I went and pressed my forehead against the plate-glass window, as cold as the glass in my hand. Time to go, I said to myself. You are exhibiting symptoms of urban singles angst. There are cures for this. Drink up. Go.
I didn’t attain a state of partytime that night. Neither did I exhibit adult common sense and give up, go home, watch some ancient movie, and fall asleep on my futon. The tension those three weeks had built up in me drove me like the mainspring of a mechanical watch, and I went ticking off through nighttown, lubricating my more or less random progress with more drinks. It was one of those nights, I quickly decided, when you slip into an alternate continuum, a city that looks exactly like the one where you live, except for the peculiar difference that it contains not one person you love or know or have even spoken to before. Nights like that, you can go into a familiar bar and find that the staff has just been replaced; then you understand that your real motive in going there was simply to see a familiar face, on a waitress or a bartender, whoever.… This sort of thing has been known to mediate against partytime.
I kept it rolling, though, through six or eight places, and eventually it rolled me into a West End club that looked as if it hadn’t been redecorated since the Nineties. A lot of peeling chrome over plastic, blurry holograms that gave you a headache if you tried to make them out. I think Barry had told me about the place, but I can’t imagine why. I looked around and grinned. If I was looking to be depressed, I’d come to the right place. Yes, I told myself as I took a corner stool at the bar, this was genuinely sad, really the pits. Dreadful enough to halt the momentum of my shitty evening, which was undoubtedly a good thing. I’d have one more for the road, admire the grot, and then cab it on home.
And then I saw Lise.
She hadn’t seen me, not yet, and I still had my coat on, tweed collar up against the weather. She was down the bar and around the corner with a couple of empty drinks in front of her, big ones, the kind that come with little Hong Kong parasols or plastic mermaids in them, and as she looked up at the boy beside her, I saw the wizz flash in her eyes and knew that those drinks had never contained alcohol, because the levels of drug she was running couldn’t tolerate the mix. The kid, though, was gone, numb grinning drunk and about ready to slide off his stool, and running on about something as he made repeated attempts to focus his eyes and get a better look at Lise, who sat there with her wardrobe team’s black leather blouson zipped to her chin and her skull about to burn through her white face like a thousand-watt bulb. And seeing that, seeing her there, I knew a whole lot of things at once.
That she really was dying, either from the wizz or her disease or the combination of the two. That she damned well knew it. That the boy beside her was too drunk to have picked up on the exoskeleton, but not too drunk to register the expensive jacket and the money she had for drinks. And that what I was seeing was exactly what it looked like.
But I couldn’t add it up, right away, couldn’t compute. Something in me cringed.
And she was smiling, or anyway doing a thing she must have thought was like a smile, the expression she knew was appropriate to the situation, and nodding in time to the kid’s slurred inanities, and that awful line of hers came back to me, the one about liking to watch.
And I know something now. I know that if I hadn’t happened in there, hadn’t seen them, I’d have been able to accept all that came later. Might even have found a way to rejoice on her behalf, or found a way to trust in whatever it is that she’s since become, or had built in her image, a program that pretends to be Lise to the extent that it believes it’s her. I could have believed what Rubin believes, that she was so truly past it, our hi-tech Saint Joan burning for union with that hardwired godhead in Hollywood, that nothing mattered to her except the hour of her departure. That she threw away that poor sad body with a cry of release, free of the bonds of polycarbon and hated flesh. Well, maybe, after all, she did. Maybe it was that way. I’m sure that’s the way she expected it to be.
But seeing her there, that drunken kid’s hand in hers, that hand she couldn’t even feel, I knew, once and for all, that no human motive is ever entirely pure. Even Lise, with that corrosive, crazy drive to stardom and cybernetic immortality, had weaknesses. Was human in a way I hated myself for admitting.
She’d gone out that night, I knew, to kiss herself goodbye. To find someone drunk enough to do it for her. Because, I knew then, it was true: She did like to watch.
I think she saw me, as I left. I was practically running. If she did, I suppose she hated me worse than ever, for the horror and the pity in my face.
I never saw her again.
* * *
Someday I’ll ask Rubin why Wild Turkey sours are the only drink he knows how to make. Industrial-strength, Rubin’s sours. He passes me the dented aluminum cup, while his place ticks and stirs around us with the furtive activity of his smaller creations.
“You ought to come to Frankfurt,” he says again.
“Why, Rubin?”
“Because pretty soon she’s going to call you up. And I think maybe you aren’t ready for it. You’re still screwed up about this, and it’ll sound like her and think like her, and you’ll get too weird behind it. Come over to Frankfurt with me and you can get a little breathing space. She won’t know you’re there.…”
“I told you,” I say, remembering her at the bar in that club, “lots of work. Max—”
“Stuff Max. Max you just made rich. Max can sit on his hands. You’re rich yourself, from your royalty cut on Kings, if you weren’t too stubborn to dial up your bank account. You can afford a vacation.”
I look at him and wonder when I’ll tell him the story of that final glimpse. “Rubin, I appreciate it, man, but I just…”
He sighs, drinks. “But what?”
“Rubin, if she calls me, is it her?”
He looks at me a long time. “God only knows.” His cup clicks on the table. “I mean, Casey, the technology is there, so who, man, really who, is to say?”
“And you think I should come with you to Frankfurt?”
He takes off his steel-rimmed glasses and polishes them inefficiently on the front of his plaid flannel shirt. “Yeah, I do. You need the rest. Maybe you don’t need it now, but you’re going to, later.”
“How’s that?”
“When you have to edit her next release. Which will almost certainly be soon, because she needs money bad. She’s taking up a lot of ROM on some corporate mainframe, and her share of Kings won’t come close to paying for what they had to do to put her there. And you’re her editor, Casey. I mean, who else?”
And I just stare at him as he puts the glasses back on, like I can’t move at all.
“Who else, man?”
And one of his constructs clicks right then, just a clear and tiny sound, and it comes to me, he’s right.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
1986
Jim Aikin, “A Place to Stay for a Little While,” IAsfm, June.
Brian W. Aldiss, “The Difficulties Involved in Photographing Nix Olympica,” IAsfm, May.
Kim Antieau, “Fractures,” Twilight Zone, December.
———, “Sanctuary,” Shadows 9.
Isaac Asimov, “Robot Dreams,” IAsfm, mid-December.
Clive Barker, “Lost Souls,” Cutting Edge.
John Barnes, “How Cold She Is, and Dumb,” F&SF, June.
———, “Stochasm,” IAsfm, December.
Neal Barrett, Jr., “Trading Post,” IAsfm, October.
John Berryman, “The Big Dish,” Analog, November.
Gregory Benford, “Freezeframe,” Interzone, #17.
———, “Newton Sleep,” F&SF, January.
———, “Of Space-Time and the River,” IAsfm, February.
Michael Bishop, “Alien Graffiti,” IAsfm, June.
———, “Close Encounters with the Deity,” IAsfm, March.
James P. Blaylock, “The Shadow on the Doorstep,” IAsfm, May.
Robert Bloch, �
�The Chaney Legacy,” Night Cry, Fall.
———, “The Yugoslaves,” Night Cry, Spring.
Michael Blumlein, “The Brains of Rats,” Interzone, #16.
Edward Bryant, “The Transfer,” Cutting Edge.
Bob Buckley, “Red Wolf,” Analog, July.
Orson Scott Card, “Prior Restraint,” Aboriginal SF, #1.
———, “Salvage,” IAsfm, February.
Suzy McKee Charnas, “Listening to Brahms,” Omni, September.
Robert R. Chase, “Bearings,” Analog, December.
Arthur C. Clarke, “The Steam-Powered Word Processor,” Analog, September.
Mona A. Clee, “Dinosaurs,” F&SF, July.
Bill Crenshaw, “Leviathan,” IAsfm, September.
Sally Darnowsky, “Without Belief,” IAsfm, September.
Avram Davidson, “Body Man,” IAsfm, June.
———, “The King Across the Mountains,” Amazing, July.
———, “Landscape With Giant Bison,” IAsfm, September.
———, “The Deed of the Deft-Footed Dragon,” Night Cry, Fall.
Bradley Denton, “In the Fullness of Time,” F&SF, May.
———, “Killing Weeds,” F&SF, November.
George Alec Effinger and Jack C. Haldeman II, “The Funny Trick They Played on Old McBundy’s Son,” Night Cry, Summer.
George Alec Effinger, “Maureen Birnbaum at the Earth’s Core,” F&SF, February.
P. M. Fergusson, “Murder to Go,” Analog, October.
Michael F. Flynn, “Eifelheim,” Analog, November.
John M. Ford, “A Cup of Worrynot Tea,” Liavec II.
———, “Walkaway Clause,” IAsfm, December.
Karen Joy Fowler, “The Bog People,” Artificial Things.
———, “The Dragon’s Head,” IAsfm, August.
———, “The View from Venus,” Artificial Things.
Shelley Frier, “Plagiartech,” Analog, September.
Gregory Frost, “The Hound of Mac Datho,” IAsfm, November.
——— and John Kessel, “Reduction,” IAsfm, January.
Stephen Gallagher, “The Jigsaw Girl,” Shadows 9.
———, “To Dance by the Light of the Moon,” F&SF, January.
David S. Garnett, “Still Life,” F&SF, March.
Molly Gloss, “Field Trial,” IAsfm, February.
Charles L. Grant, “The Price of a Toy,” Twilight Zone, April.
Russell M. Griffin, “The Place of Turnings,” F&SF, November.
———, “The Road King,” F&SF, February.
Lisa Goldstein, “Daily Voices,” IAsfm, April.
———, “Scott’s Cove,” Amazing, September.
George Guthridge, “Philatelist,” Analog, February.
Charles L. Harness, “The Picture by Dora Gray,” Analog, December.
John Harris, “American Folktales,” Atlantic, April.
Nina Kiriki Hoffman, “Ants,” Shadows 9.
Colin Kapp, “An Alternative to Salt,” Analog, October.
John Keefauver, “Cutliffe Starkvogel and the Bears Who Liked TV,” The Best of the West.
Gregg Keizer, “Chimera Dreams,” Omni, June.
James Patrick Kelly, “Rat,” F&SF, June.
Leigh Kennedy, “Tropism,” Afterlives.
Nancy Kress, “Down Behind Cuba Lake,” IAsfm, September.
———, “Phone Repairs,” IAsfm, December.
William Kotzwinkle, “The Man Who Wasn’t There,” Omni, February.
R. A. Lafferty, “Inventions Bright and New,” IAsfm, May.
———, “Junkyard Thoughts,” IAsfm, February.
———, “Something Rich and Strange,” IAsfm, July.
Marc Laidlaw, “Muzak for Torso Murders,” Cutting Edge.
Joe R. Landsdale, “Letter from the South, Two Moons West of Nacodoches,” Last Wave, #5.
Elissa Malcohn, “The S.O.B. Show,” IAsfm, December.
George R. R. Martin, “The Glass Flower,” IAsfm, September.
Robert R. McCammon, “Yellow Jacket Summer,” Twilight Zone, October.
Jack McDevitt, “Voice in the Dark,” IAsfm, November.
Elizabeth Graham Monk, “Child of the Century,” Twilight Zone, October.
Pat Murphy, “A Falling Star Is a Rock from Outer Space,” IAsfm, March.
Amyas Naegele, “The Rise and Fall of Father Alex,” F&SF, January.
O. Niemand, “The Wisdom of Having Money,” F&SF, July.
Chad Oliver, “Take a Left at Bertram,” The Best of the West.
Susan Palwick, “Elephant,” IAsfm, November.
Frederik Pohl, “Iriadeska’s Martains,” IAsfm, November.
Rachel Pollack, “The Protector,” Interzone, #17.
Steven Popkes, “The Driving of the Year Nail,” Twilight Zone, April.
———, “Hellcatcher,” Night Cry, Spring.
Ruth Rendell, “The Green Road to Quephanda,” The New Girlfriend.
Keith Roberts, “Tremarest,” Amazing, November.
Kim Stanley Robinson, “Escape from Katmandu,” IAsfm, September.
———, “Our Town,” Omni, November.
Rudy Rucker, “In Frozen Time,” Afterlives.
Richard Paul Russo, “For a Place in the Sky,” IAsfm, May.
Pamela Sargent, “The Soul’s Shadow,” F&SF, December.
Hilbert Schenk, “Ring Shot,” Worlds of If, September-November.
John Shea, “Epiphany,” Twilight Zone, August.
Michael Shea, “Fill It with Regular,” F&SF, October.
Carter Scholz, “Galileo Complains,” IAsfm, June.
Charles Sheffield, “Trader’s Blood,” Analog, April.
Lucius Shepard, “The Arcevoalo,” F&SF, October.
———, “Aymara,” IAsfm, August.
———, “Dancing It All Away at Nadoka,” IAsfm, mid-December.
———, “Fire Zone Emerald,” Playboy, February.
———, “Journey South from Thousand Willows,” Universe 16.
Robert Silverberg, “Gilgamesh in the Outback,” IAsfm, July.
———, “Watchdogs,” Twilight Zone, August.
Scott Stolnack, “A Trace of Madness,” IAsfm, November.
Martha Soukup, “Dress Rehearsal,” Universe 16.
Tim Sullivan, “Special Education,” IAsfm, January.
———, “Stop-Motion,” IAsfm, August.
Judith Tarr, “Piece de Resistance,” IAsfm, April.
Steve Rasnic Tem, “Bloodwolf,” Shadows 9.
———, “Little Cruelties,” Cutting Edge.
——— and Melanie Tem, “Prosthesis,” IAsfm, June.
Harry Turtledove, “The Eyes of Argos,” Amazing, January.
———, “The Iron Elephant,” Analog, May.
———, “Strange Eruptions,” IAsfm, August.
———, “Though the Heavens Fall,” Analog, September.
Eric Vinicoff, “Haiku for an Asteroid Scout,” Analog, September.
W. Warren Wagar, “The President’s Worm,” F&SF, September.
Karl Edward Wagner, “Lacunae,” Cutting Edge.
Howard Waldrop, “The Lions Are Asleep This Night,” Omni, August.
Ian Watson, “The Great Atlantic Swimming Race,” IAsfm, March.
Don Webb, “Jesse Revenged,” IAsfm, December.
———, “Securities and Personal Word,” Amazing, September.
Andrew Weiner, “The Band from the Planet Zoom,” IAsfm, July.
———, “The News from D Street,” IAsfm, September.
Cherry Wilder, “Dreamwood,” IAsfm, December.
Walter Jon Williams, “Panzerboy,” IAsfm, April.
Kate Wilhelm, “The Girl Who Fell into the Sky,” IAsfm, October.
———, “Someone Is Watching,” Redbook, October.
Connie Willis, “Spice Pogrom,” IAsfm, October.
Gene Wolfe, “Checking Out,” Afterlives.
———, “Choice of the Black Goddess,” Liavek II.
Robert F. Young, “Cousins,” Analog, April.
Roger Zelazny, “Permafrost,” Omni, April.
BOOKS BY GARDNER DOZOIS
Strangers (novel)
The Visible Man (collection)
Nightmare Blue (novel—with George Alec Effinger)
A Day in the Life (anthology)
Another World (anthology)
Beyond the Golden Age (anthology)
Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year,
Sixth Annual Collection (anthology)
Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year,
Seventh Annual Collection (anthology)
Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year,
Eighth Annual Collection (anthology)
Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year,
Ninth Annual Collection (anthology)
Best Science Fiction Stories of the Year,
Tenth Annual Collection (anthology)
The Year’s Best Science Fiction,
First Annual Collection (anthology)
Future Power (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Aliens! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Unicorns! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Magicats! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Bestiary! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Mermaids! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
The Fiction of James Tiptree, Jr. (critical chapbook)
The Year’s Best Science Fiction,
Second Annual Collection (anthology)
The Year’s Best Science Fiction,
Third Annual Collection (anthology)
Sorcerers! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Demons! (anthology—with Jack Dann)
Acknowledgment is made for permission to print the following material:
“R & R,” by Lucius Shepard. Copyright © 1986 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, April 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Patrick Delahunt.
“Hatrack River,” by Orson Scott Card. Copyright © 1986 by Davis Publications, Inc. First published in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, August 1986. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fourth Annual Collection Page 86
