Year's Best SF 2

by David G. Hartwell

  The face was a mixture of Latin and African genes. The dreadlocks were long enough to kiss his broad shoulders. Halfway through his second term, President Perez was the only president that Stefan could remember, and even though this was just a projection, an interactive holo generated by machines…it was still an honor to have him here, and Stefan felt special, and for more reasons than he could count, he was nervous. In good ways, and in bad ways too.

  “Hello?” chirped the eleven-year-old boy. “Mr. President?”

  The projection hadn't moved. The house computer was wrestling with its instructions, fashioning a personality within its finite capacity. There was a sound, a sudden “Sssss” generated by speakers hidden in the squidskin fence and sky. The projection opened its mouth; a friendly, reedy voice managed, “Sssstefan.” Then the President moved, offering both hands while saying, “Hello, young man. I'm so very glad to meet you.”

  Of course he knew Stefan's name. The personality could read the boy's public files. Yet the simple trick impressed him, and in response he shouted, “I'm glad to meet you, Mr. President.”

  The brown hands had no substance, yet they couldn't have acted more real. Gripping Stefan's pale little hand, they matched every motion, the warmth carried by the bright eyes and his words. “This is an historic moment, Stefan. But then you already know that, I'm sure.”

  The first nationwide press conference, yes. Democracy and science joined in a perfect marriage. President Perez was invited here for a symbolic dinner, and he was everywhere else at the same time. It was a wondrous evening…magical…!

  “A lovely yard,” said the President. The eyes were blind, but the personality had access to the security cameras, building appropriate images as the face moved. With a faraway gaze, he announced, “I do like your choice of view.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Very nice indeed…!”

  Holo projectors and squidskin fabrics created the illusion of blue skies and rugged geology. Although nothing was quite as bright as it would appear in the real outdoors, of course. And the squidskin rocks and the occasional bird had a vagueness, a dreamy imprecision, that was the mark of a less-than-good system. Sometimes, like now, the antinoise generators failed to hide unwanted sounds. Somewhere beyond the President, neighbors were applauding, and cheering, making it seem as if ghosts inhabited the ghostly canyon.

  President Perez seemed oblivious to the imperfections. Gesturing at their garden, he said, “Oh, I see you're doing your part. How close are you to self-sufficiency?”

  Not close at all, really.

  “Beautiful eggplants,” said the guest, not waiting for a response. “And a fish pond too!”

  Without fish. A problem with the filter, but the boy said nothing, hoping nothing would be noticed.

  The President was turning in a circle, hunting for something else to compliment. For some reason, the house wasn't wearing its usual coat of projected paints and architectural flourishes. Their guest was too complicated, no doubt. Too many calculations, plus the computer had to show the Grand Canyon…and the real house lay exposed in all its drabness. Glass foams and cardboard looked gray and simple, and insubstantial, three walls inside the yard and the fourth wall pointed toward the outdoors, the brown stains on the sky showing where rainwater had damaged the squid-skin.

  To break the silence, Stefan blurted out a question. “Mr. President, where do you stand on the economy?”

  That's how reporters asked questions.

  But the great man didn't respond in the expected way. His smile changed, remaining a smile but encompassing some new, subtly different flavor of light. “I'll stand on the economy's head,” he replied. “With my feet apart, ready for anything.”

  Was that a genuine answer?

  Stefan wasn't sure.

  Then the President knelt, putting his head below the boy's, saying with a happy, self-assured voice, “Thank you for the question. And remember, what happens tonight goes both ways. You can learn what I'm thinking, and in a different way I'll learn what's on your mind.”

  Stefan nodded, well aware of the principles.

  “When I wake,” said the handsome brown face, “I'll read that this many people asked about the economy, and how they asked it, and what they think we should be doing. All that in an abbreviated form, of course. A person in my position needs a lot of abbreviations, I'm afraid.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stefan waited for a moment, then blurted, “I think you're doing a good job with the economy, sir. I really do.”

  “Well,” said the guest, “I'm very, very glad to hear it. I am.”

  At that moment, the genuine President Perez was inside a government hospital, in a fetal position, suspended within a gelatin bath. Masses of bright new optical cable were attached to his brain and fingers, mouth and anus, linking him directly with the Net. Everything that he knew and believed was being blended with his physical self, all elements reduced to a series of numbers, then enlarged into a nationwide presence. Every household with an adequate projection system and memory was being visited, as were public buildings and parks, stadiums and VA facilities. If it was a success, press conferences would become a monthly event. Political opponents were upset, complaining that this was like one enormous commercial for Perez; but this was the President's last term, and it was an experiment, and even Stefan understood that these tricks were becoming cheaper and more widespread every day.

  In the future, perhaps by the next election, each political party would be able to send its candidates to the voters' homes.

  What could be more fair? thought the boy.

  Stefan's stepfather had just stepped from the drab house, carrying a plate full of raw pink burgers.

  In an instant, the air seemed close and thick.

  “Mr. Thatcher,” said the projection, “thank you for inviting me. I hope you're having a pleasant evening…!”

  “Hey, I hope you like meat,” Yancy called out. “In this family, we're carnivores!”

  Stefan felt a sudden and precise terror.

  But the President didn't hesitate, gesturing at the buffalo-augmented soy patties. Saying, “I hope you saved one for me.”

  “Sure, Mr. President. Sure.”

  For as long as Stefan could remember, his stepfather had never missed a chance to say something ugly about President Perez. But Mom had made him promise to be on his best behavior. Not once, but on several occasions. “I don't want to be embarrassed,” she had told him, using the same tone she'd use when trying to make Stefan behave. “I want him to enjoy himself, at least this once. Will you please just help me?”

  Yancy Thatcher was even paler than his stepson. Blonde hair worn in a short, manly ponytail; a round face wearing a perpetually sour expression. He wasn't large, but he acted large. He spoke with a deep, booming voice, and he carried himself as if endowed with a dangerous strength. Like now. Coming down the slope, he was walking straight toward their guest. The President was offering both hands, in his trademark fashion. But no hand was offered to him, and the projection retreated, saying, “Excuse me,” while deftly stepping out of the way.

  “You're excused,” Yancy replied, laughing in a low, unamused fashion. Never breaking stride.

  Mom wasn't watching; that's why he was acting this way.

  Things worsened when Yancy looked over his shoulder, announcing, “I didn't want you coming tonight, frankly. But the kid's supposed to do an assignment for school, and besides, I figured this was my chance to show you my mind. If you know what I mean…”

  President Perez nodded, dreadlocks bouncing. “Feedback is the idea. As I was just telling Stefan—”

  “I'm an old-fashioned white man, Mr. President.”

  The boy looked at the drab house, willing Mom to appear.

  But she didn't, and Yancy flung open the grill and let the biogas run too long before he made a spark, a soft blue explosion causing Stefan to back away. Nobody spoke. Every eye, seeing or blind, watched the patties hit the warmi
ng rack, sizzling quietly but with anger, Yancy mashing them flat with the grimy spatula that he'd gotten for Christmas last year.

  Then the President spoke, ignoring that last comment.

  “It's a shame this technology won't let me help you, he declared, with a ring of honesty.

  Yancy grimaced.

  The patties grew louder, the flames turning yellow.

  Obstinately ignoring the tensions, the President looked at his own hands. “A poverty of physicality,” he declared, laughing to himself.

  That was it. Something snapped, and Yancy barked, “Know what I like, Mr. President? About tonight, I mean.”

  “What do you like?”

  “Thinking that the real you is buried in goo, a big fat glass rope stuck up your ass.”

  Stefan prayed for a systems failure, or better, a war. Anything that would stop events here. His fear of fears was that the President would awaken to learn that Yancy Thatcher of Fort Wayne, Indiana had insulted him. Because the boy couldn't imagine anyone else in the country having the stupid courage to say such an awful thing.

  Yet their guest wasn't visibly angry. He actually laughed, quietly and calmly. And all he said was, “Thank you for your honesty, sir.”

  Yancy flipped burgers, then looked at Stefan. “Tell your mom it'll be a few minutes. And take him with you.”

  It was such a strange, wondrous moment.

  The boy looked at his President, at his smile, hearing the conjured voice saying, “Yes. That's a fine idea.” Built of light and thought, he seemed invulnerable to every slight, every unkind word.

  Stefan had never envied anyone so much in his life.

  Mom was a blizzard of activity, hands blurring as they tried to assemble a fancy salad from ingredients grown in the garden, then cleaned and cut into delicate, artful shapes. She loved salads, planning each with an artist's sensibilities, which to Mom meant that she could never predict preparation times, always something to be done too fast at the end. When she saw Stefan inside, she whined, “I'm still not ready.” When she saw President Perez fluttering for that instant when he passed from the outside to the kitchen projectors, she gave a little squeal and threw spinach in every direction. Then she spoke, not leaving enough time to think of proper words. “You've lost weight,” she blurted. “Since the election, haven't you…?”

  Embarrassed again, Stefan said, “The President of the United States,” with a stern voice. In warning. Didn't Mom remember how to address him?

  But the President seemed amused, if anything. “I've lost a couple kilos, yes. Job pressures. And the First Lady's anti-equatorial campaign, too.”

  The joke puzzled Stefan until he stopped thinking about it.

  “A drink, Mr. President? I'm having a drop for myself.…”

  “Wine, please. If that's not too much trouble.”

  Both adults giggled. Touching a control, Mom ordered an elegant glass to appear on the countertop, already filled with sparkling white wine, and their guest went through the motions of sipping it, his personality given every flavor along with an ethanol kick. “Lovely,” he declared. “Thanks.”

  “And how is the First Lady?”

  It was a trivial question, Stefan within his rights to groan.

  Mom glared at him, in warning. “Go find Candace, why don't you?” Then she turned back to their guest, again inquiring about his dear wife.

  “Quite well, thank you. But tired of Washington.”

  Mom's drink was large and colorful, projected swirls of red and green never mixing together. “I wish she could have come. I adore her. And oh, I love what she's done with your house.”

  The President glanced at his surroundings. “And I'm sure she'd approve of your tastes, Mrs. Thatcher.”

  “Helen.”

  “Helen, then.”

  The kitchen walls and ceiling were covered with an indoor squidskin, and they built the illusion of a tall room…except that voices and any sharp sound echoed off the genuine ceiling, flat and close, unadorned by the arching oak beams that only appeared to be high overhead.

  Mom absorbed the compliment and the sound of her own name, then noticed Stefan still standing nearby. “Where's Candace? Will you please go find your sister, darling?”

  Candace's room was in the basement. It seemed like a long run to a boy who would rather be elsewhere, and worse, her door was locked. Stefan shook the knob, feeling the throb of music that seeped past the noise barriers. “He's here! Come on!” Kicking the door down low, he managed to punch a new hole that joined half a dozen earlier kickholes. “Aren't you coming up to meet him—?”

  “Open,” his sister shouted.

  The knob turned itself. Candace was standing before a mirrored portion of squidskin, examining her reflection. Every other surface showed a fantastic woodland, lush red trees interspersed with a thousand Candaces who danced with unicorns, played saxophones, and rode bareback on leaping black tigers. The images were designed to jar nerves and exhaust eyes. But what Stefan noticed was the way his sister was dressed, her outfit too small and tight, her boobs twice their normal size. She was ready for a date, and he warned her, “They won't let you go. It's only Tuesday.”

  Candace gave her little brother a cutting, worldly look. “Go lose yourself.”

  Stefan began to retreat, gladly.

  “Wait. What do you think of these shoes?”

  “They're fine.”

  She kicked them off, without a word, then opened the door behind the mirror, mining her closet for a better pair.

  Stefan shot upstairs.

  Their honored guest and Mom remained in the kitchen. She was freshening her drink, and talking.

  “I mean I really don't care,” she told him. “I know I deserve the promotion, that's what matters.” She gave her son a quick, troubled glance. “But Yankee says I should quit if they don't give it to me—”

  “Yankee?”

  “Yancy, I mean. I'm sorry, it's my husband's nick-name.”

  The President was sitting on a projected stool, watching Mom sip her swirling drink once, then again.

  “What do you think I should do? Quit, or stay.”

  “Wait and see,” was the President's advice. “Perhaps you'll get what you deserve.”

  Mom offered a thin, dissatisfied smile.

  Stefan thought of his comppad and his list of important questions. Where was it? He wheeled and ran to his room, finding the pad on his unmade bed, its patient voice repeating the same math problem over and over again. Changing functions, he returned to the kitchen. There'd been enough noise about decorating and Mom's job, he felt. “Mr. President? Are we doing enough about the space program?”

  “Never,” was the reply. “I wish we could do more.”

  Was the comppad recording? Stefan fiddled with the controls, feeling a sudden dull worry.

  “In my tenure,” the voice continued, “I've been able to double our Martian budget. Spaceborn industries have increased twelve percent. We're building two new observatories on the moon. And we just found life on Triton—”

  “Titan,” the boy corrected, by reflex.

  “Don't talk to him that way!” Mom glowered, thoroughly outraged.

  “Oh, but the fellow's right, Helen. I misspoke.”

  The amiable laugh washed over Stefan, leaving him warm and confident. This wasn't just an assignment for school, it was a mission, and he quickly scrolled to the next question. “What about the oceans, Mr. President?”

  A momentary pause, then their guest asked, “What do you mean?”

  Stefan wasn't sure.

  “There are many issues,” said the President. “Mineral rights. Power production. Fishing and farming. And the floating cities—”

  “The cities.”

  “Fine. What do you think, Stefan? Do they belong to us, or are they free political entities?”

  Stefan wasn't sure. He glanced at his pad, thinking of the islands, manmade and covered with trim, modern communities. They grew their own food in the o
cean, moved where they wanted, and seemed like wonderful places to live. “They should be free.”

  “Why?”

  Who was interviewing whom?

  The President seemed to enjoy this reversal in roles. “If taxes pay for their construction—your tax money, and mine—then by what right can they leave the United States?” A pleasant little laugh, then he added, “Imagine if the First Lady and I tried to claim the White House as an independent nation. Would that be right?”

  Stefan was at a loss for words.

  Then Mom sat up straight, giving a sudden low moan.

  Yancy was coming across the patio. Stefan saw him, and an instant later, Mom jumped to her feet, telling her son and guest, “No more politics. It's dinnertime.”

  Yancy entered the kitchen, approaching the projection from behind.

  The President couldn't react in time. Flesh-and-bone merged with him; a distorted brown face lay over Yancy's face, which was funny.

  “Why are you laughing?” snapped Yancy.

  “No reason,” the boy lied.

  His stepfather's temper was close to the surface now. He dropped the plate of cooked burgers on the countertop, took an enormous breath, then said, “Show your guest to the dining room. Now.”

  Taking his comppad, Stefan obeyed.

  The President flickered twice, changing projectors. His voice flickered too, telling the boy the story of some unnamed Senator who threw a tantrum whenever rational discourse failed him. “Which is to say,” he added, “I have quite a lot of practice dealing with difficult souls.” And with that he gave a little wink and grin, trying to bolster the boy's ragged mood.

  Stefan barely heard him; he was thinking of floating cities.

  It occurred to him that he'd answered, “Yes, they should be free,” for no other reason than that was his stepfather's opinion, voiced many times. The cities were uncrowded. Some allowed only the best kinds of people. And Stefan had spoken without thinking, Yancy's ideas worming their way inside him. Embarrassed and confused, he wondered what he believed that was really his own. And did it ever truly matter?

  Even if Stefan could think what he wanted, how important could his opinions ever be?