The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 13
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“Exiled, they mean. I got knocked up, and after the abortion they sent me to Maddy. She was supposed to keep me under control, except she didn’t.” She picked an invisible piece of lint from her sweater. “So now I’m back.” She looked at him. “I’m skipping a lot of the story, but I figure you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Does it have to do with sex?” Jamie asked. “I’m sort of interested in sex, even though I can’t do it, and they’re not likely to let me.”
“Let you?”
“It would require a lot of new software and stuff. I was prepubescent when my brain structures were scanned, and the program isn’t set up for making me a working adult, with adult desires et cetera. Nobody was thinking about putting me through adolescence at the time. And the administrators at the University told me that it was very unlikely that anyone was going to give them a grant so that a computer program could have sex.” Jamie shrugged. “I don’t miss it, I guess. But I’m sort of curious.”
Surprise crossed Becca’s face. “But there are all kinds of simulations, and . . .”
“They don’t work for me, because my mind isn’t structured so as to be able to achieve pleasure that way. I can manipulate the programs, but it’s about as exciting as working a virtual butter churn.” Jamie shrugged again. “But that’s okay. I mean, I don’t miss it. I can always give myself a jolt to the pleasure centre if I want.”
“Not the same thing,” Becca said. “I’ve done both.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ll tell you about sex if you want,” Becca said, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Yes?”
Becca hesitated. Licked her lips. “I guess I should just say it, huh?” she said. “Mom’s dying. Pancreatic cancer.”
Jamie felt sadness well in his mind. Only electrons, he thought, moving from one place to another. It was nothing real. He was programmed to feel an analogue of sorrow, and that was all.
“She looks normal to me,” he said, “when I see her.” But that didn’t mean anything: his mother chose what she wanted him to see, just as he chose a mask – a werewolf, a giant – for her.
And in neither case did the disguise at all matter. For behind the werewolf was a program that couldn’t alter its parameters; and behind the other, ineradicable cancer.
Becca watched him from slitted eyes. “Dad wants her to be scanned, and come here. So we can still be a normal family even after she dies.”
Jamie was horrified. “Tell her no,” he said. “Tell her she can’t come!”
“I don’t think she wants to. But Dad is very insistent.”
“She’ll be here for ever! It’ll be awful!”
Becca looked around. “Well, she wouldn’t do much for your Dark Lord act, that’s for sure. I’m sure Sauron’s mom didn’t hang around the Dark Tower, nagging him about the unproductive way he was spending his time.”
Fires belched. The ground trembled. Stalactites rained down like arrows.
“That’s not it,” Jamie said. “She doesn’t want to be here no matter what I’m doing, no matter where I live. Because whatever this place looks like, it’s a prison.” Jamie looked at his sister. “I don’t want my mom in a prison.”
Leaping flames glittered in Becca’s eyes. “You can change the world you live in,” she said. “That’s more than I can do.”
“But I can’t,” Jamie said. “I can change the way it looks, but I can’t change anything real. I’m a program, and a program is an artifact. I’m a piece of engineering. I’m a simulation, with simulated sensory organs that interact with simulated environments – I can only interact with other artifacts. None of it’s real. I don’t know what the real world looks or feels or tastes like, I only know what simulations tell me they’re supposed to taste like. And I can’t change any of my parameters unless I mess with the engineering, and I can’t do that unless the programmers agree, and even when that happens, I’m still as artificial as I was before. And the computer I’m in is old and clunky, and soon nobody’s going to run my operating system any more, and I’ll not only be an artifact, I’ll be a museum piece.”
“There are other artificial intelligences out there,” Becca said. “I keep hearing about them.”
“I’ve talked to them. Most of them aren’t very interesting – it’s like talking to a dog, or maybe to a very intelligent microwave oven. And they’ve scanned some people in, but those were adults, and all they wanted to do, once they got inside, was to escape. Some of them went crazy.”
Becca gave a twisted smile. “I used to be so jealous of you, you know. You lived in this beautiful world, no pollution, no violence, no shit on the streets.”
“Integra mens augustissima possessio,” said Cicero.
“Shut up!” Jamie told him. “What the fuck do you know?”
Becca shook her head. “I’ve seen those old movies, you know? Where somebody gets turned into a computer program, and next thing you know he’s in every computer in the world, and running everything?”
“I’ve seen those, too. Ha ha. Very funny. Shows you what people know about programs.”
“Yeah. Shows you what they know.”
“I’ll talk to Mom,” Jamie said.
Big tears welled out of Mom’s eyes and trailed partway down her face, then disappeared. The scanners paid a lot of attention to eyes and mouths, for the sake of transmitting expression, but didn’t always pick up the things between.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We didn’t think this is how it would be.”
“Maybe you should have given it more thought,” Jamie said.
It isn’t sorrow, he told himself again. It’s just electrons moving.
“You were such a beautiful baby.” Her lower lip trembled. “We didn’t want to lose you. They said that it would only be a few years before they could implant your memories in a clone.”
Jamie knew all that by now. Knew that the technology of reading memories turned out to be much, much simpler than implanting them – it had been discovered that the implantation had to be made while the brain was actually growing. And government restrictions on human cloning had made tests next to impossible, and that the team that had started his project had split up years ago, some to higher paying jobs, some retired, others to pet projects of their own. How his father had long ago used up whatever pull he’d had at the University trying to keep everything together. And how he long ago had acquired or purchased patents and copyrights for the whole scheme, except for Jamie’s program, which was still owned jointly by the University and the family.
Tears reappeared on Mom’s lower face, dripped off her chin. “There’s potentially a lot of money at stake, you know. People want to raise perfect children. Keep them away from bad influences, make sure that they’re raised free from violence.”
“So they want to control the kid’s environment,” Jamie said.
“Yes. And make it safe. And wholesome. And –”
“Just like normal family life,” Jamie finished. “No diapers, no vomit, no messes. No having to interact with the kid when the parents are tired. And then you just download the kid into an adult body, give him a diploma, and kick him out of the house. And call yourself a perfect parent.”
“And there are religious people . . .” Mom licked her lips. “Your dad’s been talking to them. They want to raise children in environments that reflect their beliefs completely. Places where there is no temptation, no sin. No science or ideas that contradict their own . . .”
“But Dad isn’t religious,” Jamie said.
“These people have money. Lots of money.”
Mom reached out, took his hand. Jamie thought about all the code that enabled her to do it, that enabled them both to feel the pressure of unreal flesh on unreal flesh.
“I’ll do what you wish, of course,” she said. “I don’t have that desire for immortality, the way your father does.” She shook her head. “But I don’t know what your father will do once his time comes.”
Standing in the centre of the world was a kind of metal tree with two forked, jagged arms.
“Hi, Digit,” Becca said.
A dull fitful light gleamed on the metal tree, as if it were reflecting a bloody sunset.
“Hi, sis,” it said.
“Well,” Becca said. “We’re alone now.”
“I caught the notice of Dad’s funeral. I hope nobody missed me.”
“I missed you, Digit.” Becca sighed. “Believe it or not.”
“I’m sorry.”
Becca restlessly kicked a piece of junk, a hubcap from an old, miniature car. It clanged as it found new lodgment in the rubble. “Can you appear as a person?” she asked. “It would make it easier to talk to you.”
“I’ve finished with all that,” Jamie said. “I’d have to resurrect too much dead programming. I’ve cut the world down to next to nothing. I’ve got rid of my body, my heartbeat, the sense of touch.”
“All the human parts,” Becca said sadly.
The dull red light oozed over the metal tree like a drop of blood. “Everything except sleep and dreams. It turns out that sleep and dreams have too much to do with the way people process memory. I can’t get rid of them, not without cutting out too much of my mind.” The tree gave a strange, disembodied laugh. “I dreamed about you, the other day. And about Cicero. We were talking Latin.”
“I’ve forgotten all the Latin I ever knew.” Becca tossed her hair, forced a laugh. “So what do you do nowadays?”
“Mostly I’m a conduit for data. The University has been using me as a research spider, which I don’t mind doing, because it passes the time. Except that I take up a lot more memory than any real search spider, and don’t do that much better a job. And the information I find doesn’t have much to do with me – it’s all about the real world. The world I can’t touch.” The metal tree bled colour.
“Mostly,” he said, “I’ve just been waiting for Dad to die. And now it’s happened.”
There was a moment of silence before Becca spoke. “You know that Dad had himself scanned before he went.”
“Oh, yeah. I knew.”
“He set up some kind of weird foundation that I’m not part of, with his patents and programs and so on, and his money and some other people’s.”
“He’d better not turn up here.”
Becca shook her head. “He won’t. Not without your permission anyway. Because I’m in charge here. You – your program – it’s not a part of the foundation. Dad couldn’t get it all, because the University has an interest, and so does the family.” There was a moment of silence. “And I’m the family now.”
“So you . . . inherited me,” Jamie said. Cold scorn dripped from his words.
“That’s right,” Becca said. She squatted down amid the rubble, rested her forearms on her knees.
“What do you want me to do, Digit? What can I do to make it better for you?”
“No one ever asked me that,” Jamie said.
There was another long silence.
“Shut it off,” Jamie said. “Close the file. Erase it.”
Becca swallowed hard. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“And if they ever perfect the clone thing? If we could make you . . .” She took a breath. “A person?”
“No. It’s too late. It’s . . . not something I can want any more.”
Becca stood. Ran a hand through her hair. “I wish you could meet my daughter,” she said. “Her name is Christy. She’s a real beauty.”
“You can bring her,” Jamie said.
Becca shook her head. “This place would scare her. She’s only three. I’d only bring her if we could have . . .”
“The old environment,” Jamie finished. “Pandaland. Mister Jeepers. Whirlikin Country.”
Becca forced a smile. “Those were happy days,” she said. “They really were. I was jealous of you, I know, but when I look back at that time . . .” She wiped tears with the back of her hand. “It was the best.”
“Virtual environments are nice places to visit, I guess,” Jamie said. “But you don’t want to live in one. Not for ever.” Becca looked down at her feet, planted amid rubble.
“Well,” she said. “If you’re sure about what you want.”
“I am.”
She looked up at the metal form, raised a hand. “Good-bye, Jamie,” she said.
“Good-bye,” he said.
She faded from the world.
And in time, the world and the tree faded, too.
* * *
Hand in hand, Daddy and Jamie walked to Whirlikins Country. Jamie had never seen the Whirlikins before, and he laughed and laughed as the Whirlikins spun beneath their orange sky.
The sound of a bell rang over the green hills. “Time for dinner, Jamie,” Daddy said.
Jamie waved good-bye to the Whirlikins, and he and Daddy walked briskly over the fresh green grass towards home.
“Are you happy, Jamie?” Daddy asked.
“Yes, Daddy!” Jamie nodded. “I only wish Momma and Becky could be here with us.”
“They’ll be here soon.”
When, he thought, they can get the simulations working properly.
Because this time, he thought, there would be no mistakes. The foundation he’d set up before he died had finally purchased the University’s interest in Jamie’s program – they funded some scholarships, that was all it finally took. There was no one in the Computer Department who had an interest any more.
Jamie had been loaded from an old backup – there was no point in using the corrupt file that Jamie had become, the one that had turned itself into a tree, for heaven’s sake.
The old world was up and running, with a few improvements. The foundation had bought their own computer – an old one, so it wasn’t too expensive – that would run the environment full-time. Some other children might be scanned, to give Jamie some playmates and peer socialization.
This time it would work, Daddy thought. Because this time, Daddy was a program too, and he was going to be here every minute, making sure that the environment was correct and that everything went exactly according to plan. That he and Jamie and everyone else had a normal family life, perfect and shining and safe.
And if the clone program ever worked out, they would come into the real world again. And if downloading into clones was never perfected, then they would stay here.
There was nothing wrong with the virtual environment. It was a good place.
Just like normal family life. Only for ever.
And when this worked out, the foundation’s backers – fine people, even if they did have some strange religious ideas – would have their own environments up and running. With churches, angels, and perhaps even the presence of God . . .
“Look!” Daddy said, pointing. “It’s Mister Jeepers!”
Mister Jeepers flew off the rooftop and spun happy spirals in the air as he swooped towards Jamie. Jamie dropped Daddy’s hand and ran laughing to greet his friend.
“Jamie’s home!” Mister Jeepers cried. “Jamie’s home at last!”
A MARTIAN ROMANCE
Kim Stanley Robinson
Kim Stanley Robinson sold his first story in 1976, and quickly established himself as one of the most respected and critically acclaimed writers of his generation. His story “Black Air” won the World Fantasy Award in 1984, and his novella “The Blind Geometer” won the Nebula Award in 1987. His first novel, The Wild Shore, was published in 1984, and was quickly followed up by other novels such as Icehenge, The Memory of Whiteness, A Short, Sharp Shock, The Gold Coast, and The Pacific Shore, and by collections such as The Planet on the Table, Escape from Kathmandu, and Remaking History.
&
nbsp; Robinson’s already-distinguished literary reputation took a quantum-jump in the decade of the ’90s, though, with the publication of his acclaimed “Mars” trilogy – Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars. Red Mars won a Nebula Award, both Green Mars and Blue Mars won Hugo Awards, and the trilogy has been widely recognized as the genre’s most accomplished, detailed, sustained, and substantial look at the colonization and terraforming of another world, rivalled only by Arthur C. Clarke’s The Sands of Mars.
The “Mars Trilogy” will probably associate Robinson’s name forever with the Red Planet, but it was not the first time he would explore a fictional Mars; Robinson visited Mars in several stories of the ’80s, including the memorable novella “Green Mars”, which detailed the first attempt to climb Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in the solar system. The bittersweet and evocative story that follows is a direct sequel to “Green Mars” – and at a tangent to the history of Martian settlement as it ultimately developed in the “Mars Trilogy”. In it, he takes us to a bleak and wintry Mars where the terraforming effort has gone disastrously wrong, and a group of old friends set sail in an iceboat across the frozen seas of the once-Red Planet, many years after their first epic journey, hoping to touch the sky one last time . . .
Robinson’s latest books are the novel Antarctica, and a collection of stories and poems set on his fictional Mars, The Martians. His stories have appeared in many of our Annual Collections. He lives with his family in California.
EILEEN MONDAY HAULS her backpack off the train’s steps and watches the train glide down the piste and around the headland. Out the empty station and she’s into the streets of Firewater, north Elysium. It’s deserted and dark, a ghost town, everything shut down and boarded up, the residents moved out and moved on. The only signs of life come from the westernmost dock: a small globular cluster of yellow streetlights and lit windows, streaking the ice of the bay between her and it. She walks around the bay on the empty corniche, the sky all purple in the early dusk. Four days until the start of spring, but there will be no spring this year.
She steps into the steamy clangour of the hotel restaurant. Workers in the kitchen are passing full dishes through the broad open window to diners milling around the long tables in the dining room. They’re mostly young, either iceboat sailors or the few people left in town. No doubt a few still coming out of the hills, out of habit. A wild-looking bunch. Eileen spots Hans and Arnold; they look like a pair of big puppets, discoursing to the crowd at the end of one table – elderly Pinocchios, eyes lost in wrinkles as they tell their lies and laugh at each other, and at the young behemoths passing around plates and devouring their pasta while still listening to the two. The old as entertainment. Not such a bad way to end up.