The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “Why do you say things like that, John?”

  “Because I’m a bastard. I mean, you of all people must know about bastards having to put up with Steve.”

  Cal laughed. “You called him Steve!”

  I really must be going ta bits. “Yeah, well I must have puked up me wits over that lay-by.”

  “Anyway,” she touches me arm. “Call him whatever you like. I took your advice this evening. Told him where to stuff it.”

  I look carefully at her face. She obviously ain’t kidding, but I can’t see any bruises. “And what about the money I nicked?”

  “Well, that’s not a problem for me, is it? I simply told him the truth, that it was you.” She smiled. “Come on, John. I’d almost believe you were frightened of him. He’s just some bloke. He’s got another girl he’s after anyway, the other side of town and good luck to her.”

  “So it’s just you and me is it, Cal. Cosy, like. Don’t expect me to sort out yer customers for yer.”

  “I’m getting too old for that, John. It costs you more than they pay. Maybe I’ll do more work at the NEC. Of course, you’ll have to start paying your sodding rent.”

  I hear meself say, “I think there’s a vacancy coming up in the NEC Gents. How about that for a funky job for Dr. Winston? At least you get to sweep the shit up there rather than having to stuff it into envelopes.”

  “What are you talking about, John?”

  “Forget it. Maybe I’ll explain in the morning. You’ve got influence there, haven’t you?”

  “I’ll help you get a job, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

  I lookouta ye window. The houses streaming past, yellow windows, where ye Snodgrasses who weren’t at the concert are chomping pipe and slippers while the wife makes spaniel eyes. The kids tucked upstairs in pink and blue rooms that smell of Persil and Playdough. Me, I’m just the guy who used to be in a halfway-famous band before they were anybody. I got me no book club subscription, I got me no life so clean yer could eat yer bloody dinner off it. Of course, I still got me rebellion, oh yeah, I got me that, and all it amounts to is cadging cigs off Cal and lifting packets of Cheesy Wotsits from the bargain bin in Kwiksave when Doris and Tracy ain’t looking. Oh, yeah, rebellion. The milkman shouts at me when I go near his float in case the Mad Old Git nicks another bottle.

  I can remember when we used to stand up and face the crowd, do all them songs I’ve forgotten how to play. When Paul still knew how to rock. When Stu was half an artist, dreamy and scary at the same time. When George was just a neat kid behind a huge guitar, lying about his age. When Ringo was funny and the beat went on forever. Down the smoggily lit stairways and greasy tunnels, along burrows and byways where the cheesy reek of the bogs hit yer like a wall. Then the booze was free afterwards and the girls would gather round, press softly against yer arm as they smiled. Their boyfriends would mutter at the bar but you knew they were afraid of yer. Knew they could sense the power of the music that carried off the stage. Jesus, the girls were as sweet as the rain in those grey cities, the shining streets, the forest wharves, the dark doorways where there was laughter in the dripping brick-paved night. And sleeping afterwards, yer head spinning from the booze and the wakeups and the downers, taking turns on that stained mattress with the cinema below booming in yer head and the music still pouring through. Diving down into carousel dreams.

  Oh, the beat went on all right. Used to think it would carry up into daylight and the real air, touch the eyes and ears of the pretty dreamers, even make Snodgrass stir a little in his slumbers, take the shine off the Sierra, make him look up at the angels in the sky once in a while, or even just down at the shit on the pavement.

  “Well, here we are,” Cal says.

  Oh, yeah. Some hotel. Out in the pretty pretty. Trees and lights across a fucking lake. The boy scout opens the door for me and Cal. Unsteady on me pins, I take a breath, then have me a good retching cough. The air out here reeks of roses or something, like one of them expensive bog fresheners that Cal sprays around when our Kev’s had a dump.

  “Hey.” Cal holds out the crook of her arm. “Aren’t you going to escort me in?”

  “Let’s wait here.”

  There are other cars pulling up, some old git dressed like he’s the Duke of Wellington standing at the doors. Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, sir, he smooths greyly to the passing suits. I suppose these must be record industry types. And then there’s this bigger car than the rest starts to pull up. It just goes on and on, like one of them gags in Tom and Jerry. Everyone steps back like it’s the Pope. Instead, turns out it’s just the Beatles. They blink around in the darkness like mad owls, dressed in them ridiculous loose cotton suits that Clapton always looks such a prat in. Lawyers tremble around them like little fish. Paul pauses to give a motorcycle policeman his autograph, flashes the famous Macca grin. Some guy in a suit who looks like the hotel manager shakes hands with Stu. Rock and roll. I mean, this is what we were always fighting for. The Beatles don’t register the good Doctor before they head inside, buy maybe that’s because he’s taken three steps back into the toilet freshener darkness.

  “What are we waiting for?” Cal asks as the rest of the rubbernecks drift in.

  “This isn’t easy, Cal.”

  “Who said anything about easy?”

  I give the Duke of Wellington a salute as he holds ye door open.

  “Straight ahead to the Clarendon Suite, sir.”

  “Hey,” I tell him, “I used to be Beatle John.”

  “Stop mucking about, John.” Cal does her Kenneth Williams impression, then gets all serious. “This is important. Just forget about the past and let’s concentrate on the rest of your life. All you have to say to Paul is Hello. He’s a decent guy. And I’m sure that the rest of them haven’t changed as much as you imagine.”

  Cal wheels me in. The hotel lobby looks like a hotel lobby. The Tracy at reception gives me a cutglass smile. Catch a glimpse of meself in the mirror and unbelievably I really don’t look too bad. Must be slipping.

  “Jesus, Cal. I need a smoke.”

  “Here.” She rumbles in me pocket, produces Kevin’s Rothmans. “I suppose you want a bloody light.”

  All the expensive fish are drifting by. Some bint in an evening dress so low at the back that you can see the crack of her arse puts her arm on this Snodgrass and gives him a peck on the cheek. That was delightful, darrling, she purrs. She really does.

  “I mean a real smoke, Cal. Haven’t you got some blow?” I make a lunge for her handbag.

  “Bloody hell, John,” she whispers, looking close to losing her cool. She pushes something into my hand. “Have it outside, if you must. Share it with the bloody doorman.”

  “Thanks Cal.” I give her a peck on the cheek and she looks at me oddly. “I’ll never forget.”

  “Forget what?” she asks as I back towards the door. Then she begins to understand. But the Duke holds the door open for me and already I’m out in the forest night air.

  The door swings back, then open again. The hotel lights fan out across the grass. I look back. There’s some figure.

  “Hey, John!”

  It’s a guy’s voice, not Cal’s after all. Sounds almost Liverpool.

  “Hey, wait a minute! Can’t we just talk?”

  The voice rings in silence.

  “John! It’s me!”

  Paul’s walking into the darkness towards me. He’s holding out his hand. I stumble against chrome. The big cars are all around. Then I’m kicking white stripes down the road. Turns to gravel underfoot and I can see blue sea, a white beach steaming after the warm rain, a place where a woman is waiting and the bells jingle between her breasts. Just close your eyes and you’re there.

  Me throat me legs me head hurts. But there’s a gated side road here that leads off through trees and scuffing the dirt at the end of a field to some big houses that nod and sway with the sleepy night.

  I risk a look behind. Everything is peaceful. There’s no o
ne around. Snodgrass is dreaming. Stars upon the rooftops, and the Sierra’s in the drive. Trees and privet, lawns neat as velvet. Just some suburban road at the back of the hotel. People living their lives.

  I catch me breath, and start to run again.

  BY THE MIRROR OF MY YOUTH

  Kathe Koja

  One of the most exciting new writers to hit the science fiction scene in some time, Kathe Koja is a frequent contributor to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. She has also sold stories to Pulphouse, Universe, The Ultimate Werewolf, A Whisper of Blood, and elsewhere. Her first novel, The Cipher, was released to enthusiastic critical response, and a new novel, Bad Brains, was greeted with similar acclaim. Her third novel, Skin, has just been published. She has had stories in our Sixth, Seventh, and Ninth Annual Collections.

  Here, with her usual hard-edged élan, she gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “technological obsolescence” …

  Raymond’s sweat. Just a bead of it, a proud greasy glitter in the Slavic valley of his temple, his left temple mind you, the one pointed at her. Of course it would be. Rachel had passed no day, had in fact lived no moment of her entire adult life without one of Raymond’s irritations parading itself before her. It was a gift he had.

  He shifted, there on the bench, the preciously faux-Shaker bench he insisted upon inserting in her morning room like a splinter in her living flesh.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked her.

  She forbore to answer in words, preferring the quick nod, the quicker rise from her chair, beat him to the door if she could. She couldn’t. His healthy rise, his longer reach, his more advantageous proximity to the door, and still he stopped, paused to hold it for her:

  “After you,” he said.

  “Why not,” she said. “Once in a lifetime can’t hurt.”

  * * *

  Halfway through the long drive, he spoke again, her hands tight and graceful on the wheel: “Those gloves look shabby,” he said.

  “They are shabby.”

  “Well, why don’t you get some new ones?”

  “That’s right.” The defroster’s heat blowing back, oven-dry into her face. “That’s you, isn’t it, Ray? When it wears out, get a new one. Because the old one doesn’t work anymore. Because the old one’s wearing out.” There were certainly no tears, she had cried this all out years before, but the anger was as bitter and brisk as new snow.

  His profile, advantageous in the passing arctic shine of the landscape. His noble brow. “Oh, for God’s sake. Aren’t you ever going to stop feeling sorry for yourself?”

  Who else will, she wanted to say, but that was as petty as it sounded and anyway they were there, the low shiny lines of the clinic before them, as cool and precious as mercury in the manicured drifts of the grounds. The circular driveway looked as if it had been literally swept clean. She pulled the Toyota right up to the entrance, as if it were a nice hotel with a nice doorman who would see to it that the car was safely parked. Her hand on the heavy glass door, warm as honey even through her shabby glove, her frozen skin, did they even heat the glass? No discomfort here, she thought—royal-blue carpet, pink marble glint of the receptionist’s desk—heated glass and heated floors, only the client left cold. It made her smile, and she kept the smile to give to the receptionist. There was no point in taking it out on him.

  But the receptionist’s smile, heavy lips, bright teeth, was all for Raymond: “Good afternoon, Mr. Pope,” not presuming to offer his hand until Ray offered his, then accepting it in a flurried, flattered grasp, oh God if she had seen it once she had seen it a million times. If he said anything about Brain Fevre she would vomit on the spot.

  “It’s an honor to have you here,” the receptionist said.

  “Thank you,” Raymond said.

  “Dr. Christensen is waiting for you. Will you come this way, please?”

  Rachel followed, silent, silent in the warm office, thinking not of what was to come or even of their, no, her first visit here, the papers and papers to sign, the needles and the sharp lights, but of a day when Raymond had sat, slumped and sorry before his terminal, the monitor screen bright and crazed with the germinus of what would become Brain Fevre, saying, “It isn’t any good. It isn’t working.” Fingers restless on the keys, toying with Delete.

  “It’s going to.” Her hands, not on his shoulders—they had already got past that—but on the green slope of his swivel chair, unconsciously kneading the leather, the padding beneath like flesh under skin. “Just sweat it out, Ray. You can do that.”

  And he, lips skinned back like Benjamin who lay beneath his feet, “What the hell would you know about it?” and the echo of Benjamin’s mimicking growl. Benjamin had loved Ray like a, like a dog, though of course Rachel had been the one to care for him, fill his dishes and let him in and out and drive him to the vet for the interminable shots that prolonged his painful life, drive him too for the last shot that set him free, that set Raymond breaking casseroles and cups in the kitchen when she came home alone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” weeping in his rage, and she, still able to be surprised, protesting that she had told him, had begged him to come with her, to be with Benjamin at the end, and he had taken her World’s Fair mug, her sister’s mug, and standing poised like Thor before the porcelain sink—

  “Mrs. Pope?”

  “Oh.” Looking up to see Dr. Christensen, smiling, this smile for her now but she was past needing smiles, at least for today. “Are you ready to go?”

  Raymond’s words. “Of course,” she said, making it a point to rise smoothly, showing nothing of the jeering clack of bone on bone, the pain that in its inception had compelled her here, back when such things were not only prohibited but prohibitively expensive, before the ambiguities of the Frawley Act, before she had come to loathe Raymond so professionally it was almost a job. It was her job, after all, because after all what else did she have to do, useless keeper of the shrine when the god himself was still alive to tend to the incense and answer the mail, every letter hand-signed by the master in his very own childish scrawl, his—

  And a door, opening into the jabber of her panic. Scent like medicine, but not. And her voice, but not her voice.

  “Hello.” And beyond the jumble of the others, their self-congratulatory greetings, looking to see herself, eighteen and smiling, holding out her hand.

  * * *

  Carlene. Raymond had named her, of course. She was his toy, after all. She moved around the house like water, her grace so eerie to Rachel from whom it originated, from whom it had so long ago decamped, deserting her at the onset of the disease. In the days when she could still cry, not for herself or the pain, but Raymond. In the days when Raymond still held her, when they talked, talking out this, too, this plan, she whispering, “I don’t care so much about dying, but I can’t stand for you to be alone.” And he, breath hot against her forehead, tears in his voice, “I can’t stand it either,” and together they wept. For him.

  Together they signed the papers, got the bank draft, almost everything they had—this was in the days before Brain Fevre, before the money that made their original sacrifice ludicrous, Ray had spent almost that much last year on redoing the Japanese garden. Together they read through the documents, discussed the procedure, experimental, frightening. She drove to the clinic alone, lay in cold paper garments, waiting.

  “Did my husband call?”

  A meaningless smile. “Perhaps he will later, Mrs. Pope.”

  When the cells took hold, when the birth began, it was Raymond they notified, while she lay anxious and drugged not half a hall distant. When she finally arrived home, knees trembling, stomach sore from all the vomiting, she sagged in the doorway of his studio and slurred out, “It’s a girl.”

  It was Raymond’s name on the progress reports, Raymond’s preferences in the client file; he was even listed on the donor sheet, and when she protested this last obliterating irony he had obliterat
ed her further: “Well, let’s be realists, Rachel, who is all this for? You or me? You won’t even be here.”

  “Thank God,” she had said, already sorry, sorry unto death, but there was now no chance of erasing the fruit of this creation, this costly exclusive child of her flesh. Of course Raymond had long ago refused her the chance for children, but then again this would be no child: this was the second coming of Rachel, his wife improved. The flesh-toy, Rachel called her, called it, unwilling to admit to personhood this monstrous insult, all the more monstrous for her own complicity in its conception.

  The progress reports continued. The flesh-toy prospered, the years went on, and her disease, like a river, ran through it all; sometimes she thought she was dying, and in the fading instant wondered with pale regret what it would have been like, to see this woman, this cloned get of hers.

  And now, of course, she knew.

  * * *

  Carlene drank tomato juice. Carlene wore wool. Carlene did crossword puzzles, slightly crooked teeth unconsciously exposed as she frowned over a word like lepidopterist or pantophobia. Rachel watched her like an anthropologist, thinking, I do none of these things, I never did. And yet Carlene liked loud bass-heavy music, and cut apples in slices, never the wedges that Raymond preferred: “They taste better this way,” she said firmly, and reluctant, Rachel thought Yes. They do.

  She was repellent to Rachel, yet irresistible, as consuming as an itch the time spent observing, seeing spread before her the sweet table of her own youth, lived anew each day in the person of a stranger. As Carlene fetched and carried for Raymond, admired his gardens, studied his art, did all the things she had been created to do, Rachel sat wrapped in the pocket of her pain, and watched.

  See the flesh-toy reenact the same old ballet, the same old pavane of his ego and her cheery prostration, his heavy-handed lessons and her student’s gravity, his reversionist cant and her wide-eyed worship—it was far worse than Rachel had imagined, far uglier than she could have guessed in the days when she nursed her indignity like a shameful pleasure. But I thought I would be dead, she argued with herself. I thought I wouldn’t have to see. Does that make it better? with cold self-disdain, and the eyes that watched Carlene grew dry with a feeling she had not bargained for, that she had imagined in this time of deathbound selfishness beyond her.