The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Seventh Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  The Pax Romana? What Pax Romana? Old Quintus Fabius would have had us believe that the Empire had brought unbroken and unshakeable peace to the entire world, and had kept it that way for twenty centuries. But what about the Civil War, when the Greek half of the Empire fought for fifty years against the Latin half? Or the two Wars of Unification? And hadn’t there been minor rebellions constantly, all over the Empire, hardly a century without one, in Persia, in India, in Britannica, in Africa Aethiopica? No, I thought, what he’s telling us simply isn’t true. The long life of the Empire had been a time of constant brutal oppression, with people’s spirits held in check everywhere by military force. The real Pax Romana was something that existed only in modern times, under the Second Republic. So my father had taught me.

  But Quintus Fabius was an old man, wrapped in dreams of his own wondrous lost childhood. Far be it from me to argue with him about such matters as these. I simply smiled and nodded, and poured more wine for him when his glass was empty. And Friya and I sat there spellbound as he told us, hour after hour, of what it had been like to be a prince of the royal family in the dying days of the Empire, before true grandeur had departed forever from the world.

  When we left him that day, he had still more gifts for us. “My brother was a great collector,” he said. “He had whole houses stuffed full of treasure. All gone now, all but what you see here, which no one remembered. When I’m gone, who knows what’ll become of them? But I want you to have these. Because you’ve been so kind to me. To remember me by. And to remind you always of what once was, and now is lost.”

  For Friya there was a small bronze ring, dented and scratched, with a serpent’s head on it, that he said had belonged to the Emperor Claudius of the earliest days of the Empire. For me a dagger, not the jewel-handled one I had seen upstairs, but a fine one all the same, with a strange undulating blade, from a savage kingdom on an island in the Oceanus Magnus. And for us both, a beautiful little figure in smooth white alabaster of Pan playing on his pipes, carved by some master craftsman of the ancient days.

  The figurine was the perfect birthday gift for grandmother. We gave it to her the next day. We thought she would pleased, since all of the old gods of Roma are very dear to her; but to our surprise and dismay she seemed startled and upset by it. She stared at it, eyes bright and fierce, as if we had given her a venomous toad.

  “Where did you get this thing? Where?”

  I looked at Friya, to warn her not to say too much. But as usual she was ahead of me.

  “We found it, grandmother. We dug it up.”

  “You dug it up?”

  “In the forest,” I put in. “We go there every Saturday, you know, just wandering around. There was this old mound of dirt—we were poking in it, and we saw something gleaming—”

  She turned it over and over in her hands. I had never seen her look so troubled. “Swear to me that that’s how you found it! Come, now, at the altar of Juno! I want you to swear to me before the Goddess. And then I want you to take me to see this mound of dirt of yours.”

  Friya gave me a panic-stricken glance.

  Hesitantly I said, “We may not be able to find it again, grandmother. I told you, we were just wandering around—we didn’t really pay attention to where we were—”

  I grew red in the face, and I was stammering, too. It isn’t easy to lie convincingly to your own grandmother.

  She held the figurine out, its base toward me. “Do you see these marks here? This little crest stamped down here? It’s the Imperial crest, Tyr. That’s the mark of Caesar. This carving once belonged to the Emperor. Do you expect me to believe that there’s Imperial treasure simply lying around in mounds of dirt in the forest? Come, both of you! To the altar, and swear!”

  “We only wanted to bring you a pretty birthday gift, grandmother,” Friya said softly. “We didn’t mean to do any harm.”

  “Of course not, child. Tell me, now: where’d this thing come from?”

  “The haunted house in the woods,” she said. And I nodded my confirmation. What could I do? She would have taken us to the altar to swear.

  * * *

  Strictly speaking, Friya and I were traitors to the Republic. We even knew that ourselves, from the moment we realized who the old man really was. The Caesars were proscribed when the Empire fell; everyone within a certain level of blood kinship to the Emperor was condemned to death, so that no one could rise up and claim the throne in years hereafter.

  Some minor members of the royal family did manage to escape, so it was said; but giving aid and comfort to them was a serious offense And this was no mere second cousin or great-grandnephew that we had discovered deep in the forest: this was the Emperor’s own brother. He was, in fact, the legitimate Emperor himself, in the eyes of those for whom the Empire had never ended. And it was our responsibility to turn him in to the quaestors. But he was so old, so gentle, so feeble. We didn’t see how he could be much of a threat to the Republic. Even if he did believe that the Revolution had been an evil thing, and that only under a divinely chosen Caesar could the world enjoy real peace.

  We were children. We didn’t understand what risks we were taking, or what perils we were exposing our family to.

  Things were tense at our house during the next few days: whispered conferences between our grandmother and our mother, out of earshot, and then an evening when the two of them spoke with father while Friya and I were confined to our room, and there were sharp words and even some shouting. Afterward there was a long cold silence, followed by more mysterious discussions. Then things returned to normal. My grandmother never put the figurine of Pan in her collection of little artifacts of the old days, nor did she ever speak of it again.

  That it had the imperial crest on it was, we realized, the cause of all the uproar. I had thought all along that grandmother was secretly an Empire loyalist herself. A lot of people her age were; and she was, after all, a traditionalist, a priestess of Juno Teutonica, who disliked the revived worship of the old Germanic gods that had sprung up in recent times—”pagan” gods, she called them—and had argued with father about his insistence on naming us as he had. So she should have been pleased to have something that had belonged to the Caesars. But, as I say, we were children then. We didn’t take into account the fact that the Republic dealt harshly with anyone who practiced Caesarism. Or that whatever my grandmother’s private political beliefs might have been, father was the unquestioned master of our household, and he was a devout Republican.

  “I understand you’ve been poking around that old ruined house in the woods,” my father said, a week or so later. “Stay away from it. Do you hear me? Stay away.”

  And so we would have, because it was plainly an order. We didn’t disobey our father’s orders.

  But then, a few days afterward, I overheard some of the older boys of the village talking about making a foray out to the haunted house. Evidently Marcus Aurelius Schwarzchild had been talking about the ghost with the polished rifle to others beside me, and they wanted the rifle. “It’s five of us against one of him,” I heard someone say. “We ought to be able to take care of him, ghost or not.”

  “What if it’s a ghost rifle, though?” one of them asked. “A ghost rifle won’t be any good to us.”

  “There’s no such thing as a ghost rifle,” the first speaker said. “Rifles don’t have ghosts. It’s a real rifle. And it won’t be hard for us to get it away from a ghost.”

  I repeated all this to Friya.

  “What should we do?” I asked her.

  “Go out there and warn him. They’ll hurt him, Tyr.”

  “But father said—”

  “Even so. The old man’s got to go somewhere and hide. Otherwise his blood will be on our heads.”

  There was no arguing with her. Either I went with her to the house in the woods that moment, or she’d go by herself. That left me with no choice. I prayed to Woden that my father wouldn’t find out, or that he’d forgive me if he did; and off we went into t
he woods, past Agrippina’s Spring, past the statues of the pretty boy, past Baldur’s Tree, and down the now-familiar path beyond the glossy-leaved oak.

  “Something’s wrong,” Friya said, as we approached the hunting lodge. “I can tell.”

  Friya always had a strange way of knowing things. I saw the fear in her eyes and felt frightened myself.

  We crept forward warily. There was no sign of Quintus Fabius. And when we came to the door of the lodge we saw that it was a little way ajar, and off its hinges, as if it had been forced. Friya put her hand on my arm and we stared at each other. I took a deep breath.

  “You wait here,” I said, and went in.

  It was frightful in there. The place had been ransacked—the furniture smashed, the cupboards overturned, the sculptures in fragments. Someone had slashed every painting to shreds. The collection of arms and armor was gone.

  I went from room to room, looking for Quintus Fabius. He wasn’t there. But there were bloodstains on the floor of the main hall, still fresh, still sticky.

  Friya was waiting on the porch, trembling, fighting back tears.

  “We’re too late,” I told her.

  * * *

  It hadn’t been the boys from the village, of course. They couldn’t possibly have done such a thorough job. I realized—and surely so did Friya, though we were both too sickened by the realization to discuss it with each other—that grandmother must have told father we had found a cache of Imperial treasure in the old house, and he, good citizen that he was, had told the quaestors. Who had gone out to investigate, come upon Quintus Fabius, and recognized him for a Caesar, just as Friya had. So my eagerness to bring back a pretty gift for grandmother had been the old man’s downfall. I suppose he wouldn’t have lived much longer in any case, as frail as he was; but the guilt for what I unknowingly brought upon him is something that I’ve borne ever since.

  Some years later, when the forest was mostly gone, the old house accidentally burned down. I was a young man then, and I helped out on the firefighting line. During a lull in the work I said to the captain of the fire brigade, a retired quaestor named Lucentius, “It was an Imperial hunting lodge once, wasn’t it?”

  “A long time ago, yes.”

  I studied him cautiously by the light of the flickering blaze. He was an older man, of my father’s generation.

  Carefully I said, “When I was a boy, there was a story going around that one of the last Emperor’s brothers had hidden himself away in it. And that eventually the quaestors caught him and killed him.”

  He seemed taken off guard by that. He looked surprised and, for a moment, troubled. “So you heard about that, did you?”

  “I wondered if there was any truth to it. That he was a Caesar, I mean.”

  Lucentius glanced away. “He was only an old tramp, is all,” he said, in a muffled tone. “An old lying tramp. Maybe he told fantastic stories to some of the gullible kids, but a tramp is all he was, an old filthy lying tramp.” He gave me a peculiar look. And then he stamped away to shout at someone who was uncoiling a hose the wrong way.

  A filthy old tramp, yes. But not, I think, a liar.

  He remains alive in my mind to this day, that poor old relic of the Empire. And now that I am old myself, as old, perhaps, as he was then, I understand something of what he was saying. Not his belief that there necessarily had to be a Caesar in order for there to be peace, for the Caesars were only men themselves, in no way different from the Consuls who have replaced them. But when he argued that the time of the Empire had been basically a time of peace, he may not have been really wrong, even if war had been far from unknown in Imperial days.

  For I see now that war can sometimes be a kind of peace also: that the Civil Wars and the Wars of Reunification were the struggles of a sundered Empire trying to reassemble itself so peace might resume. These matters are not so simple. The Second Republic is not as virtuous as my father thought, nor was the old Empire, apparently, quite as corrupt. The only thing that seems true without dispute is that the worldwide hegemony of Roma these past two thousand years under the Empire and then under the Republic, troubled though it has occasionally been, has kept us from even worse turmoil. What if there had been no Roma? What if every region had been free to make war against its neighbors in the hope of creating the sort of Empire that the Romans were able to build? Imagine the madness of it! But the gods gave us the Romans, and the Romans gave us peace: not a perfect peace, but the best peace, perhaps, that an imperfect world could manage. Or so I think now.

  In any case the Caesars are dead, and so is everyone else I have written about here, even my little sister Friya; and here I am, an old man of the Second Republic, thinking back over the past and trying to bring some sense out of it. I still have the strange dagger that Quintus Fabius gave me, the barbaric-looking one with the curious wavy blade, that came from some savage island in the Oceanus Magnus. Now and then I take it out and look at it. It shines with a kind of antique splendor in the lamplight. My eyes are too dim now to see the tiny imperial crest that someone engraved on its haft when the merchant captain who brought it back from the South Seas gave it to the Caesar of his time, four or five hundred years ago. Nor can I see the little letters, S P Q R, that are inscribed on the blade. For all I know, they were put there by the frizzy-haired tribesman who fashioned that odd, fierce weapon: for he, too, was a citizen of the Roman Empire. As in a manner of speaking are we all, even now in the days of the Second Republic. As are we all.

  WILLIAM KING

  Visiting the Dead

  Here’s a visit to an unsettling high-tech world of the future where nothing is quite what it seems, by brand-new British author William King. This was King’s first sale, and appeared in Interzone. King has also published fiction in Zenith, and no doubt we’ll be hearing a lot more from him in days to come.

  Visiting the Dead

  WILLIAM KING

  The train rattled on through the dark, carrying me towards the funeral. My skull ached with the pressure of unaccustomed gravity, my chest felt as if some small hard thing were trying to burst out of it, and the slightest movement caused a surge of nausea. What, from the comfort of high orbit, had seemed a trip of vital emotional importance was fast becoming a nightmare.

  I looked at the vital signs monitor on the wrist of the Frame and, to my surprise, none of the readouts were red. The slight whir of the servo-motors caught the attention of the carriage’s only other occupant; a slim dark-haired girl who had been studying me discreetly in the reflection of the blacked-out window. She turned to look at me; our glances met. Embarrassed, she felt compelled to speak.

  “Well, Aunt Jane, what do you think of Earth after all this time?”

  “It’s strange, Deborah. I’m not sure I like all of it.” I attempted a gesture meant to emphasize my point but by the time the exo-skeleton shifted my arm, rotated my wrist and amplified my finger movement I had already spoken. The gesture and the heat took a lot out of me. I could feel gravity tug at me like the weight of my ninety-one years. I grimaced more in exasperation than pain.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. This must be a hard time for you,” she said apologetically.

  I looked at her closely. She had long hair, a snub nose, wide blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She leaned back, pushing herself into the hard leather of the coach, studying the ceiling as she adjusted her tee shirt. I tried unsuccessfully to see some trace of my dead brother in her. I nodded, feeling the wide, cushioned neck brace of the Frame biting where it had not been adjusted properly.

  “Come far?” I asked, most banal question of many between travellers. She twisted her head to one side to look at me before she replied. I think she thought I was mocking her.

  “Just from Glasgow. Mother asked me to meet you at the airport.” That courtesy must have cost her mother an effort. Sheena had never liked me.

  “Been doing field study,” she continued. “I don’t know why they bothered to send me. It was just the same as the simulations.”

>   “Ah, but how would you have known that unless they had sent you? Surely it wasn’t the same?”

  She gestured emphatically with her left hand. “Oh yes it was, exactly the same. In every detail.” I was impressed. Once, simulated experience had possessed a cartoon quality. Of course that was nearly thirty years ago, in the mid-twenties. Simulations were something I had given up when I moved to the Overtowns.

  “How about touch and smell?” I asked. She gave me the sort of look you give a slow child.

  “Of course,” she said. “I forgot. Simulations are illegal in the Overtowns, aren’t they? A decadent terrestrial vice.”

  “We have more important things to do.”

  “The starships? I saw a documentary on Gupta and Carmichael on the tube last night. Off to Barnards Star. Showed a lot of pictures of the ship. It looked really dull, just a big dumbbell. They set out ten years before I was born.”

  That would make her twenty-one. It’s hard to tell these days; anti-agathics have come so far. Barnard probe left in ‘26.

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking? You have the same look as those two, sort of smooth and old.”

  “Was born last century. 1967.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thank you. We have a good anti-ageing programme. Gene re-tooling, anti-agathics and so on. We need it for the starships.”