The Year's Best Science Fiction: Fifteenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  We turned right on the road, then left. We drove silently in the barren hills south of town, past fields used only as pasture, that grew only a bumper crop of rock.

  The rock reminded me of Washington. I remembered a party in Georgetown, at one of the ever-so-discreet townhouses near the university. In the back, behind all the security doors and the antique furniture and more pretentious people than I could suddenly stand, was a tiny courtyard. I fled there with my Scotch to escape a too-aggressive bureaucrat's daughter. There I found the rock.

  Nothing special, just a small gray boulder about twice the size of a basketball, flecked with black and silver. It was tucked next to a dwarf willow beside a pool. Spray from a small waterfall moistened the rock, already tumbled and smoothed by the glacier that created it. I ran my bands over it and suddenly realized I was homesick.

  Now we drove past uncounted fortunes of that kind of decorative rock, poking out of the fields, plowed into piles, pushed into heaps to get them out of the way. I glanced at everything around me, at the rain and the wetlands and the bare hills and the rock, and smiled. This was where that rock belonged, not in some little decorative garden, and maybe it was not the only thing that belonged here.

  We crossed a ridgeline and stopped on top. I put the car in park, and started to get out of it. Foremost began to get out also. I reached over and touched him.

  "You stay inside," I said. "This will only take a minute."

  I stood on the ridge, silhouetted against the gray sky, for several minutes. Summit Lake used to be a field like any of a thousand fields in the old tribal lands. One day, as Sam told me, some fool woke up and thought he was in Iowa, not Dakota, and decided to try to plow good buffalo land. Instead of a neat, clean furrow through dirt he hit a rock. When he pulled the boulder off he found it was a caprock, over a spring.

  Now Summit Lake filled the entire bowl, probably three or four square miles in area, with only a few scraggly trees to break the rolling, grass-covered hills. And it showed on no maps, not county or state or federal. You knew where it was, and you found it, or you were a flatlander and then what the hell were you doing here anyway?

  Satisfied that Oly had plenty of time to see who it was, I got back in the car and headed off down the track to his shack next to the concrete boat landing.

  Oly was outside on a bench tucked next to his house. He looked up when the car stopped, a knife and a piece of wood in his hands.

  "He is a sculptor?" Foremost asked. I shook my head and pointed to the pile of wood shavings on the ground around Oly.

  "He just likes to cut wood. He takes a big piece and makes it into a lot of little pieces. Then he starts over again with another big piece."

  "Why?" Foremost asked.

  I took a deep breath. I was impatient to get this over, and unhappy about any time we spent out in the open where more people could see Foremost.

  "Oly used to be the best carver in this part of the state," I said. "I swear, magic used to flow out of his knife. Now he's got some bad arthritis and his fingers don't work so well. The magic still flows in him, but only in his mind. So he cuts the wood to remember, and he still sees the final carvings in his mind."

  "And the rest of us only see the shavings," Foremost said.

  "That's our problem, not his," I said briskly. "Maybe we just don't know how to look right. Anyway, let's go. We don't have that much time."

  We got out of the car and walked over to Oly. He looked at me, then Foremost, then back to me. Then back to his wood.

  The bench was an old driftwood tree trunk, gray and worn and twisted, roughly knocked with an axe into a flat surface. Oly propped the wood up on two old black plastic bait buckets to get it off the ground.

  I sat on one side of Oly, and motioned Foremost to sit on the other side. We sat silently for a moment and stared out at the dark water.

  Summit Lake was like a map if you knew how to read it. Small sloped waves, deceptively soft, in the middle where the water was deepest. Taller, thinner waves, with white froth tops and green water, almost as transparent as glass, near the shore and the underwater slope.

  The fish that lived in the lake preferred different kinds of water and cover. A good fisherman could look at the lake, at the waves and color, and draw a mental map of what the bottom looked like. A good fisherman knew that walleye liked this kind of water; northern pike liked that kind. Bullhead swarmed over the points, and bass liked the sections where the branches of dead trees, flooded out years ago, poked through the surface.

  Sam claimed the world was like a lake, and the people in it like fish. Most people went through their lives without much understanding of what was really going on. Only a few people could stand outside the world and actually see it and make sense out of it. He claimed Oly was one of the best of these.

  Tradition said I had to talk first when I met Oly.

  "So how's the fishing been, Oly?"

  He took a cut with his knife, and a curl of wood peeled onto the ground.

  "Been worse. Been better," he said.

  "Yeah," I said. "I can see that."

  "You came back for Sam," Oly said. Another curl of wood joined the pile on the ground. "Some people said you wouldn't come back. Some people said you were gone from the line, said you didn't even want to be associated anymore."

  "They can say it," I said. "People can say anything they want. But I'm back."

  Oly was older than Sam, so old that even his grandchildren were older than the brothers and I. His teeth were blackened and mostly missing, his hair thin and the leathery scalp covered with brown age spots.

  But his eyes were sharp and it was said that nothing happened in Summit he did not know.

  "YOU brought a flatlander to the funeral," Oly said.

  "Steve's wife, Rose," I said. "He's got a little girl now."

  "Steve's got a baby," Oly said. He shook his head. "He was such a funny looking little guy. Looked just like a duck. And now he's got a baby of his own. Funny."

  I tried to imagine Steve, closer to seven foot than six, strong enough to break ribs as part of his job as a respiratory therapist, as a baby who looked like a duck. I smiled to myself.

  "This is Foremost," I said. "He's from upstairs."

  Oly nodded.

  "Word came around," he said. "He's associated?"

  "I gave him my word."

  "With Sam gone, you can do that," Oly said. He looked up at me. "I heard how you handled Dove last night."

  "Dove and the boys were just having some fun," I said, uneasily. "You did it right," Oly reassured me.

  He took a final cut at the wood, looked at it critically, then folded the clasp knife and put it in his pocket. He stood and turned to Foremost.

  "You come with a good recommendation," he said, and jerked his head back over his shoulder toward me. "I try to do my best," Foremost said.

  "He's good people," Oly said. He stared hard at Foremost. "Don't mess him up.

  Oly turned and walked with a firm, clean step to his shack. Foremost and I stood and waited.

  Oly was back in a minute. In one hand he carried a bundle about a foot long, wrapped in an oilcloth and tied with a piece of rawhide. In the other hand he carried a mason jar. He handed the package to me, and unscrewed the jar with the other.

  "Limbo came by this morning," Oly told me. "Said he found some tracks that he'd never seen before around his place. They looked like boot tracks, but not any kind of boot he's ever seen."

  We all looked down at Foremost's feet. His boots were as wide as they were long, with three large bulges where a human had toes. There was no way to ever confuse his feet with one of ours.

  "He found the tracks all around some kind of metal torpedo that someone had hidden in the brush," Oly said. "Limbo said there was writing on the outside of the metal, but he couldn't read any of it."

  "I hid my escape pod after I landed. I hope I did not hurt anything on his farm," Foremost said.

  "And then you just walked west into t
own?" I asked.

  "South," he corrected me. "My garment has some camouflage capabilities, and my people are quite good at moving without being seen."

  Oly looked at me and smiled, a thin slash across his face. Limbo's farm was east of town. So either Foremost lied when he said he walked south into Summit, or someone else was now prowling around town. The lie was too easy to check, if we looked in the brush north of town for another ship, so I had to assume we had another visitor.

  "Sounds like we need a drink," Oly said. He reached in the jar, fished around with his fingers, and pulled out the complete skeleton of a fish, head and all. He tossed this on the ground, then tipped the jar to his lips and took a deep drink, so that his Adam's apple moved up and down like a piston. He wiped his lips and handed the jar to me.

  The jar was old, tired glass, heavily decorated with curlicues and fancy writing. Inside I saw clear liquid on top and, on the bottom, a white sludge of particles that danced and flickered with oily, reflected light. The smell, a mixture of fish, spices, pickle juice, and pure alcohol, was enough to make my eyes water.

  I took a small sip.

  The sludge was smooth and silky, with a hint of cinnamon and bay on top of the full' fish taste. Northern pike, I guessed. Then the vinegar cut through and seemed to slice my mouth open. Finally, the alcohol seemed to lift off the top of my head and let the cool breeze swirl around inside.

  I handed the jar to Oly. He handed it to Foremost. He looked at the jar, puzzled, and touched it with his allergen analyzer. He stared hard at the display, as if he couldn't believe the results, then tucked the analyzer away. He held the jar in his long, leathery fingers and took a hesitant sip. He closed his eyes while Oly smiled at him. He opened his eyes and handed the jar to Oly.

  "Good," be said, his voice raspy and hoarse. "Very good indeed. This is how you preserve the fish you catch?"

  "Oly doesn't fish," I corrected. "People bring him fish they catch and don't want." I turned to Oly. "Who's got the still now? I don't recognize the taste of the moonshine."

  "You asking as a government man, or as one of us?" Oly said.

  "I'm asking as me," I answered. "Government man resigned his job to come to the funeral."

  Oly nodded and looked approving. Not many people around Summit had much love for the government. I lost a lot of respect when I went to Washington. The first time I got shot I gained most of it back, but it was an expensive way to put credit in that account.

  "That batch of 'shine is from Flipper's new still," Oly said. He looked at the jar critically. "I canned that jar a couple of years ago. Just took it out to see how it's aging."

  "Not bad," I said.

  "But not quite ripe yet, either," Oly grumbled. "That boy keeps doing fancy things to the old recipe for grain. He just can't leave well enough alone. Makes it hard to can a decent fish when you don't know what the 'shine is going to taste like. These things have to match up just right."

  "Sometimes change is good," I said.

  "Don't you start up on me," Oly warned. "Change happens fast enough without rushing it."

  "What about Sam?" Foremost asked. "Did he fish?"

  "Sam? Oh, he put his lines out for all sorts of things. Yes, he was a great fisherman. He caught fish all the time, but he never wanted to eat them. He just liked catching them, and making them do what he wanted," Oly said, and grinned. "Kind of like what he did with people. He had his lines out for them, just like he did for fish. Never sure what he was going to catch, but always interested. Me, I'm different. I don't like catching the fish, but I like to take care of them afterward. Same with people. Sam and me, we were like both sides of the mirror, the face that looks in and the face that looks back."

  The world is like the lake, and Sam and Oly sit on the shore, and talk and laugh and watch the water ... "I put a fish in a jar, add 'shine, spices, and just a little pickle juice. Then I let it rest for a few years. Makes it easier for me to eat with my gums," Oly said, and smiled to expose his lack of teeth again.

  "There are people on the ship who would pay you much for that single jar," Foremost said.

  "I'm always willing to talk about money," Oly said. He handed the jar back to Foremost. "Have another sip and let's talk."

  I left them alone for the moment and took the oilcloth package back to the car. Once there, I gently untied the rawhide and unfolded the material.

  The Estep token was two pieces of bone, speckled black with age. They looked like the thighbones of some animal, bigger than a rabbit, smaller than a deer, but nothing I immediately recognized. I touched the bones, ran my finger up and down them, felt the smooth surface with its little pits and whorls, then tied the bundle together again and placed it carefully in the back seat.

  Sam never talked much about the token of our line, just enough to let me know it was important. Once a year, at Orville Knob's Nut Fest, the big party just before New Year's Eve, the token was carefully laid out on a table set with a brilliant white tablecloth. The table was always tucked into a far corner of the room, unobtrusive but visible. I sat next to Sam all night one year, and brought him food and beer and listened and watched.

  I saw members of the line sidle up to the table and look down at the token. Sam waited a moment, then leaned forward and spoke a few quiet words with the person. They would listen and nod and smile, or speak quietly about some problem they couldn't solve. Then they put a few dollars on the table next to the token and walked away. When they left, I took the money and put it into the strongbox under Sam's chair.

  I knew that in the next few days Sam would work on the person's problem. It might get solved, and it might not. Nothing was perfect, not even the token, but as a symbol it was damned powerful to us. To everyone else, it was just a couple of old bones.

  I knew what I needed to do next, and wished I could drink more fish with Oly to give me some liquid courage. Finally I promised to do myself a favor in the future and picked up my satellite phone and called Carole.

  Her personal secretary was an old friend and always answered the private number herself, instead of letting the voice mail do a screening, so I called that number. It rang twice and Phyllis picked up.

  "Protective service."

  "Morning, Phyllis. It's me."

  "Tony!" she said warmly. "Oh, it's good to hear you. I miss you already."

  "Phyllis, you're a better liar than anyone else in the office," I said fondly. "I've only been gone two days."

  "Two long days. Two extremely long days."

  "I turned in my resignation, Phyllis. I'm not coming back. Better get used to it."

  "Herself needs you back, Tony. Things aren't going so well right now."

  "I know," I said. "More than you think. Is she in?"

  "Hold two."

  I glanced back at the porch. Three open mason jars rested on the ground and Oly held another in his hand while Foremost tested it with his sampler.

  "Tony? Where are you? All hell's broken loose back here," Carole said. Her voice sounded cool, efficient, and just a little desperate. "I'm still in Dakota. The funeral is this afternoon."

  "We got problems, Tony," Carole said. "An alien we've never seen before, from a species we've never met before, is down here with the President."

  I nodded to myself. "I'll bet this one doesn't talk like an ambassador," I said. There was silence from the other end of the line.

  "No. Not like an ambassador. More like a general than an ambassador. She says Foremost is gone, they think we have him, and they want him back. They're making demands and giving us veiled threats. No one is talking trade anymore. We have to find Foremost."

  "I know where he is," I said.

  "Where?"

  "About fifty yards away from me, drinking with an old friend of mine," I said.

  "Talk to me, Tony. Tell me what's going on," Carole said.

  I explained the situation quickly, as if I was doing a debrief on a routine assignment. When I finished, all I heard was her soft breathing on the phon
e.

  I looked over at Oly and Foremost. They each took a jar in hand and sipped. Then they put them down, argued, and picked up another jar, and sipped. It looked like the Dakota version of a wine tasting.

  "I want you to keep him there, safe, until I arrive. I'll grab a jet at Andrews and get there in a couple of hours."

  I started to laugh. "What's so damn funny?" she snapped.

  "Where are you going to fly into? Fargo? Sioux Falls? Minneapolis? Those are the nearest cities with an airport big enough to take even the smallest kind of jet."

  "Then that's where I'll fly."

  "And then you drive," I said, my voice suddenly serious. "You drive for hours. And then you arrive here, with a column of cars and trucks and God knows what else."

  "You have a problem with this?"

  "We don't take to outsiders up here, Carole. We call them flatlanders, people from outside the hills. You arrive here like that, without any kind of an invitation, like an invading force, and someone is going to have a few drinks, and then take a few shots. Maybe at you. Maybe at Foremost for bringing in outsiders."

  "No one would dare," she said, uncertain.

  I sighed.

  "Carole, there's a town up here where a man was shot down in broad daylight on Main Street with about a hundred witnesses around. No one liked the guy much and his death ended a feud between two lines. Everyone was pretty much satisfied with the result. Then a dozen marshals showed up to enforce flatlander law. If they were to arrest someone, anyone, it stood a very good chance of starting everything up again between the two lines," I said.

  "So what happened? What did the marshals find out?" she asked.

  "Nothing," I said. "Absolutely nothing. Because no one saw a thing, and no one ever said a thing. In broad daylight, in the middle of town. Everyone kept their mouth shut."

  "What are you trying to tell me?"

  "We take care of our own up here, Carole. Let us take care of things our way. "Foremost isn't one of you."