The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Four

by Jonathan Strahan

  "What?"

  "I can't believe I told you that."

  He peered over her shoulder. "Oh, that's a juicy one. Stop blushing. I've heard it all before. Several times now. Sodium thiopental will make you say anything. Besides, you don't remember telling me, so why bother being embarrassed?"

  She watched her fish. It didn't matter. Didn't matter. She picked up the paper again and plowed on. May as well get it over with.

  Somewhere around page three hundred, he went into the kitchen to make lunch. She didn't remember eating it, but when she set aside the final page at seven o'clock that evening, she saw that the plate by her elbow was empty, and heard the end of Richard's order to the Chinese takeout place on the corner. It was clearly something he'd done before. From her phone, in her apartment. And she didn't remember.

  She wished there was a way to feed him terpazine so he would forget all those things she'd never said to another soul before.

  She tried to organize her thoughts.

  He had asked for her permission to use her in an experiment. It would mean she would feel comfortable at the club in Atlanta, that she might even have a good couple of hours, and it would further his work while being paid for to some extent by her expense account. He had traveled to the Golden Key and picked Susana as the most likely dancer to fit her fantasies—and he knew a little about her preferences from that stupid, stupid night in Dallas—and made the same pitch to her. Only Susana got paid.

  Twice, Cody thought. I paid her too.

  And so Richard had flown to Cody's apartment in San Francisco and given her sodium thiopental, and she had talked a bluestreak about her sexual fantasies, every nuance and variation and degree of pleasure. In North Carolina, she had talked about her fantasies again, even more explicitly, encouraged to imagine in great detail, pretend it was happening, while they had her hooked up to a functional MRI and other machines.

  Richard put down the phone. "Food in thirty minutes."

  Cody forced herself to stay focused, to think past her embarrassment. "What were the fMRIs for, the fMRIs, blood-gas sensors, and—" she glanced at the paper, "—TMS during the, the fantasy interludes?"

  "We built a kind of mind and hormone map of how you'd feel if someone was actually doing those things to you. A sort of super-empathy direction finder. And one from Susana, of course. We played your words to each other, along with transcranial magnetic stimulation to encourage brain plasticity—the rewiring."

  "And," she hunted through the pages for the section labeled Theoretical Underpinnings. "You gave me, us, oxytocin?"

  "No. We wanted to separate out the variables. You supplied the oxytocin on your own, later." He beamed. "That's the beautiful part. It was all your own doing. Your hopes, your hormones, your needs. Yours. We made a couple of suggestions to each of you that you might not have come up with on your own: that expensive watch and the loose clothes, Cookie's hat and spurs. But the rest was just you and Cookie, I mean Susana. But you two were primed for each other, so if that wasn't the best sex of your life, I'll eat this table." He rapped the table top in satisfaction.

  All her own doing.

  "You can't publish," she said.

  "Not this, no." He picked up one of the fMRIs and admired it. "It's enough for now to know that it works."

  She waited for anger to well up but nothing happened. "Is this real?"

  "The project? Quite real."

  Project. She watched him gather all the documents, tap them into a neat pile.

  "Not the project," she said. "Not the TMS, the fMRIs, the terpazine. This." She tapped her chest. "Is it real?"

  He tilted his head. "Is love real? A lot of people seem to think so. But if you mean, is that what you're feeling, the answer is, I don't know. I don't think a scan could give you that answer. But it could tell us if you've changed: your data have been remarkably clear. Not like Cookie's. Susana's." He held the fMRI image up again, admired it some more, then put it back in the pile.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The data. Yours were perfectly consistent. Hers were . . . erratic."

  "Erratic." Her mind seemed to be working in another dimension. It took an age for the thought to form. "Like lying?"

  "She's lied about a lot of things."

  "But she could have been lying to me? About how she feels?"

  He shrugged. "How can we ever know?"

  She stared at him. "The literature," she said, trying to force her slippery brain to remember what she'd just read. "Its says love's a feedback loop, right?"

  "In terms of individual brain plasticity, yes."

  "So it's mutual. I can't love someone if she doesn't love me." If it was love.

  He gave her a look she couldn't interpret. "The data don't support interdependence." He paused, said more gently, "We don't know."

  Pity, she realized. He pities me. She felt the first flex and coil of something so far down she couldn't identify it. "What have you done to me? What else have you done to me?"

  "To you? For you."

  "You made me feel something for a woman who fucked for money. Who had her mind fucked for money."

  "So did you, if you think about. Just at one remove."

  "I didn't."

  "So, what, you did it for science?"

  Cody changed direction. "Does Susana know?"

  "I'm flying to Atlanta tomorrow."

  "Do you have her sound files with you?"

  "Of course."

  "Let me hear them."

  "That would be unethical."

  Unethical. "I think you might be a monster," she said, but without heat.

  "I have a strange way of showing it, then, wouldn't you say? For the price of a few embarrassing experimental sessions you won't ever remember, I won you a contract, a girlfriend and a night on the town."

  She stared at him. "You expect me to be grateful . . . "

  "Well, look at this place. Look at it. Bare walls. Fish, for god's sake."

  "Get out."

  "Oh, come on—"

  "Out."

  "By tomorrow it will all fall into perspective."

  "I swear to god, if you don't leave now I'll break your face." She sounded so weirdly calm. Was this shock, or was it just how people in love, or whatever, behaved? She had no idea. "And you can put those papers down. They're mine, my private thoughts. Leave them right there on the table. The thumbdrive, too."

  He pulled the drive, laid it on the papers, stowed his laptop and stood. She held the door open for him.

  He was halfway through the door when she said, "Richard. You can't tell Susana like this."

  "No?"

  "It's too much of a shock."

  "You seem to be coping admirably."

  "At least I already knew you. Or thought I did. You'll be a complete stranger to her. You can't. You just can't. It's . . . inhumane. And she's so young."

  "Young? Don't make me laugh. She makes you look like an infant." He walked away.

  Cookie danced. She didn't want to think about the phone call. Didn't want to think about any of it. Creep.

  But there was the money.

  The lights were hot, but the air conditioning cold. Her skin pebbled.

  "Yo, darlin', let's you and me go to the back room," the suit with the moustache and bad tie said. He was drunk. She knew the type. He'd slip his hands from the chair, try cop a feel, get pissed off when she called in Danny, refuse to pay.

  "Well, now," she said, in her special honey voice. "Let's see if you've got the green," and pushed her breasts together invitingly. He flicked a bill across her breasts. "A five won't buy you much, sweetie."

  "Five'll buy you, babydoll," he said, hamming for his table buddies. One of them giggled. Ugly sound in a man, Cookie thought. "Five'll buy you five times!"

  "And how long did it take you to come up with that, honey?"

  "The fuck?" He looked confused.

  "I said, your brain must be smaller than your dick which I'd guess is even smaller than your wallet, onl
y I doubt that's possible," and she plucked the bill from his fingers, snapped it under her g-string and walked away.

  In the dressing room she looked at herself in the mirror. Twenty-four was too old for this. Definitely. She had no idea what time it was.

  She stuck her head out of the door. "Danny!"

  "Yes, doll."

  "Time is it?" She'd have to get herself a watch someday. A nice expensive watch.

  "Ten after," Danny said.

  "After what?"

  "Ten."

  Three hours earlier on the West Coast. She stacked her night's take, counted it, thought for a minute, peeled off two hundred in fives and ones. She stuck her head out of the door again. "Danny!"

  "Here, doll."

  "I'm gone."

  "You sick?" He ambled up the corridor, stood breathing heavily by the door.

  "Sick of this."

  "Mister Pergoletti says—"

  "You tell Pergoletti to stick it. I'm gone. Seriously." She handed him the wad of bills. "You take care of these girls, now. And have a good life."

  "Got something else lined up?"

  "Guess we'll find out."

  There was one bottle of beer in Cody's fridge. She opened it, poured it carefully into a glass, stared at the beige foam. A glass: she never drank beer from a glass. She poured it down the sink. She had no idea what was real anymore but she was pretty sure alcohol would only make things worse.

  She made green tea instead and settled down in the window seat. The sun hung low over the bay. What did Susana see from her apartment? Was her ankle better? Contraceptive pills, Jesus. And, oh, the smell of her skin.

  She was losing her mind.

  She didn't know who she hated more: Richard for making the proposal, or herself for accepting it. Or Susana. Susana had done it for money.

  Or maybe . . . But what about those contraceptive pills?

  And what if Susana did feel . . . whatever it was? Did that make it real? It was all an experiment, all engineered. Fake.

  But it didn't feel fake. She wanted to cradle Susana, kiss her ankle better, protect her from the world. The Richards of the world.

  She picked up the phone, remembered for the tenth time she had neither address nor phone number. She called information, who told her there was no listing under Susana Herrera in the Atlanta Metro area. She found herself unsurprised.

  She got the number for the Golden Key instead.

  A man called Pergoletti answered. "Cookie? She's gone. They always go." The music thumped. Cody's insides vibrated in sympathy, remembering.

  "—don't have a number. Hey, you interested in a job?"

  Cody put the phone down carefully. Sipped her tea. Picked up the phone again, and called Richard.

  It was open mic night at Coffee to the People. Richard was in the back room on a sofa, as far from the music as possible. Two cups on the table. One still full.

  "You knew I'd call."

  "I did."

  "Did you program that, too?"

  "I didn't program anything. I primed you—and only about the sex." He patted the sofa. "Sit down before you fall down."

  She sat. Blinked. "Give me her phone number."

  "I can't. She gave me a fake. I called her at the club, but she hung up on me." He seemed put out.

  "What does she know?"

  "I talked fast. I don't know how much she heard. But I told her she wouldn't get the rest of the money until we'd done follow up."

  The singer in the other room sang of love and broken hearts. It was terrible, but it made Cody want to cry anyway.

  "How long does it last?"

  "Love? I don't know. I avoid it where possible."

  "What am I going to do?"

  Richard lifted his laptop bag. "I planned for this eventuality." He took out a small white cardboard box. He opened it, shook something onto his hand. A grey plastic inhaler.

  "What is it?"

  "A vasopressin analogue, formulated to block oxytocin receptors in the nucleus accumbens. That is, the antidote."

  They both looked at it.

  "It works in voles," he said. "Female voles."

  Voles. "You said it tasted bad."

  "I've used it. Just in case. I prefer my sex without complications. And I've had a lot of sex and never once fallen in love." He arched his eyebrows. "So, hey, it must work."

  The elephant whistle hypothesis. Hey, Bob, what's that whistle? Well, Fred, it keeps elephants away. Don't be an asshole, Bob, there aren't any elephants around here. Well, Fred, that's because of my whistle.

  "Cody." He did his best to look sincere. "I'm so very sorry. I never thought it would work. Not like this. But I do think the antidote might work." His face went back to normal. He hefted the inhaler. "Though before I give it to you, I have a favor to ask."

  She stared at him. "On what planet do I owe you anything?"

  "For science, then. A follow up scan, and then another after you take the antidote."

  "Maybe I won't take it. Give me the info you have. Give me the number."

  "Love is a form of insanity, you know."

  "The number."

  In the other room, the bad singing went on and on.

  "Oh, all right. For old time's sake." He extracted a folder from his bag, and a piece of paper from the folder. He slid it across the table towards her, put the inhaler on top of it.

  She nudged the inhaler aside, picked up the paper. Hand written. Susana's writing.

  "Love's just biochemical craziness," he said, "designed to make us take a leap in the dark, to trust complete strangers. It's not rational."

  Cody said nothing.

  "She screwed us."

  "She screwed you," Cody said. "Maybe she fell in love with me." But she took the inhaler.

  Cody sat in the window seat with the phone and the form Susana had filled in. Every now and again she punched in a different combination of the numbers Susana had written and got the Cannot be completed as dialed voice. Every now and again she touched the form with the tip of her middle finger; she could feel the indentation made by Susana's strong strokes. Strong strokes, strong hands, strong mouth.

  She didn't think about the grey inhaler in its white box, which she had put in the fridge—to stay viable a long time, just in case.

  After a while she stopped dialing and simply waited.

  When her phone lit up at 11:46 she knew who it was—even before she saw the 404 area code on the screen.

  "Do you feel it?" Susana said.

  "Yes," and Cody did. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it was there, as indelible as ink. She wanted to say, I don't know if this is real, I don't know if it's good. She wanted to ask, Had you ever had sex with anyone for money before me? and Does it matter? She wanted to know, Have you ever loved anyone before? and, How can you know?

  She wanted to say, Will it hurt?

  Walking through the crowds at the airport, Cody searched for the familiar face, felt her heart thump every time she thought she saw her. Panic, or love? She didn't know. She didn't know anything except that her throat ached.

  Someone jostled her with his bag, and when she looked up, there was the back of that head, that smooth brown hair, so familiar, after just one night, and all her blood vessels seemed to expand at once, every cell leap forward.

  She didn't move. This was it, the last moment. This was where she could just let the crowd carry her past, carry her away, out into the night. Walk away. Go home. Use the inhaler in the fridge.

  That was the sensible thing. But the Cody who had hung from the ninth storey balcony, the Cody who had risked the Atlanta contract without a second thought, that Cody thought, fuck it, and stepped forward.

  You couldn't know. You could never know.

  THREE TWILIGHT TALES

  Jo Walton

  Jo Walton was born in Wales and emigrated to Canada in 2002. Her first published novel was The King's Peace, followed by The King's Name. In 2002 she won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, an
d subsequently published two more fantasy novels, The Prize in the Game and World Fantasy Award-winner Tooth and Claw. She then went on to publish her "Small Change" trilogy—Farthing, Ha'penny and Half a Crown. Her most recent novel is Lifelode. She lives with her son and husband in Montreal, Quebec.

  1

  Once upon a time, a courting couple were walking down the lane at twilight, squabbling. "Useless, that's what you are," the girl said. "Why, I could make a man every bit as good as you out of two rhymes and a handful of moonshine."

  "I'd like to see you try," said the man.

  So the girl reached up to where the bright silver moon had just risen above the hills and she drew together a handful of moonshine. Then she twisted together two rhymes to run right through it and let it go. There stood a man, in a jacket as violet as the twilight, with buttons as silver as the moon. He didn't stand there long for them to marvel at him. Off he went down the lane ahead of them, walking and dancing and skipping as he went, off between the hedgerows, far ahead, until he came to the village.

  It had been a mild afternoon, for spring, and the sun had been kind, so a number of people were sitting outside the old inn. The door was open, and a stream of gold light and gentle noise was spilling out from inside. The man made of moonshine stopped and watched this awhile, and then an old widower man began to talk to him. He didn't notice that the moonshine man didn't reply, because he'd been lonely for talking since his wife died, and he thought the moonshine man's smiles and nods and attention made him quite the best conversationalist in the village. After a little while sitting on the wooden bench outside the inn, the old widower noticed the wistful glances the moonshine man kept casting at the doorway. "Won't you step inside with me?" he asked, politely. So in they went together, the man made of moonshine smiling widely now, because a moonshine man can never go under a roof until he's been invited.

  Inside, there was much merriment and laughter. A fire was burning in the grate and the lamps were lit. People were sitting drinking ale, and the light was glinting off their pewter tankards. They were sitting on the hearthside, and on big benches set around the tables, and on wooden stools along the bar. The inn was full of villagers, out celebrating because it was a pretty day and the end of their work week. The man made of moonshine didn't stop to look around, he went straight over to the fireplace.