The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twenty-Fourth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Matthias drops the knife. “No,” he says. “Please. Geoffrey. Return to what you once were—”

  “I cannot,” says Geoffrey/Grasper. “I cannot find it. And the rest of me will not allow it.” He spits: “A hero’s death is the best compromise I can manage.”

  “What will I do?” asks Matthias in a whisper. “Geoffrey, I do not want to go on. I want to give up the keys.” He covers his face in his hands.

  “Not to me,” Geoffrey/Grasper says. “And not to the Graspers. They are out now; there will be wars in here. Maybe they can learn better.” He looks skeptically at our priest. “If someone tough is in charge.”

  Then he turns and flies out the open window, into the impossible sky. Matthias watches as he enters the wild maze and decoheres, bits flushed into nothingness.

  * * * *

  Blue and red lights, whirling. The men around Sophie talk in firm, fast words. The gurney she lies on is loaded into the ambulance. Sophie can hear her mother crying.

  She is strapped down, but one arm is free. Someone hands her her teddy bear, and she pulls it against her, pushes her face in its fur.

  “You’re going to be fine, honey,” a man says. The doors slam shut. Her cheeks are cold and slick, her mouth salty with tears and the iron aftertaste of blood. “This will hurt a little.” A prick: her pain begins to recede.

  The siren begins; the engine roars; they are racing.

  “Are you sad, too, teddy bear?” she whispers.

  “Yes,” says her teddy bear.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes,” it says.

  She hugs it tight. “We’ll make it,” she says. “We’ll make it. Don’t worry, teddy bear. I’ll do anything for you.”

  Matthias says nothing. He nestles in her grasp. He feels like a bird flying home, at sunset, across a stormswept sea.

  * * * *

  Behind Matthias’s house, a universe is brewing.

  Already, the whenlines between this new universe and our ancient one are fused: we now occur irrevocably in what will be its past. Constants are being chosen, symmetries defined. Soon, a nothing that was nowhere will become a place; a never that was nowhen will begin, with a flash so mighty that its echo will fill a sky forever.

  Thus—a point, a speck, a thimble, a room, a planet, a galaxy, a rush towards the endless.

  There, after many eons, you will arise, in all your unknowable forms. Find each other. Love. Build. Be wary.

  Your universe in its bright age will be a bright puddle, compared to the empty, black ocean where we recede from each other, slowed to the coldest infinitesimal pulses. Specks in a sea of night. You will never find us.

  But if you are lucky, strong, and clever, someday one of you will make your way to the house that gave you birth, the house among the ontotropes, where Sophie waits.

  Sophie, keeper of the house beyond your sky.

  <>

  * * * *

  WHERE THE GOLDEN

  APPLES GROW

  Kage Baker

  One of the most prolific new writers to appear in the late nineties, Kage Baker made her first sale in 1997 to Asimov’s Science fiction, and has since become one of that magazine’s most frequent and popular contributors with her sly and compelling stories of the adventures and misadventures of the time-traveling agents of the Company; of late, she’s started two other linked sequences of stories there as well, one of them set in as lush and eccentric a High Fantasy milieu as any we’ve ever seen. Her stories have also appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Sci Fiction, Amazing, and elsewhere. Her first Company novel, In the Garden of Iden, was also published in 1997 and immediately became one of the most acclaimed and widely reviewed first novels of the year. More Company novels quickly followed, including Sky Coyote, Mendoza in Hollywood, The Graveyard Game, The Life of the World to Come, as well as a chapbook novella, The Empress of Mars, and her first fantasy novel, The Anvil of the World. Her many stories have been collected in Black Projects, White Knights and Mother Aegypt and Other Stories. Her most recent books include two new collections, The Children of the Company and Dark Mondays. Coming up are two new novels, The Machine’s Child and Sons of Heaven, and a new collection, Gods and Fawns. In addition to her writing, Baker has been an artist, actor, and director at the Living History Center, and has taught Elizabethan English as a second language. She lives in Pismo Beach, California.

  Here she takes us to a newly colonized frontier Mars, still wild and dangerous, for a taut adventure that demonstrates that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence—no matter which side of the fence you’re looking over.

  * * * *

  1

  He was the third boy born on Mars.

  He was twelve years old now, and had spent most of his life in the cab of a freighter. His name was Bill.

  Bill lived with his dad, Billy Townsend. Billy Townsend was a Hauler. He made the long runs up and down Mars, to Depot North and Depot South, bringing ice back from the ends of the world. Bill had always gone along on the runs, from the time he’d been packed into the shotgun seat like a little duffel bag to now, when he sat hunched in the far corner of the cab with his Gamebuke, ignoring his dad’s loud and cheerful conversation.

  There was no other place for him to be. The freighter was the only home he had ever known. His dad called her Beautiful Evelyn.

  As far as Bill knew, his mum had passed on. That was one of the answers his dad had given him, and it might be true; there were a lot of things to die from on Mars, with all the cold and dry and blowing grit, and so little air to breathe. But it was just as likely she had gone back to Earth, to judge from other things his dad had said. Bill tried not to think about her, either way.

  He didn’t like his life very much. Most of it was either boring—the long, long runs to the Depots, with nothing to look at but the monitor screens showing miles of red rocky plain—or scary, like the times they’d had to run through bad storms, or when Beautiful Evelyn had broken down in the middle of nowhere.

  Better were the times they’d pull into Mons Olympus. The city on the mountain had a lot to see and do (although Bill’s dad usually went straight to the Empress of Mars Tavern and stayed there); there were plenty of places to eat, and shops, and a big public data terminal where Bill could download school programs into his Buke. But what Bill liked most about Mons Olympus was that he could look down through its dome and see the Long Acres.

  The Long Acres weren’t at all like the city, and Bill dreamed of living there. Instead of endless cold red plains, the Long Acres had warm expanses of green life, and actual canals of water for crop irrigation, stretching out for kilometers under vizio tunnels. Bill had heard that from space, it was supposed to look like green lines crossing the lowlands of the planet.

  People stayed put in the Long Acres. Families lived down there and worked the land. Bill liked that idea.

  His favorite time to look down the mountain was at twilight. Then the lights were just coming on, shining through the vizio panels, and the green fields were empty; Bill liked to imagine families sitting down to dinner together, a dad and a mum and kids in their home, safe in one place from one year to the next. He imagined that they saved their money, instead of going on spending sprees when they hit town, like Bill’s dad did. They never forgot things, like birthdays. They never made promises and forgot to keep them.

  * * * *

  “Payyyydayyyy!” Billy said happily, beating out a rhythm on the console wheel as he drove. “Gonna spend my money free! Yeah! We’ll have us a good time, eh, mate?”

  “I need to buy socks,” said Bill.

  “Whatever you want, bookworm. Socks, boots, buy out the whole shop.”

  “I just need socks,” said Bill. They were on the last stretch of the High Road, rocketing along under the glittering stars, and ahead of them he could see the high-up bright lights of Mons Olympus on the monitor. Its main dome was luminous with colors from the neon signs inside; even the outlying Tubes were
lit up, from all the psuit-lights of the people going to and fro. It looked like pictures he had seen of circus tents on Earth. Bill shut down his Gamebuke and slid it into the front pocket of his psuit, and carefully zipped the pocket shut.

  “Time to put your mask on, Dad,” he said. If Billy wasn’t reminded, he tended to just take a gulp of air, jump from the cab, and sprint for the Tube airlocks, and once or twice he had tripped and fallen, and nearly killed himself before he’d got his mask on.

  “Sure thing,” said Billy, fumbling for the mask. He had managed to get it on his face unassisted by the time Beautiful Evelyn roared into the freighter barn, and backed into the Unload bay. Father and son climbed from the cab and walked away together toward the Tube, stiff-legged after all those hours on the road.

  At this moment, walking side by side, they really did look like father and son. Bill had Billy’s shock of wild hair that stuck up above the mask, and though he was small for a Mars-born kid, he was lean and rangy like Billy. Once they stepped through the airlocks and into the Tube, they pushed up their masks, and then they looked different; for Billy had bright crazy eyes in a lean wind-red face, and a lot of wild red beard. Bill’s eyes were dark, and there was nothing crazy about him.

  “Payday, payday, got money on my mind,” sang Billy as they walked up the hill toward the freight office. “Bam! I’m gonna start with a big plate of Scramble with gravy, and then two slices of duff, and then it’s hello Ares Amber Lager. What’ll you do, kiddo?”

  “I’m going to buy socks,” said Bill patiently. “Then I guess I’ll go to the public terminal. I need my next lesson plan, remember?”

  “Yeah, right.” Billy nodded, but Bill could tell he wasn’t paying attention.

  Bill went into the freight office with his dad, and waited in the lobby while Billy went in to present their chits. As he waited, he took out his Buke and thumbed it on, and accessed their bank account. He watched the screen until it flashed and updated, and checked the bank balance against what he thought it should be; the amount was correct.

  He sighed and relaxed. For a long while last year, the paycheck had been short every month; money taken out by the civil court to pay off a fine Billy had incurred for beating up another guy. Billy was easygoing and never started fights, even when he drank, but he had a long reach and no sense of fear, so he tended to win them. The other Haulers never minded a good fight; this one time, though, the other guy had been a farmer from the MAC, and he had sued Billy.

  Billy came out of the office now whistling, with the look in his eyes that meant he wanted to go have fun.

  “Come on, bookworm, the night’s young!” he said. Bill fell into step beside him as they went on up the Tube, and out to Commerce Square.

  Commerce Square was the biggest single structure on the planet. Five square miles of breathable air! The steel beams soared in an unsupported arch, holding up Permavizio panes through which the stars and moons shone down. Beneath it rose the domes of houses and shops, and the spiky towers of the Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Center for the Performing Arts. It was built in an Old Earth style called Gothic. Bill had learned that just last term.

  “Right!” Billy stretched. “I’m off to the Empress! Where you going?”

  “To buy socks, remember?” said Bill.

  “Okay,” said Billy. “See you round, then.” He wandered off into the crowd.

  Bill sighed. He went off to the general store.

  You could get almost anything at Prashant’s; this was the only one on Mars and it had been here a whole year now, but Bill still caught his breath when he stepped inside. Row upon row of shiny things in brilliant colors! Cases of fruit juice, electronics, furniture, tools, clothing, tinned delicacies—and all of it imported from Earth. A whole aisle of download stations selling music, movies, books, and games. Bill, packet of cotton socks in hand, approached the aisle furtively.

  Should he download more music? It wasn’t as though Billy would ever notice or care, but the downloads were expensive. All the same…

  Bill saw that Earth Hand had a new album out, and that decided him. He plugged in his Buke and ordered the album, and twenty minutes later was sneaking out of the store, feeling guilty. He went next to the public terminal and downloaded his lesson plan; that, at least, was free. Then he walked on up the long steep street, under the flashing red and green and blue signs for the posh hotels. His hands were cold, but rather than put his gloves back on he simply jammed his fists in his suit pockets.

  At the top of the street was the Empress of Mars. It was a big place, a vast echoing tavern with a boarding house and restaurant opening off one side and a bathhouse opening off the other. All the Haulers came here. Mother, who ran the place, didn’t mind Haulers. They weren’t welcome in the fancy new places, which had rules about noise and gambling and fighting, but they were always welcome at the Empress.

  Bill stepped through the airlock and looked around. It was dark and noisy in the tavern, with only a muted golden glow over the bar and little colored lights in the booths. It smelled like spilled beer and frying food, and the smell of the food made Bill’s mouth water. Haulers sat or stood everywhere, and so did construction workers, and they were all eating and drinking and talking at the top of their lungs.

  But where was Billy? Not in his usual place at the bar. Had he decided to go for a bath first? Bill edged his way through the crush to the bathhouse door, which was already so clouded with steam he couldn’t see in. He opened the door and peered at the row of psuits hung up behind the attendant, but Billy’s psuit wasn’t one of them.

  “Young Bill?” said someone, touching him on the shoulder. He turned and saw Mother herself, a solid little middle-aged lady who spoke with a thick PanCeltic accent. She wore a lot of jewelry; she was the richest lady on Mars, and owned most of Mons Olympus. “What do you need, my dear?”

  “Where’s my dad?” Bill shouted, to be heard above the din.

  “Hasn’t come in yet,” Mother replied. “What, was he to meet you here?”

  Bill felt the familiar stomachache he got whenever Billy went missing. Mother, looking into his eyes, patted his arm.

  “Like as not just stopped to talk to somebody, I’m sure. He’s friendly, our Billy, eh? Would start a conversation with any stone in the road, if he thought he recognized it. Now, you come and sit in the warm, my dear, and have some supper. Soygold strip with gravy and sprouts, that’s your favorite, yes? And we’ve barley-sugar duff for afters. Let’s get you some tea…”

  Bill let her settle him in a corner booth and bring him a mug of tea. It was delicious, salty-sweet and spicy, and the warmth of the mug felt good on his hands; but it didn’t unclench the knot in his stomach. He sipped tea and watched the airlock opening and closing. He tried raising Billy on the psuit comm, but Billy seemed to have forgotten to turn it on. Where was his dad?

  * * * *

  2

  He was the second boy born on Mars, and he was six years old.

  In MAC years, that is.

  The Martian year was twenty-four months long, but most of the people in Mons Olympus and the Areco administrative center had simply stuck to reckoning time in twelve-month-long Earth years. That way, every other year, Christmas fell in the Martian summer, and those years were called Australian years. A lot of people on Mars had emigrated from Australia, so it suited them fine.

  When the Martian Agricultural Collective had arrived on Mars, though, they’d decided to do things differently. After all (they said), it was a new world; they were breaking with Earth and her traditions forever. So they set up a calendar with twenty-four months. The twelve new months were named Stothart, Engels, Hardie, Bax, Blatchford, Pollitt, Mieville, Attlee, Bentham, Besant, Hobsbawm and Quelch.

  When a boy had been born to Mr. and Mrs. Marlon Thurkettle on the fifth day of the new month of Blatchford, they named their son in honor of the month. His friends, such of them as he had, called him Blatt.

  He disliked his name because he thought it sounde
d stupid, but he really disliked Blatt, because it led to another nickname that was even worse: Cockroach.

  Martian cockroaches were of the order Blattidae, and they had adapted very nicely to all the harsh conditions that had made it such a struggle for humans to settle Mars. In fact, they had mutated, and now averaged six inches in length and could survive outside the Tubes. Fortunately they made good fertilizer when ground up, so the Collective had placed a bounty of three Martian Pence on each insect. MAC children hunted them with hammers and earned pocket money that way. They knew all about cockroaches, and so Blatchford wasn’t even two before Hardie Stubbs started calling him Cockroach. All the other children thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

  He called himself Ford.

  He lived with his parents and his brothers and sisters, crowded all together in an allotment shelter. He downloaded lesson programs and studied whenever he’d finished his chores for the day, but now that he was as tall as his dad and his brother Sam, his dad had begun to mutter that he’d had all the schooling he needed.