The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 26 (Mammoth Books)

by Gardner Dozois

  The girl’s gift was mathematics, and in particular, cumbersome formulas with their tangled alliances and deep abstractions. On the best days, a teacher and one warrior would pull aside the mathematicians—eleven Hopefuls, including her closest friends—and they would leave the stronghold, going out into the great, lovely, and nearly perfect world to test their knowledge against what was real.

  All that was worth knowing was built upon formulas.

  The world was one day’s walk wide, on average, and fifteen days in length, shaped rather like a passion worm dying on hot rock. The world stood upon an old mountain range. Left in their natural state, those eroded peaks would catch only the rare rain, and perhaps a few rock-scions would grow in the valleys. But the People had built forests of broad towers standing above the tired, broken-down tectonics. Each life in the world had its job. Gardeners and their vines dangled out of the windows while J’jjs and clonetakes sang from cages, begging their keepers for feed. The buildings’ interiors were full of wedge-holes and broad hallways, and every floor had its stockers and teachers, weavers and gossips. Especially important were the miners who left every evening, descending to the hot plains to work with their electric machines. They cut fresh stone from the quarries and smelted metals from the best ores available. Other citizens tended the fans that stood high, dancing with the winds to supply power, and those who knew the dew-catchers watered the crops and every mouth. There was majesty and perfection in this labor. Every mouth attached to a working mind sang praises to the world’s rich life.

  The towers demanded endless construction, and construction demanded endless calculation.

  This girl, the happy young Hopeful, was being groomed to design new walls and reinforce old buttresses. If she couldn’t look forward to the day, at least she was resigned to her duty, and it was a good day whenever a teacher looked at her work, saying without too much difficulty that she was showing that most precious talent: “Promise.”

  She never imagined that outside events could interrupt her future.

  Who does at such an age?

  The best mornings found the budding mathematicians riding in bubbles strung on electrified cables, climbing to the highest rooftops. Where the air was thin and chill was her favorite place. Deep pleasure could be found in those vistas. The girl always stole moments to look past the world. The surrounding plains were rough and ugly, but there was a horizon to seek, though it was often masked by dust and the occasional cloud. She carried a worn-out telescope rescued from the school’s garbage, and if she was very lucky and the lessons went into evening, she had stars to admire and neighboring worlds, and sometimes several moons graced the sky with their trusted round faces.

  Each class was accompanied by at least one trained, well-armed warrior. The Hopefuls had real value and might tempt their enemies. Other worlds and other People lived beyond the horizon. Perhaps those same enemies would come here to steal away their talent: It had never happened and never would happen, but there was pleasure in the possibility. Who doesn’t wish to be valuable, to be special?

  One day-journey reached into evening and then farther. The teacher had critical points to deliver about bracing towers and the telltale signs of strain on a windmill blade, and she steadfastly refused to leave this high place until every student absorbed her competence.

  Thinking no one was watching, the girl drifted away.

  But the warrior noticed and climbed after her, finding her chewing a fresh stick of dribbledoe while pushing the little telescope against her eye. The nearest moon was overhead—gray and airless, pocked with volcanoes that sometimes threw up columns of soot that left a soft ring in its orbit. She watched the moon’s limb and stared at patches of stars, and because this was one of those rare perches where every direction was visible, she turned in a slow circle, trying to absorb the precious vista.

  The warrior was young and bold. He crept up on the girl, and wanting to startle her, tried to drop the cold gun barrel against her beautiful neck.

  “Your feet are sloppy,” she warned, not looking at him. “I have listened to your approach since you left class.”

  He paused, embarrassed and laughing.

  She chewed and looked toward tomorrow’s dawn, where night was full and the land empty of any feature worthy of a name. “I wish I had a true telescope,” she said. “Like one of the giants perched on top of the stronghold.”

  “They are impressive machines,” he agreed.

  “Have you even seen them?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I saw all of them during my training, of course. They are the ‘long eyes’ for the warrior guild.”

  “But have you ever used one?”

  He smiled and said, “Only the largest telescope. I looked through it once, just to see what could be seen.”

  She smiled with her free hand. “What did you see?”

  “The nearest worlds,” he said, pointing his weapon at the mountains riding the western horizon. “Skies were clear, clearer than tonight, and I saw amazing details.”

  “I don’t care about those worlds,” she said. “Did you look at the sky?”

  “No.”

  She studied him.

  “We don’t have enemies in the sky,” he said.

  Every mountain range was a world standing alone, and the plains and scalding oceans between the ranges would kill any person who lingered too long.

  The young warrior said nothing, wondering what to make of his complicated, shifting feelings for this child.

  She turned to the redness where the sun had just vanished. “I’ve seen lights in that sky.”

  “Flyers,” he said.

  “I know what they are.”

  “Then why didn’t you call them that?”

  “I wish we had flyers,” she said.

  “We could build them, if we needed them.”

  “I suppose.”

  “We are as smart as the other nations,” he said with authority.

  The girl found a faint dark bulge where a young volcano pushed high into the wet heights of the sky.

  “Our world is little,” she said.

  “Our world is great,” he said.

  “Nonetheless, we are small and poor. And the hills beneath us are nearly exhausted.”

  The warrior pretended not to be bothered by this topic.

  She lowered the telescope, reading his face and his feet. “You really don’t know very much, do you?”

  “I know quite a lot.”

  She said nothing.

  “Our fans catch the winds,” he said. “And we have other machines that can snatch words out of the wind.”

  “Those are radios. Yes, our teachers talk about them.”

  He stood as tall as possible. “I’ve listened to the radios. Have you?”

  “What did you hear?” she asked.

  “Have you listened to them?”

  “No.”

  “I have heard voices,” he said.

  “Did you understand the voices?”

  “No.”

  With a gesture, she proved that she wasn’t impressed.

  “But I have a good friend,” he insisted. “My friend’s duty is to translate the other languages, making sense of our enemies’ words.”

  “Are these words interesting?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What does ‘maybe’ mean?”

  Suddenly the warrior wished the topic would vanish. But he was also young and willing to risk everything to impress this odd, odd girl. So against his best instincts, he said, “There is a secret. Only the Five and their children and a few chosen People are allowed to know this secret.”

  “And you too,” she said.

  He smiled.

  She said, “Tell me.”

  “Aliens,” he said, pointing at that last glimmer of ruddy light. “At this moment, aliens are walking on that world.”

  Each world stood on its own mountains, and each was isolated by the dry wastelands. Every mature world had its own Peopl
e. Ten thousand species of People were scattered across the face of Existence. Existence was the planet, and the planet had lived forever, and the word “alien” was normally used for the strangest, most remote species of People.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “ ‘Alien’ is a weak word for what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know a new word.” The warrior looked up at the churning moon and cold stars, and using a nervous, inexpert mouth, he tried to say the word.

  “What is that?” she asked. “What does ‘human’ mean?”

  4

  Clients had to praise scenery. After spending and suffering too much, it was their duty to collapse on some little knoll, singing about the lovely colors and intoxicating odors and the magical properties of an ordinary breeze. Species and the lay of the land refused to stay the same. “Walking across twenty worlds wouldn’t be this interesting,” clients would sing. But how many of them had walked across even one world during their wealthy long lives? That was a good question never asked, certainly not by the stolid porters following behind, saying nothing while dreaming about grateful tips.

  The rare client had careful eyes. Perri paid attention, but the skill was sharpest in the morning and faded with exhaustion. Quee Lee was less interested in scenery, but she was vigilant about her footing, measuring every step and each hesitation, ignoring the usual vistas until she was sure that she couldn’t fall. That made her the client who found animal tracks and odd rocks and bits of litter left by thousands of parties exactly like theirs, and unlike many, she asked big questions of the porters and then tried to paint the answers on the insides of her cavernous mind.

  Varid existed at the other end of the spectrum: He was nearly blind. Wide scenes and telling details were ignored as he marched forward. What he did notice—what was bright and exceptionally real to the man—were the various ailments rolling inside him. Katabasis saw flashes of misery in the face. Sometimes a foot broke, or a rib; more often it was chronic fatigue. But even when he was rested and whole, his surroundings passed with little notice. The man filled that tiny chair in the morning, doing nothing and plainly thinking nothing, eyes open and pointing in some random direction, observing nothing as the rest of the camp made ready for the day’s next kilometer or two.

  “He is the oddest monkey,” the Wogfound remarked. “Have you ever known a creature like him?”

  “I never have, no,” Katabasis said with certainty.

  “And do you know how he sleeps?”

  Recalling Varid’s peculiar, unwelcome interest in her, she said, “I know nothing of the kind.”

  “I know quite a lot,” said the Wogfound. “Look inside his shelter. During the night, early or late, the moment doesn’t matter. The creature lies on his back, holding a light before his face.”

  “Which light?”

  “His camp torch turned up high, or a blank reading net draped over his face, and I once saw him with a captured blazebee between his fingers.”

  “Did you ask what he was doing?”

  “I demanded to know. But he didn’t reply.”

  “And did he wonder what you were doing, poking into his business?”

  “From what I see, I doubt that creature is capable of wonder.”

  Katabasis absorbed the words, unsure what to believe.

  But the Wogfound had a ready explanation. “The body is human enough, but that mind is alien. Perhaps Sorry-gones have made a nest inside the head.”

  “Not Sorry-gones, no,” she said. Varid was bizarre, but he was still human in her gaze. She wanted him to be human, maybe even needed that, but she didn’t want to dwell on reasons, much less the state of her mind.

  “Watch him sleep,” her colleague advised.

  “You may snoop for both us,” she said. “With my blessing.”

  Days later, a torrential rain struck the valley where they were walking. Fat drops of water and ice battered exposed heads, and the ground that wasn’t flooded was left too slippery for any human foot.

  Varid remained inside his tent for the rest of the day.

  Just once, Katabasis looked in at him. The man had cut a small hole in the fabric and water fell through, hammering the blank gaze and the mouth that was moving as if talking, but not talking to her and maybe not to himself either. He made no noise. The lips were busy and then they stopped, and after a long moment Varid turned his head, not quite looking at her when he found the breath to say, “I like rain. I always have liked rain. I think.”

  The storm passed in the night, replaced by cooler, drier air.

  Perri took the lead in the morning and held it until he stumbled, shattering his knee and pelvis. Quee Lee passed him. “I’d stay and keep you company, darling. My darling. But I can smell the mountains now.”

  “Push on,” he said amiably.

  “I already have,” replied Quee Lee, her head down, focusing on the next meter of wicked pebbles and greasy soil.

  Katabasis unfastened her tumpline and various straps, lowering her pack onto a boulder where it would wait without complaint. Settling beside the injured man, she said, “Let me carry you over the next rise.”

  “And earn your bonus,” Perri said.

  They laughed together.

  Varid was approaching as the giant wheel spun upwards, making him heavier. Leaden feet needed to rest before taking any next step, and the man kept his head down, but more out of exhaustion than to pay strict attention. Meanwhile the ground kept trying to drop him. He wasn’t clumsy in any normal sense; when he slipped or staggered his feet often found the grace to save him. And then as he passed by, the wheel began to fall again, and inspired by that slight lessening of weight, Varid grew bold. Straightening his back, he managed longer strides, conquering the next low rise before his left leg leaped out in front of him, the monkey knee wrenched in a decidedly unnatural direction.

  The moaning was urgent and familiar.

  Katabasis and her client remained where they were. Eventually the moans softened, and turning to Katabasis, Perri said, “I finally remembered the story.”

  “Which story?”

  “Wait.”

  The One-after-another was stomping past them with a furious air. Perri waited for her to leave, and then rubbing his healing leg, he said, “Our brains work so well. Living bioceramics woven around the original neural network, with horizon-sinks latching tight to every idea and event and whispered word. In theory, we shouldn’t forget anything for the next ten million years. Isn’t that what you hear when you get the upgrade?”

  The human leg grew scorching hot as the healing quickened. There was beauty in the infrared glow. “Were you upgraded?” Katabasis asked.

  “No, I was born exactly this way,” Perri admitted. “Humans usually are. But some little instinct tells me you were born elsewhere and maybe you heard the sales pitch one or two times.”

  “We are talking about Varid,” she said.

  “We were,” Perri agreed.

  They sat for a moment, neither speaking.

  “Varid,” said Perri. “I finally managed to remember the man. He didn’t have quite the same face and his hair was black then. I met him at a very splendid party. And I know what are you asking: ‘Why was this rough fellow at a splendid party?’ Because his wife moves in some very high orbits, and Varid used to belong to the highest reaches of the high. That’s why.”

  “Varid was a captain?” Katabasis asked doubtfully.

  “Oh, no. There are even loftier souls than those dreary uniforms.” Perri laughed. “I’m thinking about a civilian family—mother and father and several grown children accompanied by assorted mates and mistresses and thinking toys. One family, and they owned corporations and key patents and the entire Mellissolar system. They even had one of the fastest streak-ships in human hands. Varid happened to be one of those children, and his clan was among the Ship’s first paying passengers, human or otherwise. They purchased the la
rgest quarters in the Ship’s most exclusive district, and seeing no reason to leave that paradise, they rarely took the trouble.”

  Perri winced and smiled and looked at Katabasis. “Perhaps your people are never smug, self-involved, or dismissive. Since my only experience with your species is you, I can’t say. But that rich human family was all those things, and Varid—the original Varid—was pried from the same complacent mold. I keep massaging my head. There probably are other incidents. But I’ve remembered the one party and that single occasion when we crossed paths. We held drinks and faced each other and spoke at length about his grand wealth and the happiness that went with that wealth, and when I found my chance, I left. I didn’t see the man again until that day at the trailhead. Thousands of years had passed, and I never felt the urge to seek him out, and I’d wager anyone’s wealth that Varid didn’t hunger for my company. But of course that’s one of the sterling benefits of the Great Ship—you can avoid the souls you don’t like at all, unless it happens to be yours.”

  From the hilltop, Varid groaned mightily.

  “That is the man you met,” Katabasis said skeptically.

  “No.” Perri showed his teeth. “Or yes.”

  She waited.

  “Seven hundred years ago, I found myself trapped inside another smug party. Some honorable charity was involved. Quee Lee promised her time and money, and certain lady friends insisted that she bring her wild wandering husband along. Rich ladies have always loved wild wandering husbands, just so long as we weren’t their problem. The party lasted ten days, which is about average, and there were ten thousand dull conversations to endure, and I drank more than was proper. But I told a few stories after my wanderings, and nobody seemed too offended. Which was when I discovered that I was, despite my own smugness, enjoying myself.

  “On the tenth day, I happened across a group of strange faces. These people were too important to arrive until the end, and they clearly knew one another. The topic was homes and circumstances. It seemed that everybody had moved recently, judging by the sense of adventure when they described the giant apartments that they still had barely explored. And then according to some rule or tradition peculiar to them, they started to tell stories about the Fire.