The Year's Best SF 09 # 1991

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  “You headin’ out tonight?” Sliding the cigarettes across the counter, grinning at her tits. “Have some fun?”

  “Oh, I always manage to have fun.” Over-shoulder smile as she headed for the door. Roger liked to stare at her tits, too, she was positive; she just hadn’t caught him at it yet. Asshole probably went home and jerked off, dreaming about her bouncing around to Bach. And she laughed, a little: who’d been flying solo last night, huh?

  But that was different.

  In the dark, blind witness to the nightly ravishment, Lurleen, closed eyes, busy hands filling in the blanks, timing herself to the thump and stutter of the rapture beyond the walls. Longer tonight, ecstatic harmony of gulping cries, and after the crescendo wail, sound track to her own orgasm, she slept: to dream of flesh like iron, of rising whole, and drenched, and shiny-bright; shock-heavy with a pleasure poisonously rare. Woke just in time to see that she’d slept through the clock. Again.

  In the hallway, pausing—already late, so what if she was later?—before the door next door. Identical in nondescription to every other down the grimy hall, there was no way to tell by looking just what kind of fun went on there every night. Lurleen, tapping ignition key to lips, thoughtful sideways stare. Imagining, all the reluctant way to work, what sort of exotica, what moist brutalities were practiced there, what kinds of kinks indulged. Wriggling a little, skirt riding up and the cracked vinyl edges of the too-hot seat pressing voluptuously sharp into the damp flesh of her thighs.

  It came to her that she had never really seen that next-door neighbor of hers. Maybe they’d bumped into each other, exchanged laundry-room hellos, but for the life of her, Lurleen could not recall. She wasn’t even sure if it was just one person or a couple. They sure were a couple at night, though, weren’t they just?

  The day spent avoiding Roger’s gaze, colder than the store and just as constant, more than one smart remark about time clocks. Stopping for cigarettes, she picked up a six-pack, too, clandestine sips at red lights, rehearsing queenly answers she would never give. It was so hot it felt good, brought a warm, slow trickle of sweat down the plane of her temple, the hotter spot between her breasts.

  She was going out tonight, that was for sure; she owed herself something for the just-past bitch of a day. Walking up the hot two flights, a thought nudged her, firm and brisk to get past the beer. She leaned to sight up the stairwell, heart a trifle nervous, quick and jangly in her chest. Well. No time like the present, was there, to scratch a little itch? I’ll just say hi, she thought, walking quicker now. I’ll say, Hi, I’m your next-door neighbor. I just stopped by to say hello.

  Fourth can in hand, smart tattoo on the door before she could change her mind. Wondering who would open, what they would look like. What they would smell like—Lurleen was a great believer in smells. If they would ask her in, and what she might say, knowing she would say yes, and a smile past the thick spot in her throat, and she smiled at that, too; it wasn’t that big a deal, was it?

  Maybe it was.

  Nothing. Silence inside, so she knocked again, louder, humming to herself and, oh boy, here we go: winded swing of the door and “Hi,” before it was all the way open. “Hi, I’m Lurleen, your neighbor?”

  Tall, her first thought. And skinny. Not model-skinny, just chicken bones, short blonde hair, Giants T-shirt over a flat chest. Anne, she said her name was, and past her curved shoulders, Lurleen could see a flat as cramped and dingy as her own, a little emptier, maybe, a little less ripe, but nothing special. Purely ordinary. Like Anne herself: no exotic bruising, no secret sheen. Just stood there in the doorway playing with the end of her baggy T-shirt, flipping it as she talked, and that thin-lipped smile that said, Are you ready to leave yet? Just one big disappointment, but Lurleen didn’t show it, kept up her own smile through the strain of the stillborn chatter until she was back inside her own place, sucking up the last of her beer.

  “Well,” through a closed-mouth, ladylike burp. “Well.”

  How could someone so dull have such a wild sex life? Be better off meeting the boyfriend; he had to be the real show. Fucking angel. Lurleen’s giggles lasted through the rest of the beer, her long, cool shower, and half hour’s worth of mousse and primp. When she left for the bar, Anne’s flat was silent still, not even the requisite TV drone. From the parking lot, the lifeless drift of her curtains, beige to Lurleen’s red, was all there was to see.

  At the bar she met a couple of guys, nice ones—she couldn’t quite remember which was Jeff and which was Tony, but they kept her dancing, and drinking, and that was nice, too. After last call she swiveled off her seat, sweet, and smiled and said she was sorry, but she had an hour to make the airport to pick up her husband—and even as she said it, she had to wonder why; it was one of them she’d planned on picking up, and never mind that she couldn’t remember who was who; names didn’t exactly matter at that time of night; words didn’t matter past Who’s got the rubber. But still she left alone.

  Coming home, off-center slew into her parking space, radio up way too loud, singing and her voice a bray in the cut-engine quiet; she almost slipped going up the stairs. Shushing herself as she poured a glass of milk, her invariable after-binge cure-all. Lifting the glass, she caught from the damp skin of her forearm an after-shave scent, mixed with the male smell of Tony. Jeff? It didn’t matter, such a pretty boy.

  But not as pretty as the boy next door.

  And, her thought seeming eerily a signal, she heard the preliminary noises, shifting warm through the wall as if they stroked her: Anne’s breathy, wordless voice, that rush of sound, half-sinister whirlwind pavane. Pressed against the wall itself, her bare-skinned sweat a warm adhesive, Lurleen stood, mouth open and eyes shut, working her thin imagination as Anne, presumably, worked her thin body, both—all three—ending in vortex, whirlpool, mouthing that dwindling symphony of screams, Lurleen herself louder than she’d ever been, with any man. Loud enough that they could, maybe, hear her through the walls.

  Slumped, damp, she could not quite admit it, say to herself, You want them to hear you. You want him to hear you, whoever he is. You want what Anne’s getting, better than any bar pickup, better than anything you ever had. Glamorous and dirty. And scary. And hot.

  By the next night, she was ready, had turned her bed to lengthwise face the wall: willing herself, forcing herself like an unseen deliberate splinter in their shared and coupling flesh; she would be part of this. She had never had anything like what went on over there, never anything good. She would have this if she had to knock down the wall to get it. Fingers splayed against her flesh, heels digging hard into the sheets and letting go, crying out, Hear me. Hear me.

  Exhausted at work, but on time, she couldn’t take any of Roger’s bitching now, not when she had to think. Make a plan. Anne, she was a sorry-looking bitch, no competition once the boyfriend got a good look at Lurleen. The trick was to get him to look. To see. See what he’d been hearing, night after night. Of course, it wouldn’t be all that easy: if Anne had any brains at all, she would want to keep her boyfriend and Lurleen far, far apart. Lurleen decided she would have to take it slow and smart, be smart—not exactly her strong point, but she could be slick; she knew what she wanted.

  She began to stalk Anne, never thinking of it in so many words, but as sure and surely cautious as any predator. Waiting, lingering in the hallway after work, for Anne to come home from whatever unfathomable job she did all day. Never stopping to talk, just a smile, pleasant make-believe. She made it her business to do her laundry when Anne did hers; at the first whoosh and stagger of the old machine, Lurleen was there, quarters in hand; her clothes had never been so clean; she had to see. Any jockey shorts, bikini underwear, jockstraps, what? She meant to take one if she could, steal it before, before it was clean. Smell it. You can tell a lot about a man. Lurleen believed, from the smell of his skin, not his aftershave or whatever, but the pure smell of his body. Until his body was beneath hers, it was the best she could do. She pawed through the
laundry basket, poked around in the washer: nothing. Just Anne’s Priss-Miss blouses, baggy slacks, cheap bras—and just about everything beige. Balked angry toss of the clothing, stepped on it to push it back into the basket. Maybe he liked Anne because she was so beige, so … nothing? Could a man want a woman to be nothing? Just a space to fill? Lurleen had known plenty of guys who liked their women dumb—it made them feel better—but anyway, Anne didn’t seem dumb. Just empty.

  And still, night after night the same, bed against the wall, Lurleen could be determined; Lurleen could work for what she wanted. Drained every morning, the sting of tender skin in the shower, even Roger noticed her red eyes.

  “Not moonlighting, are you?” But she saw he knew it was no question, half-gaze through those tired eyes, and she even, for a moment, considered telling him, considered saying, I want the boy next door, Roger; I want him real bad. I want him so much I even jerk off so he can hear me, so he can know how he turns me on. I want him so much I don’t know what to do.

  She wasn’t getting anywhere. Drumming slow one finger against the order counter, staring right past some guy bumbling on about some opera or something, she wasn’t getting anywhere, and it was wearing her out. No time for anything else, bars, guys, whatever; there wasn’t any other guy she wanted. Anne’s smiles growing smaller, tighter, her gaze more pinched; was she catching on? Tired from sitting in the hallway—once or twice another neighbor had caught her at it, loitering tense and unseeing until the tap-tap-tap on her shoulder. Hey, are you O.K.? “Fine.” Harsh involuntary blush. “Just looking for an earring.” Right. Tired from staking out the parking lot, hot breeze through the window; she didn’t even know what kind of car he drove. Tired to death and still no glimpse of him, proud author of the sounds; it was killing her to listen, but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop.

  And then that night, mid-jerk, mid-groan, they stopped. The sounds. Ceased completely, but not to complete silence: a waiting sound, a whisper. Whispering through the walls, such a willing sound.

  She yanked on a T-shirt, ends tickling her bare ass as she ran, hit on the door with small, quick fists. “Anne? Are you O.K.?” Never thinking how stupid she might look if the door opened, never considered what excuse she might give. I didn’t hear anything, so I thought you might be in trouble. Right. So what. Bang bang on the door.

  “Anne?”

  The whisper, against the door itself. Hearing it, Lurleen shivered, convulsive twitch like a tic of the flesh, all down her body, and she pressed against the door, listening with all her might. “Anne.” But quietly, feeling the heat from her body, the windy rush of her heart. Waiting. “Anne.” More quietly still, less than a murmuring breath. “Let me in.”

  Abruptly, spooking her back a step: the sounds, hot intensity trebled, but wrong somehow, guttural, staggering where they should flow, a smell almost like garbage, but she didn’t care; once the first scare had passed, she pressed harder into the door, as if by pure want she could break it down; she would get in, she would. T-shirt stuck, sweating like she’d run a mile. I’m sick of just listening. The hall was so hot. Sweat on her forehead, running into her eyes like leaking tears. The doorknob in her slick fingers.

  It turned. Simple as that.

  In the end, so quick and easy, and it seemed almost that she could not breathe, could not get enough air to move—but she moved, all right, oh yes, stepped right inside into the semidarkness, a fake hurricane lamp broken beside the bed, but there was light enough, enough to see by.

  Like angels in love, mating in the cold, graceful rapture of thin air. Hovering above the bed, at least a yard or maybe more—no wonder she never heard springs—instead the groaned complaint of the walls itself as his thrusting brushed them, on his back the enormous strange construction that kept them airborne, as careless as if it had grown there amongst the pebbled bumps and tiny iridescent fins. His body beautiful, and huge, not like a man’s, but so real it seemed to suck up all the space in the room, big elementary muscles, and he was using them all. Anne, bent like a coat-hanger—it hurt to see the angle of her back—her eyes wide and empty and some stuff coming out of her mouth like spoiled black jelly, but it was too late, Lurleen had sent the door swinging backward to close with a final catch, and in its sound his gaze swiveling to touch hers: the cold regard of a nova, the summoning glance of a star.

  Her mouth as open as Anne’s as she approached the vast brutality of his embrace, room enough for two there, oh my, yes. Fierce, relentless encroachment promising no pleasure but the pleasure of pain. Not an angel, never had been. Or maybe once, long, a long, long time ago.

  EYEWALL

  Rick Shelley

  Although it’s true that everyone talks about the weather, some people do try to do something about it, as the tense and exciting story that follows demonstrates.… The question is, at what cost?

  Rick Shelley is a frequent contributor to Analog, and has also sold stories to Aboriginal SF, and elsewhere. His books include Son of the Hero, and, most recently, The Hero of Varay. Upcoming are two more novels, The Hero King and The Wizard of Mecq. He lives in Maryville, Tennessee.

  The five week journey out from Earth taught me only one thing. Twenty-five years had taken the excitement out of space travel for me. When I was a graduate student going off-planet to research my dissertation, space travel was an adventure. Now it was just wasted time between here and there. I spent most of my time in my cabin, going back over every line of our operating program for the Trident experiments. My two research assistants quickly gave up trying to include me in anything. We met at meals and only rarely at other times, despite the restricted passenger accommodations. It wasn’t until I got a call from Captain Linearson that I came out of the doldrums.

  “Doctor Jepp, we’re about to enter orbit around Trident. If you want a preview of the weather, you’re welcome to come up to the flight deck.”

  “On my way.” After all, the weather was the reason for this trip.

  Trident has been notorious since its discovery a little more than twenty years ago. In many ways it’s the most ideal of the several dozen Earth-like planets we’ve found. It has thousands of miles of prime tropical and subtropical coastline, lush lowland forests, scenic mountains, abundant wildlife, and all the rest. But the colonizers haven’t struck yet. They’re still waiting for the end of Trident’s hurricane season … and it may snow in hell before that happens.

  Beautiful hurricanes.

  My trek up to the flight deck was slow and awkward. Now that we were back in normal space, we were back to zero gravity conditions, and I was having difficulty moving about. When I got to the flight deck and looked out, down was up, I had a moment of disorientation.

  “Think it’ll rain?” Captain Linearson asked with a laugh. After twenty-five years with the International Weather Service, I’m almost hardened to weather jokes. Almost.

  “If it doesn’t, I’ve come a long way for nothing.” I looked out at Trident. The IWS had maintained a research team on Trident for the last eight years. We would have set up shop sooner but it took a decade to get general assembly funding and approval for the project.

  “Well, there’s your Angry Sea.” The captain pointed out and “up.”

  Trident was hanging overhead—as far as I was concerned. The Angry Sea (that is the official name) was on the daylight side and dominated the visible portion of Trident. In media shorthand, Trident is called “the water world” as often as not. It’s a misnomer. We’ve never come across a true water world, that is, one covered entirely by ocean. Percentage-wise, Trident has only 3 percent more of its surface covered by water than Earth does. But it is more concentrated. Earth has gone through similar periods in its tectonic history. Take Earth back to when the continents were just separating. Make the Atlantic Ocean 200 miles wide, allow for a few large bays and gulfs, call the rest of the water the Pacific Ocean and you have a decent idea of the makeup of Trident. The Angry Sea covers a huge chunk of the surface.

 
And it’s always hurricane season. Trident’s axial tilt is less than a third of Earth’s, keeping the tropic and subtropic portions of the ocean warm enough for hurricanes year-round. I could see four of them at the moment.

  “Am I going to be in your way here, Captain?”

  “Not at all, Doc. Look as long as you want. We’ll make one orbit before we deploy your satellites. On the second pass, we’ll get you and your team into the shuttle and separate for landing. If the weather holds.” She laughed but didn’t look at me, so I was spared the necessity of any response to the joke. “Tim will take you down.” Tim Andrews was at the other command console. He was a quiet man still in his twenties.

  “Set you down without any trouble,” he promised. “Even if it’s raining.” Another comedian.

  “Captain, have you contacted the IWS station yet?” I asked.

  “Just to tell them we’re here. Anything special?”

  “Flash them that canned message from IWS if you would,” I said. Captain Linearson hit several keys on her console.

  “Going down now.”

  “Fine, thanks. I’ll make sure my people are ready to move out.” The sooner I got away from looking “up” at the ground, the better my stomach would feel.

  * * *

  I never expected to be welcomed with open arms. Donna Elkins wasn’t merely the director of the Trident Hurricane Study Center, she was its creator and driving force. Trident had become her career almost from the day we received the first reports on the planet from the survey team. The proposal for the HSC had been hers and she fought for ten years to get it approved and funded. She had been on Trident since the start of construction and, as far as anyone in IWS could tell, she intended to stay there until somebody wrapped her in chains and carried her off. There was little chance that she would be overjoyed to see me with my temporary writ superseding her authority.