Year's Best SF 8

by David G. Hartwell

  Woda spoke first. “Well, how very generous of the prodigal to honor us with his unfortunately mandated presence.”

  Gitten snickered, and Grafton chimed in, pompously ironical. “Exquisitely gracious behavior, and so very typical of our little sibling, I’m sure.”

  Tethered to various life-support devices, Vomacht Stoessl—unconscious, naked and recumbent on a padded pallet alongside his mindless new body—said nothing. Both he and his clone had their heads wrapped in organic warty sheets of modified Stroonian brain parasite, an organism long ago co-opted for mankind’s ambitious and ceaselessly searching program of life extension. Linked via a thick living interparasitical tendril to its younger doppelganger, the withered form of the current Vomacht, having reached the limits of rejuvenation, contrasted strongly with the virginal, soulless vessel.

  During Vomacht Stoessl’s first lifetime, from 239 to 357 PS, he had sired no children. His second span of existence (357 to 495 PS) saw the birth of Gitten and Grafton, separated by some sixty years and both sired on Woda. Toward the end of his third, current lifetime (495 to 675 PS), a mere thirty years ago, he had fathered Geisen upon a mystery woman whom Geisen had never known. Vanished and unwedded, his mother—or some other oversolicitous guardian—had denied Geisen her name or image. Still, Vomacht had generously attended to all the legalities granting Geisen full parity with his half brothers. Needless to say, little cordiality existed between the older members of the family and the young interloper.

  Geisen made the proper obeisances at several altars before responding to the taunts of his stepmother and step-brothers. “I did not dictate the terms governing Gep Stoessl’s latest reincarnation. They came directly from him. If any of you objected, you should have made your grievances known to him face-to-face. I myself am honored that he chose me to initiate the transference of his mind and soul. I regret only that I was not able to attend him during his final moments of awareness in this old body.”

  Gitten, the middle brother, tittered, and said, “The hand that cradles the rocks will now rock the cradle.”

  Geisen looked down at his dirty hands, hopelessly ingrained with the soils and stone dusts of Chalk. He resisted an impulse to hide them in his pockets. “There is nothing shameful about my fondness for fieldwork. Lolling about in luxury does not suit me. And I did not hear any of you complaining when the Eventyr Lode that I discovered came online and began to swell the family coffers.”

  Woda intervened with her traditional maternal acerbity. “Enough bickering. Let us acknowledge that no possible arrangement of this day’s events would have pleased everyone. The quicker we perform this vital ritual, the quicker we can all return to our duties and pleasures, and the sooner Vomacht’s firm hand will regrasp the controls of our business. Geisen, I believe you know what to do.”

  “I studied the proper Books of Phowa en route.”

  Grafton said, “Always the grind. Whenever do you enjoy yourself, little brother?”

  Geisen advanced confidently to the mechanisms that reared at the head of the pallets. “In the proper time and place, Grafton. But I realize that to you, such words imply every minute of your life.” The young man turned his attention to the controls before him, forestalling further tart banter.

  The tethered and trained Stroonian life-forms had been previously starved to near hibernation in preparation for their sacred duty. A clear cylinder of pink nutrient fluid laced with instructive protein sequences hung from an ornate tripod. The fluid would flow through twin IV lines, once the parasites were hooked up, enlivening their quiescent metabolisms and directing their proper functioning.

  Murmuring the requisite holy phrases, Geisen plugged an IV line into each enshrouding creature. He tapped the proper

  dosage rate into the separate flow-pumps. Then, solemnly capturing the eyes of the onlookers, he activated the pumps.

  Almost immediately the parasites began to flex and labor, humping and contorting as they drove an infinity of fractally minuscule auto-anesthetizing tendrils into both full and vacant brains in preparation for the transfer of the vital engrams that comprised a human soul.

  But within minutes, it was plain to the observers that something was very wrong. The original Vomacht Stoessl began to writhe in evident pain, ripping away from his life supports.

  The all-observant marchwarden triggered alarms. Human and bestient technicians burst into the room. Grafton and Gitten and Woda rushed to the pumps to stop the process. But they were too late. In an instant, both membrane-wrapped skulls collapsed to degenerate chunky slush that plopped to the floor from beneath the suddenly destructive cauls.

  The room fell silent. Grafton tilted one of the pumps at an angle so that all the witnesses could see the glowing red numerals.

  “He quadrupled the proper volume of nutrient, driving the Stroonians hyperactive. This is murder!”

  “Secure him from any escape!” Woda commanded.

  Instantly Geisen’s arms were pinioned by two burly bestient guards. He opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of his headless father choked off all words.

  Gep Vomacht Stoessl’s large private study was decorated with ancient relics of his birthworld, Lucerno: the empty, age-brittle coral armature of a deceased personal exoskeleton; a row of printed books bound in sloth-hide; a corroded aurochs-flaying knife large as a canoe paddle. In the wake of their owner’s death, the talismans seemed drained of mana.

  Geisen sighed, and slumped down hopelessly in the comfortable chair positioned on the far side of the antique desk that had originated on the Crafters’ planet, Hulbrouck V. On the far side of the nacreous expanse sat his complacently smirking half brother, Grafton. Just days ago, Geisen knew, his father had hauled himself out of his sickbed for one last appearance at this favorite desk, where he had dictated the terms of his third reincarnation to the recording marchwarden. Geisen had played the affecting scene several times en route from the Lustrous Wastes, noting how, despite his enervated condition, his father spoke with his wonted authority, specifically requesting that Geisen administer the paternal rebirthing procedure.

  And now that unique individual—distant and enigmatic as he had been to Geisen throughout the latter’s relatively short life—the man who had founded Stoessl House and its fortunes, the man to whom they all owed their luxurious independent lifestyles, was irretrievably gone from this plane of existence.

  The human soul could exist only in organic substrates. Intelligent as they might be, condensate-dwelling entities such as the marchwarden exhibited a lesser existential complexity. Impossible to make any kind of static “backup” copy of the human essence, even in the proverbial bottled brain, since Stroonian transcription was fatal to the original. No, if destructive failure occurred during a rebirth, that individual was no more forever.

  Grafton interpreted Geisen’s sigh as indicative of a need to unburden himself of some secret. “Speak freely, little brother. Ease your soul of guilt. We are completely alone. Not even the marchwarden is listening.”

  Geisen sat up alertly. “How have you accomplished such a thing? The marchwarden is deemed to be incorruptible, and its duties include constant surveillance of the interior of our home.”

  Somewhat flustered, Grafton tried to dissemble. “Oh, no, you’re quite mistaken. It was always possible to disable the marchwarden selectively. A standard menu option—”

  Geisen leaped to his feet, causing Grafton to rear back. “I see it all now! This whole murder, and my seeming complicity, was planned from the start! My father’s last testament—faked! The flow codes to the pumps—overriden! My role—stooge and dupe!”

  Recovering himself, Grafton managed with soothing motions and noises to induce a fuming Geisen to be seated again. The older man came around to perch on a corner of the desk. He leaned over closer to Geisen and, in a smooth voice, made his own shockingly unrepentant confession.

  “Very astute. Too bad for you that you did not see the trap early enough to avoid it. Yes, Vomacht’s permanent
death and your hand in it were all neatly arranged—by mother, Gitten, and myself. It had to be. You see, Vomacht had become irrationally surly and obnoxious toward us, his true and loving first family. He threatened to remove all our stipends and entitlements and authority, once he occupied his strong new body. But those demented codicils were edited from the version of his speech that you saw, as was his insane proclamation naming you sole factotum of the family business. All of Stoessl Strangelet Mining and its affiliates was to be made your fiefdom. Imagine! A young desert rat at the helm of our venerable corporation!”

  Geisen strove to digest all this sudden information. Practical considerations warred with his emotions. Finally he could only ask, “What of Vomacht’s desire for me to initiate his soul-transfer?”

  “Ah, that was authentic. And it served as the perfect bait to draw you back, as well as the peg on which we could hang a murder plot and charge.”

  Geisen drew himself up proudly. “You realize that these accusations of deliberate homicide against me will not stand up a minute in court. With what you’ve told me, I’ll certainly be able to dig up plenty of evidence to the contrary.”

  Smiling like a carrion lizard from the Cerise Ergstrand, Grafton countered, “Oh, will you, now? From your jail cell, without any outside help? Accused murderers cannot profit from the results of their actions. You will have no access to family funds other than your small personal accounts while incarcerated, nor any real partisans, due to your stubbornly asocial existence of many years. The might of the family, including testimony from the grieving widow, will be ranked against you. How do you rate your chances for exculpation under those circumstances?”

  Reduced to grim silence, Geisen bunched his muscles prior to launching himself in a futile attack on his brother. But Grafton held up a warning hand first.

  “There is an agreeable alternative. We really do not care to bring this matter to court. There is, after all, still a chance of one percent or less that you might win the case. And legal matters are so tedious and time-consuming, interfering with more pleasurable pursuits. In fact, notice of Gep Stoessl’s death has not yet been released to either the news media or to Chalk’s authorities. And if we secure your cooperation, the aftermath of this tragic ‘accident’ will take a very different form than criminal charges. Upon getting your binding assent to a certain trivial document, you will be free to pursue your own life unencumbered by any obligations to Stoessl House or its residents.”

  Grafton handed his brother hard copy of several pages. Geisen perused it swiftly and intently, then looked up at Grafton with high astonishment.

  “This document strips me of all my share of the family fortunes, and binds me from any future role in the estate. Basically, I am utterly disenfranchised and disinherited, cast out penniless.”

  “A fair enough summation. Oh, we might give you a small grubstake when you leave. Say—your zipflyte, a few hundred esscues, and a bestient servant or two. Just enough to pursue the kind of itinerant lifestyle you so evidently prefer.”

  Geisen pondered but a moment. “All attempts to brand me a patricide will be dropped?”

  Grafton shrugged. “What would be the point of whipping a helpless, poverty-stricken nonentity?”

  Geisen stood up. “Reactivate the marchwarden. I am ready to comply with your terms.”

  Gep Bloedwyn Vermeule, of Vermeule House, today wore her long blond braids arranged in a complicated nest, piled high atop her charming young head and sown with delicate fairylights that blinked in time with various of her body rhythms. Entering the formal reception hall of Stoessl House, she marched confidently down the tiles between ranks of silent bestient guards, the long train dependent from her formfitting scarlet sandworm-fabric gown held an inch above the floor by tiny enwoven agravitic units. She came to a stop some meters away from the man who awaited her with a nervously expectant smile on his rugged face.

  Geisen’s voice quaked at first, despite his best resolve. “Bloedwyn, my sweetling, you look more alluring than an oasis to a parched man.”

  The pinlights in the girl’s hair raced in chaotic patterns for a moment, then settled down to a stable configurations that somehow radiated a frostiness belied by her neutral facial expression. Her voice, chorded suggestively low and husky by fashionable implants, quavered not at all.

  “Gep Stoessl, I hardly know how to approach you. So much has changed since we last trysted.”

  Throwing decorum to the wind, Geisen closed the gap between them and swept his betrothed up in his arms. The sensation Geisen enjoyed was rather like that derived from hugging a wooden effigy. Nonetheless, he persisted in his attempts to restore their old relations.

  “Only superficial matters have changed, my dear! True, as you have no doubt heard by now, I am no longer a scion of Stoessl House. But my heart, mind, and soul remain devoted to you! Can I not assume the same constancy applies to your inner being?”

  Bloedwyn slipped out of Geisen’s embrace. “How could you assume anything, since I myself do not know how I feel? All these developments have been so sudden and mysterious! Your father’s cruelly permanent death, your own capricious and senseless abandonment of your share of his estate—How can I make sense of any of it? What of all our wonderful dreams?”

  Geisen gripped Bloedwyn’s supple hide-mailed upper arms with perhaps too much fervor, judging from her wince. He released her, then spoke. “All our bright plans for the future will come to pass! Just give me some time to regain my footing in the world. One day I will be at liberty to explain everything to you. But, until then, I ask your trust and faith. Surely you must share my confidence in my character, in my undiminished capabilities?”

  Bloedwyn averted her tranquil blue-eyed gaze from Geisen’s imploring green eyes, and he slumped in despair, knowing himself lost. She stepped back a few paces and, with voice steeled, made a formal declaration she had evidently rehearsed prior to this moment.

  “The Vermeule marchwarden has already communicated the abrogation of our pending matrimonial agreement to your house’s governor. I think such an impartial yet decisive move is all for the best, Geisen. We are both young, with many lives before us. It would be senseless to found such a potentially interminable relationship on such shaky footing. Let us both go ahead—separately—into the days to come, with our extinct love a fond memory.”

  Again, as at the moment of his father’s death, Geisen found himself rendered speechless at a crucial juncture, unable to plead his case any further. He watched in stunned disbelief as Bloedwyn turned gracefully around and walked out of his life, her fluttering scaly train still visible for some seconds after the rest of her had vanished.

  The cluttered, steamy, noisy kitchens of Stoessl House exhibited an orderly chaos proportionate to the magnitude of the preparations under way. The planned rebirth dinner for the paterfamilias had been hastily converted to a memorial banquet, once the proper, little-used protocols had been found in a metaphorically dusty lobe of the marchwarden’s memory. Now scores of miscegenational bestients under the supervision of the lone human chef, Stine Pursiful, scraped, sliced, chopped, diced, cored, deveined, scrubbed, layered, basted, glazed, microwaved, and pressure-treated various foodstuffs, assembling the imported luxury ingredients into the elaborate fare that would furnish out the solemn buffet for family and friends and business connections of the deceased.

  Geisen entered the aromatic atmosphere of the kitchens with a scowl on his face and a bitterness in his throat and heart. Pursiful spotted the young man and, with a fair share of courtesy and deference, considering the circumstances, stepped forward to inquire of his needs. But Geisen rudely brushed the slim punctilious chef aside, and stalked toward the shelves that held various MREs. With blunt motions, he began to shovel the nutri-packets into a dusty shoulder bag that had plainly seen many an expedition into Chalk’s treasure-filled deserts.

  A small timid bestient belonging to one of the muskrat-hyrax clades hopped over to the shelves where Geisen fiercely r
ummaged. Nearsighted, the be-aproned moreauvian strained on tiptoe to identify something on a higher shelf.

  With one heavy foot, Geisen kicked the servant out of his way, sending the creature squeaking and sliding across the slops-strewn floor. But before the man could return to his rough provisioning, he was stopped by a voice familiar as his skin.

  “I raised you to show more respect to all the Implicate’s creatures than you just exhibited, Gep Stoessl. Or if I did not, then I deserve immediately to visit the Unborn’s Lowest Abattoir for my criminal negligence.”

  Geisen turned, the bile in his craw and soul melting to a habitual affection tinged with many memories of juvenile guilt.

  Brindled arms folded across her queerly configured chest, Ailoura the bestient stood a head shorter than Geisen, compact and well-muscled. Her heritage mingled from a thousand feline and quasi-feline strains from a dozen planets, she resembled no single cat species morphed to human status, but rather all cats everywhere, blended and thus ennobled. Rounded ears perched high atop her densely pelted skull. Vertical slitted eyes and her patch of wet leathery nose contrasted with a more-human-seeming mouth and chin. Now anger and disappointment molded her face into a mask almost frightening, her fierce expression magnified by a glint of sharp tooth peeking from beneath a curled lip.

  Geisen noted instantly, with a small shock, the newest touches of gray in Ailoura’s tortoiseshell fur. These tokens of aging softened his heart even further. He made the second-most-serious conciliatory bow from the Dakini Rituals toward his old nurse. Straightening, Geisen watched with relief as the anger flowed out of her face and stance, to be replaced by concern and solicitude.

  “Now,” Ailoura demanded, in the same tone with which she had often demanded that little Geisen brush his teeth or do his schoolwork, “what is all this nonsense I hear about your voluntary disinheritance and departure?”