* * *
The Forty-ninth World Science Fiction Convention, ChiCon V, was held in Chicago, Illinois, from August 29 to September 2, 1991, and drew an estimated attendance of 5000. The 1991 Hugo Awards, presented at ChiCon V, were: Best Novel, The Vor Game, by Lois McMaster Bujold; Best Novella, “The Hemingway Hoax,” by Joe Haldeman; Best Novelette, “The Mana-mouki,” by Mike Resnick; Best Short Story, “Bears Discover Fire,” by Terry Bisson; Best Non-Fiction, How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy, by Orson Scott Card; Best Professional Editor, Gardner Dozois; Best Professional Artist, Michael Whelan; Best Dramatic Presentation, Edward Scissorhands; Best Semiprozine, Locus; Best Fanzine, Lan’s Lantern, edited by George Laskowski; Best Fan Writer, David Langford; Best Fan Artist, Teddy Harvia; plus the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer to Julia Ecklar.
The 1990 Nebula Awards, presented at a banquet at the Roosevelt Hotel in New York City on April 27, 1991, were: Best Novel, Tehanu: The Last Book of Earthsea; Best Novella, “The Hemingway Hoax,” Joe Haldeman; Best Novelette, “Tower of Babylon,” Ted Chiang; Best Short Story, “Bears Discover Fire,” by Terry Bisson; plus a Grand Master Nebula to Lester del Rey.
The World Fantasy Awards, presented at the Seventeenth Annual World Fantasy Convention in Tucson, Arizona, on November 3, 1991, were: Best Novel (tie), Thomas the Rhymer, by Ellen Kushner and Only Begotten Daughter, by James Morrow; Best Novella, “Bones,” by Pat Murphy; Best Short Story, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” by Neil Gaiman and Charles Vess; Best Collection, The Start of the End of It All and Other Stories, by Carol Emshwiller; Best Anthology, Best New Horror, edited by Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell; Best Artist, Dave McKean; Special Award (Professional), Arnie Fenner; Special Award (Nonprofessional), Cemetery Dance, edited by Richard Chizmar; plus a Life Achievement Award to Ray Russell.
The 1991 Bram Stoker Awards, presented in Redondo Beach, California, during the weekend of June 21–23, 1991, by The Horror Writers of America, were: Best Novel, Mine, by Robert R. McCammon; Best First Novel, The Revelation, by Bentley Little; Best Collection, Four Past Midnight, by Stephen King; Best Novella/Novelette, “Stephen,” by Elizabeth Massie; Best Short Story, “The Calling,” by David B. Silva; Best Non-Fiction, Dark Dreamers: Conversations with the Masters of Horror, by Stanley Wiater; plus Life Achievement Awards to Hugh B. Cave and Richard Matheson.
The 1990 John W. Campbell Memorial Award-winner was Pacific Edge, by Kim Stanley Robinson.
The 1990 Theodore Sturgeon Award was won by “Bears Discover Fire,” by Terry Bisson.
The 1990 Philip K. Dick Memorial Award-winner was Points of Departure, by Pat Murphy.
The Arthur C. Clarke award was won by Take Back Plenty, by Colin Greenland.
* * *
Dead in 1991 were: Isaac Bashevis Singer, 87, world-renowned literary fantasist, Nobel Prize winner, author of Gimpel the Fool and Other Stories, The King of the Fields, Satan in Goray, and many others; Arkady Strugatsky, 66, who, writing in collaboration with his brother, Boris, became one of the best-known Soviet SF writers, co-author of Roadside Picnic and Hard to Be a God, among many others; Theodor Seuss Geisel, 87, who wrote 48 children’s books and became internationally famous as “Dr. Seuss,” author of the world-famous The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham, winner of the Pulitizer Prize for his contributions to children’s literature; John Bellairs, 53, author of sixteen Young Adult fantasy novels, best known to the genre audience for his marvelous comic adult fantasy novel, the classic The Face in the Frost; Chester Anderson, 58, SF writer, author of the well-known novel The Butterfly Kid and other novels; Sharon Baker, 53, SF writer, author of the novels Quarreling, They Met the Dragon, Journey to Membliar, and Burning Tears of Sassurum, a friend; Graham Greene, 86, one of the major figures of modern letters, author of The Third Man, The Quiet American, Our Man in Havana, and Travels with My Aunt, among others; Jerzy Kosinski, 57, author of The Painted Bird, Steps, Being There and other novels; Vercors (Jean Bruller), 89, author of You Shall Know Them (also published as Murder of the Missing Link and Borderline) and other SF and fantasy novels; Alexandr Shalimov, 74, Russian author and scientist; Sergei Kazmenko, 37, Russian SF author; Ward Hawkins, 77, veteran pulp writer; Dave Pedneau, 47, mystery and horror writer; Joyce Ballon Gregorian, 44, fantasy author; Dan Henderson, 38, author of the SF novel Paradise; Ted Dikty, 71, veteran anthologist, editor, and small press publisher, editor of the first annual “Best of the Year” anthology series in SF, The Best Science Fiction Stories series, which ran from 1949 to 1957, husband of SF writer Julian May; Clarence Paget, 82, editor and publisher, creator and later editor of The Pan Book of Horror Stories series; Roger Stine, 39, well-known SF artist; James Cunningham, 42, well-known space artist; Gene Roddenberry, 70, famous creator and producer of the original “Star Trek” television series, and later of the theatrical Star Trek movies and the current “Star Trek: The Next Generation” series, and, by extension, of the whole “Star Trek” phenomenon that by now has influenced whole generations of viewers; Irwin Allen, 75, producer of numerous “disaster” movies, often marginally SF in content; Ioan Coulianu, 41, SF academician; Vera Bishop Konrick, 90, fantasy poet; E. Dorothea (“Doll”) Gilliland, 61, longtime fan and convention organizer, wife of SF writer Alexis Gilliland, a friend; Lorena S. Haldeman, 76, mother of SF writers Joe and Jack Haldeman, longtime fan, a friend; Sarah Gourley Shaw, wife of SF writer Bob Shaw; Richard Ellington, 60, longtime fan; and James V. Taurasi, Sr., 73, longtime fan and Hugo-winning fanzine editor for Fantasy Times/Science Fiction Times.
BEGGARS IN SPAIN
Nancy Kress
Born in Buffalo, New York, Nancy Kress now lives with her family in Brockport, New York. She began to publish her elegant and incisive stories in the mid-seventies, and has since become a frequent contributor to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, F & SF, Omni, Writer’s Digest, and other major markets. Her books include the novels The Prince of Morning Bells, The Golden Grove, The White Pipes, and An Alien Light, and the collection Trinity and Other Stories. Her most recent book is the novel Brain Rose. Upcoming are a novel version of the following story and a new short story collection from Arkham House Publishers. Her story “Trinity” was in our Second Annual Collection; her “Out of All Them Bright Stars”—a Nebula winner—was in our Third Annual Collection; her “In Memoriam” was in our Sixth Annual Collection; her “The Price of Oranges” was in our Seventh Annual Collection; and her “Inertia” was in our Eighth Annual Collection.
Here, in what may well be her single best story to date (high praise indeed), she takes us to the near future for a hard-hitting, provocative look at the uneasy social consequences of difference.
With energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us victories.
—Abraham Lincoln, to Major General Joseph Hooker, 1863
1
They sat stiffly on his antique Eames chairs, two people who didn’t want to be here, or one person who didn’t want to and one who resented the other’s reluctance. Dr. Ong had seen this before. Within two minutes he was sure: the woman was the silently furious resister. She would lose. The man would pay for it later, in little ways, for a long time.
“I presume you’ve performed the necessary credit checks already,” Roger Camden said pleasantly, “so let’s get right on to details, shall we, doctor?”
“Certainly,” Ong said. “Why don’t we start by your telling me all the genetic modifications you’re interested in for the baby.”
The woman shifted suddenly on her chair. She was in her late twenties—clearly a second wife—but already had a faded look, as if keeping up with Roger Camden was wearing her out. Ong could easily believe that. Mrs. Camden’s hair was brown, her eyes were brown, her skin had a brown tinge that might have been pretty if her cheeks had had any color. She wore a brown coat, neither fashionable nor cheap, and shoes that looked vaguely orthopedic. Ong glanced at his records for her name: Elizabeth. He would bet people forgot it often.
Next to her, Roger Camd
en radiated nervous vitality, a man in late middle age whose bullet-shaped head did not match his careful haircut and Italian-silk business suit. Ong did not need to consult his file to recall anything about Camden. A caricature of the bullet-shaped head had been the leading graphic of yesterday’s on-line edition of the Wall Street Journal: Camden had led a major coup in cross-border data-atoll investment. Ong was not sure what cross-border data-atoll investment was.
“A girl,” Elizabeth Camden said. Ong hadn’t expected her to speak first. Her voice was another surprise: upper-class British. “Blonde. Green eyes. Tall. Slender.”
Ong smiled. “Appearance factors are the easiest to achieve, as I’m sure you already know. But all we can do about ‘slenderness’ is give her a genetic disposition in that direction. How you feed the child will naturally—”
“Yes, yes,” Roger Camden said, “that’s obvious. Now: intelligence. High intelligence. And a sense of daring.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Camden—personality factors are not yet understood well enough to allow genet—”
“Just testing,” Camden said, with a smile that Ong thought was probably supposed to be light-hearted.
Elizabeth Camden said, “Musical ability.”
“Again, Mrs. Camden, a disposition to be musical is all we can guarantee.”
“Good enough,” Camden said. “The full array of corrections for any potential gene-linked health problem, of course.”
“Of course,” Dr. Ong said. Neither client spoke. So far theirs was a fairly modest list, given Camden’s money; most clients had to be argued out of contradictory genetic tendencies, alteration overload, or unrealistic expectations. Ong waited. Tension prickled in the room like heat.
“And,” Camden said, “no need to sleep.”
Elizabeth Camden jerked her head sideways to look out the window.
Ong picked a paper magnet off his desk. He made his voice pleasant. “May I ask how you learned whether that genetic-modification program exists?”
Camden grinned. “You’re not denying it exists. I give you full credit for that, Doctor.”
Ong held onto his temper. “May I ask how you learned whether the program exists?”
Camden reached into an inner pocket of his suit. The silk crinkled and pulled; body and suit came from different social classes. Camden was, Ong remembered, a Yagaiist, a personal friend of Kenzo Yagai himself. Camden handed Ong hard copy: program specifications.
“Don’t bother hunting down the security leak in your data banks, Doctor—you won’t find it. But if it’s any consolation, neither will anybody else. Now.” He leaned suddenly forward. His tone changed. “I know that you’ve created twenty children so far who don’t need to sleep at all. That so far nineteen are healthy, intelligent, and psychologically normal. In fact, better than normal—they’re all unusually precocious. The oldest is already four years old and can read in two languages. I know you’re thinking of offering this genetic modification on the open market in a few years. All I want is a chance to buy it for my daughter now. At whatever price you name.”
Ong stood. “I can’t possibly discuss this with you unilaterally, Mr. Camden. Neither the theft of our data—”
“Which wasn’t a theft—your system developed a spontaneous bubble regurgitation into a public gate, have a hell of a time proving otherwise—”
“—nor the offer to purchase this particular genetic modification lies in my sole area of authority. Both have to be discussed with the Institute’s Board of Directors.”
“By all means, by all means. When can I talk to them, too?”
“You?”
Camden, still seated, looked at him. It occurred to Ong that there were few men who could look so confident eighteen inches below eye level. “Certainly. I’d like the chance to present my offer to whoever has the actual authority to accept it. That’s only good business.”
“This isn’t solely a business transaction, Mr. Camden.”
“It isn’t solely pure scientific research, either,” Camden retorted. “You’re a for-profit corporation here. With certain tax breaks available only to firms meeting certain fair-practice laws.”
For a minute Ong couldn’t think what Camden meant. “Fair-practice laws…”
“.… are designed to protect minorities who are suppliers. I know, it hasn’t ever been tested in the case of customers, except for red-lining in Y-energy installations. But it could be tested, Doctor Ong. Minorities are entitled to the same product offerings as non-minorities. I know the Institute would not welcome a court case, Doctor. None of your twenty genetic beta-test families are either Black or Jewish.”
“A court … but you’re not Black or Jewish!”
“I’m a different minority. Polish-American. The name was Kaminsky.” Camden finally stood. And smiled warmly. “Look, it is preposterous. You know that, and I know that, and we both know what a grand time journalists would have with it anyway. And you know that I don’t want to sue you with a preposterous case, just to use the threat of premature and adverse publicity to get what I want. I don’t want to make threats at all, believe me I don’t. I just want this marvelous advancement you’ve come up with for my daughter.” His face changed, to an expression Ong wouldn’t have believed possible on those particular features: wistfulness. “Doctor—do you know how much more I could have accomplished if I hadn’t had to sleep all my life?”
Elizabeth Camden said harshly, “You hardly sleep now.”
Camden looked down at her as if he had forgotten she was there. “Well, no, my dear, not now. But when I was young … college, I might have been able to finish college and still support … well. None of that matters now. What matters, Doctor, is that you and I and your board come to an agreement.”
“Mr. Camden, please leave my office now.”
“You mean before you lose your temper at my presumptuousness? You wouldn’t be the first. I’ll expect to have a meeting set up by the end of next week, whenever and wherever you say, of course. Just let my personal secretary, Diane Clavers, know the details. Anytime that’s best for you.”
Ong did not accompany them to the door. Pressure throbbed behind his temples. In the doorway Elizabeth Camden turned. “What happened to the twentieth one?”
“What?”
“The twentieth baby. My husband said nineteen of them are healthy and normal. What happened to the twentieth?”
The pressure grew stronger, hotter. Ong knew that he should not answer; that Camden probably already knew the answer even if his wife didn’t; that he, Ong, was going to answer anyway; that he would regret the lack of self-control, bitterly, later.
“The twentieth baby is dead. His parents turned out to be unstable. They separated during the pregnancy, and his mother could not bear the twenty-four-hour crying of a baby who never sleeps.”
Elizabeth Camden’s eyes widened. “She killed it?”
“By mistake,” Camden said shortly. “Shook the little thing too hard.” He frowned at Ong. “Nurses, Doctor. In shifts. You should have picked only parents wealthy enough to afford nurses in shifts.”
“That’s horrible!” Mrs. Camden burst out, and Ong could not tell if she meant the child’s death, the lack of nurses, or the Institute’s carelessness. Ong closed his eyes.
When they had gone, he took ten milligrams of cyclobenzaprine-III. For his back—it was solely for his back. The old injury hurting again. Afterward he stood for a long time at the window, still holding the paper magnet, feeling the pressure recede from his temples, feeling himself calm down. Below him Lake Michigan lapped peacefully at the shore; the police had driven away the homeless in another raid just last night, and they hadn’t yet had time to return. Only their debris remained, thrown into the bushes of the lakeshore park: tattered blankets, newspapers, plastic bags like pathetic trampled standards. It was illegal to sleep in the park, illegal to enter it without a resident’s permit, illegal to be homeless and without a residence. As Ong watched, uniformed park attendants bega
n methodically spearing newspapers and shoving them into clean self-propelled receptacles.
Ong picked up the phone to call the President of Biotech Institute’s Board of Directors.
* * *
Four men and three women sat around the polished mahogany table of the conference room. Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, thought Susan Melling, looking from Ong to Sullivan to Camden. She smiled. Ong caught the smile and looked frosty. Pompous ass. Judy Sullivan, the Institute lawyer, turned to speak in a low voice to Camden’s lawyer, a thin nervous man with the look of being owned. The owner, Roger Camden, the Indian chief himself, was the happiest-looking person in the room. The lethal little man—what did it take to become that rich, starting from nothing? She, Susan, would certainly never know—radiated excitement. He beamed, he glowed, so unlike the usual parents-to-be that Susan was intrigued. Usually the prospective daddies and mommies—especially the daddies—sat there looking as if they were at a corporate merger. Camden looked as if he were at a birthday party.
The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991 Page 5
