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

by Gardner Dozois

  That night, when Chang crawled into the sleepsack beside Xhrina, he said, “When we approach the home system, and you wake knowing that there are ghosts in the opsball, don’t wake me. I’m afraid of them and I don’t want to know about them.”

  “All right,” she said. “Have you been reading my diary?”

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s my right as first mate to read anything you write, and I don’t like to ask. And I asked Treo and he told me how frightened he was, and I went back and looked at all your birthdays, and Mtepic’s, and saw the ghosts on the recordings. It made me so afraid I have had a hard time sleeping since. So don’t take me with you. I don’t want to see ghosts.” More gently, he said, “You might talk to Sleeth about it. She’s always been your little shadow, and she would face the fear just for love of you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I will.” And Xhrina turned her back on him, to enjoy his warmth but not to talk anymore. I suppose I would have faced the ghosts for love of Mtepic, she thought, but I wanted to see them anyway, though I didn’t know it until he showed them to me. I hope it can be that way with Sleeth.

  * * * *

  On the night of her ninety-third birthday, Xhrina rolled over and touched Sleeth, who had been her sleepsack partner for some years now. “Ghosts,” she said, “finally.”

  “I’m glad,” Sleeth said, awake at once, and they turned up the lights and dressed quickly.

  She wasn’t sure that she really was glad. Sleeth and the captain had talked of ghosts at least every few shifts for the last five years, and Sleeth had come to realize that her first time seeing ghosts would be the captain’s last. She had forced herself to seem happy and cheerful about the impending visit of the ghosts all through the annoying too-long layover around Old Earth’s moon, as well, and now that the time was here, she hadn’t really had time to think through what she wanted to feel, or ought to feel, and was stuck with just feeling what she felt—which was a mystery.

  She had heard so much from the captain about Mtepic, and ghosts, and all the theories about ghosts, because the captain only needed to work an hour a day or so during the layover, while they found whatever cargo they could. The synminds of Old Earth and Ulysses at last found a small load, but did not seem to be able to explain what was in the containers, except that it was something that it was not inconceivable that someone in the new Seventh Pulse worlds out toward the Southern Cross and Sentaru might want 120 years from now.

  The captain had not cared, so Sleeth had not cared. The scant cargo meant that their holds had had that much more room for a load of U238, depleted uranium, not for atomic power as in ancient times—they might as well have taken hay, oats, and water, and would have if nothing denser had been available—but because it was a conveniently dense supply of mass to be torn to nucleons and shot out the bow by the shielder, to clear a path through the interstellar medium for them. With the extra mass, they were able to run at 99.7%c, which meant almost thirteen years of slowtime to one year of eintime. Ulysses would be some sort of legend, now, for sure.

  But, Sleeth thought sadly, the end of the legend will not be Captain Xhrina bringing Ulysses to the port of Summer, the port that they had been aiming for since their last PPD and change of course about a year eintime ago.

  Xhrina and Sleeth had talked of ghosts, many times, and Sleeth longed to see them, with Xhrina; but she would miss their conversations about them, and it seemed sad that she would have no one to talk about this first time with. But then apparently Mtepic had seen them five times alone, and who knew how many others saw them and never talked about it at all?

  Still, Sleeth had always imagined that when at last she saw them, she would be able to talk about them with Captain Xhrina. She had been ship-raised, and because of the way the schedules had worked out, had only been on a training ship for six years, about half what was normal, so that she had spent a great deal of time following Xhrina around when she was younger, and then more time tending her later. Xhrina had always been her one real friend.

  Sleeth knew she would miss the captain dreadfully, but she didn’t think she should say so, with the captain’s eyes alight with joy; once they were in the opsball, it was easier, waiting in the dark, because Sleeth could just let her tears quietly flow.

  It was all as Sleeth had heard it told, so many times.

  As the ghosts neared, Xhrina bounced and fidgeted as if she had a tenth of her years. When the slender, small ghost that had to be Mtepic—though now strong and young—swam through the wall into the opsball, the glowing baby emerged from her head and chest in just two heartbeats, formed fully in the air, and held its arms to Mtepic, who swooped in and scooped up the newborn Xhrina. Just a few seconds, the first time I ever saw the ghosts, and it was all over, Sleeth thought sadly.

  As if he had heard her thoughts, Mtepic, still cradling the fiercely glowing ghost-baby, turned back, and smiled a warm knowing smile at Sleeth.

  To everyone’s surprise—even to the surprise of Mtepic’s ghost—ghost-Xhrina, newborn and toothless, huge-eyed face wide with glee, in the ghost-mathematician’s now-strong and young arms, waved bye-bye to Sleeth, in a way so like any other baby that Sleeth giggled, aloud, and all the ghosts but Mtepic and Xhrina fled as the stars began to fade.

  Grinning, Mtepic raised a finger to his lips—Shhh!—and so did Xhrina, and they both waved bye-bye once again before they were gone into the field of stars, which faded after them, leaving Sleeth laughing in darkness.

  * * * *

  THE TOWN ON

  BLIGHTED SEA

  A. M. Dellamonica

  A graduate of Clarion West, A. M. Dellamonica has sold stories to Sci Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Tesseracts, Tomorrow, Alternate Generals, The Faery Reel, Oceans of the Mind, and elsewhere, and has just sold her first novel, Indigo Springs. Coming up is another new novel, The Winter Girls. She lives in Vancouver, Canada.

  Here she takes us to a refugee camp where the refugees are the surviving remnants of the human race, to see whether it’s true that the sins of the fathers must be visited on the children.

  * * * *

  1

  Ruthless moved with silent purpose, keeping to the shadows as she strode between the skyscrapers of Earthtown’s expansion district. It was summer in the northern hemisphere of Kabuva, the air chill and dense but not frosty, the skunky musk of the sea a reminder that this wasn’t home, this would never be home. Tumbler Moon was full, shining so brilliantly it might have been dawn rather than deepest night. She cursed its brightness as she walked, then reminded herself it could be worse: Mad Moon could be out too.

  Arriving at Phoenix Avenue, she was relieved to find herself the only living creature on the ground. Nanocompiled towers rose around her, monolithic, smooth, and identical but for their height. Taking out a bootlegged scanner, Ruthless walked a quick circle in the middle of the unused intersection, checking for police transmissions. It registered a welcome concentration of signals, all bouncing around the occupied half of the refugee settlement.

  The Kabu had over-estimated how many human exiles would make it to Refuge Island. They’d compiled Earthtown’s skyscrapers with a figure of three million refugees in mind; only half that number actually escaped from Earth. So the squid sealed off the excess portion of the prefabricated city, deactivating the power and water grids, blocking the roads, and pulling out all but a handful of surveillance cameras.

  According to her scanner, this was one of the surveillance dead zones—no cops nearby. Satisfied, Ruthless turned to a slashed plastic seal on the entrance of the building behind her. Pushing her way through the tear, she trotted up the stillborn escalators to the sixth floor. There another torn seal marked a door midway down the hall.

  Ruthless crept to the door, rapping it with gloved fingers.

  “Rav?”

  “Auntie?” Raviel’s voice was duller than an hour ago—less fearful, more shocked. She had been right in the middle of a hot flash when he called, sweat pouring down her face and ch
est as her nephew’s panic chilled her heart.

  Auntie. She wondered when he’d last called her that. Before Exile?

  “Open up, Rav.”

  The door scrolled aside in jerks, powered by muscle instead of hydraulics. Ruthless didn’t help him, didn’t touch anything even though she had gloved up and sprayed down before leaving her apartment.

  She took in everything at once. The blood, the corpses—one human and female, one squid and male—the smell of puke and, most important, the lack of an immediate threat. Having established the parameters of the crisis, she focused on Rav. Pale and hollow-eyed, her brother’s son reeked of vomit and was bleeding slightly from a gash above his collarbone. The Kabu had come within inches of cutting his throat. She counted a dozen bruises and sucker-hickeys, all minor.

  Rav’s white-blonde hair was matted with ink and other alien fluids. His left arm was gloved in Kabu blood, black from fingertips to shoulder.

  “Figure you want me to turn myself in,” he said, and Ruthless was pierced by the memory of his father wearing a similar expression. Forcing himself to be brave, she thought, just like Matt before the battle of Las Vegas. “It’ll be easier if you come with me. Auntie? Can you?”

  When Ruthless did not reply, he said, swallowing, “I can call now if . . . “

  “No, honey.” She shook her head. “We’re not calling.”

  Rav’s pale face flushed red, and his eyes welled. He reached out—but Ruthless stopped him with a gesture.

  “Can you answer me a couple questions?”

  “Su-sure.”

  She pointed at the dead woman. “The squid killed her?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You killed him?”

  A slow nod.

  “You know either of them?”

  “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  Face pinching, Rav pointed at the woman. “She’s a local feeler. Comes to the Rialto sometimes, but . . .”

  “But you’ve never spoken.”

  “Just—” He mimed tearing a ticket. “Enjoy the show, ma’am.”

  “Okay.”

  “She likes . . . liked silent movies. Always came to see Buster Keaton.”

  “Okay, Rav. You followed them because . . .”

  “I’m documenting the touchie-feelie trade.”

  “You’re what?” She wasn’t as good at masking her feelings as she used to be—her tone made Rav flinch. “Doc—you brought recording equipment with you?”

  He pointed to a button-sized blotch near the ceiling.

  “That’s a camera?”

  “Latest model. Fly-on-the-wall, they call it.” He laughed humorlessly.

  The thing clung to the wall a discreet distance from the gore. It was too small to be anything but short range. Glancing around the room, Ruthless saw a receiver lying on the blue backpack she’d got Rav for his last birthday.

  “Jesus, Rav, you filmed the killings?”

  “I shut it down after.”

  “Is it shut down now?” It came out a growl.

  Rav’s head snapped up. “Yes. It’s off. You’re not on camera, swear.”

  “Where’s the feed cached?”

  “In my data pantry at home.”

  “You transmitted?”

  “Using Ma’s encryption protocols, yeah.”

  Ruthless drew in a slow breath. Elva knew her stuff: the feed would be safe.

  Rav raised a shaking, blood-slimed hand to his face, as if to push back his hair. When he made contact he recoiled, staring at his blackened palm. “He was all the way down her throat. She was choking. I couldn’t—”

  “You had to help.”

  “I grabbed him . . . or he grabbed me. She was choking, all those arms—”

  Ruthless nodded, remembering too well what it was like to wrestle an infuriated squid. They were bigger, and the tentacles made them seem stronger than they were. Not to mention slippery and fast.

  “I overheard Ma once, telling her security boys you stuck your hand up a squid’s mouth once in the war.”

  “I get the gist,” Ruthless said, contemplating the corpses. Spatters, genetic evidence. Lot of cleanup here.

  “She said you dug through to its brain with your fingers . . .” Rav continued, retching as he looked at his blood-gloved arm.

  “You did the right thing, Rav.”

  Normally she’d be furious with Elva for letting the kid hear such a thing. Since it had apparently saved his ass, she silently blessed her sister-in-law’s indiscretion.

  “The right thing?”

  She nodded, still thinking about cleanup. “You made it home from the playground, that’s all that counts.”

  “Playground,” he repeated, disbelieving.

  “Huh—oh, sorry. Warspeak. It means—”

  “I know it’s warspeak.”

  “Means you didn’t die.”

  “You’ve never . . . it makes you sound so old.”

  “Prehistoric.” She looked back at the scene. “Gotta put your toys away, that’s what we’d say about this.”

  He shuddered. “If I did the right thing and the feed proves it, why not tell?”

  She shook her head. “Right or not, squid might still drown you. You killed one of them, just a fry from the looks of it . . .”

  “He’s a murderer!”

  “It’ll bring up old memories for them. Stuff about the war that the Kabu don’t like to think about.”

  “That’s a drowning offense now, making them remember?”

  “It might be different one day, if we don’t go back to Earth first. But change takes time and martyrs, Rav, and you are not getting sacrificed. Not for trying to save some poor feeler’s life. Okay?”

  Shuddering, he nodded.

  “Now. I need you to take off the squid’s hydration tank.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll have a tank. To keep his skin moist.” She pointed and he fumbled the metal canister out of the dead sentient’s limp, bell-shaped cap.

  “Hold it so I can see the controls—good. There’s enough in there for you to clean up.”

  “Should I get in the shower?”

  “No! We get your genes in the drains, it’s all over. Strip off your clothes in that corner and use his water supply to hose off.”

  “I’ll get blood and stuff on the floor.”

  “It’s okay. For now, just make yourself presentable.”

  As Rav washed, she unpacked her cloak on the corridor floor, laying out an assortment of sprays and other nanotech she’d squirreled away in the years since Exile. It had taken time to make contacts in a Kabuva forensics lab. She’d wondered sometimes if she wasn’t wasting her money. Surely she’d be headed home to Earth before she needed any of these toys.

  But the months since the Setback—nobody who’d made it to Earthtown called it the defeat it was—had stretched to years, seventeen of them now.

  “Um,” said Rav, shaking drips from his fine white hair.

  “Clean?”

  He nodded, blushing furiously, one newly-washed hand cupped over his groin.

  Ruthless sprayed nanosols onto a towel and passed it over the threshold. “Here, dry off. Right. Now lay the towel on the floor like a rug and walk on it a couple times. Feet dry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Leave the towel, step over that tentacle, and come out into the hallway.”

  Nude, her nephew looked young and vulnerable. As he stepped out of the crime scene she clasped his shoulder with her gloved hand, feeling the pressure in her chest ease at the contact. “It’s gonna be okay, honey.”

  Swallowing, he nodded.

  “Let’s get that wound.” The edges of the gash in his chest were already red—Kabu saliva was notoriously infectious. She patted it dry with an antibiotic wipe and hit him with two immune-boosters. Last she painted on a thin layer of puttied skin, blending the culture until the cut was concealed.

  “I’ll need to refresh this every day for at least a week. We don
’t want it to scar: it’s too obvious it’s a beak bite. In the meantime, you’ll wear high-collared smocks so nobody sees it. Nobody sees this, Rav, you got me?”

  “Okay.”

  “You sleeping with anyone?”