Year's Best SF 3

Year's Best SF 3 Page 13

by David G. Hartwell

Mary said.

  Ken said. He reached for the menu.

  Mary pulled it away.

  Ken said.

  Mary shrugged. she said.

 

 

  Ken tried to look around. He could look in only one direction, toward the boulevard.

  Mary said. She took another drink of the green liquid and opened the menu. Ken was confused. Had she been drinking it all along?

  And why were there four items on the menu?

  Ken suggested.

  But the waiter had already appeared; he, at least, was still the same.

  Mary said, and Ken pointed at HOME. Mary was pointing at the new item on the menu: STAY.

  That weekend was the longest of Ken678's life. As soon as the week restarted, he hurried to the Corridor between Copy and Verify, hoping against hope. But there was no Window open and, of course, no Mary97.

  He looked for her between Calls and Tasks, checking every queue, every Corridor. Finally, toward the middle of the week, he went to the Windowless room off the Browser by himself, for the first time.

  Mary97's Folder was gone. The cards on the tiny, heart-shaped table were facedown, except the ten of diamonds.

  He turned up the queen of hearts, but nothing happened. He wasn't surprised.

  He turned up the ace of spades and felt the cobblestones under his feet. It was April in Paris. The chestnuts were in bloom, but Ken678 felt no joy. Only a sort of thick sorrow.

  He turned into the first café and there she was, sitting at the heart-shaped table.

  she said.

  Ken said.

  Mary shrugged.

  Mary said.

  Mary pushed the glass of green liquid toward him. she said.

  Ken didn't answer. He was afraid if he did he would start to cry, even though Kens can't cry.

  Mary97 said. She even smiled her Mary smile. She took another sip and opened the menu. The waiter appeared, and she pointed to ROOM, and Ken knew somehow that this was to be the last time.

  In the wedge-shaped attic room, he could see down Mary's blouse perfectly. Then his hands were cupping her plump, perfect breasts for the last time. Through the French doors he could see the Eiffel Tower and the boulevard. he said, and she lay back with her blouse and skirt both bunched around her waist, and he knew somehow it was the last time. He heard a familiar clippety-clop from the boulevard as she spread her perfect thighs and said Her red-tipped fingers pulled her little French underpants to one side and Ken knew somehow it was the last time.

  He kissed her sweet red cookie mouth. he said. She pulled her little French underpants to one side and he knew somehow it was the last time.

  he said.

  It was the last time.

  A gendarme's whistle blew and they were back at the sidewalk café. The menu was closed on the heart-shaped table. Mary asked.

  What a sad joke she is making, Ken678 thought. He tried to smile even though Kens can't smile.

  Mary said. She took another drink of the green liquid. She swirled it jauntily. No matter how much she drank there was always plenty left.

  Ken said.

  she said.

  Ken678 nodded even though Kens can't nod. It was more like a stiff bow. Mary97 opened the menu. The waiter came and Ken pointed to HOME.

  Ken678 spent the next two weeks working like crazy. He was all over Microserf Office 6.9. As soon as his Folder blinked he was off, on Call, triple Tasking, burning up the Corridors. He avoided the Corridor between Copy and Verify, though, just as he avoided the Browser. He almost paused at an open Window once. But he did't want to look at April in Paris. It was too lonely without Mary.

  Four weeks passed before Ken678 went back to the Windowless room in the Browser. He dreaded seeing the cards on the heart-shaped table. But the cards were gone. Even the table was gone. Ken saw the scuff marks along the wall, and he realized that the Optimizer had been through. The room had been erased again and was being overwritten.

  When he left the room he was no longer lonely. He was accompanied by a great sorrow.

  The next week he went by the room again and found it filled with empty Folders. Perhaps one of them was Mary97's. Now that the Easter Egg was gone, Ken678 no longer felt guilty about not going to see Mary97. He was free to love Microserf Office 6.9 again, free to enjoy the soft electron buzz, the busy streaming icons and the long, silent queues. But at least once a week he stops by the Corridor between Copy and Verify and opens the Window. You might find him there even now, looking out into April in Paris. The chestnuts are in bloom, the cobblestones shine, the carriages are letting off stick figures in the distance. The cafés are almost empty. A lone figure sits at a tiny table, a figure that might be her.

  They say you never get over your first love. Then Mary97 must have been my first love, Ken678 likes to think. He has no interest in getting over her. He loves to remember her red fingernails, her soft Mary voice and her Mary smile, her nipples as big and as brown as cookies, her little French underpants pulled to one side—her.

  The figure in the café must be Mary97. Ken678 hopes so. He hopes she is OK in April in Paris. He hopes she is as happy as she once made, is still making, him. He hopes she is as wonderfully sad.

  But look: His Folder is blinking like crazy, a waitstate interrupt, and it's time to go.

  Itsy Bitsy Spider

  JAMES PATRICK KELLY

  James Patrick Kelly has been in each volume of this year's best series to date, and for good reason. Although not prolific, he is building one of the most impressive bodies of short fiction in SF in this part of the decade, at the rate of a couple or three good stories a year. This year, his story collection, Think Like a Dinosaur, was the first hardcover release of an ambitious new publisher, Golden Gryphon, and this story was published in Asimov's. There were several SF stories this year about retired and infirm family members. I suppose it is that another generation of SF writers is arriving at middle age and seeing in the declining health of their parents' generation a wintry prognostication for the future, something to be got around in some science fictional way without violating the need for empathy, or indeed logic. It is an easy subject to get depressed about but Kelly avoided that, so I liked this one best.

  When I found out that my father was still alive after all these years and living at Strawberry Fields, I thought he'd gotten just what he deserved. Retroburbs are where the old, scared people go to hide. I'd always pictured the people in them as deranged losers. Visiting some fantasy world like the disneys or Carlucci's Carthage is one thing, moving to one is another. Sure, 2038 is messy, but it's a hell of a lot better than nineteen-sixty-whatever.

  Now that I'd arrived at 144 Bluejay Way, I realized that the place was worse than I had imagined. Strawberry Fields was pretending to be some long-lost suburb of the late twentieth century, except that it had the sterile monotony of cheap VR. It was clean, all right, and neat, but it was everywhere the same. And the scale was wrong. The lots were squeezed together and all the houses had shrunk—like the dreams of their owners. They were about the size of a one-car garage, modular units tarted up at the factory to look like ranches, with old double-hung
storm windows and hardened siding of harvest gold, barn red, forest green. Of course, there were no real garages; faux Mustangs and VW buses cruised the quiet streets. Their carbrains were listening for a summons from Barbara Chesley next door at 142, or the Goltzes across the street, who might be headed to Penny Lanes to bowl a few frames, or the hospital to die.

  There was a beach chair with blue nylon webbing on the front stoop of 144 Bluejay Way. A brick walk led to it, dividing two patches of carpet moss, green as a dream. There were names and addresses printed in huge lightstick letters on all the doors in the neighborhood; no doubt many Strawberry Fielders were easily confused. The owner of this one was Peter Fancy. He had been born Peter Fanelli, but had legally taken his stage name not long after his first success as Prince Hal in Henry IV Part 1. I was a Fancy too; the name was one of the few things of my father's I had kept.

  I stopped at the door and let it look me over. “You're Jen,” it said.

  “Yes.” I waited in vain for it to open or to say something else. “I'd like to see Mr. Fancy, please.” The old man's house had worse manners than he did. “He knows I'm coming,” I said. “I sent him several messages.” Which he had never answered, but I didn't mention that.

  “Just a minute,” said the door. “She'll be right with you.”

  She? The idea that he might be with another woman now hadn't occurred to me. I'd lost track of my father a long time ago—on purpose. The last time we'd actually visited overnight was when I was twenty. Mom gave me a ticket to Port Gemini, where he was doing the Shakespeare in Space program. The orbital was great, but staying with him was like being under water. I think I must have held my breath for the entire week. After that, there were a few, sporadic calls, a couple of awkward dinners—all at his instigation. Then twenty-three years of nothing.

  I never hated him, exactly. When he left, I just decided to show solidarity with Mom and be done with him. If acting was more important than his family, then to hell with Peter Fancy. Mom was horrified when I told her how I felt. She cried and claimed the divorce was as much her fault as his. It was too much for me to handle; I was only eleven years old when they separated. I needed to be on someone's side and so I had chosen her. She never did stop trying to talk me into finding him again, even though after a while it only made me mad at her. For the past few years, she'd been warning me that I'd developed a warped view of men.

  But she was a smart woman, my mom—a winner. Sure, she'd had troubles, but she'd founded three companies, was a millionaire by twenty-five. I missed her.

  A lock clicked and the door opened. Standing in the dim interior was a little girl in a gold-and-white checked dress. Her dark, curly hair was tied in a ribbon. She was wearing white ankle socks and black Mary Jane shoes that were so shiny they had to be plastic. There was a Band-Aid on her left knee.

  “Hello, Jen. I was hoping you'd really come.” Her voice surprised me. It was resonant, impossibly mature. At first glance I'd guessed she was three, maybe four; I'm not much good at guessing kids' ages. Now I realized that this must be a bot—a made person.

  “You look just like I thought you would.” She smiled, stood on tiptoe and raised a delicate little hand over her head. I had to bend to shake it. The hand was warm, slightly moist, and very realistic. She had to belong to Strawberry Fields; there was no way my father could afford a bot with skin this real.

  “Please come in.” She waved on the lights. “We're so happy you're here.” The door closed behind me.

  The playroom took up almost half of the little house. Against one wall was a miniature kitchen. Toy dishes were drying in a rack next to the sink; the pink refrigerator barely came up to my waist. The table was full-sized; it had two normal chairs and a booster chair. Opposite this was a bed with a ruffled Pumpkin Patty bedspread. About a dozen dolls and stuffed animals were arranged along the far edge of the mattress. I recognized most of them: Pooh, Mr. Moon, Baby Rollypolly, the Sleepums, Big Bird. And the wallpaper was familiar too: Oz figures like Toto and the Wizard and the Cowardly Lion on a field of Munchkin blue.

  “We had to make a few changes,” said the bot. “Do you like it?”

  The room seemed to tilt then. I took a small, unsteady step and everything righted itself. My dolls, my wallpaper, the chest of drawers from Grandma Fanelli's cottage in Hyannis. I stared at the bot and recognized her for the first time.

  She was me.

  “What is this,” I said, “some kind of sick joke?” I felt like I'd just been slapped in the face.

  “Is something wrong?” the bot said. “Tell me. Maybe we can fix it.”

  I swiped at her and she danced out of reach. I don't know what I would have done if I had caught her. Maybe smashed her through the picture window onto the patch of front lawn or shaken her until pieces started falling off. But the bot wasn't responsible, my father was. Mom would never have defended him if she'd known about this. The old bastard. I couldn't believe it. Here I was, shuddering with anger, after years of feeling nothing for him.

  There was an interior door just beyond some shelves filled with old-fashioned paper books. I didn't take time to look as I went past, but I knew that Dr. Seuss and A.A. Milne and L. Frank Baum would be on those shelves. The door had no knob.

  “Open up,” I shouted. It ignored me, so I kicked it. “Hey!”

  “Jennifer.” The bot tugged at the back of my jacket. “I must ask you…”

  “You can't have me!” I pressed my ear to the door. Silence. “I'm not this thing you made.” I kicked it again. “You hear?”

  Suddenly an announcer was shouting in the next room. “…Into the post to Russell, who kicks it out to Havlicek all alone at the top of the key, he shoots…and Baylor with the strong rebound.” The asshole was trying to drown me out.

  “If you don't come away from that door right now,” said the bot, “I'm calling security.”

  “What are they going to do?” I said. “I'm the long-lost daughter, here for a visit. And who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I'm bonded to him, Jen. Your father is no longer competent to handle his own affairs. I'm his legal guardian.”

  “Shit.” I kicked the door one last time, but my heart wasn't in it. I shouldn't have been surprised that he had slipped over the edge. He was almost ninety.

  “If you want to sit and talk, I'd like that very much.” The bot gestured toward a banana yellow beanbag chair. “Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

  It was the shock of seeing the bot, I told myself—I'd reacted like a hurt little girl. But I was a grown woman and it was time to start behaving like one. I wasn't here to let Peter Fancy worm his way back into my feelings. I had come because of Mom.

  “Actually,” I said, “I'm here on business.” I opened my purse. “If you're running his life now, I guess this is for you.” I passed her the envelope and settled back, tucking my legs beneath me. There is no way for an adult to sit gracefully in a beanbag chair.

  She slipped the check out. “It's from Mother.” She paused, then corrected herself, “Her estate.” She didn't seem surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “It's too generous.”

  “That's what I thought.”

  “She must've taken care of you too?”

  “I'm fine.” I wasn't about to discuss the terms of Mom's will with my father's toy daughter.

  “I would've liked to have known her,” said the bot. She slid the check back into the envelope and set it aside. “I've spent a lot of time imagining Mother.”

  I had to work hard not to snap at her. Sure, this bot had at least a human equivalent intelligence and would be a free citizen someday, assuming she didn't break down first. But she had a cognizor for a brain and a heart fabricated in a vat. How could she possibly imagine my mom, especially when all she had to go on was whatever lies he had told her?

  “So how bad is he?”

  She gave me a sad smile and shook her head. “Some days are better than others. He has no clue who Preside
nt Huong is or about the quake, but he can still recite the dagger scene from Macbeth. I haven't told him that Mother died. He'd just forget it ten minutes later.”

  “Does he know what you are?”

  “I am many things, Jen.”

  “Including me.”

  “You're a role I'm playing, not who I am.” She stood. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Okay.” I still wanted to know why Mom had left my father four hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars in her will. If he couldn't tell me, maybe the bot could.

  She went to her kitchen, opened a cupboard, and took out a regular-sized cup. It looked like a bucket in her little hand. “I don't suppose you still drink Constant Comment?”

  His favorite. I had long since switched to rafallo. “That's fine.” I remembered that when I was a kid my father used to brew cups for the two of us from the same bag because Constant Comment was so expensive. “I thought they went out of business long ago.”

  “I mix my own. I'd be interested to hear how accurate you think the recipe is.”

  “I suppose you know how I like it?”

  She chuckled.

  “So, does he need the money?”

  The microwave dinged. “Very few actors get rich,” said the bot. I didn't think there had been microwaves in the sixties, but then strict historical accuracy wasn't really the point of Strawberry Fields. “Especially when they have a weakness for Shakespeare.”

  “Then how come he lives here and not in some flop? And how did he afford you?”

  She pinched sugar between her index finger and thumb, then rubbed them together over the cup. It was something I still did, but only when I was by myself. A nasty habit; Mom used to yell at him for teaching it to me. “I was a gift.” She shook a teabag loose from a canister shaped like an acorn and plunged it into the boiling water. “From Mother.”

  The bot offered the cup to me; I accepted it nervelessly. “That's not true.” I could feel the blood draining from my face.

  “I can lie if you'd prefer, but I'd rather not.” She pulled the booster chair away from the table and turned it to face me. “There are many things about themselves that they never told us, Jen. I've always wondered why that was.”

 

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