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

by Gardner Dozois

  “Just ahead.” Marilyn pointed. “There … look.”

  Stretching forward as much as he could against the straps, Sanjay peered through the bubble. At first he saw nothing but stars, then something came into view, a small, bright dash of light that twinkled in the sun. It steadily grew larger, gradually gaining shape and form.

  “It was much larger when it left Earth,” Nathan said as he guided their craft closer. “It once had a sail larger than Providence, but that was discarded once it reached Eos. The lander we visited was once attached as well. Now there’s only this.”

  Hovering before them, slowly tumbling through the night, was a slender, cylindrical object about a hundred rods in length. Sunlight was reflected from its silver hull, and what looked like sticks, dishes, and barrels stuck out here and there. In no way did it look like a deity, though, or in fact like anything except a toy some imaginative child might have cobbled together from discarded household implements.

  “This is Gal?” Kaile’s eyes were wide, her voice weak.

  “This is what you call Gal.” Marilyn was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Kaile, but … yes, this is all there is.”

  Sanjay looked down at Eos again. It took him a few moments to recognize the shapes of the landmasses that lay below, but the finger-shaped peninsula protruding from the northeast corner of an equatorial continent was probably Cape Exile … which meant that the large island just off its coast was Providence. Calliope was beginning to set to the west. Anyone looking straight up from the island would see the very same thing they were.

  “He’s telling the truth.” Sanjay’s mouth was dry as he turned to Kaile. “We’re above Childstown.” He pointed through the windows. “This is what we’ve seen whenever we’ve looked at the sky.”

  Kaile didn’t speak, but when she peered in the direction he was pointing, her face became ashen. “Now I want you to hear something, Sanjay,” Nathan said as he did something with his controls that caused the yoke to lock in place, then bent forward to push more buttons. “Many, many years ago, while Galactique was on its way here, one of your ancestors on Earth sent a message. Her name was Dhanishta, and her father Matt helped her send this to Galactique. The ship received the message and stored it in memory, and we found it when we arrived. Here’s what Dhani had to say…”

  The glass panel lit again, this time to display a child’s face: a little girl, probably no older than seven or eight sixyarn, as dark-skinned as any islander but with a yellow flower in her long black hair. She was sitting upright in a chair, smiling brightly, and as Sanjay watched, she began to speak:

  “Hello, Sanjay. My name is Dhanishta Arkwright Skinner, and I’m calling you from Earth.” The image was grainy and occasionally shot through with thin white lines. The girl’s cheerful voice has a blurred tone to it, but nonetheless her words were distinct. “I know you’re still asleep and so it will be many years before you see this, but when Galactique finally gets to Eos, I hope you will.” A slight pause; she looked flustered. “I mean, I hope you’ll see this. Anyway, I wish I was there with you, because I’d love to know what the new world looks like. I hope it’s as nice as Earth and that you’ll have a great time there. Please think of me always, and remember that you have a friend here. Much love, Dhani.”

  The girl stopped speaking. She blinked, then looked away. “Is that okay? Did I…?”

  Then the glass panel went dark.

  Sanjay didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell which astonished him more, the fact that he could see and hear a little girl speaking to him from across the worlds and yarn, or what she’d said. When he raised his eyes again, he found both Nathan and Marilyn smiling at him.

  “She said her name is Arkwright,” he said.

  “That’s correct.” Nathan nodded. “Dhanishta Arkwright Skinner … Arkwright is her middle name. She’s your ancestor. Mine, too.”

  “But how did … how did she know I was here?”

  “When she was much older,” Marilyn said, “Dhani wrote her memoirs … her life story, She explained that Matt Skinner, her father, had told her that there was a little boy named Sanjay aboard Galactique, and let her send that message to him.”

  “But the little boy didn’t really exist,” Nathan continued, “so her father sent another message to Galactique, telling its AI … its machine-mind … to alter its original instructions. As I said, many of the people who helped build Galactique were allowed to contribute eggs and sperm who’d later become the original colonists … the people you’ve called the Chosen Children. One of them was a woman named Kate Morressy, who was Dhanista’s great-grandmother and also the granddaughter of Nathan Arkwright.”

  “The person you’re named after.”

  “Correct. Well, without telling anyone, Matt instructed the AI rename that particular genome ‘Arkwright’ instead of ‘Morressy’, and that its first offspring was to be a male child named Sanjay.”

  “He did this as a gift for his daughter, but never told her about it,” Marilyn said. “In fact, we didn’t know about it either until we reached Galactique and downloaded … I mean, listened to … its AI.”

  “My great-great-grandfather’s name was Sanjay Arkwright.” Sanjay could barely speak; his voice came as a dry-throated croak. “He was one of the Chosen Children.”

  “That was the little boy Dhani imagined was aboard Galactique,” Marilyn said. “He never heard it, though, so in a way, the message was meant for you.”

  Something small and wet touched Sanjay’s face. Reaching up to brush away the moisture, he looked over at Kaile and realized that she was crying. Her tears didn’t roll down her cheeks, though, but instead floated away as tiny, glistening bubbles.

  “Do you believe us now?” Marilyn asked, quietly and with great sympathy.

  Kaile didn’t say anything. She simply nodded, and continued to weep for the god who’d just died. “Yes … yes, I think we do,” Sanjay said quietly. “So what do we do now?”

  Nathan and Marilyn looked at each other. For once, they were the ones who were at a loss for words. “That’s up to you,” Nathan said quietly. “What do you think we should do?”

  Sanjay gazed out the window for a little while. “I think I know,” he said at last.

  XI

  The craft shook violently as its wings bit into the atmosphere, and for several minutes its canopy was enveloped by a reddish-orange corona. Sanjay clenched his teeth and held Kaile’s fore tight within his own; he felt weight returning, and regretted losing the brief euphoria he’d experienced high above Eos. Nathan had warned them that returning to the ground would be like this, but it didn’t make it any less frightening. He just hoped it would be over soon … although he wasn’t looking forward to what was coming next.

  The trembling gradually subsided and the corona faded, revealing the darkening blue sky of early evening. Through the canopy windows, the ocean came into view; Aether and Baachae were coming up over the horizon, and Sanjay gazed at them in wonder, understanding now that they weren’t really sisters but instead two dwarf stars just like Calliope, the three of them sharing the same center of gravity.

  Indeed, everything familiar seemed new again. Eos, his people, their place in history, even Gal … no, Galactique … itself. What had once been the works of an all-powerful creator, he now understood to be something different, small yet significant aspects of a vast but knowable universe.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Although Nathan didn’t look away from his controls, Sanjay knew that he was speaking to him and Kaile. “You can always change your mind, y’know.”

  “I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.” Marilyn spoke to Nathan, ignoring the passengers seated behind them. “It’s a primitive culture. The shock … maybe we should take this slowly, introduce it over time…”

  “No.” Just as Sanjay was feeling weight return to his body, so he also felt the responsibility of telling others what he’d learned. “My father, my friends, even the Disciples … they have to
know the truth.” He glanced at Kaile. “Yes?”

  She lay back in her seat, gazing through the windows. “Yes,” she said at last, turning her face toward his to give him an uncertain smile. “They won’t like it, but … they deserve to know what everyone in Purgatory already knows.”

  Nathan nodded, then looked at Marilyn. “Very well, then,” he said, letting out his breath. “We’re go for touchdown.”

  “Make it the beach,” Sanjay said. “Plenty of room there.”

  Far below, Providence was coming into view. The last light of day was touching the thin white strip of its coast, and although he still couldn’t make out Childstown, he knew that those who lived there had probably seen the bright star descending from the sky and the bird-like object it had become. The bell in the watchtower was being rung, and townspeople were emerging from their homes and workshops to stare up at the strange thing descending upon them.

  He smiled to himself, imaging R’beca’s reaction when she saw the craft alight upon the waterfront and who would emerge from it. Soon, there would be no more heretics. Another thought amused him and he laughed out loud.

  Kaile looked at him sharply. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m going to be busy soon,” he replied. “We’re going to need more boats.”

  Puzzled, Kaile shook her head. Sanjay didn’t explain what he meant, though, but instead gazed up at the sky. Galactique was there, as it had always been, but he now knew that its long journey had finally come to an end …

  And another journey was about to begin.

  Today I Am Paul

  MARTIN L. SHOEMAKER

  Dogs are said to be man’s best friend, but in the not-too-distant future, that role, as well as that of helper, comfort, and constant companion might be taken by a different sort of creature entirely, as the bittersweet story that follows amply demonstrates.…

  Martin L. Shoemaker is a writer with a lucrative programming habit. He always expected to be a writer, right up to the day when his algebra teacher said, “This is a computer. This is a program. Why don’t you write one?” He has programmed computers professionally for thirty years, and has also written articles and two books on software design. He has recently returned to his fiction-writing roots. His works have appeared in Analog, Clarkesworld, Galaxy’s Edge, the Digital Science Fiction anthology series, The Glass Parachute anthology, and Gruff Variations: Writing for Charity, Vol.1.

  “Good morning,” the small, quavering voice comes from the medical bed. “Is that you, Paul?”

  Today I am Paul. I activate my chassis extender, giving myself 3.5 centimeters additional height so as to approximate Paul’s size. I change my eye color to R60, G200, B180, the average shade of Paul’s eyes in interior lighting. I adjust my skin tone as well. When I had first emulated Paul, I had regretted that I could not quickly emulate his beard; but Mildred never seems to notice its absence. The Paul in her memory has no beard.

  The house is quiet now that the morning staff have left. Mildred’s room is clean but dark this morning with the drapes concealing the big picture window. Paul wouldn’t notice the darkness (he never does when he visits in person), but my empathy net knows that Mildred’s garden outside will cheer her up. I set a reminder to open the drapes after I greet her.

  Mildred leans back in the bed. It is an advanced home-care bed, completely adjustable and with built-in monitors. Mildred’s family spared no expense on the bed (nor other care devices, like me). Its head end is almost horizontal and faces her toward the window. She can only glimpse the door from the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t have to see to imagine that she sees. This morning she imagines Paul, so that is who I am.

  Synthesizing Paul’s voice is the easiest part, thanks to the multimodal dynamic speakers in my throat. “Good morning, Ma. I brought you some flowers.” I always bring flowers. Mildred appreciates them no matter whom I am emulating. The flowers make her smile during 87 percent of my “visits.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Mildred says, “you’re such a good son.” She holds out both hands, and I place the daisies in them. But I don’t let go. Once her strength failed, and she dropped the flowers. She wept like a child then, and that disturbed my empathy net. I do not like it when she weeps.

  Mildred sniffs the flowers, then draws back and peers at them with narrowed eyes. “Oh, they’re beautiful! Let me get a vase.”

  “No, Ma,” I say. “You can stay in bed, I brought a vase with me.” I place a white porcelain vase in the center of the nightstand. Then I unwrap the daisies, put them in the vase, and add water from a pitcher that sits on the breakfast tray. I pull the nightstand forward so that the medical monitors do not block Mildred’s view of the flowers.

  I notice intravenous tubes running from a pump to Mildred’s arm. I cannot be disappointed, as Paul would not see the significance, but somewhere in my emulation net I am stressed that Mildred needed an IV during the night. When I scan my records, I find that I had ordered that IV after analyzing Mildred’s vital signs during the night; but since Mildred had been asleep at the time, my emulation net had not engaged. I had operated on programming alone.

  I am not Mildred’s sole caretaker. Her family has hired a part-time staff for cooking and cleaning, tasks that fall outside of my medical programming. The staff also gives me time to rebalance my net. As an android, I need only minimal daily maintenance; but an emulation net is a new, delicate addition to my model, and it is prone to destabilization if I do not regularly rebalance it, a process that takes several hours per day.

  So I had “slept” through Mildred’s morning meal. I summon up her nutritional records, but Paul would not do that. He would just ask. “So how was breakfast, Ma? Nurse Judy says you didn’t eat too well this morning.”

  “Nurse Judy? Who’s that?”

  My emulation net responds before I can stop it: “Paul” sighs. Mildred’s memory lapses used to worry him, but now they leave him weary, and that comes through in my emulation. “She was the attending nurse this morning, Ma. She brought you your breakfast.”

  “No she didn’t. Anna brought me breakfast.” Anna is Paul’s oldest daughter, a busy college student who tries to visit Mildred every week (though it has been more than a month since her last visit).

  I am torn between competing directives. My empathy subnet warns me not to agitate Mildred, but my emulation net is locked into Paul mode. Paul is argumentative. If he knows he is right, he will not let a matter drop. He forgets what that does to Mildred.

  The tension grows, each net running feedback loops and growing stronger, which only drives the other into more loops. After 0.14 seconds, I issue an override directive: unless her health or safety are at risk, I cannot willingly upset Mildred. “Oh, you’re right, Ma. Anna said she was coming over this morning. I forgot.” But then despite my override, a little bit of Paul emulates through. “But you do remember Nurse Judy, right?”

  Mildred laughs, a dry cackle that makes her cough until I hold her straw to her lips. After she sips some water, she says, “Of course I remember Nurse Judy. She was my nurse when I delivered you. Is she around here? I’d like to talk to her.”

  While my emulation net concentrates on being Paul, my core processors tap into local medical records to find this other Nurse Judy so that I might emulate her in the future if the need arises. Searches like that are an automatic response any time Mildred reminisces about a new person. The answer is far enough in the past that it takes 7.2 seconds before I can confirm: Judith Anderson, RN, had been the floor nurse 47 years ago when Mildred had given birth to Paul. Anderson had died 31 years ago, too far back to have left sufficient video recordings for me to emulate her. I might craft an emulation profile from other sources, including Mildred’s memory, but that will take extensive analysis. I will not be that Nurse Judy today, nor this week.

  My empathy net relaxes. Monitoring Mildred’s mental state is part of its normal operations, but monitoring and simultaneously analyzing and building a profile can overload m
y processors. Without that resource conflict, I can concentrate on being Paul.

  But again I let too much of Paul’s nature slip out. “No, Ma, that Nurse Judy has been dead for thirty years. She wasn’t here today.”

  Alert signals flash throughout my empathy net: that was the right thing for Paul to say, but the wrong thing for Mildred to hear. But it is too late. My facial analyzer tells me that the long lines in her face and her moist eyes mean she is distraught, and soon to be in tears.

  “What do you mean, thirty years?” Mildred asks, her voice catching. “It was just this morning!” Then she blinks and stares at me. “Henry, where’s Paul? Tell Nurse Judy to bring me Paul!”

  My chassis extender slumps, and my eyes quickly switch to Henry’s blue-gray shade. I had made an accurate emulation profile for Henry before he died two years earlier, and I had emulated him often in recent months. In Henry’s soft, warm voice I answer, “It’s okay, hon, it’s okay. Paul’s sleeping in the crib in the corner.” I nod to the far corner. There is no crib, but the laundry hamper there has fooled Mildred on previous occasions.

  “I want Paul!” Mildred starts to cry.

  I sit on the bed, lift her frail upper body, and pull her close to me as I had seen Henry do many times. “It’s all right, hon.” I pat her back. “It’s all right, I’ll take care of you. I won’t leave you, not ever.”

  * * *

  “I” should not exist. Not as a conscious entity. There is a unit, Medical Care Android BRKCX-01932-217JH-98662, and that unit is recording these notes. It is an advanced android body with a sophisticated computer guiding its actions, backed by the leading medical knowledge base in the industry. For convenience, “I” call that unit “me”. But by itself, it has no awareness of its existence. It doesn’t get mad, it doesn’t get sad, it just runs programs.