The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Three

by Jonathan Strahan

  At a guess, Vibeau Island looked like an old fishing village that had become a summer vacation spot at some point in the mid-twentieth century and was now an exurb. Up here it was chilly even in the early afternoon.

  I saw the woman with red hair standing at the end of a fishing pier. From a distance I thought Ruth Vega was feeding the ducks. Then I saw what she threw blow out onto the Saint Lawrence and realized she was tearing up papers and tossing them into the wind. On first glance, I would have said she looked remarkably as she had thirty years before.

  I waited until I was close to ask, "What's wrong, Ms. Vega, your shredder broken?"

  "McCluskey from the Central Workers Council," she said, and when she did, I saw her grandmother's face in hers. "I remember that first time we met, thinking that Mark's mother had chosen her operative well. You found her son and were very discreet about it."

  We walked back to her house. It was a cottage with good sight lines in all directions and two large black schnauzers snarling in a pen.

  "That first time was easy." I replied. "He remembered his family and wanted to be found. The second time was a few years later and that was much harder."

  Ruth nodded. We sat in her living room. She had a little wine, I had some tea. The décor had a stark beauty, nothing unnecessary: a gun case, a computer, a Cy Twombly over the fireplace.

  "The next time Mrs. Bannon sent me out to find her son, it was because she and he had lost touch. Frank Parnelli when I found him was a minor Village character. Mark no longer looked out from behind his eyes. He had no idea where you were. Your grandmother was a confused old woman wandering around her apartment in a nightgown.

  "I had to go back to Mrs. Bannon and tell her I'd failed. It wasn't until a couple of years later that Svetlanov turned up."

  "Mark and I were in love for a time," Ruth said. "He suggested jokingly once or twice that he leave Parnelli and come to me. I didn't want that and in truth he was afraid of someone he wouldn't be able to control.

  "Finally being around Parnelli grew thin and I stopped seeing them. Not long afterward Mark abandoned Parnelli and we both left New York for different destinations. A few years later, I was living in the Yucatan and he showed up again. This time with an old acquaintance of mine.

  "When I lived with Grandmother as a kid," Ruth said, "she was in her prime and all kinds of people were around. Political operatives, prophetesses, you name it. One was called Decker, this young guy with dark eyes and long dark hair like classical violinists wore. For a while he came around with some project on which he wanted my grandmother's advice. I thought he was very sexy. I was ten.

  "Then he wasn't around the apartment. But I saw him: coming out of a bank, on the street walking past me with some woman. Once on a school trip to the United Nations Building, I saw him on the subway in a naval cadet's uniform.

  "I got home that evening and my grandmother said, 'Have you seen that man Decker recently?' When I said yes, she told me to go do my homework and made a single very short phone call. Decker stopped appearing in my life.

  "Until one night in Mexico a knock came on my door and there he stood looking not a day older than when I'd seen him last. For a brief moment, there was a flicker in his eyes and I knew Mark was there but not in control.

  "Decker could touch and twist another's mind with his. My grandmother, though, had taught me the chant against intrusive thoughts. Uncle Dano had taught me how to draw, aim, and fire without even thinking about it.

  "Killing is a stupid way to solve problems. But sometimes it's the only one. After Decker died I played host to Mark for about an hour before I found someone else for him to ride. He was like a spark, pure instinct unfettered by a soul. That's changed somewhat."

  When it was time for my ferry back to the city, Ruth rose and walked down to the dock with me.

  "I saw his sister on TV the other night when they announced she would be appointed to the Senate. I take it she's the one who's looking for him?"

  I nodded and she said, "Before too long idiot senators will be trying to lodge civil liberty complaints after martial law has been declared and the security squads are on their way to the capital to throw them in jail. Without Mark she'll be one of them."

  Before I went up the gangplank, she hugged me and said, "You think you're looking for him but he's actually waiting for you."

  After a few days back in New York memories of Vibeau Island began to seem preposterous. Then I walked down my block late one night. It was crowded with tourists and college kids, barkers and bouncers. I saw people give the averted celebrity glance.

  Then I spotted a black man with a round face and a shaven head. I did recognize him: an overnight hip-hop millionaire. He sat in the back of a stretch limo with the door open. Our eyes met. His widened then dulled and he sank back in his seat.

  At that moment, I saw gray winter sky and felt the damp cold of the ice-covered Neponset. On old familiar ground, said a voice inside me and I knew Mark was back.

  9.

  Some hours later passengers found seats as our train pulled out of New Haven.

  "Ruth said you were waiting for me," I told Mark silently.

  And Red Ruth is never wrong.

  "She told me about Decker."

  I thought I had selected him. But he had selected me. Once inside him I was trapped. He was a spider. I couldn't control him. Couldn't escape. I led him to Ruth as I was told.

  He showed me an image of Ruth pointing an automatic pistol, firing at close range.

  I leaped to her as he died. She was more relentless than Decker in some ways. I had to promise to make my existence worthwhile. To make the world better.

  "If angels fight, weak men must fall."

  Not exactly an angel. Ego? Id? Fragment? Parasite?

  I thought of how his father had something like an angel himself.

  His body, soul, and mind were a single entity. Mine weren't.

  I saw his memory of Mike Bannon smiling and waving in the curved front windows of his house at well-wishers on the snowy front lawn. Bannon senior never questioned his own skills or wondered what would have happened if they'd been trapped in a brain that was mildly damaged. Then he saw it happen to his son.

  Once I understood that, he showed me the dark tower again with two tiny slits of light high above. I found hand- and footholds and crawled up the interior stone walls. This time I looked through the slits of light and saw they were the eyeholes of a mask. In front of me were Mike and Marie Bannon looking very young and startled by the sudden light in the eyes of their troublingly quiet little boy.

  When the train approached Boston, the one inside me said, Let's see the old neighborhood.

  We took a taxi from Back Bay and drove out to Dorchester. We saw the school we'd gone to and the courthouse and place where I'd lived and the houses that stood where Fitzie's had once been.

  My first great escape.

  That night so long ago came back. Larry Cullen, seen through the eyeholes of a mask, stood with his thin psycho smile. In a flash I saw Mark Bannon slack-jawed and felt Cullen's cold fear as the angel took hold of his mind and looked out through his eyes.

  Cullen's life was all horror and hate. His father was a monster. It should have taught me something. Instead I felt like I'd broken out of jail. After each time away from my own body it was harder to go back.

  Melville Avenue looked pretty much the way it always did. Mrs. Bannon still lived in the family house. We got out of the car and the one inside me said, When all this is over, it won't be forgotten that you brought me back to my family.

  In the days since then, as politics have become more dangerous, Carol Bannon has grown bolder and wilier. And I wonder what form the remembering will take.

  Mrs. Bannon's caregiver opened the door. We were expected. Carol stood at the top of the stairs very much in command. I thought of her father.

  "My mother's waiting to see you," she said. I understood that I would spend a few minutes with Mrs. Bannon and then
depart. Carol looked right into my eyes and kissed me. Her eyes flashed and she smiled.

  In that instant the one inside my head departed. The wonderful sharpness went out of the morning and I felt a touch of the desolation that Mark Bannon and all the others must have felt when the angel deserted them.

  The Doom Of Love

  In Small Spaces

  Ken Scholes

  Ken Scholes's quirky, speculative short fiction has been showing up over the last eight years in publications like Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, Clarkesworld Magazine, Best New Fantasy 2, Polyphony 6, and L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future Volume XXI. His five-book series, "The Psalms of Isaak," is forthcoming from Tor Books with the first volume, Lamentation, debuting in February 2009 and the second volume, Canticle, following in October 2009. His first short story collection, Long Walks, Last Flights and Other Journeys, was published in November 2008.

  Ken is a 2004 winner of the Writers of the Future contest and a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He has a degree in History from Western Washington University. Ken lives near Portland, Oregon, with his amazing wonder-wife Jen West Scholes, two suspicious-looking cats, and more books than you would ever want to help him move.

  We met at work.

  She looked at me when she walked into the room and I was immediately un-tethered. Pretty brunette in a red dress who knew she was pretty, knew that the thigh-high slit along the side of her skirt and the haphazard plummet of her neckline were reefs where men could be shipwrecked. Her flashing eyes sang danger and peace in two-part harmony. Each step towards me delivered the unrelenting clip-clap, clip-clap of heels across a tile floor so brightly polished that it reflected back her matching red panties.

  I held my breath and waited to catch fire from the sight of her.

  "Central Supply," she said when she stood in front of my desk. Her voice melted the crystalline sugar on my glazed donut. I watched it puddle and pool on the paper napkin.

  I swallowed. "That's me, Miss."

  She smiled. "Just you?"

  I nodded. Now my styrofoam cup started bending from the heat of her, tilting precariously. The coffee inside it bubbled. "Just me."

  She leaned over my desk and bent slightly, tipping her breasts towards me. They hung, held in place by a red bra. "I need more love," she said. "We've run completely out on the fifth floor."

  The hair on my arms curled in on itself, the stink of burning in my nose alongside her floral perfume and her peppermint breath. I forced my eyes to her face, squinting to see her through the haze of smoke.

  "Are you okay?" she asked.

  My tongue expanded in my mouth, swelling to block my words. I forced it back to normal size. "You must be new?"

  She threw back her shoulders and tossed her hair. "Not so much." Her teeth shined now, fine and white and straight. "We just don't use a lot of supplies anymore on the fifth floor. I think the last person they sent down was Bill when they ran out of hope."

  I remembered Bill. He'd dragged himself in here and died in the corner before he could tell me what he wanted. It wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. "I remember Bill," I said. "Good chap."

  "Dead chap," she said.

  I shrugged, and motioned to the chair beside my desk. "It happens a lot around here."

  She sat and crossed her legs. The slit fell open like a theater curtain. Long, slender legs, white heat shimmering off them to singe my eyebrows.

  "So you need some love," I said, opening my card file and thumbing through the microfiche.

  She folded her hands in her lap. "Please."

  "How much?"

  "Well, as much as you can spare."

  I slipped the flimsy plastic film into the reader and hit the switch. A blue field swimming with white letters blurred into focus with the turn of a knob.

  I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She pulled self-consciously at her bra-strap and fidgeted. "Elevators still out?" I asked, trying to make small talk.

  She nodded. "Board says they're not repairing them, either."

  "Bloody barkers," I said. Of course, she had no way of knowing that I was the one who told them not to repair the elevators. Working elevators meant the rapid movement of supplies up and down the building. I'd sent the memo in, followed all the usual forms. Naturally, they'd listened to me.

  They had to.

  I moved the arm of the microfiche reader, sliding the film over the light. "Love," I said. "Any particular size or shape?"

  "Love comes in shapes and sizes?" she asked.

  "All," I said.

  She answered me with a laugh.

  "We're out," I lied. I had a smallish off-brand muzzled and leashed in the back of the storeroom that I'd left off the inventory. "But we could order some."

  She stood, came around my desk so she could read over my shoulder. She leaned in to me and I felt her breath on my neck. "How long?"

  I shrugged. "They'll send it through the canal. Drive it in by truck from there. Then there's the pass. Eight weeks maybe?"

  "That long for something as simple as love?"

  I swallowed and nodded, felt her press against my shoulder as I turned in my chair. "How much should I order?" I picked up a pencil and a requisition tablet.

  Her eyes narrowed in thought. "I don't know."

  "Well, is it a small space or a large space?"

  She looked confused. "Pardon?"

  "The space," I said, "where you need the love?"

  "Oh. I don't know. Is it important?"

  I nodded. "It is. Too much love in a small space, it'd drive you mad."

  "Why is that?" she asked.

  "I think it's because love rapidly expands, depleting the oxygen and eradicating all life but its own."

  "But oh," she said, "what sweet madness it would be." She pursed her lips. "Eight weeks? It took me three to get here."

  "Damned elevators," I said. "But you don't need to go back. You can stay here with me. I have an extra cot in the back office."

  Clip-clap, clip-clap across the tile. Heat receded as she paced away. She laughed. "You're a troll," she said. "Why ever would I stay here with you?"

  She had a point. I was a troll. Of sorts. Supplies or bridges, it matters little. Trolls guard. I thought about my donut. I thought about the love leashed somewhere behind me. I thought about the girl in red everything pacing the sub-sub-basement clerk's station at the foot of the storeroom doors, three weeks down the stairs and ladders of the Bureaucracy.

  I grimaced. "I don't know why you'd stay here with me."

  I snuck a glance at her. Creamy white thigh peeking out, smooth curves, legs scissoring. I stood up and lumbered towards the phone on the wall. I lifted the receiver and held it to my ear, ringing the crank. "Gallingwise Seven Six Three, please," I told the operator when I heard her cut in.

  When Central Stores picked up, I read off the requisition numbers, ordering an abstract by numeric coding. They gave me release order numbers that I scribbled in blue pencil onto the requisition forms.

  I tore off the sheets and gave her the carbon copies. "Eight weeks, they said, give or take. You're still welcome to stay. I've got running water, too." I sat back down at my desk, chair groaning beneath my weight.

  Her eyebrows lifted. "Running water? Hot or cold?"

  I smiled. "Both."

  She tossed her hair again and struck a pose. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this look out of a bucket of secondhand washwater?" Or rusty water from a broken pipe, I thought. I'd watched her through my periscope that morning before she tackled the last half mile or so of her journey down, before I knew I was her destination.

  I could have her, I thought. I could have her here for eight weeks with me only it wouldn't be because of me. It would be because of the makeshift tub, the series of pipes and tubes and hoses tapping into the central boiler. Little comforts I'd rigged to make my job more tolerable. But the because didn't matter.

  "It's that bad up the
re, is it?" Of course, I knew that it was.

  She rolled her eyes. "Fifth floor is a wreck. Frankly, none of the others between here and there are all that wonderful, either."

  "But I'll bet the seventh floor is just fine." Of course, I also knew this. That was the Board's floor and I kept it that way just as I kept the other floors the way they were. Memos flying from my pen. Keep the Machine under a constant state of stress and alarm, taut with opportunities for improvement . . . just like the world beyond our little game of government.

  "Have you ever been to the seventh floor?" she asked.

  "Wouldn't want to," I said. "Incompetent gits, the lot of them."

  A moment of fear washed her face and she blushed at it. She looked around slowly. "I can't believe you said that."

  "Why? It's not as if they can hear." And, I told myself, it's not as if it weren't true. They were incompetent. That's why they needed me.

  She paced some more. "Running water and a cot?"

  "And donuts," I said, "Delivered every Tuesday." I paused. "I might even have some extra liquid hand soap lying about. Makes a passable bubble bath."

  Her smile shown out not just from her face but from every part of her, beaming out from the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair and the curves of her hips and breasts, the line of her legs and neck, the exhilaration of her eyes.

  "I'll stay," she said.

  "I'll call up to five and let them know."

  "No need," she said. "The phones are out past the third floor."

  "That's unfortunate," I said. But of course, I'm the one who kept them out. "I'll send up a memo then." I grabbed a memo form and rummaged through the box near my desk for an undented pneumatic carrier. "It'll take longer, though."

  She curtsied. "Thank you, kind sir." She paused, her brow furrowed. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Harmony Sheffleton," she said, extending her hand.

  I shook it. Her hand disappeared in my own massive fist. "Drum Farrelley."

  "Drum as in Drummond?" she asked.