The Year's Best Science Fiction - Thirty-Third Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “How can you say that! People are dying! The future of our society depends on what we do today. Immense things hang in the balance. The climate! Whole species! Ecosystems! Women’s rights! Animal rights!”

  “You know,” I said, “you’re hot when you get angry.”

  Her hand tightened on her glass. I could see the muscles in her forearm; her skin was so brown, so smooth. For a second I thought she was going smash the glass into my face, then she tossed it away and hurled herself onto me. She bit my neck. I fell over and hit my head on the trunk of a tree, went dizzy for a second. The grass was cool. She had her legs around my waist and we started kissing. Long, slow, very serious kisses.

  After some time we surfaced for breath. Her eyes were so dark.

  “There were no Protestants in the 14th century,” she said.

  * * *

  Esme and Scoobie waited in a restaurant at the Toronto airport. Their flight for Krakow left in an hour. They were traveling light, just one small bag each—“getting out of Dodge,” Teo called it—and Esme was persuaded. Scoobie knew somebody at the university there, and there was some clinic he wanted to visit.

  Both of them were nervous. Neither was sure that this was a good idea, but it seemed like something they should do. At least that was where they were leaving it for now.

  “Can I get you something from the bar?” Scoobie asked. “Something to eat?” For a person whose social skills were so rudimentary, he was quite sensitive to her moods.

  “No,” Esme said. “Maybe we should get to the gate.”

  Scoobie got up. “Gonna hit the men’s room first.”

  “Okay.”

  For three days, since that moment in the garden, they had spent every minute together. Inexplicably. He was a cranky naïve libertarian child, afraid of human contact. His politics were ludicrous. But politics—what had politics ever given her besides migraines? Scoobie was so glad to be with her, as if he’d never been with anyone before. Their disagreements only made her see his vulnerabilities more clearly. He had some terribly stupid ideas, but he was not malicious, and he gave her something she needed. She wouldn’t call it love—not yet. Call it consolation.

  It didn’t hurt that on no notice whatsoever he’d managed to get her the subtle tattooing that could deceive facial-recognition software. Teo had produced credentials for them as husband and wife, and their friends had created a false background for them in government databases. They had a shot at getting out of the country.

  Up on one of the restaurant screens a news reader announced, “Authorities offer no new information in the hunt for the woman who threw an explosive device into the Cambridge, Massachusetts, office of Lester Makovec, consultant to the New England provincial government’s Bureau of Immigration.”

  The screen switched to scenes of the aftermath of the Cambridge blast: a street view of broken windows, EMTs loading a body zipped into a cryobag into their vehicle.

  “But there’s an amazing new wrinkle to the story: Makovec, pronounced dead at the scene, was rushed to Harvard Medical School’s Humanity Lab, where he underwent an experimental regenerative treatment and is reported to be on the way to recovery.” Image of a hospital bed with a heavily bandaged Makovec practicing using an artificial hand to pick up small objects from the table in front of him. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read, “Lifesaving Miracle?”

  “Accused terrorist and illegal immigrant Andrew Wayne Spiller, a.k.a. James Alter, who escaped the blast with minor injuries, has been moved to Ottawa to undergo further interrogation.” Image of Spiller, surrounded by security in black armor, being escorted into a train car.

  “Meanwhile, Rosario Zhang, opposition leader, has called on Prime Minister Nguyen to say what she intends to do to deal with the unprovoked attack by what Zhang calls ‘agents of the Texas government.’ The prime minister’s office has said that the forensic report has not yet determined the perpetrators of the attack, nor, in the light of denials from the Refugee Liberation Front, have investigators been able to verify the authenticity of the video claiming credit for that group.”

  Across the concourse stood an airport security officer in black, arms crossed over his chest, talking with an Ontario Provincial Police officer. The airport cop rocked back on his heels, eyes hooded, while the OPP spoke to him. The airport cop had a big rust-colored mustache; the OPP wore his black cap with the gray band around it.

  The airport security man turned his head a fraction to his right, and he was looking, from 10 meters away, directly into Esme’s eyes. She had to fight the impulse to look away. She smiled at him. He smiled back. Esme considered getting up and moving to the gate—she considered leaping out of the chair to run screaming—yet she held herself still.

  It took forever, but finally Scoobie returned.

  “Time to go?” he said. He looked so cheerful. He was oblivious to the cops.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, please,” she said.

  They slung their bags over their shoulders, she put her arm through his, and they headed for the gate.

  The Children of Gal

  ALLEN M. STEELE

  Allen Steele made his first sale to Asimov’s Science Fiction magazine in 1988, soon following it up with a long string of other sales to Asimov’s, as well as to markets such as Analog, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Science Fiction Age. In 1990, he published his critically acclaimed first novel, Orbital Decay, which subsequently won the Locus Poll Award for Best First Novel of the year. His other books include the novels Clarke County, Space, Lunar Descent, Labyrinth of Night, The Weight, The Tranquility Alternative, A King of Infinite Space, Oceanspace, Chronospace, Coyote, Coyote Rising, Spindrift, Galaxy Blues, Coyote Horizon, Coyote Destiny. Hex, V-S Day. His short work has been gathered in Rude Astronauts, Sex and Violence in Zero G, The Last Science Fiction Writer, and Sex and Violence in Zero-G: The Complete “Near Space” Stories: Expanded Edition. His most recent books are the novel Time Loves a Hero and the collection Tales of Time and Space. Coming up is a new novel, Arkwright. He has won three Hugo Awards, in 1996 for his novella “The Death of Captain Future,” in 1998 for his novella “Where Angels Fear to Tread,” and, most recently, in 2011 for his novelette “The Emperor of Mars.” Born in Nashville, Tennessee, he lives in Whately, Massachusetts, with his wife, Linda.

  In the story that follows, he wraps up his “Arkwright” sequence of novellas, which started with “The Legion of Tomorrow” and took us through the launch of the first starship in two subsequent stories, “The Prodigal Son” and “The Long Wait.” Here, he takes us ahead for generations to a time when that starship has reached its destination—but things haven’t worked out quite the way the scientists who launched it intended it to.…

  I

  Sanjay Arkwright’s mother was sent to Purgatory on Monone, the second day of Juli. As dawn broke on Childstown, Aara was escorted from her home by a pair of Guardians, who silently walked two-legged on either side of the heretic as they marched her to the beach. Sanjay and his father Dayall quietly accompanied them; carrying belly packs and walking on all fours, they kept their heads down to avoid meeting the gaze of the townspeople who’d emerged from their cottages and workshops to observe Aara’s passage into exile.

  It was a day of shame for her family, and yet Aara maintained an upright stance. Even after a Guardian prodded the back of her neck with his staff, she refused to lower her head or place her fores against the cobblestoned street, but instead strode forward on her hinds, gazing straight ahead in almost haughty dismissal of her neighbors. For this alone, Sanjay was proud of his mother. She would obey the Word of Gal, but not with the humiliation expected of her.

  On the beach, a group of Disciples had already gathered to form a prayer circle. They squatted in a semicircle facing the Western Channel, where the sister-suns Aether and Bacchae were beginning to set upon the distant shores of Cape Exile. Illuminated by the bright red orb of Calliope rising to the east, they cupped their fores to
gether beneath their lowered faces, and chanting words passed down to them from their mothers and grandmothers:

  “Gal the Creator, Gal the All-Knowing,

  “Forgive our sister, who denies your love.

  “Gal the Creator, Gal the All-Knowing,

  “Guide our sister as you watch from above…”

  Their voices fell silent as Aara and her guards approached. If they’d expected Aara to join them, they were disappointed. Aara barely glanced at them as she walked by, and Sanjay had to fight to keep his expression neutral.

  Dayall noticed this. “Don’t smile,” he whispered to his son, “and don’t stand. Everyone is watching us.”

  Sanjay didn’t reply, but only gave his father a brief nod. He was right. This was a sad moment, and also a dangerous one. Most of those who’d followed them to the waterfront were Galians, and even if some were friends of the family, a few were pious enough to report the slightest impropriety to the Guardians. Any sign of support from Aara’s family, and the deacons could easily extend the same sentence to her husband and son as well. It had been many yarn since the last time an entire family was sent to Purgatory, but it had been done before.

  R’beca Circe, the deacon of the Childstown congregation of the Disciples of Gal, stood on all fours beside Aara’s sailboat, accompanied by the deacons from Stone Bluff, Oceanview, and Lighthouse Point who’d travelled across Providence to attend Aara’s trial. The Guardians led Aara to them, then stepped aside, standing erect with their staffs planted in the sand. R’beca rose from her fores to look Aara straight in the eye; the other deacons did the same, and for a long moment everything was still. save for the cool morning breeze which ruffled their ceremonial capes and Aara’s braided red hair, revealed by the lowered hood of the long black robe she’d been given by the Guardians.

  Then R’beca spoke.

  “On the first day of the Stormyarn,” she recited, “when the Disciples were separated from the Children who stayed behind, Gal told his people, ‘Follow my Word always and obey the lessons of your Teachers, for my way is survival, and those who question it shall not.’ Aara Arkwright, it is the finding of the Deacons of the Disciples of Gal that you have questioned the Word of Gal, and therefore committed the sin of heresy, for which you have refused to repent. How do you plead?”

  “I plead nothing.” There was no trace of insolence in Aara’s voice; as always, when she was given a direct question, she delivered a direct answer. “I am neither guilty nor innocent. I saw what I saw … and there is nothing in the Word that says it cannot exist.”

  R’beca’s eyes grew sharper. She pointed toward the sky. “Clearly, there is no light there save that of Gal and her suns. Even at night, when Aether and Bacchae rise to cast away the shadows and the stars appear, Gal remains in her place, bright and unmoving. Stars do not suddenly appear and vanish, and none may approach Gal.”

  Almost unwillingly, Sanjay found himself following Deacon R’beca’s raised fore with his gaze. As she said, Gal the Creator hovered almost directly overhead, a bright star that never rose or set but remained a fixed point in the sky. It had been this way throughout the one hundred and fifty-two sixyarn of Eosian history, from the moment when Gal had carried the Chosen Children from Erf to the promised land of Eos.

  None but fools or heretics ever questioned this. Those who did were purged from Providence, sent alone to the mainland to live out the rest of their days in a place where survival was unlikely.

  Yet Aara wouldn’t recant. “I did not lie then, and I’m not lying now. I saw a new star in the sky during my turn on night watch, one that moved in the sky toward Gal.”

  “So you question Gal’s dominance? Her status as Creator who cannot be challenged?”

  “I question nothing. This was not an act of blasphemy, Deacon … it was an obligation to my duty to report anything unusual.”

  Hearing this, the Disciples crouched on the beach wailed in bereavement. As they slapped their fores against their ears, R’beca’s mouth curled in disgust. She’d offered Aara a chance to repent and beg for mercy, only to receive a stubborn reiteration of the same defense she’d given during her trial. Again, Sanjay felt pride surge past his sadness. His mother had never been one to back down, and she wasn’t about to do so now.

  Yet her courage wasn’t met with sympathy. As the other three deacons lowered themselves to their hinds and cupped their fores together, R’beca reached beneath her cape and produced the symbol of her office, a large white knife she carried with her at all times. Made of the same material as the large block of Galmatter that, along with the Teacher, resided within the Transformer inside the Shrine, it was one of the few remaining relics from the yarn before the Great Storm, when the Chosen Children had first come to Eos from Erf. R’beca clasped the pale blade in her left fore and, raising it above her, intoned the words everyone expected to hear:

  “In the name of Gal, creator of Eos and mother of her children, I send you, Aara Arkwright, into exile. May Gal grant you safe passage to Purgatory, where you shall live the rest of your days.”

  Then she brought the knife forward and, with one swift stroke, whisked its blade across the right side of Aara’s face. Sanjay’s mother winced, but she didn’t cry out when the blade cut into her cheek; it would leave a scar that would mark her as an outcast for the rest of her life, making her a pariah to any community on Providence to which she might try to return. She could be put to death if she was ever seen on the island again.

  R’beca turned her back to her and, still on her hinds, walked away. “You may say farewell to her now,” she murmured to Dayall and Sanjay as she strode past. “Be quick.”

  Sanjay and his father were the only ones to approach his mother. By custom, everyone else who’d witnessed the ceremony stood erect and silently turned their backs to her. Through the crowd, Sanjay caught a glimpse of Kaile Otomo. Her long black hair was down around her face, making it hard to see her expression, yet she briefly caught his eye and gave him the slightest of nods. Then she turned away as well.

  Dayall stood erect to pull off his belly pack. It was stuffed with clothes, a couple of firestarters, fishing tackle, and his best knife, all permitted by the Guardians to be given to someone facing banishment. Aara took it from him, then let her husband wipe the blood from her face and take her in his arms. Sanjay couldn’t hear what his father whispered to her, but he saw the tears in her eyes and that was enough. After a few moments, Dayall let her go, and then it was Sanjay’s turn.

  “Aara…”

  “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.” He wasn’t expecting the wan smile that crossed her face as she accepted the belly pack bulging with food he’d taken from their pantry. She dropped it on the ground next to his father’s. “I’m even more sad about this than you are, because I won’t be around to see you and Kaile become bonded, but…”

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Hush. Keep your voice down.” She glanced over his shoulder, wary of being overheard by the Disciples or the deacons. “Of course, it’s not fair. I was only doing my duty. But the Guardians have their duties as well, and R’beca—” another smile, this time sardonic “—well, she calls it blasphemy if winter came late. My only sin was not realizing this before I opened my mouth.”

  Sanjay started to reply, but then she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. “This is not the end,” she whispered. “We’ll see each other again.”

  Sanjay knew this wasn’t true. Once someone was sent to Purgatory, they never returned from the other side of the Western Channel. Yet perhaps his mother wasn’t facing reality, or that she was speaking of the afterlife promised by the deacons, when all who believed in Gal would join once their souls had departed Eos. So he simply nodded and told her that he loved her, and she borrowed his fishbone knife to cut a lock of his red hair to take with her, then a Guardian stepped forward to impatiently tap the sand with his staff.

  It was time for her to go.

  The catamaran
was sound and sturdy, its outrigger hull constructed from cured umbrella palm, its mainsail woven from bambu threads. Sanjay had built the boat with his own fores, with help from his friend Johan Sanyal; they’d done this while Aara was under house arrest, awaiting the arrival of the other deacons and the commencement of the trial whose outcome was all but certain. They’d made the boat quickly but carefully, taking time from the spring fishing season to fashion the small craft for his mother. The master boatbuilder, Codi Royce, hadn’t objected when the two boys didn’t work on the fishing fleet’s boats for several precious days; as Sanjay’s mentor, he knew just how important this was.

  Although it wasn’t strictly permitted, no one had objected when Sanjay discretely hid a harpoon beneath the oars. It wasn’t likely that Aara might encounter an ocean monarch while crossing the channel. The leviathans were nocturnal; along with the receding tide, this was a reason why outcasts were sent away at dawn, to give them time to reach Cape Exile before the creatures rose to the surface and started hunting. Nonetheless, it might give her some measure of protection if she encountered one during her journey.

  Like all Providence inhabitants, Aara was an expert sailor. Once she’d stowed the packs, she didn’t immediately raise the sail but instead used the oars to push herself away from the beach and out into the Childstown bay. As a small measure of respect for her, none of the fishing boats set out when they were supposed to. On the nearby docks, their crews silently waited as Aara paddled away, allowing her a chance to begin the long, sixty-kilm journey from the island to the mainland.

  Aara was a small figure sitting in the catamaran’s stern when she finally lowered the outrigger and raised the mainsail. As it unfurled to catch the morning wind, there was a single, long gong from the watchtower’s bell, the ritual signal that an islander was being sent into exile. As it resounded across the waters, Aara raised a fore in a final wave.