Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  In October, a week before Jesse's trial, his mother died. Jesse's father sent him money to fly home for the funeral, the first money Jesse had accepted from his family since he'd finally told them he had left the hospital. After the funeral Jesse sat in the living room of his father's Florida house and listened to the elderly mourners recall their youths in the vanished prosperity of the 1950's and '60's.

  "Plenty of jobs then for people who're willing to work."

  "Still plenty of jobs. Just nobody's willing any more."

  "Want everything handed to them. If you ask me, this collapse'll prove to be a good thing in the long run. Weed out the weaklings and the lazy."

  "It was the sixties we got off on the wrong track, with Lyndon Johnson and all the welfare programs—"

  They didn't look at Jesse. He had no idea what his father had said to them about him.

  Back in Boston, stinking under Indian summer heat, people thronged his room. Fractures, cancers, allergies, pregnancies, punctures, deficiencies, imbalances. They were resentful that he'd gone away for five days. He should be here; they needed him. He was the doctor.

  # # #

  The first day of his trial, Jesse saw Kenny standing on the courthouse steps. Kenny wore a cheap blue suit with loafers and white socks. Jesse stood very still, then walked over to the other man. Kenny tensed.

  "I'm not going to hit you," Jesse said.

  Kenny watched him, chin lowered, slight body balanced on the balls of his feet. A fighter's stance.

  "I want to ask something," Jesse said. "It won't affect the trial. I just want to know. Why'd you do it? Why did they? I know the little girl's true genescan showed 98% risk of leukemia death within three years, but even so—how could you?"

  Kenny scrutinized him carefully. Jesse saw that Kenny thought Jesse might be wired. Even before Kenny answered, Jesse knew what he'd hear. "I don't know what you're talking about, man."

  "You couldn't get inside the system. Any of you. So you brought me out. If Mohammed won't go to the mountain—"

  "You don't make no sense," Kenny said.

  "Was it worth it? To you? To them? Was it?"

  Kenny walked away, up the courthouse steps. At the top waited the Goceks, who were suing Jesse for $2,000,000 he didn't have and wasn't insured for, and that they knew damn well they wouldn't collect. On the wall of their house, wherever it was, probably hung Rosamund's deathbed picture, a little girl with a plain, sallow face and beautiful hair.

  Jesse saw his lawyer trudge up the courthouse steps, carrying his briefcase. Another lawyer, with an equally shabby briefcase, climbed in parallel several feet away. Between the two men the courthouse steps made a white empty space.

  Jesse climbed, too, hoping to hell this wouldn't take too long. He had an infected compound femoral fracture, a birth with potential erythroblastosis fetalis, and an elderly phlebitis, all waiting. He was especially concerned about the infected fracture, which needed careful monitoring because the man's genescan showed a tendency towards weak T-cell production. The guy was a day laborer, foul-mouthed and ignorant and brave, with a wife and two kids. He'd broken his leg working illegal construction. Jesse was determined to give him at least a fighting chance.

  End

  THE LOTUS AND THE SPEAR

  Mike Resnick

  Once, many eons ago, there was an elephant who climbed the slopes of Kirinyaga, which men now call Mount Kenya, until he reached the very summit, where Ngai ruled the universe from His golden throne.

  "Why have you sought me out?" demanded Ngai.

  "I have come to ask you to change me into something else," answered the elephant.

  "I have made you the most powerful of beasts," said Ngai. "You need fear neither the lion nor the leopard nor the hyena. Wherever you walk, all My other creatures rush to move out of your path. Why do you no longer wish to be an elephant?"

  "Because as powerful as I am, there are others of my kind who are more powerful," answered the elephant. "They keep the females to themselves, so that my seed will die within me, and they drive me away from the water holes and the succulent grasses."

  "And what do you wish of me?" asked Ngai.

  "I am not sure," said the elephant. "I would like to be like the giraffe, for there are so many treetops that no matter where he goes he finds sustenance. Or perhaps the warthog, for nowhere can he travel that there are no roots to be found. And the fish eagle takes one mate for life, and if he is not strong enough to defend her against others of his kind who would take her away from him, his vision is so keen that he can see them approaching from great distances and move her to safety. Change me in any way you wish," he concluded. "I will trust to Your wisdom."

  "So be it," pronounced Ngai. "From this day forward, you shall have a trunk, so that the delicacies that grow atop the acacia trees will no longer be beyond your reach. And you shall have tusks, that you may dig in the ground for both roots and water no matter where you travel upon My world. And where the fish eagle has but a single superior sense, his vision, I shall give you two senses, those of smell and hearing, that will be greater than any other animal in My kingdom."

  "How can I thank you?" asked the elephant joyously, as Ngai began the transformation.

  "You may not wish to," answered Ngai.

  "Why not?" asked the elephant.

  "Because when all is said and done," said Ngai, "you will still be an elephant."

  ###

  Some days it is easy to be the mundumugu - the witch doctor - on our terraformed world of Kirinyaga. On such days, I bless the scarecrows in the fields, distribute charms and ointments to the ailing, tell stories to the children, offer my opinions to the Council of Elders, and teach my youthful assistant, Ndemi, the lore of the Kikuyu people - for the mundumugu is more than a maker of charms and curses, more even than a voice of reason in the Council of Elders: he is the repository of all the traditions that make the Kikuyu what they are.

  Some days it is difficult to be the mundumugu. When I must decide disputes, one side will always be unhappy with me. Or when there is an illness that I cannot cure, and I know that soon I will be telling the sufferer's family to leave him out for the hyenas. Or when Ndemi, who will someday be the mundumugu, gives every indication that he will not be ready to assume my duties when my body, already old and wrinkled, reaches the point, not too long off, when it is no longer able to function.

  And, once in a long while, it is terrible to be the mundumugu, for I am presented with a problem against which all the accumulated wisdom of the Kikuyu seems like a reed in the wind.

  Such a day begins like any other. I awake from my slumber and walk out of my hut into my boma with my blanket wrapped around my shoulders, for though it will soon be warm the sun has not yet removed the chill from the air. I light a fire and sit next to it, waiting for Ndemi, who will almost certainly be late. Sometimes I marvel at the facility of his imagination, for never has he given me the same excuse twice.

  As I grow older, I have taken to chewing a qat leaf in the morning to start the blood flowing through my body. Ndemi disapproves, for he has been taught the uses of qat as a medicine and he knows that it is addictive. I will explain to him again that without it I would probably be in constant pain until the sun was overhead, that when you are as old as I am your muscles and joints do not always respond to your commands and can fill you with agony, and he will shrug and nod his head and forget again by the following morning.

  Eventually he will arrive, my young assistant, and after he explains why he was late today, he will take my gourds down to the river and fill them with water, and then gather firewood and bring it to my boma. Then we will embark upon our daily lesson, in which perhaps I will explain to him how to make an ointment out of the pods of the acacia tree, and he will sit and try not to squirm and will demonstrate such self-control that he may well listen to me for ten or twelve minutes before asking when I will teach him how to turn an enemy into an insect so that he may stamp on him.

  Finally
I will take him into my hut, and teach him the rudiments of my computer, for after I am dead it will be Ndemi who will have to contact Maintenance and request the orbital adjustments that will affect the seasons, that will bring rain to the parched plains, that will make the days longer or shorter to give the illusion of seasonal changes.

  Then, if it is to be an ordinary day, I will fill my pouch with charms and will begin walking through the fields, warding off any thahu, or curse, that has been placed on them, and assuring that they will continue to yield the food we need to survive, and if the rains have come and the land is green, perhaps I will slaughter a goat to thank Ngai for His beneficence.

  If it is not to be an ordinary day, I usually know at the outset. Perhaps there will be hyena dung in my boma, a sure sign of a thahu, or the wind may come from the west, whereas all good winds blow from the east.

  But on the day in question, there was no wind at all, and no hyenas had been in my boma the night before. It began like any other day. Ndemi was late - this time, he claimed, because there was a black mamba on the path up my hill, and he had to wait until it finally slithered off into the tall grasses - and I had just finished teaching him the prayer for health and long life that he must recite at the birth of a new baby, when Koinnage, the paramount chief of the village, walked up to my boma.

  "Jambo, Koinnage," I greeted him, dropping my blanket to the ground, for the sun was now overhead and the air was finally warm.

  "Jambo, Koriba," he replied, a worried frown on his face. I looked at him expectantly, for it is very rare for Koinnage to climb my hill and visit me in my boma.

  "It has happened again," he announced grimly. "This is the third time since the long rains."

  "What has happened?" I asked, confused.

  "Ngala is dead," said Koinnage. "He walked out naked and unarmed among the hyenas, and they killed him."

  "Naked and unarmed?" I repeated. "Are you certain?"

  "I am certain."

  I squatted down near my dying fire, lost in thought. Keino was the first young man we had lost. We had thought it was an accident, that he had stumbled and somehow fallen upon his own spear. Then came Njupo, who burned to death when his hut caught fire while he was inside it.

  Keino and Njupo lived with the young, unmarried men in a small colony by the edge of the forest, a few kilometers from the main village. Two such deaths might have been coincidence, but now there was a third, and it cast a new light on the first two. It was now obvious that, within the space of a few brief months, three young men of chosen to commit suicide rather then continue their lives on Kirinyaga.

  "What are we to do, Koriba?" asked Koinnage. "My own son lives at the edge of the forest. He could be the next one!"

  I took a round, polished stone from the pouch about my neck, stood up, and handed it to him.

  "Place this beneath your son's sleeping blanket," I said. "It will protect him from this thahu that is affecting our young men."

  "Thank you, Koriba," he said gratefully. "But can you not provide charms for all the young men?"

  "No," I replied, still greatly disturbed by what I had heard. "That stone is only for the son of a chief. And just as there are all kinds of charms, there are all kinds of curses. I must determine who has placed this thahu on our young men, and why. Then and only then can I create strong enough magic to combat it." I paused. "Can Ndemi bring you some pombe to drink?"

  He shook his head. "I must return to the village. The women are wailing the death chant, and there is much to be done. We must burn Ngala's hut and purify the ground upon which it rested, and we must post guards to make sure that the hyenas, having feasted so easily, do not come back in search of more human flesh."

  He turned and took a few steps toward the village, then stopped.

  "Why is this happening, Koriba?" he asked, his eyes filled with puzzlement. "And is the thahu limited just to the young men, or do the rest of us bear it too?"

  I had no answer for him, and after a moment he resumed walking down the path that led to the village.

  I sat down next to my fire and stared silently out over the fields and savannah until Ndemi finally sat down next to me.

  "What kind of thahu would make Ngala and Keino and Njupo all kill themselves, Koriba?" he asked, and I could tell from his tone that he was frightened.

  "I am not sure yet," I replied. "Keino was very much in love with Mwala, and he was very unhappy when old Siboki was able to pay the bride price for her before he himself could. If it were just Keino, I would say that he ended his life because he could not have her. But now two more have died, and I must find the reason for it."

  "They all live in the village of young men by the edge of the forest," said Ndemi. "Perhaps it is cursed."

  I shook my head. "They have not all killed themselves."

  "You know," said Ndemi, "when Nboka drowned in the river two rains ago, we all thought it was an accident. But he, too, lived in the village of young men. Perhaps he killed himself as well."

  I had not thought of Nboka in a long time. I thought of him now, and realized that he could very well have committed suicide. Certainly it made sense, for Nboka was known to be a very strong swimmer.

  "I think perhaps you are right," I replied reluctantly.

  Ndemi's chest puffed up with pride, for I do not often compliment him.

  "What kind of magic will you make, Koriba?" he asked. "If it requires the feathers of the crested crane or the maribou stork, I could get them for you. I have been practicing with my spear."

  "I do not know what magic I shall make yet, Ndemi," I told him. "But whatever it is, it will require thought and not spears."

  "That is too bad," he said, shielding his eyes from the dust that a sudden warm breeze brought to us. "I thought I had finally found a use for it."

  "For what?"

  "For my spear," he said. "I no longer herd cattle on my father's shamba, now that I am helping you, so I no longer need it." He shrugged. "I think I shall leave it at home from now on."

  "No, you must always take it with you," I said. "It is customary for all Kikuyu men carry spears."

  He looked inordinately proud of himself, for I had called him a man, when in truth he was just a kehee, an uncircumcised boy. But then he frowned again.

  "Why do we carry spears, Koriba?" he asked.

  "To protect us from our enemies."

  "But the Maasai and Wakamba and other tribes, and even the Europeans, remain in Kenya," he said. "What enemies have we here?"

  "The hyena and the jackal and the crocodile," I answered, and added silently: And one other enemy, which must be identified before we lose any more of our young men, for without them there is no future, and ultimately no Kirinyaga.

  "It has been a long time since anyone needed a spear against a hyena," continued Ndemi. "They have learned to fear us and avoid us." He pointed to the domestic animals that were grazing in the nearby fields. "They do not even bother the goats and the cattle any more."

  "Did they not bother Ngala?" I asked.

  "He wanted to be eaten by hyenas," said Ndemi. "That is different."

  "Nonetheless, you must carry your spear at all times," I said. "It is part of what makes you a Kikuyu."

  "I have an idea!" he said, suddenly picking up his spear and studying it. "If I must carry a spear, perhaps I should have one with a metal tip, so that it will never warp or break."

  I shook my head. "Then you would be a Zulu, who live far to the south of Kenya, for it is the Zulus who carry metal-tipped spears, which they call assagais."

  Ndemi looked crestfallen. "I thought it was my own idea," he said.

  "Do not be disappointed," I said. "An idea can be new to you and old to someone else."

  "Really?"

  I nodded. "Take these young men who have killed themselves. The idea of suicide is new to them, but they are not the first to think of it. We have all thought of killing ourselves at one time or another. What I must learn is not why they have finally thought
of it, but why they have not rejected the thought, why it has become attractive to them."

  "And then you will use your magic to make it unattractive?" asked Ndemi.

  "Yes."

  "Will you boil poisonous serpents in a pot with the blood a freshly-killed Zebra?" he asked eagerly.

  "You are a very bloodthirsty boy," I said.

  "A thahu that can kill four young men requires powerful magic," he replied.

  "Sometimes just a word or a sentence is all the magic one needs."

  "But if you need more..."

  I sighed deeply. "If I need more, I will tell you what animals to slay for me."

  He leaped to his feet, picked up his slender wooden spear, and made stabbing motions in the air. "I will become the most famous hunter ever!" he shouted happily. "My children and grandchildren will sing songs of praise to me, and the animals of the field will tremble at my approach!"

  "But before that happy day arrives," I said, "there is still the water to be fetched and the firewood to be gathered."

  "Yes, Koriba," he said. He picked up my water gourds and began walking down the hill, and I could tell that in his imagination he was still confronting charging buffaloes and hurling his spear straight and true to the mark.

  ###

  I gave Ndemi his morning lesson - the prayer for the dead seemed a proper topic - and then went down to the village to comfort Ngala's parents. His mother, Liswa, was inconsolable. He had been her first-born, and it was all but impossible to get her to stop wailing the death chant long enough for me to express my sorrow.

  Kibanja, Ngala's father, stood off by himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Why would he do such a thing, Koriba?" he asked as I approached him.

  "I do not know," I answered.

  "He was the boldest of boys," he continued. "Even you did not frighten him." He stopped suddenly for fear that he had given offense.

  "He was very bold," I agreed. "And bright."