The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 24

by Gardner Dozois

  In appearance, Simon had remained stubbornly, endearingly human. Pieces of him were still physically tied to the young Martian, though those archaic tissues consisted only of a few cells scattered through crystalline overlaps, metabolic engines, and bundles of smart-light and nulls and voids. His face and body remained tall, but only in contrast to the entities gathered about him. He began with a bright smile and a voice crafted to come across as warm and comforting to the average citizen, thanking everyone for surrendering a portion of his busy day to listen to an old fellow rattle on. Then he told a story from his childhood, describing in detail how his father once handed him a nano-bomb seed – one of the old marvels intended to transform Mars from a wasteland to a paradise. “I didn’t understand the significance of that crude tool,” he confessed. “But I held the miraculous seed in both hands, believing that in my brief life, this was the most important object that I had ever touched. Yet at the same moment, I was stubbornly ignoring my own soggy brain. And everyone else’s too. But minds are the only marvels worthy of our lasting respect, and I can only wish that each of us holds that truth close to us as we pass through our future days.”

  Simon was smaller than his original hands had been, smaller than that early seed. But by the same token, he was larger than the rock and iron ball that was Mars. Like any modern mind, a good portion of his intelligence – facts and language, customs and a multitude of instincts – were held in the earth’s community mind. He remained a unique citizen, endowed with his own personality and ancient, often quaint notions. But as long as citizens wished to stretch toward infinity, room was going to come at a premium. Carrying your life experience inside one isolated skull meant large, inefficient bodies needing room to live. And if those bodies achieved even modest reproductive rates, any world would be swamped in a day, and shortly after that, ten thousand worlds more.

  As Simon liked to do on these occasions, he reminded every ear that the duties of an atum, particularly one granted his terrifying station, was to help select a direction into the future, that determined line balanced between wild freedom and despotic rule. What kinds of biology would embrace each world; how many children would each of these rich lives be allowed; and under what terms and what punishments would the government hold each of its citizens accountable. Everyone understood the consequences of mistakes, but just to be certain, he mentioned the First War and the Purge that followed, then the subsequent Battle of the Kuipers and what was dubbed the Final Purge, as if that species of political madness had been wrung from civilization forever.

  “Nothing is forever,” he warned, “no matter if it’s an individual life or the one hundred billion year life of the smallest, reddest sun.” Then his voice grew in depth and power, taking the sleepiest in the audience by surprise. “Change is inevitable,” he promised, “but little else about the coming forever is certain. I would imagine that everyone here holds that noble wish that intelligent life will prosper in the universe, spreading to other suns and eventually to all the ends of the Milky Way. But that remains far from certain. In our ongoing studies of the sky, we have observed what has to be considered a paucity of intelligence. Today, those civilizations nearest to humanity are just beginning to hear the earth’s original transmissions, radio and radar whispers barely hinting at everything that has happened since, and it is presumed that in another several thousand years, a slow rich conversation will commence. Or our neighbors will respond to our presence with the most perfect, telling silence. The fertile imagination easily conceives wonders as well as horrors coming from this unborn history. But this man before you, this atum, believes that the real gift of the Others will be to suggest to us the richest, most stable answers to the eternal questions of life and living well in a universe that holds minds such as ours in such very low esteem.”

  Tradition dictated that the chief atum had to make his or her residence on the earth, but since Simon had no role in maintaining the biosphere, he was free to live where he wished. He earned a few grumbles when he requested a modest structure erected on top of the newest conservatory – little more than one dome and various substructures meant to house assistants and the usual secure machinery demanded by his office. Some complained that the new chief didn’t trust the good work being done by the local atums. Why else would he perched himself in the vacuum, his feet standing on top of one hundred trillion heads? But explanations did no good with those people. He spoke a few times about his love for space and the illusion of solitude, but after that, he gave up offering reasons. For as long as he held this post, enemies would find reasons to distrust him, and as long as his antagonists thought in small terms, he would be safe wherever he chose to live, right up until the day that this office was lost to him.

  “I have an errand for you,” Simon told his favorite lieutenant. “A mission of some importance, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.”

  The creature turned vivid blue, and twenty limbs shook from the apparent compliment. Then a soft clear voice said, “Sir,” and then, “I am honored,” before asking, “What is my mission?”

  With a thought, Simon delivered a set of encrypted files and the necessary keys, plus a few helpful suggestions. Then he waited while the files’ headings were studied. The assistant had a quick mind; it took only a moment for the limbs to stiffen, fear turning the body into a dark, despairing violet.

  “Sir,” the voice began.

  “What have you found there?” Simon kidded.

  “I didn’t know about these matters.”

  “You didn’t, did you?” The atum nodded agreeably. “That’s what you should mention when you act on your knowledge.”

  “Sir?”

  “You are going to act, aren’t you?”

  The assistant turned black and cold, a begging voice complaining, “This is not fair, sir.”

  “Little is,” Simon agreed.

  “By law, I have to take what I know to the proper agency.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, my friend.”

  The creature muttered to itself.

  “But please, will you do one small favor for me,” Simon continued. “Surrender this evidence to the Office of Exotic Biology. And yes, they have jurisdiction in these matters. They are perfectly acceptable authorities, and no one will fault you, even if you choose to someday mention these events to anyone else.”

  Perplexed but obedient, the assistant left on his unexpected mission.

  Alone, Simon slipped into a gossamer lifesuit and stepped out onto the hard surface of the newest conservatory. The sun was a faint glow just beginning to climb over the geometrically perfect horizon. Mercury was a dull dot almost invisible against the stars, its top fifty kilometers peeled away and refined into habitats ranging from mountain-sized to smaller than a small walnut. Venus was nearer and much duller, encased in half a dozen finished conservatories whose main purpose was to grab and sequester every photon falling from the sun, allowing the interior heat to build and build until the entire planet melted – a liquid world whose crust and then mantle could be siphoned off with relative ease, creating hundreds of trillions of living worlds that would eventually form a great ring around the sun.

  Jupiter remained a wilderness of space and raw materials, accompanied by its liquid worlds, infested with life but still not full. Uranus and Neptune were brighter than ever, the terrraforming of the little giants just beginning in earnest. Once again, Mars was being made into an earth-like world, but this time the work involved improved conservatories stacked on top of one another, the crust laced with sprawling caverns and hidden seas. And largest to the eye was Luna. Nearly as large as earth, it was a vast balloon composed of vacuum-filled chambers and nonaqueous species. Again, its design was aimed at growth, machines and organisms busily digesting the rocky body. But like every world in the Unified System, the genius that designed this transformation always aimed for a special stability. Each planet functioned as a nest of deeply social insects. As long as all the pieces and players coo
perated, life thrived. But if the calm failed, the queens of the nest would perish, and just as important, the lowly and the innocent would inherit what remained.

  Simon had helped craft this ruthless and obvious system. Humanity might have the power to draw life in any form it wished, but there still existed the Darwinian god holding sway over the majestic mess, and for the next eon or two, the best would succeed a little more other than their peers.

  Some days, it seemed that reaching this station was a miracle. But on this early morning being the chief atum felt entirely natural. Of course he was important. Who else was as old as him and as short of enemies? Who else could claim that they had been there at the beginning, or nearly so, yet never took part in any conspiracy or slaughter of note?

  Without sound, Simon started to laugh, enjoying the irony. The absence of ambition was the ultimate ambition, it seemed.

  Then his house-mind announced a visitor.

  Simon didn’t ask for the name. He knew. And turning back toward his home, walking slowly and then not so slowly, he said to the house, “Tell Lilly to make herself comfortable. The criminal is on his way.”

  “How did you manage this?” she blurted. Then in the next instant, she added, “This has to be a mistake. Somebody’s trying to frame you, and they didn’t even manage a believable job of it.”

  Like Simon, Lilly had kept hold of her human features. She sat and watched as he settled before her, and when he didn’t act appropriately concerned, she added, “This is the worst kind of scandal. If I’d told anyone — ”

  “But you haven’t,” he interrupted.

  “Because I thought I owed you at least the courtesy of looking into your face, seeing if there was any explanation for what you’ve done.”

  He shrugged and said nothing.

  “Starships are forbidden,” she snapped. “No vessel except sterile drones can legally pass beyond the Kuiper belt.”

  “I am well aware of the laws — ”

  “And the kind of ship you’ve built,” she blurted. “Dammit, Simon. It shatters at least a thousand codes. If you were to ride this sort of magic seed out into the cosmos . . . you could go almost anywhere . . . and then you could infect and transform any body. Any world. The outlawed technologies and the government-only technologies that you’ve assembled here, using your station as chief atum — ”

  “Impressed, are you?”

  Lilly remained a passionate creature, dark and lovely but always focused on the needs of her life’s mission. “I’m scared, Simon. Terrified. What were you planning to do with this monster seed?”

  He laughed and nodded, and then he quietly confessed, “The seed has room for one small passenger.”

  “For you?” she whimpered.

  “Me? Hardly.” He sat motionless, carefully watching his guest. “I have a mission in mind. But by training and inclinations, I suspect that I wouldn’t make a worthy pilot for this kind of work.”

  “What work?”

  Simon leaned forward, one hand and then the other taking both of hers. It was pleasant, holding onto the woman like this, feeling her heat pass into him. He was thinking about Lilly and his father sleeping together on the red wastes of Mars. He recalled that moment on Venus, in the darkness, in the wind. Then he surprised both of them, lifting their hands and kissing the backs of hers even as he slid onto his knees, saying nothing, but tasting a faint delicious salt against his lips and the tip of his tongue.

  A World Unburdened by Names

  The object was noticed and instantly measured – a small glimmer approaching along the expected vector, closing rapidly on the decelerating starship – and McKall’s first reaction was an energetic laugh punctuated with several choice curses. “Long enough, it took them to chase us,” he declared to his hounds and fireworms and the other powerful, fearless members of his unabashedly loyal crew. “For now, watch our enemy. Study what it shows us, and do nothing. Then at ten thousand kilometers, obliterate it.”

  Whatever the weapon was, their fifth blast managed to vaporize both its armor and the surprisingly simple meat inside.

  Celebratory drinks were served.

  For many centuries now, the starship’s captain had been worried. Onboard mirrors showed that the solar system behind them had suffered wars and subsequent rebirths. Who knew what kinds of marvels these new generations had devised? But obviously, his concerns had been misspent. Several moments were invested in careful study of the vanquished enemy. The remnant dust presented a minor puzzle, composed of common iron and little else. Why would anyone go to such trouble, sending what looked like a fancy cannonball after him? Too late, he wondered if perhaps the device had been a decoy, a ruse. He confessed his fears to his security chief, and the chief initiated a ship-wide search for tiny breeches and undetected invaders. Nothing was found. Every system was working properly. Twenty-three minutes after that cannonball was first seen, Earnest McKall retreated to his quarters – the only private rooms allowed inside the enormous star-ship – and he had halfway prepared a fresh cocktail when he noticed the tiny shape of a girl or woman clinging to the ceiling.

  Softly, very softly, he asked, “How did you—?”

  “Slip onboard? While you were fighting the bait, the hook approached from ahead of you. I used your engine’s fire as camouflage. And as for the rest of my trickery . . . well, explaining everything is not my consuming goal.”

  In secret, McKall signaled for help.

  Nothing changed.

  An instant later his metabolism had reached full speed, dragging his thoughts along with it. “What is your—?”

  “Lilly.”

  He stopped talking.

  “My name is Lilly, and thank you for asking.” She was at least as swift as the ship’s captain. “Do you have any other questions, Dr. McKall?”

  “What is your goal?” he managed.

  “What do you believe that I want?”

  “To stop me, of course. We’re not five hundred years from New Earth, and this is some last-gasp attempt to destroy my ship and me.”

  She was pretty and very small, no longer than a small finger, and it was difficult, even impossible, to take her seriously. Yet her voice had weight, rising from places besides her miniscule mouth. Amused, she explained, “But I don’t wish to stop you. And I certainly don’t want to destroy you. What I want – what I have halfway taken already, without you being aware – is complete control of this vessel and its crew. I am the new captain, and you are my dog.”

  McKall was furious, and he was terrified. Which emotion fixed his legs to the floor? He couldn’t decide. But he discovered that moving any limb was impossible, and his voice was a breathless little gasp.

  “You’ll conquer the New Earth for yourself,” he managed. “Is that your scheme?”

  “Hardly.”

  The untasted cocktail fell from his hand, spilling sticky and cold across his bare feet.

  “I just want your ship and its possibilities,” she explained. Then she dropped off the ceiling and landed in his rich black hair, miniature hands gripping tightly, yanking hard. “My plan? We’ll drop into orbit, and I will mine the local system, beginning construction of rings first and then a conservatory far above the atmosphere. Elaborate defensive works will be built, plus shields against interstellar catastrophe, and then I will wait for anyone who is foolish enough to follow after you and after me.”

  “But what will you do . . . with the world . . . ?”

  “Nothing,” she promised. Then thinking again, she added, “Except to watch its native life go about with its business. Which is what any of us do on any given day. Isn’t that right, Dr. McKall?”

  The atum concluded his speech by answering the question that everyone would ask, given the chance. He posed it in his voice, wondering aloud, “And when, at long last, will we leave our solar system for other suns and the rich new worlds waiting their chance to be claimed?”

  Then he paused, offering an archaic smile while nodding slightly.


  Cryptically, he said, “We shall embark when we are ready.”

  Then a little voice up front shouted, “And when will that be?”

  Simon’s most loyal assistant was obeying explicit instructions. He glanced at the many-limbed creature, answering, “Once all of our local homes are filled and happy. I would hope. We will embark as soon as we can trust our nature and our institutions not to use this migration as an excuse for easy growth and return voyages of conquest. When we have a worthy plan and the courage and discipline to trust in it. When starships no longer consume fortunes in energy and precious matter. When we have become adults, finally mature and responsible in all occasions. But most important . . .”

  He paused briefly, enjoying the anticipation that washed over him.

  “Most important,” he concluded, “we will not leave this little realm of ours until we are children again. Wide-eyed, enthralled children who know what they have in their hands and hold it with all the care they possess.”

  THE SPONTANEOUS

  KNOTTING OF AN

  AGITATED STRING

  Lavie Tidhar

  Lavie Tidhar grew up on a kibbutz in Israel, has traveled widely in Africa and Asia, and has lived in London, the South Pacific island of Vanuatu, and Laos. He is the winner of the 2003 Clarke-Bradbury International Science Fiction Competition (awarded by the Eu ro pe an Space Agency), was the editor of Michael Marshall Smith: The Annotated Bibliography, and the anthologies A Dick and Jane Primer for Adults and The Apex Book of World SF. He is the author of the linked story collection HebrewPunk, the novella chapbooks “An Occupation of Angels,” “Gorel & the Pot-Bellied God,” the almost novel-length “Cloud Permutations,” and, with Nir Yaniv, the novel The Tel Aviv Dossier. A prolific short story writer, his stories have appeared in Interzone, Clarkesworld, Apex Magazine, Sci Fiction, Strange Horizons, ChiZine, Postscripts, Fantasy Magazine, Nemonymous, Infinity Plus, Aeon, The Book of Dark Wisdom, Fortean Bureau, and elsewhere, and have been translated into seven languages. His latest novels include The Bookman and its sequel, Camera Obscura. Coming up are two new novels, Osama and Martian Sands. He’s currently back in Israel again, living in Tel Aviv.