The Year's Best Science Fiction: Eighteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  There were never any customers, no coffee, no conversation; day after day, the chairs never came off the tables except for Sylvie and Milo. Once, an exterminator showed up with a gas mask, a heavy cylinder, and a spray gun that looked like a sci-fi blaster; Sylvie nearly beat him unconscious, shoving him back out the door, while he waved his Service Orders in pink and blue and protected his private parts.

  “Over my dead body,” she said.

  “Vegetarian!” Milo shook his head.

  “They might be Stone Monkey, flying boy. They might be Franz frigging Kafka. How the hell do you know who the cockroaches are? Go kill, if you want to.” She stalked out and didn’t come back until the dark of the next morning, when she woke him to borrow some cash. It took Milo two days to feel that he had made it up to her.

  The fifth week, she taught him how to sleep. She whispered to him in the dark. He let her onto the stage, but not too close: “Milo, there’s a bowl at the bottom of your belly, a big bowl—can you feel it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well; every time you take a breath, like, the bowl kind of fills up with air. Doesn’t that feel good?”

  “I guess.”

  “And every time you breathe out, it kind of steams off, like soup steaming into cold air, see? You don’t have to do a thing, little man. Just feel that bowl fill up, and then feel the steam float off it. Watch how it goes out your mouth and nose, and then feel the air coming in there again. Over and over. Because it feels good, that’s all. If you start thinking about something, just go back to the bowl again. Nobody’s keeping track. You don’t have to get past one. Just one … one … one—see? That’s the real way to count. All those other numbers are a lot of crap. Then, if it’s night, you fall asleep, and if it’s day, you keep awake. Get it?”

  “I’ll try it, Sylvie, but I’m scared.”

  “Tell me about it, sky-jumper boy. Scared!”

  “How old are you?” he asked, staring at her with sudden intensity.

  “A million.”

  “Come on, Sylvie!”

  “Seventeen,” she said.

  “I’m fifteen. We’re practically the same.”

  “Dream on, little man.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever … ?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly she took his hand. “Not yet, Milo. It’s too soon. But I feel it too. I think it might happen. Don’t push, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She cocked her head at him and bit her lip in a way that melted whatever of Milo remained solid before Sylvie. “What do you see when you look at me, Milo”

  “A girl—what do you mean?”

  “When you see the moon and stars, maybe it’ll be time then …”

  “Sylvie, I want to tell you something about myself.”

  She looked away. “I gotta go somewhere. Tell me when I get back … . Do you have any money? I’m a little short.”

  At the beach that day, lying in the sun on a hulk of driftwood, sand dusting his face, fine sea air puffing his shirt and filling his lungs like a sail, Milo breathed. Water welled, sucked, and whispered around him. Waves lapped. The bowl filled and emptied. Thoughts came and went. Inside him, a knot loosened.

  Dede was saying, “Milo, how can you be so small?” She was big. She was the Jolly Green Giant. She was King Kong, Mount Everest, the Moon. He felt that he was looking at her the wrong way through a microscope. She flipped him, and he came up heads. She laughed. “I mean, where’s the rest of you, Milo? Don’t worry, I won’t spend you. I wonder what Galileo would say about this. He’s the one who figured out how there are as many square numbers as there are numbers, baby. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, … or 1, 4, 9, 16, 25 … for each of each there’s one of the other—savvy?—even though the one bunch looks bigger, even though the one bunch is a part of the other. Is that how it is for you, Milo?” She tickled him on the eagle’s breast. “Lots or little, somehow you’re still my little Milo. Don’t you lose something when you turn to a quarter? Don’t you get something when you turn to a blimp? How do you do those change-ums?”

  The bowl filled, the bowl emptied. The sea. The wind. A knot inside him came undone. “I’m a shape-shifter!”

  The sky darkened. The lake began to glow so intensely blue-green, seething in its basin, that it seemed more emotion than liquid. Strati knit the sky shut. Thunder. Milo climbed down from the log, brushed the sand off and started running. He was supposed to meet Sylvie in front of the bathhouse for a show in the old carousel enclosure.

  “When the great world horse pisses, it rains,” Dede had told him once. “Everything is transformations—it says so here in the Upanishads. Wanna hear more?”

  “No.” It had frightened him.

  Now, just as in Dede’s Upanishads, the rain broke like piss from a tight bladder. It sprayed down. The world horse whinnied. Its eyes flashed. The sand was speckled then splotched then rutted, and Milo was spattered with wet sand, splashing, pool to pool, toward the bathhouse. Then the hail began to fall. His scalp tickled. His hair sparkled with hail. When he brushed the tiny hail stones out, his hair crunched.

  It only lasted a few moments, and the drumming of rain and hail subsided. He could hear the waves again, breathing back and forth far behind him, and the flag by the bathhouse flapping like a faltering conversation.

  Sylvie was pacing back and forth between two pillars at the top of the bathhouse steps, just under the eaves of the roof, protected from the downpour. The broad stone steps were littered with tiny hailstones that crackled under Milo’s feet.

  “Sylvie!” he shouted. “I’ve got to tell you something. You’ve got to listen.”

  “Look, I’m in a hurry, Milo. There’s a guy waiting on me inside there, and then we still have that show to do.”

  “But Sylvie …”

  A tall wiry man in a Hawaiian shirt strolled out of the men’s door across the landing from Sylvie and Milo. He was balding but meticulously groomed and greased, with sideburns down to his long, heavy jaw. His fingers were covered with rings. “Hey, what’s the holdup now? My client is getting impatient.”

  Sylvie turned toward him. “One minute. Just wait inside. I never let you down yet, did I?”

  “Okiedokie.” He ducked back in.

  “Listen, Milo.” Sylvie was slightly trembling. So was Milo, but Sylvie wasn’t wet. “I’m going to leave in a second, but I need you to stay here. You gotta go in where Lenny is and give him something for me—a box with some stuff inside. Watch him, Milo. Watch that he’s careful with the thing I leave him, okay?”

  “Sure, Sylvie …”

  “Listen. The guy he’s with will do some stuff—it won’t take long—and then Lenny’ll give you some money. And he’ll give you the box back. Make sure you get that box back and everything in it. Mint. Understand?” She handed him something. She had to push it into his hand, because at first he didn’t see it, he had been focusing so intently on Sylvie’s eyes. It was an ice pick.

  He didn’t know what to make of it at first. “Sylvie?”

  “You won’t have to use it, don’t worry. It’s just in case. You might have to show it to him—that’s the worst it could get. Then he would give you everything and run. Lenny’s not brave like you, jumper boy. Believe me, I know Lenny.”

  Milo put the ice pick under his shirt, inside his belt.

  “Let Lenny leave. Just stay there by the showers. Make sure he’s gone. Make sure nobody’s around. If anybody’s around, wait till they’re gone. Put the box down on a bench. Come out to the door, and wait. I’ll meet you there in less than a minute, guaranteed.” She took a deep breath and huffed it out.

  “Okay,” she said, strictly business now, all the tension turned to purpose. “Turn around, Milo. I gotta do something you can’t see. Then I’ll split, and I’ll leave the package there for you to take in to Lenny. Just turn around, count to twenty, then do what I told you. Get it?”

  “Yes, Sylvie.”

 
“You’re soaking wet, you jerk.” She smiled and tousled his hair. “Don’t you know to come in out of the rain?” Then she pushed his shoulder to make him turn.

  “One, two …” rain dripping from the eaves. His teeth chattered a little. At twenty, he turned around and Sylvie was gone. There was a hat box on the landing, bound with a red ribbon. Milo picked it up and carried it across the landing and in through the men’s door, hugging it closely to his chest with both arms. The ice pick pricked his thigh a little when he stepped, but it didn’t hurt much.

  He didn’t see anyone at first. He was standing in a large, echoey dome with arched passages leading off every sixty degrees or so. The sound of slowly dripping water boomed all around him. He stood near the center trying to figure out which way to go, when he heard a voice: “Psst! Hey, kid! This way!” Milo followed the voice as well as he could.

  Moving into one of the small passageways, the quality of sound changed so abruptly that he felt someone had boxed his ears. Or else he was walking inside a sea shell, or inside the labyrinth of his own ear. The passage opened into a small, concrete courtyard with showers along the perimeter and a few benches near the middle. The hard floor sloped down toward a drain in the center. Milo looked up. The sky was the color of iron. He was cold.

  Suddenly Lenny was at his side. “Surprised you, huh?” He had come from a shower stall beside the entrance. “I had to take a leak. Mr. Jones used the regular facilities. He’ll be right here … . You a pal of Sylvie’s? She never used you before.”

  Milo heard steps echoing behind him. He turned and backed out of the way, toward the benches. Mr. Jones was a thick, crewcut man with a flaccid face. He wore a stiff, white short-sleeved shirt that fairly glowed in the stormy light. He squinted and cocked his head at the sight of Milo. “This isn’t a girl.”

  Lenny laughed. “So what? So she sent an associate. You’ll notice he’s got the merchandise.”

  Jones rolled his eyes. He looked disgusted. “That ain’t all he’s got, Lenny.”

  “Huh?”

  “This associate here has got a weapon in his belt,” Jones said. Milo looked down around the hat box to his waist. The soaked shirt was bunched around the handle of the ice pick. Jones stepped toward Milo and extended one hand, palm up. “Give.”

  “Come on, kid,” Lenny said. “You don’t need that. We trust each other here. God! I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. The kid doesn’t know how we do business, is all.”

  “Sure. So give.”

  Milo didn’t move. He looked back and forth between Lenny and Mr. Jones. For some reason, he didn’t feel worried about them. He was worried about something else. Something Lenny had said.

  “Sylvie doesn’t use me.”

  Lenny smiled. “Tough. Very tough. Very impressive. Okay. Sylvie doesn’t use you. Just give Mr. Jones the knife.”

  “It’s an ice pick,” Milo said. He looked straight at Jones. “And I’m keeping it. Sylvie didn’t say anything about giving it to you—unless you try to cheat me.”

  “He’s a kid, for crissakes!” Lenny laid a hand on Mr. Jones’s shoulder. Mr. Jones kept his hand extended and his eyes straight on Milo. “Nobody’s got anything to gain by violence here, am I right? Let’s just do our business and adjourn. Okay, Mr. Jones?”

  Jones nodded slowly. “I’m not impressed. I’m not pleased. But we’ll let it go, because I respect Lenny, and because I think this little boy would lose his lunch before he pricked anybody with that steel dick. Also, I have a gun … . So, let’s see the goods.”

  Jones stepped back. Lenny gave Milo a sheepish look. Facing Milo, so Jones couldn’t see, Lenny mouthed the words: “He doesn’t have any gun.” Lenny shrugged. Milo held out the box to Mr. Jones. Jones took it from Milo and carried it to one of the benches, where he laid it down and undid the ribbon.

  Lenny stayed a few feet back with Milo. “You’re wet, kid. Quite a downpour, huh?”

  “Don’t get the box wet,” Milo said to Jones. The wooden bench was damp. Jones shot him a black look and snarled something under his breath. Jones lifted the cover from the round box and laid it down on the bench beside the box itself. He reached in and pulled out a roll of cash. He fanned it, then removed the rubber band around it, pulled out one of the bills and held it at arm’s length to look it over. He did the same thing with a few others, turning them over, flapping them and pulling them out with a snap. Then Mr. Jones took a magnifying glass from his pocket and examined one of the bills more closely.

  He returned the magnifying glass to his pants pocket. He stacked the bills together and bound them with the rubber band again. He put the cash back into the box, closed it and tied the ribbon with the same sort of bow it had had before.

  “So?” said Lenny.

  Mr. Jones handed the box back to Milo and smiled. He turned to Lenny. “It’s crap.”

  “What do you mean, it’s crap? You can’t tell me this is crap. This is the work of a goddam artist. Uncle fucking Sam himself couldn’t tell this stuff from the real thing.”

  “I can. It’s crap.”

  “You’re trying to weasel a better deal out of me, aren’t you, Harold? You said if this passed muster you’d front me the ten thou. I told you I could guarantee delivery of the rest in two weeks. Okay, you said. Two weeks, you said. Ten thou up front on approval, you said.”

  “On approval.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this job. I’m telling you Sylvie’s guy is an artist. He’s a Da Vinci, Harold. Nothing’s wrong with it. What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s off, that’s all. The border’s off. The weave is funny. We won’t work with it. Find another distributor—it’s your funeral.”

  “Somebody’s supposed to give me some money,” Milo said.

  Jones turned on him, laughing. His face was like bread dough being folded and kneaded. His lips curled back, showing the gums, big and pink, like a horse’s. “What, are you gonna pull out your ice pick now? You an artist too? You gonna make me into an ice sculpture, kid? You guys are a million laughs.”

  Jones walked into the passage to the main chamber.

  “Harold!” Lenny turned his head to shout after him, but didn’t move an inch. He looked beaten. “Harold! Hey! Wait a minute here! Harold … Shit!”

  “Are you gonna give me the money?” Milo asked Lenny.

  “You’re a real piece of work, kid, you and that bitch of a sister you got.”

  “She’s not my sister.”

  “Give me the box. Screw Mr. Jones. I’ll find another Mr. Jones.”

  “I’m supposed to take the box back to Sylvie. You’re supposed to pay me.”

  Lenny grabbed at the hat box. Milo swung it out of his reach.

  “I don’t need this, kid,” Lenny said. “I don’t need your whore sister either, not after this. She screwed up. Give me the damn box. I’ll pay her when I get my advance, see? This is supposed to be our sample. This is supposed to buy me a little time while our printer gets his act together. You see how many people you’re holding up here, kid? Me, the printer, the printer’s family, my family …” He was walking forward as Milo walked back, between the benches, toward the far showers. “ … and Sylvie too. She’s got no use for it, without I get some dough on it for her. Now, gimme.”

  Milo was backed against a wall under a shower head. Lenny took another swipe at the box. Milo reached back and turned on the shower, spraying Lenny full in the face. Milo grabbed the ice pick from his belt. The point gouged Milo’s own stomach, and his soaked shirt reddened. He looked down, uttered a small cry of surprise, and dropped the ice pick.

  Lenny stopped sputtering and flailing. He stood still, with the spray pelting his face and plastering his sparse hair down in absurd curls. He stared at the blood welling up along Milo’s belt. He stepped back out of the shower. “Oh, God, what a mess! Kid, you keep it. You keep the damn paper. Tell Sylvie she screwed up. Oh, God! Equidecomposabullshit! I musta been outa my gourd! Tell her this is the last time she does a job for anybody e
ast of Topeka. And get a doctor, kid!” He turned and ran.

  “She’s not my sister,” Milo said. He turned off the shower. There was a shallow pool of red before him, pushed outward by the force of the spray and streaming back again toward the drain behind his heels. Like a drunkard navigating one sensum at a time, Milo looked at his right arm and saw that the hat box was still cradled there, soaked; then he found his feet and walked back to the benches, trailing bloody water.

  He laid the box down on a bench. He started back toward the main chamber, but as soon as he entered the passageway, the air filled with bright Paisleys, and he found himself on his knees, gasping. He pulled up his shirt to look underneath. He could see the lip of the wound, where blood oozed. “It’s not so bad,” he said. He slumped down onto his buttocks. He was about to black out, but he forced himself awake. He rolled onto all fours, then stood up, a little at a time. He leaned his shoulder against the wall of the passage and slid along, like a child pulling himself along the gutter of a swimming pool.

  He was halfway down the passage when he heard Sylvie’s voice behind him, in the courtyard, among the showers. “Milo! Milo, what happened? Whose blood is this?”

  He started to say “Dede’s,” but stopped it before his tongue left his palate. Dede’s blood! He looked at his fingers, and for a moment he thought that they were bloody claws …

  Dede lies before him, all bloody. Her spasms are like the jerks of a severed frog leg. He looks at his fingers. The claws are just now retracting into his fingertips, the carpal pad receding into a palm, the fur on his forearm turning into the slightest blond down. He cries, and his chin shudders into a gelatinous ooze, pulling upward, shortening, then hardening again, as the fangs recede with a squeak, shrinking into his gums and out of sight. “Dede! Dede! Did I do what you wanted? Dede!” He looks around for help. His knees have softened and recongealed to face the right direction now. The boy he was supposed to kill for Dede, the one who wouldn’t be her lover, is gone. The door has been thrown open and Milo can hear running down the street. “Dede, please say something!” He looks at his bloody fingers …