentleman,sir, and walk me home?" Shortywasstill working at the tabsand leversof his homebrewdevice as funior stood watch over the generator.The First Born paced alongsidethe Portal,then stalkedup to the youngestkurtikutt. His bellow echoedfrom the towers.Eyeswide, Shorty duckedhis head and steppedawayfrom the apparahrs.The First Born gesturedsharplyand The Thins draggedup the sledges,one brotheryokedto each. funior movedforward,but the eldestkurtikutt put a hand to his
2000 Awards Showcase 272 Nebuta brother'schest.Their conversationwaslike the rumbling of a waterfall. When it wasover,funior startedbacktowardthe towerthey had occupied' "Now what?"Carademanded. The First Born cockedhis one eye in their direction. "Your tteasurewe cany,"he growled."You we do not." He pointed to the gate. Carashrugged."Lastone home,lover." Bergstromhesitated."I still havea remoteon its way in. I could-" "We can'taffordto write it off." Shegavehim a quick grin' "It'sall right-you waithere until it findsits wayback-" He watchedher walk towardthe Portal.Even bundledup in ihat clumsysuit,he could seethe way shemoved,the waysheheld herself' He rememberedthe nights on Flanders,and the warmth of her in the mornings,and he, too, wantedto be homeagain. Staticsurgedfrom his suit radio' "|ust me, love,"Cara saidacross the link. She looked over her shoulder,smiling. "Wanted to tell you not to wait foo long. . . and rememberI'll be waiting for you on the 'And I wantedto tell you what I'd like to do other side."He grinned. when-" The transmissioncut off as she crossedthe Portal'sinterface,the closingaroundher. darkness ,.Tease," Bergstromsaidunder his breath,but he wasstill smiling. He looked up into the pale yellow skies.Horizon to horizon, they stretchedemPty."Come on, damn it." "Beergstromm!"the First Born thundered."Time marches!"He groaning, raisedone scarredarm and The Twinsstartedforward,sledges their runnersgougingthe alabastertiles.The Proteusfuttered overhead, squawkingin the pirates'language. The Portalloomedbeforehim, a cut of night framedagainstthe jasminesky,a black sodeepand formlessit hurt to look at it for very long. A glovereachedfrom it, fingersclutching.An arm' And Cara staggeredfrom the Portal. Bergstromcaught her and went down with her to the cold stone. Her eyeswere wide, her face ashenand sheenedwith sweat;blood hickled from her nose,smearingher visor.Her mouth worked."Evan," shesaid,the word faint beneathraspof laboredbreath' ,,lt'll Everything'sall right." He checkedher be all right, sweetheart. suit'sseals,the telltaleson the environmentalpack:temperature,integrtty' radiationcount, pressure,power."There'snorhingwrong,damn it'"
TheMercyGate 273 Shecoughed,bright red bloodsplashingthe insideof her helmet. "Oh, lover,"shegot out. "Oh, Evan,it wasworsethan you thought." "Cdra?" He lookedover his shoulder.The SecondBorn stoodover him, hands working at his sides,but the other kurtikutts had drawn back. 'And "We haveto get the shelterrigged again,"Bergstromsaid. the med kit-" The wordstumbled from him. "First-get that first, beforethe shelter,while we can still- " None of them moved. Then ]unior knelt ponderously."She is dead,comrade."He touchedher helmetwith one finger. Bergshomslappedhis hand away."Get awayfrom us,you fucking monster."he said.his facewet. "Get the hell awayor I1l kill you all."
2 "The answermustbeours,"the SecondBorn saidin a low rumble. "What happened,we mustknow it." In the ruddy glow of a singlefoating lamp, dried blood painted blackCara'spartedlips.Her eyeswereclosed,theirlashesdelicatetraces againstivory skin. Golden hair spilled unruly acrossthe blanket folded beneathher head. It was the moment between one breath and another. Bergstrom hadlived it before,with the suncomingup overthe hills of Flanders,the light of dawn pouring through the bedroom window, as he waited for Cara to open her eyesand smile. It wasthe moment betweensleeping and waking.He satcloseby, and waitedfor her next breath. "The Portal has murderedyour mate,"said the First Born, "and may yet us all." He sat on a crate awayfrom the lamplight. "One exit there is, Beergstromm,and in time we must take it or wait for air and The otherkurtikuttsstirred,muttering. food to be exhausted." "We arenoneof uschirurgeons, andwe knowlittle of yourpeople," "Can his said|unior, voicealmostgentle. you discoverthe meansof her death?" Bergstrom's eyessqueezed shut."fustleaveher alone." The box creakedasthe FirstBorn stood."The answerwithin her lies,"he said,coming out of the darkness. Red light pouredalong the bladeof his knife."PerhaosI will searchfor it."
2000 Showcase 274 NebulaAwards funior reachedfor Bergstromas he leaped,but his brother was quicker.The First Born's free hand clamped on Bergshom'shead, his boots temples,and crown.Bergstromgruntedasthe visesqueezed; kicked at empty air. "Time marches,"the kurtikutt hissed,his vinegarybreathwashing acrossBergstromtface. "Murdering. . . bastdrd,"he forcedout. "The murdererI am not," saidthe FirstBorn. "But huntedI have, and you are frail prey,Beergstromm." flooded The SecondBorn spokea singleharshsyllable.Blackness of a stream let loose and grip his Bergstrom'ssightasthe eldesttightened words heavy as a hammer blow. lunior spokeagain, vibrissaefanned stiffy from his wrinkled muzzle,and baredneedleteeth. The First Born snarled-this time somethinglessthan wordsand spread his fingers wide. The foor came up at Bergstrom and the breathfrom him. He lay there,his chestcaughtin bandsof smashed He wincedat a hot, sweetstink,but it steel,his faceto the icy flagstones. wasJuniorwho camecloseand said,"You arenotthe sixthbrotherof our clutch, but you are our comradeof the hunt." He helped Bergstrom from the floor,sethim on his feetasif he weighednothing,and steadied him with one hand. "No harm will come to you, or further harm to your mate." "She is dead,"ihe First Born snarled."We mustfind the reason'" "In yout own way,comrade,will you try?" "He will," saidthe FirstBorn, "s1-" "Or he will not," saidfunior. "Comrade?" Bergstromlooked down the long, wavl blade of the First Born's kris.Rememberl'Il be waitingfor you on the otherside,shehad said' He took a shallowbreath-all he could manage-and measuredthe distance. Then the First Born shovedthe daggerinto its scabbardand foldedhis armsacrosshis chest:the momenthad passed. "Weak prey,"the kurtikutt grunted. "Too weak even to savehimself." "lf we find the way,it will be a scholarwho leads,not a hunter'"funior turned to Bergstrom."Later,comrade?"he saidquietly' "But not much later."
TheMercyGate 2t5 From the darknessat the back of the room, the atmosphereplant wheezedand grumbled. Near it, the remaining storesformed a small, untidy pile. And in the shadowsa few meters away,a still form lay beneatha weatheredtaqpaulin.Bergstromsankback. The kurtikuitssatin a circleon the othersideof the room,speaking in low voices.funior glancedup as Bergstromstirred,murmureda few wordsto the FirstBorn, then stoodand cameover."we discussthe pathswe may take,"he said."My brotherinvitesyou to ioin us.,' Bergshomlookedup, his faceblank.Juniorstudiedhim for a few momentsbeforesettlingonto his haunchesalongsidehim. "This time you havespentwith her, comrade-for you this hour wasfleeting,but for us it sketched.Do you seemy meaning?" "I hearyou." ,,On "Come, then." He put a heavyhand on Bergstrom,s arm. chimerine, no one waitsfor us. In this trap we are alone.No one will saveus unlessit is we ourselves." Bergstromshruggedhim off. "It shouldhavebeenyou,you know. You were going in first, the chief stoppedyou, and it washer instead." Junior'snostrilsfared. "There were,here,lengthsof gold cloth my brother remembered,a part of our treasure.I was sent to retrieveit. There wasnothing more than that." "Then showme the cloth." "You arehunting,comrade,but thereis no preyhere." "Showme the cloth," Bergstromrepeated.,,Wemay be your comradesof the hunt, but we'renot part of the clutch. your little brother doesa fair job on the Portal,but there'salwaysa risk.The chief let her takeit." "You know I mourn her,"Juniorsaidheavily..,In all the journey_ ings of the Ruhk'thmar, nothing of this like has happened.Always,all amongus,kin and strangerboth,returnedsafelyhome." "Not this time," Bergstromsaid. Shewaitedfor him in the shadows. He went to her. Bergshomknelt by her sideand slowlypulled backthe tarp. He did not moveagainfor a long while; then,when he did, it wasto brusha few shandsof hair from her face.Her skin wascold and hard asstone, but he did not pull away. After a time he drew his fingersalong her cheek, then acrossthe
2000 Showcase 216 NebulaAwards quiltedfabric,the environmenceramichelmetseal,to the suit'shearry, tal pack.The statuslights glowedwanly under his outstretchedhand. The suit still lived, storagecellsnearcapacity,air canisterscharged,presHe broughtup the diin readiness. and recyclingsystems sureregulators green. in all sequence: agnosticdisplays He paused,then lifted her nearerarm from the floor, wincing at its then finched againas the mitt floppedlooselyat weightand stiffness, the wrist.He fumbledat the wrist seal.. . and it slippedfrom his nervelessfingers,her arm hitting the floor with a dull thud. A small sound camefrom the back of his throat. "Comrade."funior cameover."The glove?" Bergstromonly nodded. funior workedsilentlyat the seal.Soonthe mitt camefree,rough cloth raspingon smoothskin. Her hand waspale,almostluminescent; thin fingersclutched at nothing. Bergstrommotioned,and the kurtikutt passedhim the mitt. "Now the otherone,"Bergstromsaid."Wait. . . the helmetfirst,overthere." The SecondBorn reachedacrossCara'slegs,lifted the helmet eas'Are theretoolsI will arms. ily with one hand,and put it in Bergstrom's need?"the kurtikutt asked,not lookingat him. Bergstromstaredat the helmet,the smearof blood insidethe visor, the dozenor solong,blond hairscaughtin the convolutionsof the foam padding."l won't let you cut her," he said."You'll haveto kill me first." His fingerstrembled againstthe chill metal, the faceplate'scrystal,the of explorers,and left by generations and scratches roughnessof scrapes He knew them all . . . but for one,fresherthan uncountedexplorations. the rest. find funior reachedfor her other hand. "lf therewere a thing to "l within her,we would not seeit," the kurtikutt said. will tell my brother this." He unfastenedthe cuffseal, then graspedher tightly clenchedfist and,gently.openedit. A sullen fire burned in her palm. The kurtikutt inhaled sharply, the breathwhistling ihrough his teeth-"Comrade" '" The iewel fell free, watery red light pouring along its smooth curves,glittering on the etched patterns,gatheringwithin its heart. Bergstromcaughtit asit fell, hissingasthe cold stoneburnedhim. He closedhis fist aroundit, holdingthe hurt.
TheMercyGate 2t7 The kurtikutt shrankback."My brothertook a few of these,"he said."But for me, thereis a stinkto them." "She thoughtso, too." The ruby eggwarmedslowlyin his hand. "But it is, I know,nothingbut deadstone." "Yes." "Do you think therearespectres,comrade?"the kurtikutt saidsuddenly. Bergstromlookedup, the bloodpoundingin his head. 'A spirit that wearsthe body," the SecondBorn said,his eyeson Bergstrom's.'A thing that liveson after the body dies." Looking away,Bergstromshookhis head.,,No.But I wish I did." The FirstBorn stalkedoverto them. ")bu did not dig deeply,"he growled. funior glidedto his feet."There wasno need,"he said."The scent. I think we haveit now." "This?"The FirstBorn took the jewerfrom Bergshomand held it up to the light. 'A bii of treasureit is,and nothingmore.I havemanylike it." Black lips skinnedbackfrom yellowedfangs."you would sell this, Beergstromm? Soon,perhaps,for air to breathe." "She didn't haveit when shewent throughthe portal,"Bergstrom said."Shehad it when shecameback." The FirstBorn glared."Fools,both of you,and I trappedwith you." "Her suit is intact,"Bergstromsaid."operational.No sign of radiation,pressure, acceleration, electricalshock,tidal forces.Nothing." "This we alreadysuspected. Thesewould haveleft their mark.But insideher?In the mouth thereis blood." "She bit her tongue,"Bergshomsaid.,,Her noseis bloody. She hurt herself.Her facehit the insideof the helmet." "what reasonfor this?"the FirstBorn snapped."rf shestumbled, where did she fall? If she wasput to ground, what hunted her?" He snarled."What remainsis meat.Sheis gone,Beergstromm. Too much time havewe wasted,respecful of meat."He swungtoward funior. "you saidit shouldbe so.she is his,yes,but if thereisanswerin her,it is ours.,, "Shehad time enoughto rearizewhatwashappening," Bergstrom said."lt might havebeena heartattack.Or shoke." "And of this there would be no sign?"the First Born demanded. "To a medician,yes,"Bergshomsaid.,,To us, no. The damaee
2000 Showcase 218 NebulaAwards would be too subtle.For a stroke,a burst blood vesselsomewherein the brain. For a heartattack. . . I don't know if that producesany visiblesign at all. Maybe a changein the blood chemistry'" "You may deceiveus in this," the First Born said. "Yes,"Bergstromsaid."Does it matter?You wouldn't find anything, and I won't look." "There is a strengthin you, Beergstromm,"the kurtikutt growled, "though it is buried deep."funior openedhis mouth, but the eldestcut him offwith a snarl."We are ashatchlings,eyesstill closed!We do not know the meansof her death-whether from within her, or of the Portal, or by somehunter on the otherside.We must learnthe truth of it, and setright the Portal if we can." "lt may be operatingas intended," Bergstromsaid flatly' "On my world, an ancient civilization constructedmagnificent tombs for their royalty.Their treasurewasburied with them, sothey would haveit in the traps,and sorcererscurses afterlife.And thick walls,hidden Passages, protectedtheir treasurefrom thievesin this life." "You believewe are accursed,Beergstromm?" "These peopleknew their world wasbeing murdered'Maybe they seta trap for the murdererand it caughtus, instead'" "Fanciful."The whisperdrifted from the back of the room' Behind it camewet, meatysounds,growinglouder. Somethingmoved there in half-seen,unfolding itselfuntil it stoodcloseto threemeters the darkness, tall. "Their technologywasvastlyinodequate,"said the graveyardvoice' "Holy Father,"Bergstromwhispered. It came out of the shadows,musclessquirmingbeneatha scaly hide, red lamplight glinting from the spikesthat fared acrossits massive shoulders.one large eye, black and moist, gleamedfrom beneatha thick ridge of bone. The wide mouth parted slightly,revealingrowsof thorns p"int"d with faintly luminescentdrool. The thorns rustled,producing words:"We mustexplorethe Portal." Distantly, Bergstromheard funior make a sound not far from a whine, barelyaudibleand quickly stilled. Behind him, the youngerkurtikutts backedaway. "You weara hunter'sskin now,"the First Born said,"but I remem'A ber when you werebut a smallbird." His nostrilsfared. brainlessbird, and ill-spoken.Your form is not all that changes'"
TheMercyGate 279 Toweringoverthe kurtikutt, the Proteussmiledwith its mouth full of thorns.Beneathhis batteredhide, the First Born'smuscleswere rigid with tension.But he kept his hand well awayfrom the hilt of his knife. "If we areto live,we needmoreinformatton,"saidthe Proteus.It indicatedone of The Twins, who cowered."This one is not yitdl. It wiII enterthe Portal." funior took a stepforward. "No one of my brotherswill be sacrificed."He glancedat Bergstrom,then quickly away."No one elsewill be sacrificed." The Proteushissed."Do not challengeme in this,"it said."I move to sayeus dll." It spreadits hands,steelyserratedclawsgleamingin the lamplight.junior crouchedand movedslowlyto one side,flankingthe monster.The First Born fell back, the kris suddenlyappearingin his hand. "Be carefulwith him," Bergshomsaid,his mouth dry,"but he'snot all he seemsto be." The Proteusswung its ridged skull toward him. A faint reek of ozonewaftedfrom the creature. Bergstromlooked up into its faceted eye. "Thatt a frightening package,"he said,"but you can't massmore than fifteen or twenty kilograms.Stick him with your knife, Chief, and he'll pop like a balloon." "Beergstromm,what is your tongue after now?" He did not look awayfrom the shapeshifter. "How much would you sayhe weighs?"Bergstromasked."Twice what you do?" "Perhaps,"saidthe kurtikutt, "but I havetakenlargerprey." 'And when he wore wings and feathers,how much did he weigh then?"Bergstromsaidsteadily."He can't createmass,justredishibuteit. Keep watchinghim, though.He may not be in your weightclass,but he'sgot the reach." funior's muzzle wrinkled. His tongue lolled from his mouth and he raisedone hand to coverit. l,aughter,Bergstromrealized. The First Born glared at the Proteusfor a moment more, then shovedthe kris into its scabbard."Tlickery," he growled. "And as time runs from us." The Proteusshrugged,a quite human gesture."We requirestronger lt wasalreadyshrinking, the spikesand
2000 Showcase 220 NebutaAwards ridgeswithdrawing into its oily hide. "Our statusremainsunchanged. One mustenterthe Portal." |unior lookedat Bergstrom."Comrade,whatof your robots?Send one machineinto the Portal,and look throughits eyes." He shookhis head. "Not once it crossesthe interface.Nothing can-" "Tiansmissionof information acrossthe Portalwould violate relativity," the Proteussaidin a voice now blurred and vaguelyfeminine. The creature'shide had smoothed.Its trunk narrowed;arms and exceptfor a narrow, legsthinned.The headbecamean ovoid,feahrreless liplessslit for a mouth. "That includesnerveimpulses,"Bergstromsaid,his heart racingas the Proteustransformeditself. "Otherwise I'd suggestyou stick your headin and look around,Chief." The Proteussmiled at Bergstromwith white, eventeeth' The skin stretchedacrossits skull fell in, leavingtwo round holes.Eyessurfaced from within them, blackpupilsringedby electricblue irises.The head tilted back; gaceful fingers caressedgolden hair. Delicate laughter echoed. "ls this form more to your liking, Bergstrom?"it said with her voice. Her eyesstaredat him; her hands roamed over her throat, her breasts,her stomach."Or do you still find me frightening?" Bergstromlooked away'"Not now, comrade,"|unior said quietly from behind him. "But later.Yes,later." The First Born sighed."Thesegamesgo on too long," he said'"l am thinking now of your ancientkings,Beergstromm'" 'A pretty theory,"the Proteussaid in her voice,"but thesepeople did not havethe means." "They may have haded for the technology,"funior said, "in the time beforethe Hand. Or a visitormay havelaid the hap, if trap there is." "Tfap or accident,"the First Born said,"the answerwe must find, and quickiy." He knuckled the scartissuearound his empty eyesocket' "We put asideair, water,and food to last the span of the hunt and little more. Even the powergoes,too quickly.The motesat its heart,the your tonguebe light and shadow.. ." His teethclashed."Beergstromm, damned!"
TheMercyGate 2Zt "The antimatterwithin the generatordecaysat a constantrate,,'funior explained'"we can tap its power,but not conserveit. And when it is gone,we cannottamethe Portal." "How long do we have?"Bergshomasked. funior looked acrossthe chamber and spokea few words of kurtikutf shorty'sreply wasbarelyaudible."Twelvehours remain to us before the power hasgrown too weak,"funior said.,,Evenbeforethat, my brother tells me, graspingthe portarat chimerine growsdifficult." "Then perhapsyou'll finally acceptthe wisdomof my advice,,, the _ Proteussaidto Bergshom,running her handsoverher hips."you know I'm right,lover.Tell them." The First Bom sprang,silen! and put his kris to the sideof the proteus'sneck.Blue eyeswidened,but otherwisethe creaturerernained motionless. "This gametires me," the kurtikutt saidlow in his throat. ,,End it. or your headI will take." The Proteussmiledthinly. "you mustknow that wouldn't kill me.', "It would be of an inconvenience," the FirstBom said.It pressed knife to skin,drawinga thin rivulet of blood.Despiteeverythinj, Berg strom'seyesstungto seeit. "Why do you takehis part?,'theproteus askedmildlv. ..Heis use_ lessto us." The kurtikutt'sknife arm trembled."He is our comrade of the hunt " he said."End it, now." The Proteusshrugged."rf it will pleaseyou." without moving its head,the monstershiftedits eyesto Bergstrom's. Its smilebroadened,becoming sad and sweetas the familiar curvesflattened,the pink skin bleachedwhite,and the long,butteryhair withdrewinto the scarp.The lips went last,leavingthe mouth a narrowsritwith ends upturned'. When it wasover,the metamorphstooda meterand a half tall, fragileand childlike,its translucentskintaut overthin bones. The lipless mouth smiled,the slittednostrilsflaredslightly,and the fiend Iookedat him with eyesthat had through the metamlrphosisremained warm and wide and blue. Bergstromlooked into Cara,seyesand said: .,There may be another way."
2000 222 NebulaAwardsShowcase
3 The wind blew along the streetsof the dead city, rushing in through all its gapingwindows and running out through all its empty doors.It rtol" acrossthe merchants'stallsand whisperedthrough the gallows' open hap. In the plaza,it lifted a shroudof dustand setthe motes starlessnight. Bergstromsat closeby, to glittering againstthe stargate's and felt in him the Portal'svastemptiness. A dozen metersoff, shorty'sfingersmoved slowlyacrossthe control surfacesof his handmadetuning rig. The First Born toweredover shorty had beenat work for the him, one hand on his ieweledscabbard. better part of an hour, but the First Born stayedsilent' Thisting a coiled rope, |unior settledalongsideBergstrom'scamp chair. "ls there a thing I can do?" the kurtikutt asked,his voice muffied maskhe wore' only ' slightlyby the transparentbreathing sunlight glinted from Bergstrom'svisor as he looked into the "l empty r"ff ol sky."There'sone still out there,"he saidhalf to himself. waswaiting for it, and shewent through first' It nevercameback'" "Later, comrade.l,ater." "She'dbe angry.Half our profitsto replaceit'" He closeda panel in the robot'sbreast.The devicewasinert for a few seconds,then shook its graphitewings.Its headbeganto hrrn on its thin neck,backand forth, scanning. "It will rememberfor us now?"the kurtikutt said' ,,lt wasbuilt to relaydatato my recordingrig in real time," Berg stromsaidtonelessly,"but it hassomeonboardstorage.I've reconfigured mostof the memory disabledhalf the sensors'steppeddown the resolution of the others.It won't seemuch, but it'll rememberwhat it sees an hour'sworth,at least,which is morethanwe need."standing,he looked towardthe First Born. TheeldestsquattedbesideShortyandspokewithhimforafew the moments,then got to his feet againand cameover'"My brother says to lead "as would if it Portal is seeminglyas it was before," he said, Chimerine."He glanceddown."l tire of smallbirds'" "This one may saveyour miserablehide'" Bergstromhanded the remoteto |unior, who shookfree a few metersof rope' Working quickly'
TheMercyGate 223 he fashioneda harnessthat slippedoverthe robot'swingsand wasdrawn tight acrossits breast.He finishedit with a squareknot and passedthe remote backto Bergstrom."It will not escapeus,"the kurtikutt said. The First Born snatchedthe bird from Bergstrombeforehe could react."You havea shen$h, Beergstromm, but it is not in your arm.,'He loopedthe freeend of the ropearoundhis waist,knottedlt, then began whirling the robot overhis head,payingout more line with eachrevolution. Bergstromsteppedback. "Be careful with it, you bastard."The First Born wrinkled his muzzleand let the remotefly free,It arcedtoward the Portal,rope trailing, and met the ebonydome two-thirdsof the wayup. The robotseemedto hangtherefor an instant,then wasgone. The rope fell after it, the first dozen metersor so disappearingintl the interface,the resthitting the pavingstoneswith ,n,rm.a,Upl "Give it fifteen minutes," Bergshomsaid,"settling into his chair. His heartpounded. The FirstBorn took someof the srackout of the rope and began looping it around his scarredforearm."If there is a huntei on the other side,"he said,"I am readyshouldyour little bird it takefor bait." He slid his kris from its scabbard,set it on the groundbeforehim, and settled onto his haunches,waiting. Bergstrompresseda switch.And remembered:a carouselof im_ ages.The Portal, an arc of night. Bone-whitetowers,yellow skv.The plaza,three figuresstandingon the dusty stones,falling away(the kur_ tikutts, lambent in infrared, the First Born's hand still open, arm outshetched,and alongsidethem the environmentalsuit'scooier signature). The Portalagain,a wall that grewto closeout everythi ing else.A shock,a surge,a deepernight,a time unending. Then: the rush of air againacrossgraphite wings, a sensation of falling, impact, and darkness But this was merely the absenceof light. Obeying a deeply - grainedsubroutine,the remoterighteditselfand looked arornd. Paintedin shadesofsonar,the gaileryshetchedbeyond his sensors, range.Ranksof willowy columnsflowedfrom the etched foor and into the barrel ceiling high overhead.Elaboratepatternsflowered along the
2000 Showcase 224 NebulaAwards stoneworkto frame row on row of shallowniches,making them part of the design.And within eachniche a rubyegg,finelypolished,intricately inscribed.A thousandrows,millionsuPonmillionsof stones' The sceneslid left, then right as the remote'shead panned, the image repaintingitself in radar,in infrared,then againin the visible spectrum before cycling back to sonar- Nothing moved' Nothing changed. Long minutes passed.Then the view iuddered, swaying ctazlly, the walls of the galleryslowlysliding pastasthe remotewasdrawnbackward. Again the shock of translationacrossthe infinite, the surge,and utter darkness.Now light again,the black wall stretchingupward and the pale yellow skyaboveit, a mitted hand reachingdown, and beyond it a crystalvisorframing a drawnface:Bergstromtown' The playbackended,the virtual reality shattering,the senseof the deadworld pouring in on him, the weightof his own meatand bone, stink of sweat,the sour tastein his mouth, and everythingspinning, splnnlng. "Comrade.. . ?" )unior squattedbeforehim, his handson Berg strom'sshoulders,his face too near.Weakly,Bergstrompushed him away. "No hunter," he saidthickly. "No threat.A room, vast,somewhere "Like near."He shookhis headto clearit, then forcedhimselfto his feet. He a church, dark,empty.Somewhereon this world, maybein this city." His swayedand put a hand on the back of the chair, steadyinghimself. suit wasawashin sweat."underground,"he said."I'm "rruirorr-"rrial be right under us." sureof it. It may The First Born staredat him, his teeth set in a carnivorerichrs. "Nothing to havemurderedyour mate?" "lt's an emptyroom, damn it. No one there'No enemvfor vou to
fight." off. . . The kurtikuttlookedat him a momentlonger,thenstalked not towardtheir camp, but acrossthe sguare,and away')unior watched himgo...Nowweknownomorethanbefore,''hesaid...Yourmatemay havelross.d into a placewherethe hunter lives,but you sawanother have land. Or the hunter may have gone from it' What you sawmay my dream' beena trick,a dreamput into the machine'Or perhapsthis is "Or comrade."He lookedup at the soundof wingbeats. nightmare."
TheMercyGate Z2S The Proteussweptdown from the yeilow sky,circling the portal oncebeforealightinga few metersaway.Its headwashuman,or nearly so-stylized, glossy,a mannequint head with high cheekbones, blue eyes,and long blond hair.The bodywasmonstrous, an amalgamof ray tor and reptile,with a thick, snakeliketorsoand clawedfeet. "You didn't listen to me," the proteussaid,its voice cara's once again."Now you've lost valuabletime. And for you, time has nearrv run out." "But not for you,"Bergstromsaid. The Proteustwistedits lips into a parodyof a smiJe."you know I am very adaptable,"it said.'iA,ndvery patient.If you do not find a way out, in time otherswill come.one of them will find the way." The creature fexed its harpy'swings. "r wish you could stayand keep me company,Evan,but I'm afraidyou won,t lastlong. you may have enough water,heat,and air for a while, but the foodwil go morequicklyif not yours,then the kurtikuits'. And when they grow hungry, tver, ihey *ill forgetyou aretheir comradeof the hunt." "My brother should havetaken your head,,, funior snarled.His eyesslid to Bergstrom."Comrade,you knowwe would never_,, "of courseyou would," Bergstrom said."The monsteris right aboutthat. . . abouta lot of things." walkedslowly-across the pavingstones,eachstepraisinga little cloud of dust.The blackwall of the portalloomedouerhim, cloling out the city and the sky.He fert againits depth, its vastemptiness, and then a subtlevibrationashe passedbetweenthe bandsof smooth, graymetal that held fastthe stargate. "Comrade!" The kurtikuttt voiceechoed,the echoeslostasBergstrom stepped into the Portal.Darknessenfoldedhim. utter lightlessness. unspeakablecord.silence,unmarkedevenby blood or soughof breath.Time stretched,time enough to be_ ffrS._of lieve he would neverdraw breathagain.A pressure, a straining,as if he werebeingpulled in a hundreddifferentdirections. Shapesior-"a within the darkness,patternsof night and shadow, taking o' forrn, b"_ comingthe wallsof the vault streamingpasthim, the unlnding cavern litby thefoxfireglowof a million jewels.ih"r, n suddensurge,Jburst of light, and Bergstromwasthroughto the otherside.. .
2000 Showcase 226 NebulaAwards fruit vines,and northAnd he wasa merchanisellingsweetbeetles, lands succulentsfrom his stall along the radian of the philosophers' ' ' And shewasa chancellordrinking up the vernalsun and the loving touch of her husbandsin a parklandon the easternverge' ' ' And he was a sculptor shapingmelancholy in his studio not far of souls.. . from the assembly a wright hrrning the shapeof the outsteppers'gate, was she And and from her stationwatching another party of visitorsstreaminto the world.. . And he wasa missionerfalling to his kneeson the bright alabaster stones. "Comrade?" Strong hands put him on his feet. He looked up, into the hard stonesof a kurtikutt's eyes,and read in them not concern but mere curiosity-an almostpredatoryinterest,abstractyet marbledwith a primal protastefor blood. More intriguing, though, wasthe undercurrent of found loneliness. ..Yourkind doesnot often hunt alone,"the missionersaid in the kurtikutt's own language,barksand gruntsthat cameawkwardlyto him' Beneath its transparentbreathing mask, the animal's mtszzle ,,I twitched. hunt here for trade,while my brothersawaitword." ..Passage is dear,"the missionersaid.The kurtikutt'slip curled,but he saidnothing. "Our world is poor,"the missionercontinued,"but I wish you good hunting." He felt in the kurtikutt's gazea vaguebut growingsuspicion' "Good hunting," he repeated,and turned away' The tide of new arrivalssurgedaroundhim, molegsand Yaenites' towa small mob of kappans,a simonswoodin its articulatedrambler, the ering aboveall the others-a dozenor more breeds,and everywhere His net' humans,who roamedacrossall the worlds of the Outsteppers' in searchof wasa backwaterplanet to all their races,but still they came powerful but vague trade,knowledge,adventure' ' ' or to try to satisfythe spread need ihat gnawedat so many of them' Their unruly personae subtle them with acrossthe ilrr, ,.td along the city'sradians,carrying disorder. emThe missionerclosedhis eyesand pushedhimself outward' towers and bracing the city, and it welcomed him with its gleaming
TheMercyGate 227 windsweptstreets,the placesof assemblyand sun-warmedcommons,all suffirsedby the presenceof his brothersand sisters, eachsoula threadin the tapestrythat wrappedthe world: the Bonding. Ftresent himself out along the design,castingafter the thread that bound him here most tightlyand,findingit, he felt that soultremblebeneaththe touch of his. Sheborehim up in warmthand love,and he knew he washome again. And felt, only distantly,the vibration of heavyfootsteps,his wife's quickeningalarmasthe ramblerbore down on him. He steppedback, meetingup againstrough, unyieldingfabric. A hand on his shoulder,holding him fastthough he struggled.Venting"lr-ped steamand stink, the machinet metal forelegsweptpast,closeenoughto ,ti, his tunic, then the rearleg in turn. The sirnonswoodrookedbackfrom its throne, leafyochersensors rustlingwith agitation. The hand fell from his shoulder."you could havebeen killed." The tone wasone of indifference. The missionerturned,and shivered.It wasa human,sealedup in the rudesecondskinthatcarriedher environment.Lips pressed to a thin line, shestaredat him throughthe bubbleenclosingi,"i n.ra. Looking into her cold blue eyes,he saw.. . nothing.He had fallenagainst her,he had not known shewasthere,closeby, becausetherewasi' he, no life or though! only a cold emptiness.Nothing. The ihing tilted its head,as if listeningto somethingin the distance."You arefrightened,"it said,and its voicewasa hundred voices. "What are you frightenedof?,' "You."His gatheringfearseta strainon the fabric;in answerhe felt vagueconcern,and one bright chord of alarm from his wife. .,stay awaf,"the missionersaid,asmuch to her asto the monster. It gripped his hand in its heavy mitt, and smiled. The crowd streamedpast,heedless,the wide-eyedkappanspointing at the fine, gleaming towers,the Yaenitemob grumblin! and mutterlng, a pairof humanslookingall aroundthem and .u.r1*h.r" at once. iro_ th._ he felt anxietyand anticipationand determinationand wariness: life. The creaturetgrip tightened.Muscle bruised,bone creaked; the missionernearlycried out, but did nol "you feel it coming," it saidin its tenible chorus."I seeit in you.,, "What are you?"he gasped. "Youknowwho I am," it said."r was herelong beforetheseothers,
2000 Showcase 228 NebulaAwards longbeforeevenyourkind. I havealwayswalkedamongthem,thesevermin, and since last we met, I have watchedtheir numbersgrow, their contagionspread.The Bondingput a uameto me long ago,speakingit only in the darkerplaces." ,,No." recoiledasthe monsterreachedwith its othermiti, but it He the sideof his face,the rough cloth oddly gentle on his merelycaressed skin. "We destroyedyou." But you only woundedme' "You tried, you and the Outsteppers. you drove me from the light of all your suns, into the shadows."lt paused,seemingto listenagain,and its smilebecamea snarlingrictus' lI restedthere, gatheringstren$h, watching.Learning how to exterminateyou, asI did the Outsteppers." It beganto change,the curvesand foldsof the environmentalsuit softening.The lines of its face melted, the eyesfell in. The helmet rnd then collapsed,flowing into the streamingflesh. cloth puffed o-".rt and meat fell awayfrom the hand that still brushedhis face, baring a claw of gleamingbone. He bit back a screamas the talonssankinto his flesh. fuound him, the crowd twitched as if stung' A cry went up; a shriek;confusionand fright rushedoutward,diminishingas it rippled rethrough the mob, those dim intelligenceseven a few metersaway mainingoblivious. The missionercastacrossthe Bondingand it strained,it tore,as bright pointsof fearblossomedin the fabric. It waseverywhere;whatever it was,it waseverywherein his world at once' A big hand'lashedout, slappingthe claw awayin a sPrayof black fell. muck and flecks of the monster'sbrittle bone, and the missioner The kurtikutt stoodover him, nostrilsflared,shaking'He snarled'the soundcuttingthroughthe rushand rumble of the mob' In the suddensilencethe demon laughed,a wet, bubbling sound the that welled from its depths.It raisedits arms,stretchingitself against transparthen smoky, rky. Itt skin grew taut and smooth,paled,turning ent asthe monsterspreadiiself on the wind. Taller than the Outsteppers' stain' gate, then higher than any of the towers,barely visible now' alaugh' gfrortty,billowing,still growing,still laughing-a thin' vaPorous a memory,a nightmare. Th" sho,-,iittgbegan.The screams'The mob buffetedhim' visitors and he saw running from the tquri.. A human femalebrushedby him'
TheMercyGate 229 in her bright,metallicfear.An omblegennacameafter,itsfour snakelike arms flailing. The Simonswood's rambler stampededback towardthe gate;one of the kappansfell under the churning metal legs,its highpitched screamsquickly silenced.The missionerfelt its pain only distantly beforethat, too, wasextinguished. The missionerput one handto his faceand it cameawaywet with blood.The kurtikutt pulled him roughlyto his feet."You will live," he said,"but not if we stayhere." The sky had turned gray,the sun dim behind it. It was,he knew, the sameall acrosshis world. "Comrade.. ." the kurtikutt rasped,the fearboilingoffhim. "This hunter-we mustfind a placeawayfrom it." "lf you can," saidthe missioner,and laid his hand on the beast's head.The kurtikutt flinchedat the contact,but someof the fearslipped from him. "My brothers-" "I think you will be with them soon." The demon'sshapefilled half the sky,the vaguestof shadows,a breath of night, nearly imperceptible.It continued to shetch, shaftsof safton sunlightpushingthrough.. . then it burst,becominga cloud of graydustthat drifteddown,dreamlike. On the windshe heardits laughter. He closedhis eyes.The clamorof the mob receded,and the kur_ tikuttt next words,the soundsof his own heartand breath.He found his wife waiting,filled with fearand love and longing.He wrappedhimself in her, then casthimselffurther out, acrossthe fabric of the Bonding. It wasthe sameall over:a hundred soulless,lightles monsters; their transformation;twilight everywhere;now a rain of dust. The missioneropenedhis eyesagainasa stillnesssettledoverthe square.The kurtikutt stoodcloseby, breathinghard, watchingthe dust drift down.It stainedthe alabaster pavingstonesand drewa film acrors the towers.It settledon the missioner's outstretched hands,blackagainst his white skin, fading to gray,vanishing.Burrowing. Leaving trails of white heatthroughhis flesh. The kurtikutt howled, slappingat himself. ,,Comrade...,' Eyes fierce, it turned on him. The missionerbraced himself... but ihe kurtikutt shookhimself once all overand sprintedinto the crowd, leaving a trail of dazedand fallen visitors.
230 Nebuta Awards 2000 Showcase The Outsteppers'gate stood impassiveabovethe mob, dark and empty,a hole cut through the universe,humming faintly. Thitching, the missionerhugged himself. Screamsechoedfrom the towers.The wind carriedto him the stinksof smokeand gore.A kappan blunderedinto him, bleedingfrom a dozencuts.An omblegenna clutched at him with its tentacles,then wascarriedaway.The missioner turned,and staredinto the faceof one of his brothers.One eye,nearly closed,wept blood; the other waswide and wild. The missionerheld him for a moment, the pain washing over him, drowning him, then pushedhim away.So much pain, a world of it. He senthimselfinto it, coveredhimselfwith it, to find the one he loved. I am coming. He went out into the city. dragged Smokeand chaosfilled its radians.A team of helpbeasts an overturnedcart. A gray-muzzledkurtikutt crouched in a doorway, pawingat anythingthat camenear.Merchants'stallswereupended.A packof kappansstoneda human;helmetbroken,shechokedon bitter air before her skull was crushed. Guidepostswere toppled; lost and frightened,newly releasedsoulscircled the ruins of their blood-redlat tices.The missionerhurried pasta gallows,where brothersmurdered brothers. seekingthe shadsometimes Through smokeand overbarricades, down streetswhereblood ran free'Then he owswhile violencepassed, was home, stumbling over the corpse in the doorway,up the stairs, higher and higher,to where she waited.He took her in his armsand held her,takingup her loveandwarmth,andput his handsto her throat. Her soul wasfreed,flying abovethe city, the smoke,the deathand madness,hurryingaway,to the otherside' He could not follow. Insteadhe climbed higher, into the tower's uppermostreaches,and then outward,acrossthe torn and burning fabric of the world. . . And he wasa merchant,the life seepingfrom him in a smashed stall alongthe radianof the philosophers.. . And shewasa chancellor,givingher husbandsrelease a parkland on the easternvergebeforeturning the bladeon herself' ' ' And he wasa sculptor,shapingrageand torment in his studionot far from the assemblyof souls,as his blood ran from half a hundred wounds.. .
TheMercyGate 237 And shewasa wright,turningthe shapeof the Outsteppers'gate so deathcould not escape,asthe mob screamedoutsideher station'sdoor and fire blackenedher skin. . . And he wasa man, standingin the gallery,a chamberbig enough to hold a world,column upon gracefulcolumn,line upon finely etched line, row upon row ofrecessescarvedinto living stone,in eacha ruby egg,millions upon millions,polished,glittering,glowing,warm.Souls. . , . and he fell to his kneeson the dustystones.He lay there,face pressed to the insideof his helmet,chestheaving,stale,recycledair sawing his throat,until big handsturned him gentlyonto his back.funior lookeddown at him. "You live,"he said."Comr ade,youlive.,, Bergstromswallowedbile and coughed,spatteringhis faceplate with filmy blood.His tonguewasthick in his mouth; soundscameout, but no words.His left hand clutched at Junior'srobes;his right arm was deadweight.The kurtikutt helpedhim sit up, cradlingBergstromagainst his chest.The First Born lookedon, and behind him the proteus,still wearingits harpy'swings. "Beergshomm,"said the eldest,"that strengthyou have,I think it is not in your head,either."He baredyellowteeth. "Mon. . . ster,"Bergstromslurred."Bass.. . tard." /unior tensed."Comrade,thereis no need- " The Proteusfolded its wings and staredat him with hard eyes.A smilesplit its mannequin'sface. *Kill. .. if," Bergshomgot out. "KIII itf' sunlight flashedon the First Bornt kris, but the proteuswassuddenly elsewhere,its form blurring asit moved.Leatherywingsstretched and thinned in an instant,becominga nestof lashingtentacles.Its skull lengthened,becominglean and predatory,its mouth agape.The kur_ tikutt backedaway,knife extended.A tentaclebriefy wrappedhis forearm,comingawaywith a suckingsound.Bloodsprayedfrom fleshmade ragged;bone shonebright white deep within the wound. Silent, the First Born passedthe kris to his other hand. He circled,the blademovingslowlybackand forth. Blood sheamed down his arm and onto the pavingstones."Beergstromm..."he hissed. "His kind..." Bergstromfought to make the words...They... broughtthe plague.They are... the Hand.,' The FirstBorn grinned."when you werea smallbird,"he told the Proteus,"l shouldhavetakenyour headthen." He lunged,and missed.
2000 Awards Showcase 232 Nebuta A tentacleshotout, slappinghis leg. Fleshripped,blood gouted,and the necktelescoped, FirstBornwentdown,rollingin the dust.The Proteus's wetly-snapping gleaming fangs the headlunging forward,iawswide, shut on nothing asthe First Born rolled underneath,the kris slashingupward,cuttingthroughthe scalyneck. Blacksapfountainedfrom the stump.The headrolledfor meters. The First Born struggledto his feet, the blood running from him. Tentacleswhippedblindly.He grippedthem one afterthe other,severing each.The trunk lay at his feet,inky slimepulsingfrom its wounds. "Not dead,"the First Born said raggedly."But inconvenienced." He swayed,the kris slippingfrom his fingersto clatter on the pavement. Blooddrenchedhis tunic. |unior went to his side,then lookedacrossthe plaza and called his brotherswith a howl that made Bergstromshiver. Bergstromgot his legsunder him and stood. "Comrade,"funior said,"you arehurt." "Nervedamage,"Bergstromsaid,the wordsstill indistinct."Stroke, maybe.Like her." He startedtoward the kurtikutts, his right foot dragging. "We both are battle-scarred,Beergstromm."The First Born's mtzzletwitched."l could die now,l think." The other kurtikutts ran uP, their gnarls and growls filling the square.funior cut them offwith a roar,then loweredthe First Born to the ground.He ripped his own tunic into stripsand beganbinding his brother'swounds.The FirstBorn grunted,his eyeclosing. "You will not die," Bergstromsaid,the barksand gruntsstrangein his mouth. "Not unlessyou aretoo much a miserto paya chirurgeonon Chimerine." )unior gaped at him. The First Born's good eye fluttered open' "You did not know our tonguebefore,"he said. "l know it now." Bergstrom'sfacetwisted."l rememberit'" "If a trick ihis is. . ." The FirstBorn hied to rise."No, it is madness upon you. A wound in the brain,you said,it may havemurderedyour 'And mad wasI mate,and now in you. . ." He fell back,breathinghard' to listento you." |unior put his hand on his brother'shead. "Comrade' Comrade!" Bergshomlookedat him, hying to focus."What is this thing in you?" He shookhis head.A thousandvoicesfilled his ears,a million re-
TheMercyGate 233 crowdedin on him, filling him. But alreadytheywerefadmembrances ing, slippingfrom him one by one. 'Answers." but the Fifth Born "Memories,"he said. He staggered, steadiedhim beforehe could fall. "Thesepeople.' . the Bonding.What it waslike to be herewhen the Hand camedown' To die . . . to feel a million deaths,all at once. How they twisted the Portal, so it led iust one way.How to get home.How we can get home." "Madness,"the First born muttered. "Or not," funior said."We can follow him, or wait here for death. For you it will comesooner,without a chirurgeon,but it will comefor all of us soonenough."To Bergstrom:"You can find the wayto Chimerine?" 'With Shorty'shelp. But first, there'ssomethingelse that needs doing." He turned to The Twins."Bring the shapeshifterto the Outstep pers'gate,"he saidin their language."Now." They looked to Junior, who barkedhis assent.They hurried off. Shortyhailed Bergstromashe followedunsteadily. When he reachedThe Thins, they were standingwell back ftom the Proteus'shead. One kurtikutt held its trunk, which writhed sluggishly in its grasp;the other held the tentaclesfar from its body. The Proteus'steeth clashedasBergstromknelt in front of the sleek but haltingly.Budsformedon its underskull.It wasmetamorphosing, side-the start of legs,perhaps.Bony ridgesthickened,the Proteus's eyesburning ftom beneaththem. The teeth snappedagain,then shortened,withdrawinginto the jaw.Lips formed,wrinkled, spatout "Death to you. Death to you." He graspedthe skull behind its ferociousmouth, its oily hide 'i{nd you're going to live forever,"Bergstrom writhing under his hands. said,"in the room whereall your victimsarewaiting." Grunting, he threw the Proteustowardthe wall of night. Its screamwascut short,leavingonly silence.
4 The sun came up over the westernhills and setthe morning mist aglow.The fog wrappedwooded slopesand green valleys,a turquoise lake burning with dawn'slight. High cloudsstreakeda delicateblue sky.
234 NebutaAwards Showcase 2000 Not Flanders'ssun or sky,but Chimerine's;still, it made his throat ache to seeit. Bergshomhad the bed raisehim up, and held the fewel to the light. The sunlightpouredlike moltenfire alongthe linesand channels etchedinto it, forming patternshe could no longer read. The door openedtentatively."Comrade?")unior looked in. "It was a long hunt to find you, the hospitalis so large." "It needsto be," Bergshomsaid. 'A lot of people get hurt out there." He slippedthe ruby eggunder the covers."Come in." "Sure thing." He held the door open and the First Bom hobbled in, one arm and one leg wrappedin sleekgreenbandages. funior pulled a chair awayfrom the wall and his brother settledinto it. "I wonderedif you could bearto pay a medician,"Bergstromsaid. "Thieves,all of them," the First Born growled."But, goodforfune, they don't know how to bargain.And you, Beergstromm?A damageto the nerves,they tell me." "They're repairingit, but it takestime." "And heasure,"the First Bom said, "but that hunts for you now. The knowledgeof that place gathereda high price." "We shouldn't havesold it." "Make of it a charity?" the First Born rumbled. "And for charity they would heal both of us, and giveyou meansto live until you arewell enough to go out again?This is the way of it, Beergstromm:To everything there is a price. Betterthan most,you know that." 'Across all the Silence fell acrossthe room. Into it funior said, worldswe hunt them." "And how many of us havethey killed?" 'Able hunterstheyare.The fight will The eldest'slook turned sour. be long." "It'll neverend,"Bergstromsaid."They're all piecesof the sameorganism,like a cancer-leave one piece alive and it will all growback. Next time it will be stronger,smarter.Its hate will be shonger,too. It wantsthe universeto itself again." "My hate alsois strong,"the First Born said. Bergstromsat up with a muffled groan. "We're like animals to werestill them-vermin. The war probablystartedwhen my ancestors back. beaten were Proteus the but fell first, in the trees.The Outsteppen returned,it wasasthe Hand, makingthemselves When the shapeshifters into new shainsfor eachspecies.Then the Bondingfell ' . . alongwith a
TheMercyGate 235 hundred other races.Now we're the only ones left to stand against them-the survivors." "The Bondingwerea gentlepeople,"|unior said. "Yes."Bergstrom'slook was distant.Their memories were gone from him, but he recalledtheir flavor. Each of his brothersand sisters, their experiencesstored in crystal matrices- not dead histories,but undyingsouls.The gallery-not a dustylibrary,or a monument,but a temple. "You haveto be gentle, when you can read another'sthoughts and feel another'spain." 'i\nd we do not haveto "We are not a gentle people,"funior said. learn how to be hunters." The First Born shiftedin his chair,wincing. "For the hurt both we took,"he said,"for the deathof CaraAusstenn,we will kill them each. There is a bounty,and I will be of wealthfrom it. You will visit me in the housetheybuild for the Ruhk'thmar." Bergstromfrowned."Not if you get any slower,Chief'" The First Born barkeda laugh. )unior tried to help him to his feet, the eldest shruggedhim off "I am not so feeble as believesour but scholar."Suddenlyhe took Bergstrom'shand in his; the kurtikutt's skin waswarmand coarse."Comradesof the hunt, Beergstromm-andsixth brotherof the Ruhk'thmar,if you will honor me." Bergstromlooked into the obsidianeye,fat and dead."Brothers," he said. The First Born gripped his hand more tightly, then releasedhim. He glancedoverhis shoulder."My stomachis hollow!The food here is of a garbageheap,and there'slittle of it." "We will searchout somethingfit," funior said.He watchedashis brother limped from the room, then turned back to Bergshom."He will not hunt again,but he will keep his promise.From his bed he began gatheringteamsof hunters.They will be his clawsand teeth."He came '?{nd wheredoesthe hunt bring you?" up to the bed. 'After "l'm going to take Cara home," Bergstromsaid. that. . . I don't know. I've spentmy whole life sifting the ruins for bits of the past. For a few moments,I knew it all. I lived it.I could spendthe restof my life trying to get that back again." "lt would be a good life, I think," |unior said."After you take her home,comrade,comeand find us." When he had gone,Bergstromlookedout overthe greenhills and
2000 236 NebulaAwards Showcase blue skies,somuch like home's.He put his handaroundthe jewelagain and felt in it a familiar warmth, and a longing. I'm waitingfor you on the othorside. "l'm sorry,sweetheart,"he saidasthe dawn'slight poured through the window."You'll haveto waita while longer."
The1998AuthorEmeritus WILLIAM TENN G E O R GZEE B R O W S K I
A Swift and KlassicMan to preventhumorousconTo know Phil Klassis to be powerless ceits from falling out of one's head into one's mouth-or slipping through one'sfingersif you'retrying to write abouthim. Thinking about him makesthis happento a writer trained in his ways(makethat influencedby his ways).It's inevitable,sobearwith me in this brief personal appreciationand first-time-everrevelationsabout this Swift' and Klassic be warnedthat it'sa big S and a big K), who asAuthor man (proofreaders Emeritusis now the Klassof r998-all by himself' William Tenn, the well-knownpseudonymof the equallywellknown Phil Klass(the ignorantare divided from the faithful when they mistakehim for the UFO writer Philip f . Klass),is the SF satiristwho '6os, '7os(andwho is still promiand cameto prominencein the r95os, nencing),and the one greatsourcefrom which all such SF flows.He wasthe mosttrenchantof all who chosethis path,and precedednearly all Americanwriterswho can be spokenof with respectin this century, and is likely to outlastall who havethrown themselvesinto this scolding flame (and havingbeen burned, they continueto draw soothing6rewater2from his well). 'Jonathan Swift, who wrote Culliver'sTravels. 2"Firewater!" Astounding Science Fiction, February r95z
Showcase 2000 238 NebulaAwards He hasbeenwritingsatiricalsciencefiction sincehis firststorywas publishedin the March 1946issueof )ohn W. Campbell's Astounding. Most of Tenn's storieshave been reprinted in many anthologiesand best-of-the-year collections,in more than a dozen languages;they have beengatheredinto sixoften-reprinted collections.His two well-regarded novels,one sciencefiction and one fantasy,areOf Men and Monsters (1968)and ALamp for Medusa(1968).The firsthasbeen at leasttwice imitated.sTwo new novelsare soon to be published,and one of them will win a Nebula and all the other awards(Phil knowswhich novel will win) he soclearlydeserves. Tenn alsoeditedthe infuential earlytheme antholory Children of Wonder(1951),which wasa first offeringof the ScienceFiction Book Club. Tenn the essayisthaspublishedboth scholarlyand popular nonEmeritusof Englishand comparfiction,and holdsthe title of Professor ativeliterahrreat PennsylvaniaStateUniversity,wherehe taught courses in writing,sciencefiction,andthe literafureof humor,aswell asan honorscoursein scientificpredictionand prophecy.lnry76he receivedthe Lindback All-UniversityAwardfor distinguishedteaching.He now lives in Pittsburgh,Pennsylvania. Although he is describedby many as a satirist,his best science fiction, "Firewater!"and "Brooklyn Project,"to name two early stories, with the "iustkidfeahrres a levelof verisimilitudenot usuallyassociated ding" school of satire.These are plausibly worked out, seriouslypresented stories."Firewater!" has the distinction of having made |ohn Campbellrelaxhis ban on storiesin which human beingsarebestedby aliens. Tenn is SF'sultimate "straightman," and so hypotheticalverismo may be just one of his masks;truth telling is another,but he only wears it when he'slying.I suspectthat William Tennt unmaskedgaze,which I haveglimpsedand sincecarefullyavoided,would either makethe suh ject explodeinto divinelaughteror implodeinto a personalblackhole.a I haveone anecdote(entirelyfictionalizedfor his own protection) to tell about Phil. He hastold me, in completeconfidence,which I now thatAlphaCentauri behayin a goodcause,thathe hascorrectlyguessed lBy two unnamed writers of novelsaReadStephen Haw}
The1998AuthorEneritus 239 B hassix planets,and that the one Earthlike world hastwo small moons that orbit around the planet in the wrong way,5 Passit on. With this entirely fortuitous discoveryour own Author Emeritus has achievedthe virhre of being doubly, if not hiply, unmistakable'So many of us, in somanymoments,flow ftom his wit and intelligence,that we can only hope that he continuesin his Klassicway. A classicwriter.6 My typing fingersare too short to havepun with "Tenn'" Believe me, I tried to haveTenn footnotes,but perfectionis not mine.
sFollowingSwiftt examplein his blind discovery of the moonsof Mars. 6I wasgoingto sayMassic,but thatwouldgetme in a pickle.
My Life and Hard Timesin SF WILLIAM TENN
Thank you.Thank you. This businessof giving the Author EmeritusAwardto peoplewho areno longerquitesoactive:I am finishinga novelfor St.Martint Press. I havewritten five short storiesin the pastfew years.I get into my pants everymorning (with the aid of a cane).Who the hell's"not active"? All right, perhapsI'm not asviolentlyactiveasI usedto be. Now, when I got up to make this speechmy wife pulled at my sleeveand said,"Don't mentionHarlanEllison."I honor my wife, and I usuallygivein to her requests-but what the hell kind of speechwould that be?A speechwithout evenone anecdoteabout Harlan EllisonMigod! Well, truth to tell, I did originally hy to be a bit differentabout this talk. I calledthe presidentof SFWA,Paul Levinson,a couple of days ago,and I saidthat in my speech-my acceptancespeech,I guessyou might call it, for the Emeritusaward-l would like to makea largestatement. I wantedto sum up what I think sciencefiction is, what it has been,where it is going.He said,"No. We have|. Michael Straczynski. We haveDavid Hartwell. They are going to makethe statements.Keep it short.Keep it light." Well, someof you know me: you know I don't keepthings short.Tonight, however,I'll try.
2000 Showcase 242 NebulaAwards But-how can you givea short,light speechat a moment like this? First of all, I havenot everbeen a memberof SFWA.I won't saythat itt beenmy loss;I will saythat it hasbeenSFWATloss.(Notice,please,I'm keepingit shoriand keepingit light.) I bought the issueof Locusthat the announcementof my new statuswould be in. I wascurious,of course,aboutwhat the announcement itselfwould be like. I wasalsocuriousaboutwhat the picture of me that illushatedthe announcementwould be like. I know what Charlie Brownhasdoneto picturesof me in the past. I didn't think that this time he would absolutelysurpasshimself. There is a picture of me in this issue of,I"ocus,announcing the award, that makesme look like I am a refugeefrom flood-ravagedAtlantis.Absolutelylibelous!I got awaytwo full weeksbeforethe flood. But I pickedup this issueand I said,I mustfind out what'sdoing to which I don't belong,but into which, with SFWA-this organization forced. . . permanently! theytell me, I am being So I open the issueto read about SFWA and there is a headline: 'SFWA PresidentSawyerResigns."I read the article and SFWA President Sawyersays,in his resignationspeech,"Enough is enoughl No morel"And PaulLevinsonbecomespresident,and it hrrnsout that Norman Spinradimmediatelyannouncesthat he is going to attack him publicly. So this is the organizationI've stayedout of. And they are now making me a permanentmemberl And they want me to make a short and light speech-and not mentionHarlanEllison,even! Well,let me tell you something:This is not the fault of Old President Sawyer,nor the fault of PresentPresidentLevinson,nor the fault even of Charlie Brown (though there are many things that are Charlie Brownt fault). All that I have iust mentioned-all I've read from I-,ocus-has to do with The Essenceof ScienceFiction. of ScienceFiction?(Remember,I'm not Now,whatisThe Essence givingyou the long speech-this is the short,light one.)Is The Essence of ScienceFiction prediction?Is it, asI've often tried to believe,PreParation for a bravenew world a
Mylife andHardTimesin SF 243 could in preparationfor this talk, I concludedthat The Essenceof SciSciencefiction is the most quarrelence Fiction is-quarrelsomeness. has seen, on land or seaor in intergalactic been somegenrethat ever sPace. You know, mysterywriters don't argue with each other. Westem writers don't argue.Romancewriters-well, I won't tell you what they do, but at leastthey don't arguewhen they do it. But SF writers?Most of them wereonce sciencefiction fans,and they are the ugliestbunch of irritating, argumentativebastardsyou ever want to see. They always fight-because asfansthey havealwaysfought. I am going to give you a very brief run-throughof the quarrelsof sciencefiction. Very brief. Very short. Yery light. And after that, I am going to come to my place in it, and then I am going to look at the essenceof it Why doesthis occur?And what might we at leasthope for in the future? Look. Way back in the fortiestherewassomethingcalledthe Eastern Science Fiction Association,and the Queens Science Fiction League,as well as somethingelse called the Fuhrrians.And they engaged in battle: titanic, never-endingbattle, from borough to shellshockedboroughin NewYorkCity. SamMoskowitzwaswith, I believe, in Newark, the EasternScienceFiction Association,with its headquarters into Hudson New York he crossed the New )ersey.From time to time, and. when he did, he carriedhowitzersand mortarswith him. Sam Moskowitz?He had the loudest,shongest,yellingestvoice everheardon a mortal man.When he calledfor a cab in Newark,New fersey,therewasa traffic jam on Market Streetin San Francisco,California.When he stoodup at a rival sciencefiction club meetingand shouted,"Mr. Chairman,point of order!"-the very windowscracked splintered. and the veryhousebeams fiction conventionI attended(the PhilCon, in At the firstscience either1948or'4g),I met a very bright youngman and we talkedabout with him manythings-history, science,logic,... I wasvery impressed and I told him so.I said,"What'syour name?"And he saidthathis name wasnot important. He said,"I am merely a satrapof Sam Moskowitz's." And that wasall he wantedto be known as. Sam Moskowitzfought Will Secoraof the QueensScienceFiction League.He would show up-with his EasternScienceFiction
2000 Showcase 244 NebulaAwards fusociationcohorts-at a QueensScienceFiction Leaguemeetingand he and his followerswould start a riot. They would point out that the had not beenpublishedin Septemberr9z9;it was storyunderdiscussion published in November1929,as any dumb son-of-a-bitchslob would throwingand screamsand know.And the hall would eruptin beer-stein soforth. Accordingto Harry Warnerjr., in his historyof fandom,AII Our at one of theseto-dosWill Secoratwife losta very goodpurse Yesterdays, head.The Pursewas bangedit on SamMoskowitz's when sherepeatedly purse,and shesaidthat his headhad ruruined.It wasa veryexpensive ined it forever. The Futurians,who wereorganizedby DonaldWollheim, werea Marxist group, unlike the Queensbunch and Moskowitz'sbunch who were extremelydevoutcapitalists.The Futurians followed the theoretical Marxian lead of fohn Michel and called themselvesMichelists. They and Moskowitzand Secorafought very complicatedbattles.They fought them in beer halls and subwaycarsand Coney Islandbeaches. They fought them in mimeographedbroadsidesand the letter columns of sciencefiction magazines. And they also fought battles in smeary,ink-stainedpublications calledfanzines.Thesefanzines,devotedto conventionannouncements, of storiesin sciencefiction periodicals,and profilesof science analyses fiction authors,later came under the astonishedscrutiny of Richard B. Gehman in the New Republic.After digestingthem for severalpages,he attemptedto capturetheir specialquality for his readersby sayingthey wereabsolutely"the damndestmixture of ScreenRomancesandPartisan Review." Besidesthat, they were the damndestmixhrre of shrill polemic, hurled anathema,and iustificationof violenceyet to come. Sam Moskowitzwrote all of this up. He wrote all of the history of thesefights in a book calledTheImmoftal Storm.It wasa sort of followup to anotherhistoryof sciencefiction written by a fellow namedSpear and entitledlJp to Now.It hasbeensaidof Up to Now that it setan unforhrnateprecedent:overemphasison the fans and organizationswho engagedin the most quarrelsand had the leasteffecton sciencefiction. Sam l\{oskowitzthen wroteTheImmortal Storm,and of that it has been saidthat it covereda yearor two more time and quarrelslhan up fo Now,at morethan ten timesthe len$h. In r95r,I think, the bookwas
MyLifeandHardTimesin SF 245 publishedin mimeographform-l haveit somewhereat home, dissolvand it is an enormouswork. In ing in a cellulosemist in my bookcase, about'5r or'52, SamMerwin, the editorof ThrillingWonderStories,reviewed it. He said of it that "if read immediately after the history of World War II, it doesnot seemlike an anticlimax." It wasat about this time that many fansbecameprofessionalwriters.The Futurianswerethe mostnotablegroup.DonaldWollheim organizedagroupof youngfans,much youngerthan he (hewasnineteen, He called a meeting,I havebeen told, and he they were seventeen). raisedhis hand and said,"We will now have a sciencefiction group And it wasmorning, calledthe Fuhrrians,of which I will be president." of the first day. and it wasevening The Futurians lasted I don't know quite how many yearsthrough battles with Moskowitz, battles with Secora,and extremely bloodybattleswith dirty pacifists.Many of the Futuriansbecameprofessionals chieflybecauseWollheim waspublishinga real professional magazinewith a wonderful idea: having his membershipwrite stories for the magazinefor no moneywhatsoever. And then FredPohl,one of the Futurians-he had finallyreached the magisterialage of nineteen-sold a publisheron the creationof a magazinecalledAsfonishing Storiesand another magazinecalledSuper ScienceStories(of which Damon Knight manyyearslaterwaseditor,and after him my brother, Morton Klass,was editor). But the idea behind originally a versionof Wollheimt, an SuperScienceand Astonishingwas ideabasicto the pulp magazinesof the day:Yougetwritersand you don't paythem much- if possible,you don't paythem anything.The youngest writer of all wasCyril Kornbluth, and, accordingto one wild legend,becauseof his exhemeyouthfulness,Cyril wasexpectedio pay small sums just for the honor of getting publishedat his age.He wrote someof his beststuffin that period,asdid the restof them, including,I believe,Ike Asimov.Cyril and Ike both told me they kept card files on differentways to murder Fred Pohl, eventhough they both agreed,later in life, that he wasthe besteditortheyhad everencountered. In any event, the Futurians evenhrally broke up becausethe rank and file got into a violent quarrelwith their president,Donald expelledhim from the orgaWollheim,and, much to his astonishment, nization-something he claimed was constitutionallyimpossible.He
Showcase 2000 Awards 246 Nebuta thereuponsuedthem for somethinglike $35,ooo.This eventis known in sciencefiction asThe SevenAgainstWollheim.He claimedthat his expulsion from the Futurians had damagedhis professionalreputation and income permanently.The rank-and-fileFuturians managedto win the battle in open court, but it costthem money to pay their attorney$5ooapiece,which wasmore money than any of them had at the time. I spoke to my agent Virginia Kidd today (she and |udy Merril and Damon Knight and fim Blish werefour of the seven),and shetold me that Fred Pohl, who wasthe only one making a living then, paid the lawyer'sfeesfor most of them out of his own savingsaccount. All right, you say,thesewere fans,sciencefiction fans.You might expectanything of fans.Fansare nastyand noisykoublemakersand are completelyoutsidethe law.What hasthis to do with sciencefiction pros? Look: I wasonce a memberof a sciencefiction group myself,a writer or illustrator everyone a well-published club full of professionals, in the late forIt was organized Hydra Club. or editor.It wascalled the tiesand it flourishedfor severalyears.We had a permanentmembership committee of nine. Permanentmembershipcommittee?Well, you see thesewere all sciencefiction ex-fans,exceptfor me. They'd had a lot And they of unpleasantexperiencewith sciencefiction organizations. wantedto makesurethat no one would everbe able to take overthis organization,sothe nine of us who met that first night were establishedas the PermanentMembershipCommittee. The constitutionspecificallyread:"No memberof the Permanent for any reaMembershipCommitteecan everbe expelledor suspended Membership no mdtter what they do." The Permanent sonwhatsoever, Committee,or PMC asit wasknown in the club,wasto be the nucleus of the organization,and we were to vote on all new members-one black ball meantyou were rejected.My brother, Morton Klass,wasthe first to ioin. He had arrivedat the first meetinga half hour late-iust thirty minutestoo lateto becomea memberof the PermanentMembership Committee. He wasthereforealwaysreferredto asThe First Genuine Member. Tho of the membersof the PermanentMembership Committee were Fred Pohl and fudy Merril, and they helped organizeit in their apartment.They were marriedat the time. When the marriagebroke up, Fred and |udy choseoppositesidesand becamethe leadersof the
MyLifeandHardTimesin SF 247 antagonisticfactions.The organizationthen met in a very unusual session-a rump membershipmeetingto which half of the PMC wasnot invited.And the constitutionwasdestroyed-it disappeared completely. A new constitution was written on the spot, despitevigorousprotests, and variouspeoplewereexpelledfrom the organization. I want to tell you who wasexpelled,and why. As I said,Fred and were on opposingsides,most bitterly opposingsides:It wasa marfudy riagemade,afterall, not in heaven,but in the lowestlevelof hell. fudyt sidelost.fudy wasexpelledbecauseshe"did not showsufficientrespect." That wasii-that wasthe reasongiven.I wasexpelledbecauseI wasa notoriousfriend of fudy's.My brother,Morton Klass,wasexpelledbecausehe wasmy brother.Harry Harrisonwasexpelledbecausehe wasa friend of my brother's.Larry Shawwasexpelledbecausehe wasa friend of Harry Harrison's.And a writer by the name of Larry Harris was expelled (Lany later changed his name to Lawrencefanifer and wrote manystorieswith RandallGarrett)-l,arry Harriswasexpelledbecause his firstnamewasLarry,the sameasLarry Shaws,and his lastnamewas Harris.. . . fansand evenquarrelsome So much for quarrelsome writers.But editorsTNe they like that?Werethey like that?The really great,towering editorsof our field-editors like |ohn W. Campbelland HoraceGold and Tony Boucher? Only one anecdoteabout editors-becauseI've iust receiveda note telling me I havefive minutesleft, and I'd better closeup shopand go away. I was in HoraceGold's apartmentin r95z or rg1,i,going over a rewrite of a story Id written for Galary-l think it was "Betelgeuse Bridge."The telephonerang,and Evelyn,Horace'swife, answeredit. The voice that boomed out of the receiverand filled the entire apartment wasimmediatelyrecognizable to me. I didn't needto hearEvelyn call out to Horace,"fohn Campbell.For you." Horacepickedup the phoneacrossthe room from me, and said, "Hi, )ohn.What'sup?" "Horacel" came the voice of the editor of the competing magazine,Astounding,nowmanyangrydecibels louder."What is thisvicious slanderI hearyou havebeencirculatingaboutme?" "Which particularviciousslander?"Horaceasked.
2000 248 NebulaAwardsShowcase "You havebeen telling peoplethat you considerme a dogmatic person." "And, if I have?" Campbell'svoice now made the walls quiver.There wasa loud clang ashis fist apparentlycame down on the table from which he was calling. "That's a lie, a rotten, ugly, filthy lie' t e'u Nor DoGMATICI" So.Where do we comefrom? How did we get this way?Is quarrelsomenessendemic to sciencefiction?Well, this is my favoritestory aboutour field. ConsiderGeorgeOrwell' GeorgeOrwell and H. G. Wells' GeorgeOrwell had a tremendousadmirationfor H. G' Wells' He had alwayswantedvery,very much to meet Wells-this wasall back in the earlyrg4os,during World War II. Wellsrefusedto meethim. Wells calledhim a Tiotskyistwith big feei.(Which is still, perhaps,a wayof indicatingsomemild affection.)orwell refusedto giveup. And finallyorwell, pulling all kinds of shings,managedto get invitedto a dinner at which Wells was present.And he sat next to Wells. And he charmed him. He told him how greathe, Wells, was. He told him how he had reallycreatedan entirenew generationof thinkers.How he wasthe first and left feeling real twentieth,centuryman. And Wells wasimpressed, quitewarm and friendlytowardOrwell. And Wells got home and turned on the radio, and there was a speechthat Oruell had forgottenabout-he had madeit two weeksbefore for the BBC about H. G. Wells-in which he saidthat wells was "an uncritical apostleof scientificprogress"and the "Wellsianutopias of technology."He saidthatWellsbelieved-and weremerelyparadises that this wasfundamentalto the entirecorPusof Wellst writings-that sciencecan solveall the ills that man is heir to. H. G. Wells sathimself down and wrote a singlepostcardback to orwell - a one-linepostcardwhich still is in existence.Here is the line: "l don't saythat at all. Readmy earlyworks,you shit!" what with this asour backgroundand with theseasour forebears, the hell hope do we have?
The GrandMasterAward HAL CLEMENT P O U LA N D E R S O N
Fifty-sevenyearssinceHal Clement first shonelike a nova on the sciencefiction universe?Can't be! I don't meanthat'sa ridiculouslylong time for us to wait beforeopenly honoring one of our greatest,though it is.We havedonesoall alongin our hearts.But "Proof"standsbeforeme asfreshand vivid asifl readit yesterday. And why not? If it's unfamiliar to you-and chancesare you weren't bom when the )une ry42Astounding cameout - seekit among the anthologies.You'll be delighted.Time doesnot tarnish fine work. The idea of intelligent beingswho live in the starsis admittedlyfanciful, but what we have since learnedabout the physicsof plasmoidsmay makeit a little moreplausible,and in any caseit is brilliant. From there Hal Clement went on to the possibilitiesin known lawsof natureand well-groundedhypotheses, creatingworld afterworld, life-form after life-form, utterly strangeand yet believable.Today,asour spacecraftand instrumentsreveal more and more about the universe, humankind in generalhas begunto appreciatehow variousit is, how magnificentlyfull of surprises. Hal Clement'smind rangedfar ahead,far earlier,to showhis readersthis. In consequence, his infuence on sciencefiction hasbeen much largerand more profound than most people realize.He setthe standard for the "hard"kind, which is of coursenot the only legitimatesortbut is
2000 Showcase 250 NebulaAwards certainlybasicto the field. I hope he, a modestman, won't think it pretentiousif I call him a makerin the old and true senseof that word-a who bringsthem home to us. seerof marvelsand mightinesses, And he'salwaysmoonlightedat it! When "Proof" appeared,Harry Clement Stubbswasan undergraduateat Harvard,maioring in astronomy. He adopteda semipseudonymbecausehe wasafraidthat publishing a sciencefiction storywould be disreputable.Later he found out that to do the very a distinguishedprofessorof his had hied unsuccessfully samething. Wartime military serviceinterrupted' Afterward he continued in the Air ForceReserveuntil he retired with the rank of colonel. On the civilian side, he took master'sdegreesin educationand chemistry,became a scienceteacherat a prestigiousacademy,and has remaineda devotedhusband,father, and now grandfather.He has been active in teachers'organizationsand civic affairs,including regular blood donation; last I heard, he was up to eighteen gallons, and that was two decadesago.This hasnot in the leastaffectedhis robusthealth. He was, I believe,the first sciencefiction writer to addressa convention of lhe American Associationfor the Advancementof Sciencein that avowed capacity,in 196r.The growth in respectabilityand recognitionof our literatureowesmuch to the intelligenceand integrity evident in his contributions to it. As for those,you'll probablyagreethat they are essentiallyin the tradition of fules Verne,the extraordinaryvoyageand the explorationof ideas.Not that he neglectsthe human element.His charactersof whateverplanet and speciesare interestingand usuallylikable, peopleyou'd enjoy meeting.He wasamong the first of our writersto consistentlyput strong,capablefemalesinto stories.Many of his colleaguessharethese of the virtues.However,whereit comesto depictingthe wonderfulness cosmosand effortsto understandand deal with it, Hal Clement is unrivaled.I submit that this is asnoble and challenginga theme asany. His talesarefewerthan we'd eagerlyread,but eachis outstanding and someare- well, "classics"is an overworkedword, but "foundation stones"seemsabout right. Let me offer iust two rather early examples. editor |ohn Campbell'sassertionthat a sciencefiction Needledisproved detectivestoryis impossiblebecausethe author can pull anything out of a hat. Hal came up with a marvelouslyconceivedalien police ofhcer
TheGrandMasterAward 257 and criminal, and all the clues to the solution are honestly set forth. Campbell waspleasedno end. Subsequentlywe haveseena number of scienceficiion mysteries.Hal openedthe way. For Mission of Gravity and its gigantic,furiouslyrotatingworld Mesklin,he workedout the deand theoriesin retailssorichly thathis readerswerethere.lfdiscoveries cent yearshave made such bodiesappearunlikely,that could not be known at the time; and maybein the future the astronomerswill change their minds again.No matter. Mission of Gravity abidesas a towering achievement. I'd love to go on aboutthe restof his oeuvre,but spacehere is limited, unlike the spaceof his knowledgeand imagination.Let me simply add that he alsopaintsastronomical scenes, which he exhibitsunderyet anotherpseudonymsothattheywill be iudgedstrictlyon theirown merits. This is typical of the man. You'll find him to be personallysoftspoken,congenial,the bestof company. At lastwe aremakingsomesmallreturnfor all thathe hasgivenus.
UncommonSense HALCLEMENT
"So you'veleft us,Mr. Cunningham!"Malmeson's voicesounded rougherthan usual,even allowing for headphonedistortionand the ever-present Denebianstatic."Now, thatt too bad. If you'd chosento stickaround,we would haveputyou off on someworld whereyou could live, at least.Now you can stayhere and fry. And I hope you live long enoughto watchus takeoff-without you!" Laird Cunninghamdid not botherto reply.The ship'sradiocompassshouldstill be in workingorder,and it wasjustpossiblethathis erstwhile assistants might starthuntingfor him, if theyweregivensomeidea of the proper direction to begin a search.Cunningham wastoo satisfied with his presentshelterto be veryanxiousfor a change.He wasscarcely half a mile from the groundedship, in a caverndeepenoughto afford shelterfrom Denebt rayswhen it rose,and locatedin the sideof a small hill, sothat he could watchthe activitiesof Malmesonand his companion without exposinghimselfto their view. In a way,of course,the villainwasright.If Cunninghampermitted the ship to takeoffwithout him, he might aswell open his faceplate;for, while he had food and oxygenfor severaldays'normalconsumption,a planetscarcelylargerthan Luna, bakedin the raysofone ofthe fiercest radiatingbodiesin the galaxy,wasmost unlikely to providefurther supplieswhen theseran out. He wonderedhow long it would takethe men
2000 Showcase 254 NebulaAwards to discoverthe damagehe had doneto the drive units in the few minutes that had elapsedbetweenthe crashlandingand their breakingthrough the control room door,which Cunninghamhad weldedshut when he had discoveredtheir intentions.They might not notice at all; he had sevthey connectionsat odd points.Perhaps ereda numberof inconspicuous would not eventestthe driversuntil they had completedrepairsto the crackedhull. If they didn't, so much the better. Cunningham crawled to the mouth of his cave and looked out acrossthe shallowvalleyin which the ship lay.It wasbarelyvisible in the starlight, and there was no sign of artificial luminosity to suggestthat Malmesonmight havestartedrepairsat night. cunningham had not expectedthat they would, but it waswell to be sure.Nothing more had ou", his suit radiosincethe initial outburst,when the men had dis"o-" coveredhis departure;he decidedthat they mustbe waitingfor sunrise, to enablethem to take more accuratestock of the damagesufferedby the hull. He spent the .next few minutes looking at the stars,trying to afiangetheminto patternshe could remember.He had no watch,and it *oulJ help to havesomewarningof approachingsunriseon succeeding nights.It would not do to be caughtawayfrom his cave,with the fimsy protection his suit could afford from Deneb'sradiation.He wished he could havefilched one of the heavierwork suits;but they werekept in a compartmentforward of the control room, from which he had barred himselfwhen he had sealedthe door of the latterchamber' He remainedat the cavemouth, lying motionlessand watchingalhe ternatelythe skyand the ship.once or twice he may havedozed;but the caught hull ship's the wasawakeand alert when the low hills beyond first raysof the rising sun. For a minute or two they seemedto hang detached in a black void, while the flood of blue-whitelight crept down the theirslopes;then oneby one,theirbasesmergedwith eachotherand gleamed hull silvery The groundtelow to form a connectedlandscape. behind Cunningham cave the lighting it from f,rilliantly, the refection for the openingof the watch to and making his eyeswaterwhen he tried air lock. and He was forced to keep his eyeselsewheremost of the look only in brief glimpsesat the dazzlingmetal; and in consequence' he paid more attentionto the detailsof his environmentthan he might
Uncommon Sense 255 otherwisehave done. At the time, this circumstanceannoyedhim; he hassincebeenheardto blessit ferventlyand frequently. Althoughthe planethad much in commonwith Luna asregarded size,mass,and airlessness, its landscapewas extremelydifferent.The daily tenific heatings which it underwent, followed by abrupt and equally intensetemperafuredropseach night, had formed an excellent substitutefor weather;and elevationsthat might at one time haverivaled the Lunar rangeswerenow mereroundedhillocks,like that containing Cunningham'scave.As on the Earth'smoon, the productsof the agelong spallinghad takenthe form of fine dust,which lay in drifts everywhere. What could have drifted it, on an airlessand consequently windlessplanet, struckCunningham asa puzzle of the first magnitude; and it botheredhim for sometime until his attention wastaken by certain otherobjectsupon and betweenthe drifts.Thesehe had thoughtat first to be outcroppingsof rock; but he wasat last convinced that they werespecimens of vegetablelife - miserable,lichenousspecimens, but nevertheless vegetation.He wonderedwhatliquid theycontained,in an environmentat a temperaturewell abovethe melting point of lead. The discoveryof animallife-medium-sized,crablikethings,covered with jet-blackintegument, that beganto dig their way out of the drifts as the sun warmedthem-completed the job of draggingCunningham'sattention from his immediateproblems.He wasnot a zoologistby training,but the subjecthad fascinatedhim for years;and he had alwayshad money enough to indulge his hobby. He had spent years wanderingthe Galaxyin searchof bizane life forms-proof, if any were needed,of a lack of scientifichaining-and terrestrialmuseumshad alwaysbeen more than glad to acceptthe collectionsthat resultedfrom each trip and usuallyto sendscientistsof their own in his footsteps.He had been in physicaldangeroften enough,but it had alwaysbeen from the life he studiedor from the forceswhich makeup the interstellartraveler'sregular diet, until he had overheardthe conversationwhich informed him that his two assistants were planning to do awaywith him and appropriatethe ship for unspecifiedpu{posesof their own. He liked to think that the promptnessof his action following the discoveryat least indicatedthat he wasnot growingold. But he did let his attentionwanderto the Denebianlife forms.
2000 Showcase Awards 256 Nebuta Severalof the creatureswere emergingfrom the dust mounds within twenty or thirty yardsof Cunningham'shiding place,givingrise to the hope that theywould comenearenoughfor a closeexamination. At that distance,the,rzwere more crablike than ever, with round, flat bodiestwelveto eighteeninchesacross,and severalpairsof legs.They scuttled rapidly about, stoppingat first one of the lichenousplants and ttren another, apparentlytaking a few tentative nibbles from each, as though they had delicatetasteswhich neededpampering.once or twice there were fights when the sametidbit athactedthe attention of more than one claimant;but little apparentdamagewasdone on either side,and the victorspentno moretime on the mealhe won than on that which cameuncontested. Cunninghambecamedeeplyabsorbedin watchingthe anticsof the little creatures,and completelyforgot for a time his own ratherprecarioussituation.He wasrecalledto it by the soundof Malmeson'svoice in his headphones. ,,Don't look up, you fool; the shieldswill saveyour skin,but not the your eyes.Get under the shadowof the hull, and we'll look over damage." bunningham instantlytransferredhis attentionto the ship' The figair lock on the sidetowardhim*the port-was open,and the bulky beneath ground the werevisible standingon uresof his two ex-assistants reit. They wereclad in the hearyutility suitswhich cunningham had greitedleaving,and appearedto be sufferinglittle or no inconvenience irom the heat,thoughtheywerestill standingfull in Deneb'slight when he looked.He knew that hard radiationburnswould not appearfor some to time, but he held little hope of Deneb'smore deadlyoutput coming this against for the suitsr,veresupposedto affordprotection his assistance; dangeras well. Betweenheat insulation,coolingequipment'radiation and shiJldi'g, and plain mechanicalarmor,the garmentswete so heav,v burdenon any major planet'They bulky asio be an almostinsufferable weremore often usedin performingexteriorrepairsin space' Cunningham watchedand lisiened carefully as the men stooped under the lower curve of the hull to makean inspectionof the damage. to consistof a dent aboutthreeyards It seemed,from their conversation, a series long and half aswide,aboutwhich nothingcould be done' and a of ,lai"lly arrangedcracksin the metal around it' These represented
Uncommon Sense 257 definitethreaito the solidityof the ship,and would haveto be welded along their full lengthsbefore it would be safeto apply the stresses inflight. Malmesonwastoo good an engineernot cidentto second-order to realizethis fact,and Cunninghamheardhim lay plansfor bringing power lines outsidefor the welder and jacking up the hull to permit accessto the lowerportionsof the cracks.The latteroperationwascarried out immediately,with an efficiencywhich did not in the leastsurprise the hiddenwatcher.After all, he had hired the men. Everyfew minutes,to Cunningham'sannoyance,one of the men would carefullyexaminethe landscape;first on the sideon which he was working, and then walking around the ship to repeatthe performance. Even in the low gravity,Cunninghamknew he could not crossthe half mile that lay betweenhim and that inviting air lock, betweentwo of thoseexaminations; and evenif he could,his leapingfigure,clad in the gleamingmetal suit, would be sureto catch evenan eye not directedat it. It would not do to make the attempt unlesssuccesswere certain; for his unshieldedsuitwould heatin a minuteor two to an unbearabletemperature,and the only placein which it waspossibleeitherto removeor cool it wason boardthe ship.He finally decided,to his annoyance,that the watchwould not slackensolong asthe air lock of the shipremained open.It would be necessary to find somemeansto distractor-an unpleasantalternativefor a civilizedman-disable the oppositionwhile Cunninghamgotaboard,lockedthe othersout, and locateda weaponor otherfactorwhich would put him in a positionto givethem orders.At that,he reflected,a weaponwouldscarcelybe necessary; therewasa perfectlygoodmediumtransmitteron board,if the men had not destroyed or discharged it, and he needmerelycall for help and keepthe men outsideuntil it arrived. This, of course,presupposedsomesolution to the problem of getting aboardunaccompanied.He would, he decided,haveto examine the ship morecloselyaftersunset.He knewthe vesselaswell ashis own home-he had spentmore time on her than in any other home-and knew that there was no meansof entry exceptthrough the two main locksforwardof the control room, and the two smaller,emergencylocks near the stern,one of which he had employedon his departure.Al1 thesecould be doggedshut from within; and offhandhe wasunableto
2000 Showcase 258 NebulaAwards The viewports conceivea plan for forcingany of the normalentrances. could be if the panes even weretoo small to admit a man in a spacesuit, broken;and there wasliterally no other way into the ship so long asthe hull remainedintact.Malmesonwould not havetalkedsogliblyof welding them sufficientlywell to standflight, if any of the cracksincurred on the landing had been big enoughto admit a human body-or eventhat healthygartersnake. ofa respectably Cunningham Savea mental shrug of the shouldersas these thoughtscrossedhis mind, and reiteratedhis decisionto takea scouting sortieafter dark.For the restof the dayhe dividedhis attentionbetween the working men and the equallybusylife forms that scuttled here and there in front of hir cave;and he would havebeen the first to admit that he found the latter more interesting. He still hopedthat one would approachthe cavecloselyenoughto permit a reallygoodexamination,but for a long time he remained-unsatcamewithin a dozenyardsand stood isfied.Once, one of the creatures ,,on tiptoe"- rising more than a foot from the ground on its slenderlegs, while a pair of antennaeterminatingin knobsthe sizeof human eyeballs extendedthemselvesseveralinchesfrom the black carapaceand waved slowlyin all directions.cunningham thoughtthat the knobsprobablydid serveas eyes,though from his distancehe could seeonly a feah:reless black sphire.The antennaeeventuallywavedin his direction,and aftera few sefondsspent,apparentlyin assimilatingthe presenceof the cave mouth, the creaturesettledback to its former low-swungcarriageand his scuttled away.cunningham wonderedif it had been frightened at Denebian to presence;but he felt reasonablysure that no eye adapted redaylight could see past the darknessof the threshold,and he had inspection. its -air,.d motionlesswhile the creaturewas conducting More probablyit had somereasonto fearcaves,or merelydarkness. ihnt it had reasonto fear somethingwas shown when another creature,also of crustaceanaspectbut considerablylargerthan those and atCunninghamhad seento date,appearedfrom amongthe dunes for tacked one of the latter. The fight took place too far from the cave Cunninghamtomakeoutmanydetails,butthelargeranimalquickly overcameits victim. It then apparentlydismemberedthe vanquished' or and either devoured the softer flesh inside the black integument suckedthebodyfluidsfromit'Thenthecarnivoredisappearedagain'
Uncommon Sense 259 presumablyin searchof newvictims.It had scarcelygonewhen another being, designedalong the lines of a centipedeand fully forty feet in len$h, appearedon the scenewith the gracefulflowing motion of its terrestrialcounterpart. For a few momentsthe newcomernosedaround the remainsof the carnivoret feast,and devouredthe larger fragments.Then it appearedto look aroundasthoughfor more, evidentlysawthe cave,and camerippling towardit, to Cunningham'spardonablealarm.He wastotally unarmed,and while the centipedehad justshoweditselfnot to be aboveeatingcarrion,it lookedquite ableto kill its own food if necessary. It stopped,as the other investigatorhad, a dozen yardsfrom the cave mouth; and like the other, elevateditself asthough to get a better look. The baseball-sized black "eyes"seemedfor severalsecondsto stareinto Cunningham'smore orthodoxoptics;then, like its predecessor, and to the man'sintenserelief, it doubledback alongits own len$h and glided swiftly out of sight. Cunningham again wonderedwhether it had detectedhis presence,or whethercavesor darknessin generalspelleddanger to theseodd life forms. It suddenlyoccurredto him that, if the latter were not the case, theremight be sometracesof previousoccupantsof the cave;and he set about examiningthe place more closely,after a last glance which showedhim the two men still at work jackingup the hull. There wasdrifteddustevenhere,he discovered, particularlyclose to the walls and in the corners.The place wasbright enough,owing to the light refected from outsideobiects,to permit a good examinationshadows on airlessworldsarenot soblackasmanypeoplebelieve-and almostat once cunningham found marksin the dust that could easily have been made by some of the creatureshe had seen.There were enoughof them to suggestthat the cavewasa well-frequentedneighborhood; and it beganto look asthough the animalswerestayingawaynow becauseof the man'spresence. Near the rearwall he found the empty integumentthat had once covereda four-iointedleg. It waslight, and he sawthat the fleshhad either beeneatenor decayedout, thoughit seemedodd to think of decay in an airlessenvironmentsufferingsuch extremesof temperature though the cavewas lesssubiectto this effect than the outer world.
2000 Showcase Awards 260 Nebuta Cunninghamwonderedwhetherthe leg hadbeencarriedin by its rightitem on the menuof somethingelse.If the forful owner,or asa separate mer,theremight be more relicsabout. in the deeperlayersof dust There were.A few minutes'excavation of one of the smallercrablikecreaproducedthe completeexoskeleton tures;and Cunninghamcarriedthe remainsoverto the cavemouth, so asto examinethem and watchthe ship at the sametime. The knobshe had takenfor eyeswerehis firstconcern.A closeexaminationof their surfacesrevealednothing,sohe carefullytried to detach one from its stem.It finally crackedraggedlyaway,and proved,as he had expected,to be hollow.Therewasno traceof a retinainside,but therewasno fleshin any of the other piecesof shell,sothat provednothing.As a suddenthoughistruckhim, cunningham held the front partof the delicateblackbit of shellin front of his eyes;and sureenough,when he lookedin the directionof the brightlygleaminghull of the spaceship, a sparkof light showedthroughan almostmicroscopichole.The sphere wcBar eye,constructedon the pinhole principle-quite an adequate designon a world furnished with such an overwhelmingluminary. It at night, of course,but so would mostother visualorwould be useless of ganshere;and Cunninghamwasonceagainfacedwith the problem f,o* rrry of the creatureshad detectedhis presencein the cave-his look originaibelief,ihat no eyeadiustedto meet Denebt glarecould into its relativelytotal darkness,seemedto be sound' Heponderedthequestion,asheexaminedtherestoftheskeleton his exin a half-ieartedfashion.Sightseemedto be out, as a resultof atmosphere; of lack by the amination;smelland hearingwereruled out tasteand touch could not evenbe consideredunderthe circumstances. as He hatedto fall back on such a time-honoredrefugefor ignorance "extrasensory perception,"but he wasunable to seeany way around it' ltmayseemunbelievablethatamaninthepositionLairdCunin a ningham o"cupi.d could let his mind becomeso utterly absorbed individualsdo probl"- unconnectedwith his personalsurvival.Such sometraceof exist,however;mostpeopleknow someonewho hasshown example'He had a sucha trait;and Cunninghamwasa well-developed his mind, and had intentionallyshelved personalproblem single-track for the moment.
Uncommon Sense 261 His musingswere interrupted,beforehe finisheddissectinghis specimen,by the appearanceof one of the carnivorouscreafuresat what appearedto constihrtea markeddistance-a dozen yardsfrom his cave mouth, where it roseup on the endsof its thin legsand goggledaround at the landscape.Cunningham,half in humor and half in honestcuriosity, tossedone of the dismemberedlegs from the skeletonin his handsat the creature.It obviouslysawthe flying limb; but it madeno effort to pursueor devourit. Instead,it turned its eyesin Cunningham'sdirection,and proceededwith greathasteto put one of the drifts between it and what it evidentlyconsidereda dangerousneighborhood. It seemedto haveno memoryto speakof, however;for a minute or two later Cunningham sawit creep into view again,stalkingone of the smallercreatureswhich still swarmedeverywhere,nibbling at the plants. He wasable to get a better view of the fight and the feastthat followed than on the previousoccasion,for theytook placemuch nearerto his position; but this time there wasa ratherdifferent ending.The giant centipede,or anotherof its kind, appearedon the scenewhile the carnivore wasstill at its meal, and came flowing at a truly surprisingrate over the dunesto fall on victorand vanquishedalike.The formerhad no inkling of its approachuntil much too late; and both black bodiesdisappeared into the maw of the creatureCunningham had hoped was merely a scavenger. What made the whole episodeof interestto the man wasthe fact that in its charge, the centipede loped unheeding almost directly through a group of the plant-eaters;and these,by common consent, broke and ran at top speeddirectly towardthe cave.At first he thought theywould swerveasidewhen they sawwhat lay ahead;but evidentlyhe wasthe lesserof two evils,for they scuttledpastand evenoverhim ashe lay in the cavemouth, and beganto bury themselvesin the deepestdust they could find. Cunninghamwatchedwith pleasure,as an excellent group of specimensthus collectedthemselvesfor his convenience. As the lastof them disappearedunder the dust,he tumed back to the sceneoutside.The centipedewasjust finishingits meal.This time, insteadof immediatelywanderingout of sight,it oozedquickly to the top of one of the larger dunes, in full sight of the cave,and depositedits length in the form of a watch spring, with the head restingabovethe coils. Cunningham realizedthat it wasable, in this position,to look in
262 NebulaAwardsShowcase2000
nearlyall directionsand, owing to the height of its position,to a considerabledistance. With the centipedeapparentlysettledfor a time, and the men still working in full view, Cunningham determined to inspect one of his specimens.Going to the nearestwall, he bent down and goped cautiously in the dust. He encountereda subjectalmost at once, and draggeda squirmingblack crab into the light. He found that if he held it upsidedown on one hand,none ofits legscould geta purchaseon anything;and he wasableto examinethe underpartsin detailin spiteof the wildly thrashinglimbs. The iaws,now opening and closing futilely on a vacuum, were equippedwith a set of crushersthat suggestedcurious thingsaboutthe plantson which it fed; they lookedcapableof fattening the metal finger of Cunningham'sspacesuit,and he kept his hand well out of their reach. He becamecuriousasto the internal mechanismthat permitted it to existwithout air, and wasfacedwith the problem of killing the thing without doingit too much mechanicaldamage.It wasobviouslyableto survivea goodmany hourswithout the directradiationof Deneb, which wasthe most obvioussourceof enerry, although its body temperature washigh enough to be causingthe man somediscomfortthrough the glove of his suit; so "drowning' in darknesswas impractical. There might, however,be somepart of its body on which a blow would either shrnor kill it; and he looked around for a suitableweaPon' There were severaldeep cracksin the stone at the cave mouth, causedpresumablyby thermal expansionand contraction;and with a little effort he wasable to breakloosea pointed, fairly heavyfragment' with this in his right hand, he laid the creature on its back on the ground,and hopedit had somethingcorrespondingto a solarplexus. Itwastoo quickfor him. The legs,which hadbeenunableto reach his hand when it was in the center of the creature'scarapace,proved suppleenoughto get a purchaseon the ground;and beforehe could strike,it wasright side up and departingwith a hastethat put to shame its previouseffortsto escaPefrom the centipede' Cunningham shrugged,and dug out anotherspecimen'This time he held it in his hand while he drovethe point of his rock againstits plashon. There wasno apparenteffect;he had not daredto striketoo hard,
Sense 263 Uncommon for fear of crushingthe shell. He struckseveralmore times,with identical resultsand increasingimpatience;and at lastthere occurredthe result he had feared.The blackarmorgaveway,and the point penetrated deeplyenoughto insurethe damageof mostof the interiororgans.The legsgavea final twitch or two, and ceasedmoving,and Cunningham gavean exclamationof annoyance. On hope, he removedthe broken bits of shell, and for a moment lookedin surpriseatthe liquid which seemedto havefilled the bodycavities.It wassilvery,evenmetallicin color; it might havebeenmercury, exceptthat it wet the organsbathedin it and wasprobablyat a temperature abovethe boilingpoint of thatmetal.Cunninghamhad justgrasped this fact when he was violently bowled over, and the dead creature bringing up snatchedfrom his grasp.He madea completesomersault, againstthe rearwall of the cave;and as he cameupright he sawto his horrorthat the assailant wasnone otherthan the giantcentipede. It wasdisposingwith greatthoroughness of his specimen,leaving at lastonly a few fragmentsof shell that had formed the extremetips of the legs;and asthe lastof thesefell to the ground, it raisedthe fore part of its bodyfrom the ground,asthe man had seenit do before,and turned the invisiblepinpointsof its pupilson the spacesuited human figure. Cunningham drew a deep breath,and took a firm hold of his pointedrock, though he had little hope of overcomingthe creature.The jawshe had iust seenat work had seemedevenmore efficientthan those of the plant-eater, and they werelargeenoughto take in a human leg. Forperhapsfivesecondsboth beingsfacedeachotherwithoutmotion; then to the mant inexpressible relief,the centipedereachedthe sameconclusionto which its previousexaminationof humanityhad led it, and departedin evidenthaste.This time it did not remain in sight,but was still moving rapidly when it reachedthe limit of Cunningham's
The naturalist returned somewhatshakily to the cave mouth, seatedhimself where he could watch his ship, and beganto ponder deeply.A number of points seemedinterestingon first thought, and on further cerebrationbecamepositivelyfascinating.The centipedehad not seen,or at leasthad not pursued,the plant-eaterthat had escaped from Cunninghamand run from the cave.Looking back,he realized
Showcase 2000 264 NebulaAwards that the only timeshe had seenthe creatureattackwere after "blood" had been alreadyshed-twice by one of the carnivorousanimals,the third time by Cunningham himself. It had apparentlymade no differencewherethe victimshad been-two in full sunlight,one in the darknessof the cave. More proof, if any were needed,that the creatures could see in both gradesof illumination. It was not strictly a carrion eater,however;Cunningham rememberedthat carnivorethat had accompaniedits victim into the centipede's iaws.It wasobviouslycapable of overcomingthe man, but had twice reheatedprecipitatelywhen it had excellentopportunitiesto attackhim. What wasit, then, that drew the creatureto scenesof combatand bloodshed,but frightenedit away from a man; that frightened,indeed,all of thesecreatures? On any planet that had a respectableatmosphere,Cunningham would havetakenone answerfor granted- scent.In his mind, however, organsof smell were associatedwith breathing apparatus,which these creaturesobviouslylacked. Don't ask why he took so long. You may think that the terrific adaptabilityevidencedby thoseshangeeyeswould be clue enough;or perhapsyou may be in a mood to excusehim. Columbusprobablyexcusedthoseof his friendswho failed to solvethe eggproblem. Of course,he got it at last,and wasproperlyannoyedwith himself for taking so long about it. An eye,to us, is an organfor forming images of the sourceof such radiationas may fall on it; and a noseis a gadget that tellsits ownerof the presenceof molecules.He needshis imagination to pichrre the sourceof the latter.But what would you call an organ that forms a picture of the sourceof smell? For that was iust what those"eyes"did. In the nearly perfect vacuum of this little world'ssurface,gasesdiffusedat high speed* and their moleculeshaveledin practicallystraightlines.There wasnothing wrong with the ideaof a pinholecameraeye,whoseretinawascomposedof olfactory nerve endingsrather than the rods and conesof photosensitive organs. That seemedto accountfor everything.Of coursethe creatures were indifferentto the amount of light reflectedfrom the obiectthey examined.The glareof the openspacesunder Deneb'srays,and the relaof a cave,wereall one to them-provided somethingwas tive blackness diffirsingmoleculesin the neighborhood.And what doesn't?Every suh'
Sense 265 Uncommon stance,solid or liquid, has its vapor pressure;under Deneb'srayseven someratherunlikely materialsprobablyevaporatedenoughto affectthe organsof theselife forms- metals,particularly.The life fluid of the creatureswasobviouslymetal-probably lead,tin, bismuth,or somesimilar metals,or still more probably,severalof them in a mixture that carried vital to the life of their body cells.Probablymuch of the the substances makeupof thosecellswasin the form of colloidal metals. But that wasthe businessof the biochemists.Cunninghamamused himself for a time by imagining the analory betweensmell and color which must existhere;light gases,such asoxygenand nitrogen,must be rare,and the tiny quantitiesthat leakedfrom his suit would be absolutely new to the creaturesthat intercepted them. He must have affectedtheir nervoussystems the wayfire did thoseof teneshialwild animals.No wonder eventhe centipedehad thought discretionthe betterpart ofvalor! problemsolvedfor the nonce,Cunningham With hislessessential turned his attentionto that of his own survival;and he had not pondered many momentswhen he realizedthat this, aswell, might be solved.He beganslowlyto smile, asthe discretefragmentsof an idea beganto sort themselves out and fit properlytogetherin his mind-an ideathat involvedthe vaporpressureof metallic blood, the leaking qualitiesof the utility suitsworn by his erstwhileassistants, and the bloodthirstinessof his many-leggedacquaintancesof the day;and he had few doubtsabout any of those qualities.The plan becamecomplete, to his satisfaction; and with a smileon his face,he settledhimselfto watchuntil sunset. Deneb had alreadycrosseda considerablearc of the sky.Cunninghamdid not know just how long he had,ashe lackeda watch;and it wassoonborne in on him that time passes much more slowlywhen there is nothing to occupy it. As the afternoondrew on, he wasforced awayfrom the cave mouth; for the descendingstar was beginning to shinein. |ustbeforesunset,he wascrowdedagainstoneside;for Deneb's fierce raysshone shaight through the entranceand onto the opposite wall, leavingvery little spacenot directly illuminated.Cunningham drew a sigh of relief for more reasonsthan one when the upper limb of the deadlyluminary finally disappeared. His specimens had long sincerecoveredfrom their fright, and left the cavern;he had not tried to stop them. Now, however,he emerged
2000 Showcase 266 NebulaAwards fiom the low entrywayandwent directlyto the nearestdustdune,which wasbarelyvisible in the starlight.A few moments'searchwasrewarded with one of the squirmingplant-eaters,which he carriedback into the shelter;then, illuminating the scenecarefullywith the small torch that was clipped to the waist of his suit, he made a fair-sizedpile of dust, gougeda long groovein the top with his toe; with the aid of the same stone he had used before, he killed the plant-eaterand poured its "blood" into the dustmold. The fluid wasmetallic, all right; it cooled quickly, and in two or threeminutesCunninghamhad a silveryrod aboutasthick asa pencil and five or six incheslong. He had beena little worriedaboutthe centipede at first; but the creaturewas either not in line to "see" into the cave,or had dug in for the night like its victims. Cunninghamtookthe rod,which wasaboutaspliableasa stripof solderof the samedimensions,and, extinguishingthe torch, made his There way in a seriesof short,carefulleapsto the strandedspaceship. wasno sign of the men, and they had takentheir welding equipmentinside with them-that is, if they had everhad it out; Cunningham had not beenableto watchthem for the lasihour of daylight.The hull was still jackedup, however;and the naturalisteasedhimselfunder it and beganto examinethe damage,once more using the torch. It wasabout of the men; and with a smile, ashe had deducedfrom the conversation he took the little metal stick and went to work. He wasbusy for some time under the hull, and once he emerged,found anotherplant-eater, and went back underneath.After he had finished, he walked once aroundthe ship,checkingeachof the air locksand findingthem sealed, ashe had expected. He showedneither surprisenor disappointmentat this; and without furtherceremonyhe madehis waybackto the cave,which he had a little troublefindingin the starlight,He madea largepile of the dust,for insulationratherthanbedding,laydownon it, and tried to sleep.He had ashe might haveexpected. verylittle success, seemedunbearablylong; and he almost Night, in consequence, regrettedhis starstudyof the previousdarkness,for now he wasable to seethat sunrisewasstill distant,ratherthan bolsterhis morale with the hope that Deneb would be in the skythe next time he openedhis eyes.
Sense 267 Uncommon The time finally came, however,when the hilltops acrossthe valley leapedoneby one into brillianceasthe sunlightcaughtthem;and Cunningham roseand stretchedhimself.He wasstiff and cramped,for a spacesuitmakesa poor sleepingcostumeevenon a betterbed than a stonefloor, As the light reachedthe spaceshipand hrrned it into a blazing silvery spindle,the air lock opened.Cunningham had been surethat the men were in a hurry to finish their task,and were probablyawaitingthe sun almostaseagerlyashe in order to work efficiently;he had planned on thisbasis. Malmesonwasthe first to leapto the ground,judging by their conversation,which came clearly through Cunningham'sphones. He hrrnedback,and his companionhandeddown to him the bulky diode welderand a stackof filler rods.Then both men madetheir wayforward to the dent wherethey wereto work.Apparentlythey failed to notice the bits of loosemetal lying on the scene-perhaps they had done somefiling themselvesthe day before.At any rate,there wasno mention of it as Malmesonlay down and slid underthe hull, and the otherbeganhanding equipmentin to him. Plant-eaters werebeginningto shuggleout of their dustbedsasthe connectionswere completed,and the torch startedto fame. Cunningham nodded in pleasureas he noted this; things could scarcelyhave co.operating. He acfubeentimed betterhad the men beenconsciously ally emergedfrom the cave,keepingin the shadowof the hillock, to increasehis field of view; but for severalminutesnothing but plant-eaters could be seenmoving. He wasbeginningto fear that his invited guestsweretoo distantto receivetheir call, when his eye caught a glimpseof a long, black body slipping silently over the dunes towardthe ship. He smiled in satisfaction; and then his eyebrows suddenlyroseashe sawa secondsnakyform the tracks the first. following of He lookedquickly acrosshis full field of view,and wasrewardedby the sight of four more of the monsters-all headingat breakneckspeed The beaconhe had lightedhad reachedmore straightfor the spaceship. than had eyes he expected.He wassure that the men were armed,and
2000 Showcase 268 NebulaAwards he had neverintendedthat they actuallybe overcomeby the creatures; the air him reach let would that distraction temporary had countedon a Iock unopposed. He stood up, and braced himself for the dash,as Malmeson's helper sawthe first of the chargingcentipedesand called the welder from his work. Malmesonbarelyhad time to gain his feet when the first pair of attackersreachedthem; and at the sameinstantCunningham emergedinto the sunlight,putting everyounceof his shen$h into the leapsthat werecarryinghim towardthe only shelterthat now existedfor him. He could feel the ardorof Deneb'sraysthe instantthey struckhim; and beforehe had covereda third of the distancethe backof his suit was painfully hot. Things were hot for his ex-crewas well; fully ten of the black monstershad reactedto the burst of-to them-overpoweringly attractiveodor- or gorgeouscolor?- that had resultedwhen Malmeson had turnedhiswelderon the metalwhereCunninghamhad appliedthe frozenblood of their nafural prey; and more of the samesubstancewas now vaporizingunder Deneb'sinfluence as Malmeson,who had been lying in fragmentsof it, stoodfighting off the attackers.He had a flame pistol, but it wasslow to take effect on creatureswhosevery blood was moltenmetal;and his companion,wieldingthe diodeunit on thosewho got too close,wasno better off. They were practicallyswampedunder wriggling bodiesasthey worked their way towardthe air lock; and neither man sawCunningham as,staggeringevenunder the feeblegravity that was present,and fumbling with eye shield misted with sweat,he within. reachedthe samegoaland disappeared outerdooropen;but he closed he left the person, humane a Being and doggedthe inner one beforeproceedingwith a more even stepto the conhol room. Here he unhurriedly removedhis spacesuit,stopping only to open the switch of the power socketthat wasfeedingthe diode unit ashe heardthe outerlock door close.The fame pistolwould make no impressionon the alloyof the hull, and he felt no qualmsaboutthe securityof the inner door.The men wele safe,from everypoint of view. With the welder removedfrom the list of activemenaces'he finished removing his suit, tumed to the medium transmitter,and coolly broadcasta call for help and his positionin space.Then he hlrned on a radio transmitter,sothat the rescuerscould find him on the planet;and
Sense 269 Uncommon only then did he contactthe prisonerson the smallsetthatwastuned to the suit radios,and tell them whathe had done. "I didn't meanto do you anyharm,"Malmeson's voicecameback' "I just wanted the ship. I know you paid us pretty good, but when I thought of the moneythat could be madeon someof thoseworldsif we lookedfor somethingbesidescrazy animalsand plants,I couldn't help myself.You can let us out now; I swearwe won't try anything more- the ship won't fly, and you saya Guard fyer is on the way.How about that?" "I'm sorryyou don't like my hobby,"saidCunningham. "I find it entertaining;and therehavebeentimeswhen itwasevenuseful,though I won't hurt your feelingsby tellingyou aboutthe lastone.I think I shall feel happier if the two of you stayright there in the air lock; the rescue ship should be here beforemany hours, and you're fools if you haven't food and waterin your suits." "l guessyou win, in that case,"saidMalmeson. "I think so,too,"repliedCunningham,and switchedoff.
RhystingAwardWinners JOHNGREY LAURELWINTER
givesthe awardsannuTheScienceFictionPoetryAssociation poem (under fifty tines) andbesttongpoem a[[yfor bestshorl (morethan fifty) of the year.Theawardis namedfor the wanin RobertA. Heinlein's deringBtindSingerof the Spaceways ctassicstory,"TheGreenHil.tsof Earth." several Thisyear'swinnersareJohnGrey,whohaspubtished worksbefore,and LaurelWinter,who saidof hersetf: earth-bermed smarthouse LaurelWinterlivesin a passive-so|ar, twin sons.Shegrewup in with herhusbandandthifteen-year-old the mountainsof lvlontanoand attendedo one-roomcountry gradeschoolwith oneteacherforeightyeors.Sheturnedforty on Earthdoy1999ond is enjoyingit a great deal. yearsago,"InfinitySyrup,"wasan Hershortstoryof several tale of Zenshopping. evocative
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ExptainingFrankensteinto His Mother J O H NG R E Y His blinkeredpassion hasrobbedhim of much of whatyou remember. The Baron makesmockery of your goodand dutiful haining in the windingcorridors, the hundredand one frigid rooms ofthat joyles castle. He completelyignores the rulesand regulations you drummed into him from birth to when he slippedyour net, fell preyto the radicalideasthat enmeshed that accursedSwisscollegetighter than iry. No, he hasnot followedthe plot you wrote for him. He seldomchangesout of that raggedcoat,thosefadedgraypantaloons. He doesnot pick up afterhimself, not eventhe blood. He is disrespecfulof his elders, the ultimateelder,God. especially And he writesyou no letters, saveshis quill for crazeddiary scribblings. He hasbecomemore a bleakpersonification ofhis own crazedconcept man of scienceyou envisioned. than the well respected has not married And worse,thoughhe and settleddown like the restof your brood, he hasgivenyou a grandchild, a hideousthing madefrom the flotsamand ietsamof corpses. Unloved,it roamsthe landscape, clumsilyplungingmisunderstanding into terror.
RhystingAwardWinners 273
'Life!
I havecreatedlifel" wasthe lastthing he saidto me. An old sayingof yours,asI understandit.
why gotdfishshouldn'tusepowertools L A U R EW L INTER first, they would probablybe electrocuted, asit is dangerous to mix waterand electricity. but what about batterypower, you ask,for examplea cordlessdrill with modifiedtrigger, sensitiveenoughto respond to a filmy pectoralfin, sothat evendn angelfish could activatethe bit? I mean-yor say-what aboutNavyS.E.A.L.s? don't theyusepowertoolsunderwater? couldn'tthosebe modified? well, yes,technicallyit could be done, but think aboutit: your goldfish swimminground in their bowl atopyour Louiswhateverpedestaltable and an antiquedoily handeddown from great-auntbeatrice-who could havegivenyou a million dollarsbut no it wasthe doily insteadthosegold fish with a dazedexpression and vacanteyesand no cerebralcortexto speakof? do you really want to give them that kind of power?thosekinds of tools? think aboutit. think about waterdamage and how foolishyou'dfeel filling out the insuranceclaim, admitting that the bowl broke
2000 Showcase 274 NebulaAwards becauseyou empoweredyour goldfish, gavethem powertoolsand powerovertheir destiny. and how would you know if one of your goldfishhad a deathwish? it could be murder/suicide and you would be an accessory. butwhat aboutgoldfishrights?you say what about the artisticpossibilities, mightdo thefine engravingthey of the bowl, on the inside which i could then seIIfor a million dollars -take that aunt beatrice-and what if they'reyeamingfor expression? okay,fine, expressionis good, but steerthem in otherdirections. how about performanceart? turn a video cameraon the bowl and givethem the opportunity to revealtheir soulsthat way. you can alwaystape over the boring parts; goldfishdon't seemto understand dramaticstructure. or powertoolsor the projectedangstyou are misdirecting. you wanta powertool?getone for yourself. buy the goldfisha plasticcastle and a bagof coloredmarbles, or maybeone of thosebubblyskeletonthings that goesup and down. you want to givethem more than they need. your own curvedrefection staresback at you from insidethe bowl.
APPEN DIXES
About the NebulaAwards The Nebula Awardsare chosenby the membersof the Science Fiction and FantasyWritersof America.In 1998they weregiven in four shortstory-under 7,5oowords;novelette-7,5ooto 17,49g categories: words;novella- r7,5ooto 39,999words;and novel- more than 4o,ooo words.SFWA membersreadand nominatethe bestSF storiesand novels throughout 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 determine the winners. The Nebula Awardsare presentedat a banquetat the annual Nebula AwardsWeekend,held originally in New York and, over the years, in placesas diverseas New Orleans;Eugene,Oregon;and aboardthe QueenMary, in Long Beach,California. The Nebula Awardsoriginated in 1965,from an idea by Lloyd Biggle fr., the secretary-treasurer of SFWA at that time, who proposed that the organizationselectand publishthe yeart beststories,and have beengiveneversince. The award itself was originally designedby fudith Ann Blish from a sketchby Kate Wilhelm. The official description:"a block of Lucite four to five inches squareby eight to nine inches high into
276 Appendixes which a spiral nebula of metallic glitter and a geologicalspecimenare embedded." SFWA alsogivesthe Grand MasterAward, its highesthonor. It is presentedfor a lifetime of achievementin sciencefiction. Instituted in tg75,it is awardedonly to living authorsand is not necessarilygiven everyyear.The Grand Master is chosenby SFWA'sof6cers,pastpresidents,and boardof directors. The first Grand MasterwasRobertA. Heinlein inry74-The others are|ack Williamson (tqZ5),Clifford Simak (tqZ6),L. Spraguede Camp (tqz8),Fritz Leiber(r98r),AndreNorton (tg83),Arthur C. Clarke(tg8l)' IsaacAsimov(1986),Alfred Bester(t982),RayBradbury(1988),Lesterdel Rey (r99o),FrederikPohl (1992),Damon Knight (rgg4),A. E. van Vo$ (tqgS),fackVance(tgg6),PoulAnderson(1997),and Hal Clement (rqg8) The thirty-fourth annual Nebula Awardsbanquetwasheld at the on May r, 1999. Marriott City Centerin Pittsburgh,Pennsylvania,
SetectedTittes from the 1998Preliminary NebutaBallot NOV EL S AtphaCentauri,William Barton and Michael Capobianco(Avon) Cosm,GregoryBenford (Avon Eos) Koman,Lois McMasterBujold (BaenBooks) Daysof Cain, |. R. Dunn (Avon) The PleistoceneRedemption,Dan Gallagher (CypressHouse) CommitrnentHour, f amesAlan Gardner(Avon Eos) TheDazzleof Day, Molly Gloss(Tor Books) Brown Girl in the Ring, Nalo Hopkinson(WarnerAspect) Maxinntmlight, Nancy Kress(Tor Books) CoIdlron, MelisaMichaels(Roc) SaintLeibowitzand the Wild HorseWoman,Walter M. Miller |r. (with TerryBisson)(BantamSPectra) OnceaHero,ElizabethMoon (BaenBooks) Vasf,Linda Nagata(BantamSpectra) Hand of Prophecy,SevernaPark (Avon Eos) Kirinyaga,Mike Resnick(Del ReY) Children of Cod,Mary Doria Russell(Villard Books)
Appendixes 277
Frameshift,Robertf. Sawyer(Tor Books) lovah's'\ngel, SharonShinn (Ace) TheNightWatch, SeanStewart(Ace) lsland in the Seaof Time, S. M. Stirling (Roc) Reckoninglnfinity,fohn Stith (Tor Books) lack Faust,Michael Swanwick(Avon) TheMeno Tiee,KatieWaitman (Del Rey) Darwinia, RobertCharlesWilson (Tor Book$ NOVELLAS "Cold at Heart," Brian A. Hopkins (Starlance Publications) "ln the Furnaceof the Night," famesSarafin(Asimov'sScienceFiction) NOVELETTES "The Moon Girl," M. ShayneBell (Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Thlt Thle,"NancyVarianBerberick(Advenfures in Swordand Sorcery) "Content with the Mysterious,"Maya KaathrynBohnhoff (Analog) 'Approaching Perimelasma,"Geoftey A. l.andis (Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Little Differences,"Paul Levinson(AnalogScienceFictionand Fact) "The Orchard,"Paul Levinson(AnalogScienceFiction and Fact) "CrossingChao Meng Fu," G. David Nordley (AnalogScienceFiction andFact) "Noodle You, Noodle Me," B. |. Thrower (Asimov'sScienceFiction) "Lustman,"PatYork(Realmsof Fantasy) SHORT STORIES "Cosmic Corkscrew,"Michael A. Burstein(AnalogScienceFictionand Fact) "Kaleidoscope,"Kate Daniel (Realmsof Fantasy) "Children of Tears,"Adrienne Gormley (AlternateTyrants,ed. Resnick and Greenberg,Tor Books) "Walter'sChristmas-NightMusik," Susan|. lkoupa (Realmsof Fantasy) "Monstrosity,"Mary SoonLee (TheMagazineof Fantasy6 Science Fichon) 'Advantage, Bellarmine,"PaulLevinson(AnalogScience Fictionand Fact) "Tiger, Tiger," SevernaPark(Realmsof Fantasy)
278 Appendixes
"The Hand You'reDealt," Robertf. Sawyer(FreeSpace,ed. Linaweaverand Kramer,Tor Books) "Waiting for Victor," Del Stonefr. (Nfred Hitchcock'slvlysteryMagazine) (Realmsof Fantasy) "silver Apples,"BeverlySuarez-Beard Fictionand Fact) (Analog Science "The Big One," fim Van Pelt "The Ballad of KansasMcGriff" Bud Webster(Hobo Times)
PastNebulaAurardWinners 1965 BestNovel:Duneby FrankHerbert BestNovella: "The SalivaTiee" by Brian W Aldissand "He Who Shapes"by RogerZelazny(tie) BestNovelette:"The Doorsof His Face,the Lampsof His Mouth" by RogerZelazny BestShortStory:"'Repent,Harlequin!'Saidthe Ticktockman"by Harlan Ellison 1,966 BestNovel: Flowersfor Algernonby Daniel Keyesand Babel-t7by SamuelR. Delany(tie) BestNovella: "The Last Castle"by fack Vance BestNovelette:"Call Him Lord" by Gordon R. Dickson BestShortStory:"The SecretPlace"by RichardMcKenna 7967 BestNovel: TheEinsteinIntersectionby SamuelR. Delany BestNovella:"Beholdthe Man" by Michael Moorcock BestNovelette:"Gonna Roll the Bones"by Fritz Leiber BestShort Story:'Aye, and Gomorrah" by SamuelR. Delany 1 96 8 by Alexei Panshin BestNovel: Riteof Passage "Dragonrider" by Anne McCaffrey BestNovella:
Appendixes279 BestNovelette:"Mother to the World" by RichardWilson BestShortStory:"The Planners"by KateWilhelm 1969 BestNovel:ThelzftHandof DarknessbyUrsulaK. Le Guin 'A BestNovella: Boy and His Dog" by Harlan Ellison BestNovelette:"Time Consideredasa Helix of Semi-PreciousStones" by SamuelR. Delany BestShortStory:"Passengers" by RobertSilverberg 1970 BestNovel: Ringworldby Larry Niven BestNovella:"Ill Met in Lankhmar"by Fritz Leiber BestNovelette:"Slow Sculpfure"by Theodore Shrrgeon BestShortStory:no award 7 9 77 BestNovel:ATime of Changesby RobertSilverberg BestNovella:"The MissingMan" by KatherineMaclean BestNovelette:"The Queenof Air and Darkness"by PoulAnderson BestShort Story:"Good Newsfrom the Vatican"by Robert Silverberg 7 9 72 BestNovel:TheCodsThemselves by IsaacAsimov 'A BestNovella: Meeting with Medusa"by A.rthurC. Clarke BestNovelette:"Goat Song"by PoulAnderson BestShortStory:"When It Changed"by foannaRuss 7973 BestNovel: Rendezvous with Ramaby futhur C. Clarke BestNovella:"The Deathof Doctor Island"by GeneWolfe BestNovelette:"Of Mist, and Grass,and Sand"byVondaN. Mclntyre BestShort Story:"Love Is the Plan,the Plan Is Death" by |ames Tiptree fr.
280 Appendixes BestDramatic Presentation SoylentGreen StanleyR. Greenbergfor screenplay(basedon the novel Make Room!Make Room!) Harry Harrisonfor Make Room!Make Room! 7974 by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestNovel: The Dispossessad BestNovella:"Born with the Dead" by Robert Silverberg BestNovelette:"If the Starsfue Gods" by Gordon Eklund and GregoryBenford BestShortStory:"The Day Beforethe Revolution"by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestDramatic Presentation:Sleeper by Woody Allen Grand Master:RobertA. Heinlein 7975 BestNovel:TheFareverWarbyfoe Haldeman BestNovella:"Home Is the Hangman" by RogerZelazny BestNovelette:"SanDiegoLighfoot Sue"by Tom Reamy BestShortStory:"CatchThat Zeppelin!"by Fritz Leiber BestDramatic Writing: Mel Brooksand Gene Wilder forYoung Frankenstein Grand Master:|ackWilliamson 1976 BestNovel: ManPIusby FrederikPohl BestNovella:"Houston,Houston,Do You Read?"by )amesTiptree)r' BestNovelette:"The BicentennialMan" by Isaacfuimov 'A BestShort Story: Crowd of Shadows"by CharlesL' Grant Grand Master:Clifford D. Simak 7977 BestNovel: Gatewayby FrederikPohl BestNovella:"stardance"by Spiderand )eanneRobinson BestNovelette:"The ScrewfySolution"by RaccoonaSheldon
Appendixes 281
BestShort Story:"|effty Is Five" by Harlan Ellison SpecialAward: StarWars 797I BestNovel: Dreamsnakeby VondaN. Mclntyre BestNovella:"The Persistence of Vision" by )ohn Varley 'A BestNovelette: Glow of Candles,a Unicorn'sEye" by CharlesL. Grant BestShort Story:"Stone" by EdwardBryant GrandMaster:L. Spraguede Camp 7979 BestNovel: The Fountainsof Paradiseby Arthur C. Clarke BestNovella:"Enemy Mine" by Barry Longyear BestNovelette:"Sandkings"by GeorgeR. R. Martin BestShort Story:"giANTS" by EdwardBryant 1 98 0 BestNovel: Timescapeby GregoryBenford BestNovella:"The Unicom Tapeshy"by SuzyMcKee Charnas BestNovelette:"The Ugly Chickens"by HowardWaldrop BestShort Story:"Grotto of the Dancing Deer" by Clifford D. Simak Grand Master:Fritz Leiber 1 98 1 BestNovel: The Claw of the Conciliatorby Gene Wolfe BestNovella: "The SaturnGame" by Poul Anderson BestNovelette:"The Quickening"by Michael Bishop BestShort Story:"The Bone Flute" by Lisa Tirttleo 7982 BestNovel:No EnemyButTime by Michael Bishop oThisNebulaAwardwasdeclihedby the author.
282 Appendixes 'Another Orphan" by fohn Kessel BestNovella: BestNovelette:"Fire Watch"by ConnieWillis 'A BestShort Story: Letter from the Clearys"by Connie Willis L9 8 3 BestNovel: Startide Risingby David Brin BestNovella:"Hardfought"by Greg Bear BestNovelette:"Blood Music" by GregBear BestShort Story:"The Peacemaker"by GardnerDozois Grand Master:Andre Norton 1,984 by William Gibson BestNovel:Neuromancer BestNovella:"PressEnter l" by )ohn Varley BestNovelette:"Bloodchild'by OctaviaE. Butler BestShortStory:"Morning Child" by GardnerDozois 1985 BestNovel:Ender'sGamebyOrsonScottCard 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 1 98 6 BestNovel:Speaker for theDead by OrsonScottCard BestNovella:"R & R' by Lucius Shepard BestNovelette:"The Girl Who Fell into the Sky" by KateWilhelm BestShortStory:"Tangents"by Greg Bear Grand Master:IsaacAsimov 7987 BestNovel: The FallingWomanby PatMurphy
Appendixes283 BestNovella:"The Blind Geometer"by Kim StanleyRobinson BestNovelette:"Rachelin Love" by PatMurphy BestShort Story:"ForeverYours,Anna" by KateWilhelm Grand Master:Alfred Bester
19 8 8 BestNovel:FaIIingFreebyLois McMasterBujold BestNovella:"The Lastof the Winnebagos"by ConnieWillis BestNovelette:"Schriidinger'sKitten" by GeorgeAlec Effinger BestShortStory;"Bible StoriesforAdults,No. r7: The Deluge"by )amesMorrow Grand Master:RayBradbury
19 8 9 BestNovel:TheHealer'sWarbyElizabethAnn Scarborough BestNovella:"The Mountains of Mouming" by lois McMaster Buiold 'At BestNovelette: the Rialto" by Connie Willis BestShort Story:"Ripplesin the Dirac Sea"by Geoftey Landis
r990 BestNovel: Tehanu:The Last Bookof EarthseabyUrsulaK. Le Guin BestNovella: "The HemingwayHoax" by foe Haldeman BestNovelette:"Tower of Babylon"by Ted Chiang BestShort Story:"BearsDiscoverFire" by Terry Bisson Grand Master:Lesterdel Rev
1991 BestNovel: Stationsof theTide by Michael Swanwick BestNovella:"Beggarsin Spain"by Nancy Kress BestNovelette:"Guide Dog" by Mike Conner BestShort Story:"Ma Qui" by Alan Brennert
284 Appendixes 7992 BestNovel: DoomsdayBookby Connie Willis BestNovella: "City of Tiuth" by |amesMorrow BestNovelette:"Danny Goesto Mars" by PamelaSargent BestShortStory:"Even the Queen"by ConnieWillis Grand Master:FrederikPohl 1993 BestNovel: RedMarsby Kim StanleyRobinson BestNovella:"The Night We Buried RoadDog" by )ackCady BestNovelette:"Georgiaon My Mind" by CharlesSheffield BestShort Story:"Graves"by joe Haldeman 7994 BestNovel: MovingMars bYGreg Bear BestNovella:"SevenViewsof OlduvaiGorge"by Mike Resnick BestNovelette:"The Martian Child" by David Gerrold 'A BestShort Story: Defenseof the SocialContracts"by Martha Soukup Grand Master:Damon Knight 7995 by Robertf ' Sawyer BestNovel:TheTerminalExperiment BestNovella: "Last Summer at Mars Hill" by ElizabethHand BestNovelette:"solihrde" by UrsulaK. Le Guin BestShort story: "Death and the Librarian" by EstherM. Friesner Grand Master:A. E. vanVo$ 1996 BestNovel: SIowRiverby Nicola Griffith BestNovella:"Da Vinci Rising' by |ack Dann BestNovelette:"Lifeboat on a Burning Sea"by Bruce Holland Rogers
Appendixes285 'A BestShortStory: Birthday"by EstherM. Friesner Grand Master:fackVance 7997 BestNovel: The Moon and the Sun by VondaN. Mclntyre 'Abandon BestNovella: in Place"by ferry Oltion "The BestNovelette: Flowersof Aulit Prison"by Nancy Kress BestShortStory:"SisterEmily'sLightship"by JaneYolen Grand Master:Poul Anderson
Aboutthe ScienceFictionand FantasyWritersof America The Science Fiction and FantasyWriters of America, Incorporated,includesamong its membersmost of 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 alsostrivesto encourage public interestin and appreciation ofscience fiction and fantasy. Anyone may becomean activemember of SFWA after the accep tanceof and paymentfor one professionally publishednovel,one professionallyproduced dramatic script, or three professionallypublished piecesof shortfiction.Only sciencefiction,fantasy,and otherprosefiction of a relatedgenre,in English,shallbe consideredasqualifiringfor activemembership.Beginningwriterswho do not yet qualify for active membershipmay join as associate members;other classes of membership include illushator members (artists),affiliate members (editors, agents,reviewers,and anthologists),estatemembers(representatives of the estatesof activememberswho havedied),and instihrtionalmembers (high schools,colleges,universities,libraries,broadcasters, film producers,futurist groups,and individualsassociated with such an institution). Anyone who is not a member of SFWA may subscribeto The
286 Appendixes SFWABulletin.The magazineis publishedquarterly,and containsarSubscripof theirprofession. ticlesby well-knownwriterson all aspects tionsare $r5 a yearor $27for two years.For informationon how to to theBulletin,writeto: subscribe SFWABulletin 1436AltamontAve. PMB z9z NY n3q-2977 Schenectady, arealsoinvitedto visitthe SFWAsiteon theWorldWide Web Readers org http://www.sfiva. at thefollowingaddress:
P E R M I S S IN OS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
"The ScienceFictionalCentury"by GregoryBenford.Copyright@1999by GregoryBenford.FirstappearedinThe Magazineof FantasyG Science Fiction (September 1999)underthe title,'A Scientist's Notebook:The ScienceFiction Century."Reprintedby permissionof the author. "Readingthe Bones"by SheilaFinch. Coppight @by SheilaFinch. First appearedinThe Magazineof Fantasy6 Science Ficfion(January1998).Reprinted by permissionof the author. "LostGirls" by JaneYolen.Copyright@ ry97by laneYolen.Firstappearedin Twelvelmpossible ThingsBeforeBreakfast (SanDiego:HarcourtBrace, ry97). Reprintedby permissionof the author. "ThirteenWaysto Water"by BruceHollandRogers.Copyright@ 1998by Bruce HollandRogers.Firstappearedin Black cats and BrokenMinors,editedby Martin H. Greenbergandfohn Helfers(NewYork:DAW,1998).Reprintedby permission ofthe author. Excerptfrom Foreyer Peaceby JoeHaldeman.CopyrightO 1997by )oe Haldeman (NewYork:Ace Books,1997).Reprintedby permissionof the author. "Why Can'tWe All JustLive Together?" by fonathanLethem.Copytight@ 1998 by fonathanLethem.FirstappearedinTheVillageVoiceLiterarySupplement (fune 1998).Reprintedby permissionof the author. "Respectability" by GordonVan Gelder.Copyright@1998by Mercurypress,Inc. FirstappearedinThe Magazineof Fantasy6 scienceFicfion(october/November 1998)underthe title "Editorial."Reprintedby permissionof the author.
288 PermissionsAcknowtedgments "Winter Fire" by Geoftey Landis.Copyright @ r97 by Geoftey Landis' First (August'ggil' Reprintedby permissionof the appearedin AsimovbScienceFictiorr author. ,,Lethe,'by Walter Williams.Copyrighto 1997by Walter)on Williams.First )on 1997)'Reprintedby permissionof (September appearedinAsimov'sScienceFiction the author. "The MercyGate"by Mark ). McGarry.Coppight @ 1998by Mark J' Mccany' Ficfion(March 1998). FirstappeaiedinThe Magazineof Fantaty6 Science author. Reprintedby permissionof the "My Life and HardTimesin SF' by William Tenn' Copyright@ r99 by Philip of Klass.First appearedin The Bulletinof the seienceFictionand FantosyWtiters Speech." America(Fali1999)underthe title "SFWAAuthorEmeritusAcceptance Reprintedby permissionof the author. "UncommonSense"by Hal Clement.CopyrightO 1946by Street& Smith Inc. Renewedby Hany C. Stubbs,1974'Firstappeuedin Astounding Publications, (Februaryry46).Reprintedby permissionof the author' ScienceFictron to His Mother"by fohn Grey'Copyright@ 1997by fohn "ExplainingFrankenstein zo.3(May/fune1997)'Reprintedby permission in StaroLine Grey.Firstappeared ofthe author. ..why GoldfishShouldn'tuse PowerTools"by Laurelwinter. copyright o 1997 Fiction(December1997)' inAsirnov'sScienee by l,aurelWinter. Firstappeared Reprintedby permissionof the author'
