Year's Best SF 8

by David G. Hartwell

  I’d called Francine the night before. It had been a short, tense conversation.

  “I’m in Louisiana. I think I’ve got a lead.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  “You do that.”

  I hadn’t seen her in the flesh for almost two years. After facing too many dead ends together, we’d split up to cover more ground: Francine had searched from New York to Seattle; I’d taken the south. As the months had slipped away, her determination to put every emotional reaction aside for the sake of the task had gradually eroded. One night, I was sure, grief had overtaken her, alone in some soulless motel room—and it made no difference that the same thing had happened to me, a month later or a week before. Because we had not experienced it together, it was not a shared pain, a burden made lighter. After 47 years, though we now had a single purpose as never before, we were starting to come adrift.

  I’d learned about Jake Holder in Baton Rouge, triangulating on rumors and fifth-hand reports of barroom boasts. The boasts were usually empty; a prosthetic body equipped with software dumber than a microwave could make an infinitely pliable slave, but if the only way to salvage any trace of dignity when your buddies discovered that you owned the high-tech equivalent of a blowup doll was to imply that there was somebody home inside, apparently a lot of men leaped at the chance.

  Holder looked like something worse. I’d bought his lifetime purchasing records, and there’d been a steady stream of cyber-fetish porn over a period of two decades. Hardcore and pretentious; half the titles contained the word “manifesto.” But the flow had stopped, about three months ago. The rumors were, he’d found something better.

  I finished the cigarette, and slapped my arms to get the circulation going. She would not be on the barge. For all I knew, she’d heard the news from Brussels and was already halfway to Europe. That would be a difficult journey to make on her own, but there was no reason to believe that she didn’t have loyal, trustworthy friends to assist her. I had too many out-of-date memories burned into my skull: all the blazing, pointless rows, all the petty crimes, all the self-mutilation. Whatever had happened, whatever she’d been through, she was no longer the angry 15-year-old who’d left for school one Friday and never come back.

  By the time she’d hit 13, we were arguing about everything. Her body had no need for the hormonal flood of puberty, but the software had ground on relentlessly, simulating all the neuroendocrine effects. Sometimes it had seemed like an act of torture to put her through that—instead of hunting for some magic shortcut to maturity—but the cardinal rule had been never to tinker, never to intervene, just to aim for the most faithful simulation possible of ordinary human development.

  Whatever we’d fought about, she’d always known how to shut me up. “I’m just a thing to you! An instrument! Daddy’s little silver bullet!” I didn’t care who she was, or what she wanted; I’d fashioned her solely to slay my own fears. (I’d lie awake afterward, rehearsing lame counterarguments. Other children were born for infinitely baser motives: to work the fields, to sit in boardrooms, to banish ennui, to save failing marriages.) In her eyes, the Qusp itself wasn’t good or bad—and she turned down all my offers to disable the shielding; that would have let me off the hook too easily. But I’d made her a freak for my own selfish reasons; I’d set her apart even from the other adai, purely to grant myself a certain kind of comfort. “You wanted to give birth to a singleton? Why didn’t you just shoot yourself in the head every time you made a bad decision?”

  When she went missing, we were afraid she’d been snatched from the street. But in her room, we’d found an envelope with the locator beacon she’d dug out of her body, and a note that read: Don’t look for me. I’m never coming back.

  I heard the tires of a heavy vehicle squelching along the muddy track to my left. I hunkered lower, making sure I was hidden in the undergrowth. As the truck came to a halt with a faint metallic shudder, the barge disgorged an unmanned motorboat. My aide had captured the data streams exchanged, one specific challenge and response, but it had no clue how to crack the general case and mimic the barge’s owner.

  Two men climbed out of the truck. One was Jake Holder; I couldn’t make out his face in the starlight, but I’d sat within a few meters of him in diners and bars in Baton Rouge, and my aide knew his somatic signature: the electromagnetic radiation from his nervous system and implants; his body’s capacitative and inductive responses to small shifts in the ambient fields; the faint gamma-ray spectrum of his unavoidable, idiosyncratic load of radioisotopes, natural and Chernobylesque.

  I did not know who his companion was, but I soon got the general idea.

  “One thousand now,” Holder said. “One thousand when you get back.” His silhouette gestured at the waiting motor-boat.

  The other man was suspicious. “How do I know it will be what you say it is?”

  “Don’t call her ‘it’,” Holder complained. “She’s not an object. She’s my Lilith, my Lo-li-ta, my luscious clockwork succubus.” For one hopeful moment, I pictured the customer snickering at this overheated sales pitch and coming to his senses; brothels in Baton Rouge openly advertised machine sex, with skilled human puppeteers, for a fraction of the price. Whatever he imagined the special thrill of a genuine adai to be, he had no way of knowing that Holder didn’t have an accomplice controlling the body on the barge in exactly the same fashion. He might even be paying 2,000 dollars for a puppet job from Holder himself.

  “OK. But if she’s not genuine…”

  My aide overheard money changing hands, and it had modeled the situation well enough to know how I’d wish, always, to respond. “Move now,” it whispered in my ear. I complied without hesitation; 18 months before, I’d pavloved myself into swift obedience, with all the pain and nausea modern chemistry could induce. The aide couldn’t puppet my limbs—I couldn’t afford the elaborate surgery—but it overlaid movement cues on my vision, a system I’d adapted from off-the-shelf choreography software, and I strode out of the bushes, right up to the motorboat.

  The customer was outraged. “What is this?”

  I turned to Holder. “You want to fuck him first, Jake? I’ll hold him down.” There were things I didn’t trust the aide to control; it set the boundaries, but it was better to let me improvise a little, and then treat my actions as one more part of the environment.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Holder said icily, “I’ve never seen this prick before in my life.” He’d been speechless for a little too long, though, to inspire any loyalty from a stranger; as he reached for his weapon, the customer backed away, then turned and fled.

  Holder walked toward me slowly, gun outstretched. “What’s your game? Are you after her? Is that it?” His implants were mapping my body—actively, since there was no need for stealth—but I’d tailed him for hours in Baton Rouge, and my aide knew him like an architectural plan. Over the starlit gray of his form, it overlaid a schematic, flaying him down to brain, nerves, and implants. A swarm of blue fireflies flickered into life in his motor cortex, prefiguring a peculiar shrug of the shoulders with no obvious connection to his trigger finger; before they’d reached the intensity that would signal his implants to radio the gun, my aide said “Duck.”

  The shot was silent, but as I straightened up again I could smell the propellant. I gave up thinking and followed the dance steps. As Holder strode forward and swung the gun toward me, I turned sideways, grabbed his right hand, then punched him hard, repeatedly, in the implant on the side of his neck. He was a fetishist, so he’d chosen bulky packages, intentionally visible through the skin. They were not hard-edged, and they were not inflexible—he wasn’t that masochistic—but once you sufficiently compressed even the softest biocompatible foam, it might as well have been a lump of wood. While I hammered the wood into the muscles of his neck, I twisted his forearm upward. He dropped the gun; I put my foot on it and slid it back toward the bushes.

  In ultrasound, I s
aw blood pooling around his implant. I paused while the pressure built up, then I hit him again and the swelling burst like a giant blister. He sagged to his knees, bellowing with pain. I took the knife from my back pocket and held it to his throat.

  I made Holder take off his belt, and I used it to bind his hands behind his back. I led him to the motorboat, and when the two of us were on board, I suggested that he give it the necessary instructions. He was sullen but cooperative. I didn’t feel anything; part of me still insisted that the transaction I’d caught him in was a hoax, and that there’d be nothing on the barge that couldn’t be found in Baton Rouge.

  The barge was old, wooden, smelling of preservatives and unvanquished rot. There were dirty plastic panes in the cabin windows, but all I could see in them was a reflected sheen. As we crossed the deck, I kept Holder intimately close, hoping that if there was an armed security system it wouldn’t risk putting the bullet through both of us.

  At the cabin door, he said resignedly, “Don’t treat her badly.” My blood went cold, and I pressed my forearm to my mouth to stifle an involuntary sob.

  I kicked open the door, and saw nothing but shadows. I called out “Lights!” and two responded, in the ceiling and by the bed. Helen was naked, chained by the wrists and ankles. She looked up and saw me, then began to emit a horri-fied keening noise.

  I pressed the blade against Holder’s throat. “Open those things!”

  “The shackles?”

  “Yes!”

  “I can’t. They’re not smart; they’re just welded shut.”

  “Where are your tools?”

  He hesitated. “I’ve got some wrenches in the truck. All the rest is back in town.”

  I looked around the cabin, then I led him into a corner and told him to stand there, facing the wall. I knelt by the bed.

  “Ssh. We’ll get you out of here.” Helen fell silent. I touched her cheek with the back of my hand; she didn’t flinch, but she stared back at me, disbelieving. “We’ll get you out.” The timber bedposts were thicker than my arms, the links of the chains wide as my thumb. I wasn’t going to snap any part of this with my bare hands.

  Helen’s expression changed: I was real, she was not hallucinating. She said dully, “I thought you’d given up on me. Woke one of the backups. Started again.”

  I said, “I’d never give up on you.”

  “Are you sure?” She searched my face. “Is this the edge of what’s possible? Is this the worst it can get?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  I said, “You remember how to go numb, for a shedding?”

  She gave me a faint, triumphant smile. “Absolutely.” She’d had to endure imprisonment and humiliation, but she’d always had the power to cut herself off from her body’s senses.

  “Do you want to do it now? Leave all this behind.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be safe soon. I promise you.”

  “I believe you.” Her eyes rolled up.

  I cut open her chest and took out the Qusp.

  Francine and I had both carried spare bodies, and clothes, in the trunks of our cars. Adai were banned from domestic flights, so Helen and I drove along the interstate, up toward Washington, D.C., where Francine would meet us. We could claim asylum at the Swiss embassy; Isabelle had already set the machinery in motion.

  Helen was quiet at first, almost shy with me as if with a stranger, but on the second day, as we crossed from Alabama into Georgia, she began to open up. She told me a little of how she’d hitchhiked from state to state, finding casual jobs that paid e-cash and needed no social security number, let alone biometric ID. “Fruit picking was the best.”

  She’d made friends along the way, and confided her nature to those she thought she could trust. She still wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been betrayed. Holder had found her in a transient’s camp under a bridge, and someone must have told him exactly where to look, but it was always possible that she’d been recognized by a casual acquaintance who’d seen her face in the media years before. Francine and I had never publicized her disappearance, never put up flyers or web pages, out of fear that it would only make the danger worse.

  On the third day, as we crossed the Carolinas, we drove in near silence again. The landscape was stunning, the fields strewn with flowers, and Helen seemed calm. Maybe this was what she needed the most: just safety, and peace.

  As dusk approached, though, I felt I had to speak.

  “There’s something I’ve never told you,” I said. “Some-thing that happened to me when I was young.”

  Helen smiled. “Don’t tell me you ran away from the farm? Got tired of milking, and joined the circus?”

  I shook my head. “I was never adventurous. It was just a little thing.” I told her about the kitchen hand.

  She pondered the story for a while. “And that’s why you built the Qusp? That’s why you made me? In the end, it all comes down to that man in the alley?” She sounded more bewildered than angry.

  I bowed my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” she demanded. “Are you sorry that I was ever born?”

  “No, but—”

  “You didn’t put me on that boat. Holder did that.”

  I said, “I brought you into a world with people like him. What I made you, made you a target.”

  “And if I’d been flesh and blood?” she said. “Do you think there aren’t people like him, for flesh and blood? Or do you honestly believe that if you’d had an organic child, there would have been no chance at all that she’d have run away?”

  I started weeping. “I don’t know. I’m just sorry I hurt you.”

  Helen said, “I don’t blame you for what you did. And I understand it better now. You saw a spark of good in yourself, and you wanted to cup your hands around it, protect it, make it stronger. I understand that. I’m not that spark, but that doesn’t matter. I know who I am, I know what my choices are, and I’m glad of that. I’m glad you gave me that.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Do you think I’d feel better , here and now, just because some other version of me handled the same situations better?” She smiled. “Knowing that other people are having a good time isn’t much of a consolation to anyone.”

  I composed myself. The car beeped to bring my attention to a booking it had made in a motel a few kilometers ahead.

  Helen said, “I’ve had time to think about a lot of things. Whatever the laws say, whatever the bigots say, all adai are part of the human race. And what I have is something almost every person who’s ever lived thought they possessed. Human psychology, human culture, human morality, all evolved with the illusion that we lived in a single history. But we don’t—so in the long run, something has to give. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather we tinker with our physical nature than abandon our whole identities.”

  I was silent for a while. “So what are your plans, now?”

  “I need an education.”

  “What do you want to study?”

  “I’m not sure yet. A million different things. But in the long run, I know what I want to do.”

  “Yeah?” The car turned off the highway, heading for the motel.

  “You made a start,” she said, “but it’s not enough. There are people in billions of other branches where the Qusp hasn’t been invented yet—and the way things stand, there’ll always be branches without it. What’s the point in us having this thing, if we don’t share it? All those people deserve to have the power to make their own choices.”

  “Travel between the branches isn’t a simple problem,” I explained gently. “That would be orders of magnitude harder than the Qusp.”

  Helen smiled, conceding this, but the corners of her mouth took on the stubborn set I recognized as the precursor to a thousand smaller victories.

  She said, “Give me time, Dad. Give me time.”

  Geropods

  ROBERT ONOPA

  Robert Onopa (departmental website http://maven.english. hawa
ii.edu/cw/pagel2.html) is associate professor of creative writing and literary theory at the University of Hawaii. He has been a Fulbright lecturer in West Africa and a National Endowment for the Arts Fellow in Fiction Writing. In 1980, he co-edited (with David G. Hartwell) TriQuarterly 49, the special science fiction issue of that distinguished literary quarterly, which included stories by Gene Wolfe, Thomas M. Disch, Samuel R. Delany, Ursula K. Le Guin, and a first story by Michael Swanwick. The issue also set a record at the time for generating subscription cancellations. His SF novel, The Pleasure Tube, was published in 1979, and he has since published a number of well-written stories in F&SF over the last twenty years.

  “Geropods,” from F&SF, is an amusing variant on the gestalt personality trope common in SF since the days of Theodore Sturgeon’s More Than Human. It is also an interesting contrast to Eleanor Arnason’s story appearing earlier in this book. In the near future, a geropod is a legal entity that constitutes a full human being: “any group of infirm old people whose combined physical and mental capacities constitutes the powers of a single, competent individual is collectively entitled to act as an individual.” So old Kaplan, in need of a posse to right a wrong done to his daughter, forms a geropod.

  Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be….

  —Robert Browning

  Like me, my two elderly companions had outlived their wives, but I was new to Arcadia. You know the sort of place I’m talking about, somewhere between a nursing home and a morgue: pastel walls with prints of rolling hills in “quality” antiqued frames, sturdy plastic furniture, a tiled, low-maintenance floor. That afternoon, the digital holo in the corner of the sunroom was tuned to The Young and the Old, a trendy soap starring the ancient Macaulay Culkin, his already pale colors so washed out by the late afternoon glare he looked transparent. The air was laced with the odors of antiseptic and urine. Distant rattling and the indistinct conversations of the old echoed through the chip-array hearing aid I wore like a baseball cap.