The Year's Best SF 13 # 1995

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  * * *

  And later, on the terrible night when the ship arrives and every machine in the city dies, with flames roaring unchecked through the farside quarter of the city and thousands of citizens fleeing into the orchard forests to the north, Mr. Naryan realises that he has not understood as much as he thought. Angel has not been preaching empty revolution after all.

  Her acolytes, all young men, are armed with crude wooden spears with fire-hardened tips, long double-edged knives of the kind coconut sellers use to open their wares, flails improvised from chains and wire. They hustle Mr. Naryan in a forced march towards the palace and Dreen’s floating habitat. They have taken away Mr. Naryan’s cane, and his bad leg hurts abominably with every other step.

  Angel is gone. She has work elsewhere. Mr. Naryan felt fear when he saw her, but feels more fear now. The reflex altruism of the acolytes has been overridden by a new meme forged in the fires of Angel’s revolution—they jostle Mr. Naryan with rough humour, sure in their hold over him. One in particular, the rough skin of his long-jawed face crazed in diamonds, jabs Mr. Naryan in his ribs with the butt of his spear at every intersection, as if to remind him not to escape, something that Mr. Naryan has absolutely no intention of doing.

  Power is down all over the city—it went off with the fall of the machines—but leaping light from scattered fires swims in the wide eyes of the young men. They pass through a market square where people swig beer and drunkenly gamble amongst overturned stalls. Elsewhere in the fiery dark there is open rutting, men with men as well as with women. A child lies dead in a gutter. Horrible, horrible. Once, a building collapses inside its own fire, sending flames whirling high into the black sky. The faces of all the men surrounding Mr. Naryan are transformed by this leaping light into masks with eyes of flame.

  Mr. Naryan’s captors urge him on. His only comfort is that he will be of use in what is to come. Angel has not yet finished with him.

  * * *

  When Angel returned from the edge of the world, she came straight away to Mr. Naryan. It was a warm evening, at the hour after sunset when the streets began to fill with strollers, the murmur of neighbour greeting neighbour, the cries of vendors selling fruit juice or popcorn or sweet cakes.

  Mr. Naryan was listening as his pupil, the magistrate’s son, read a passage from the Puranas which described the time when the Preservers had strung the Galaxy with their creations. The boy was tall and awkward and faintly resentful, for he was not the scholar his father wished him to be and would rather spend his evenings with his fellows in the beer halls than read ancient legends in a long-dead language. He bent over the book like a night stork, his finger stabbing at each line as he clumsily translated it, mangling words in his hoarse voice. Mr. Naryan was listening with half an ear, interrupting only to correct particularly inelegant phrases. In the kitchen at the far end of the little apartment, his wife was humming to the murmur of the radio, her voice a breathy contented monotone.

  Angel came up the helical stair with a rapid clatter, mounting quickly above a sudden hush in the street. Mr. Naryan knew who it was even before she burst onto the balcony. Her appearance so astonished the magistrate’s son that he dropped the book. Mr. Naryan dismissed him and he hurried away, no doubt eager to meet his friends in the flickering neon of the beer hall and tell them of this wonder.

  “I’ve been to the edge of the world,” Angel said to Mr. Naryan, coolly accepting a bowl of tea from Mr. Naryan’s wife, quite oblivious of the glance she exchanged with her husband before retreating. Mr. Naryan’s heart turned at that look, for in it he saw how his wife’s hard words were so easily dissolved in the weltering sea of reflexive benevolence. How cruel the Preservers had been, it seemed to him never crueller, to have raised up races of the Shaped and yet to have shackled them in unthinking obedience.

  Angel said, “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Dreen told me as much. I’m pleased to see you returned safely. It has been a dry time without you.” Already he had said too much: it was as if all his thoughts were eager to be spilled before her.

  “Dreen knows everything that goes on in the city.”

  “Oh no, not at all. He knows what he needs to know.”

  “I took a boat,” Angel said. “I just asked for it, and the man took me right along, without question. I wish now I’d stolen it. It would have been simpler. I’m tired of all this good will.”

  It was as if she could read his mind. For the first time, Mr. Naryan began to be afraid, a shiver like the first shake of a tambour that had ritually introduced the tempestuous dances of his youth.

  Angel sat on the stool that the student had quit, tipping it back so she could lean against the rail of the balcony. She had cut her black hair short, and bound around her forehead a strip of white cloth printed with the slogan, in ancient incomprehensible script, that was the badge of her acolytes. She wore an ordinary loose white shirt and much jewelry: rings on every finger, sometimes more than one on each; bracelets and bangles down her forearms; gold and silver chains around her neck, layered on her breast. She was both graceful and terrifying, a rough beast slouched from the deep past to claim the world.

  She said, teasingly, “Don’t you want to hear my story? Isn’t that your avocation?”

  “I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me,” Mr. Naryan said.

  “The world is a straight line. Do you know about libration?”

  Mr. Naryan shook his head.

  Angel held out her hand, tipped it back and forth. “This is the world. Everything lives on the back of a long flat plate which circles the sun. The plate rocks on its long axis, so the sun rises above the edge and then reverses its course. I went to the edge of the world, where the river that runs down half its length falls into the void. I suppose it must be collected and redistributed, but it really does look like it falls away forever.”

  “The river is eternally renewed,” Mr. Naryan said. “Where it falls is where ships used to arrive and depart, but this city has not been a port for many years.”

  “Fortunately for me, or my companions would already be here. There’s a narrow ribbon of land on the far side of the river. Nothing lives there, not even an insect. No earth, no stones. The air shakes with the sound of the river’s fall, and swirling mist burns with raw sunlight. And there are shrines, in the thunder and mist at the edge of the world. One spoke to me.”

  Mr. Naryan knew these shrines, although he had not been there for many years. He remembered that the different races of the Shaped had erected shrines all along the edge of the world, stone upon stone carried across the river, from which flags and long banners flew. Long ago, the original founders of the city of Sensch, Dreen’s ancestors, had travelled across the river to petition the avatars of the Preservers, believing that the journey across the wide river was a necessary rite of purification. But they were gone, and the new citizens, who had built their city of stones over the burnt groves of the old city, simply bathed in the heated, mineral-heavy water of the pools of the shrines of the temple at the edge of their city before delivering their petitions. He supposed the proud flags and banners of the shrines would be tattered rags now, bleached by unfiltered sunlight, rotted by mist. The screens of the shrines—would they still be working?

  Angel grinned. Mr. Naryan had to remember that it was not, as it was with the citizens, a baring of teeth before striking. She said, “Don’t you want to know what it said to me? It’s part of my story.”

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  She passed her hand over the top of her narrow skull: bristly hair made a crisp sound under her palm. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think I do. Not yet.”

  Later, after a span of silence, just before she left, she said, “After we were wakened by the ship, after it brought us here, it showed us how the black hole you call the Eye of the Preservers was made. It recorded the process as it returned, speeded up because the ship was travelling so fast it stretched time around itself. At first there was an
intense point of light within the heart of the Large Magellanic Cloud. It might have been a supernova, except that it was a thousand times larger than any supernova ever recorded. For a long time its glare obscured everything else, and when it cleared, all the remaining stars were streaming around where it had been. Those nearest the centre elongated and dissipated, and always more crowded in until nothing was left but the gas clouds of the accretion disc, glowing by Cerenkov radiation.”

  “So it is written in the Puranas.”

  “And is it also written there why Confluence was constructed around a halo star between the Home Galaxy and the Eye of the Preservers?”

  “Of course. It is we can all worship and glorify the Preservers. The Eye looks upon us all.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Angel said.

  After she was gone, Mr. Naryan put on his spectacles and walked through the city to the docks. The unsleeping citizens were promenading in the warm dark streets, or squatting in doorways, or talking quietly from upper-storey windows to their neighbors across the street. Amongst this easy somnolence, Angel’s young disciples moved with a quick purposefulness, here in pairs, there in a group of twenty or more. Their slogans were painted on almost every wall. Three stopped Mr. Naryan near the docks, danced around his bulk, jeering, then ran off, screeching with laughter, when he slashed at them with his cane.

  “Ruffians! Fools!”

  “Seize the day!” they sang back. “Seize the day!”

  Mr. Naryan did not find the man whose skiff Angel and her followers had used to cross the river, but the story was already everywhere amongst the fisherfolk. The Preservers had spoken to her, they said, and she had refused their temptations. Many were busily bargaining with citizens who wanted to cross the river and see the site of this miracle for themselves.

  An old man, eyes milky with cataracts—the fisherfolk trawled widely across the Great River, exposing themselves to more radiation than normal—asked Mr. Naryan if these were the end times, if the Preservers would return to walk amongst them again. When Mr. Naryan said, no, anyone who dealt with the avatars knew that only those fragments remained in the Universe, the old man shrugged and said, “They say she is a Preserver,” and Mr. Naryan, looking out across the river’s black welter, where the horizon was lost against the empty night, seeing the scattered constellations of the running lights of the fisherfolk’s skiffs scattered out to the nearside edge, knew that the end of Angel’s story was not far off. The citizens were finding their use for her. Inexorably, step by step, she was becoming part of their history.

  Mr. Naryan did not see Angel again until the night her ship arrived. Dreen went to treat with her, but he couldn’t get within two streets of her house: it had become the centre of a convocation that took over the entire quarter of the city. She preached to thousands of citizens from the rooftops.

  Dreen reported to Mr. Naryan that it was a philosophy of hope from despair. “She says that all life feeds on destruction and death. Are you sure you don’t want to hear it?”

  “It isn’t necessary.”

  Dreen was perched on a balustrade, looking out at the river. They were in his floating habitat, in an arbour of lemon trees that jutted out at its leading edge. He said, “More than a thousand a day are making the crossing.”

  “Has the screen spoken again?”

  “I’ve monitored it continuously. Nothing.”

  “But it did speak with her.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps.” Dreen was suddenly agitated. He scampered up and down the narrow balustrade, swiping at overhanging branches and scaring the white doves that perched amongst the little glossy leaves. The birds rocketed up in a great flutter of wings, crying as they rose into the empty sky. Dreen said, “The machines watching her don’t work. Not anymore. She’s found out how to disrupt them. I snatch long-range pictures, but they don’t tell me very much. I don’t even know if she visited the shrine in the first place.”

  “I believe her,” Mr. Naryan said.

  “I petitioned the avatars,” Dreen said, “but of course they wouldn’t tell me if they’d spoken to her.”

  Mr. Naryan was disturbed by this admission—Dreen was not a religious man. “What will you do?”

  “Nothing. I could send the magistrates for her, but even if she went with them her followers would claim she’d been arrested. And I can’t even remember when I last arrested someone. It would make her even more powerful, and I’d have to let her go. But I suppose that you are going to tell me that I should let it happen.”

  “It has happened before. Even here, to your own people. They built the shrines, after all.…”

  “Yes, and later they fell from grace, and destroyed their city. The snakes aren’t ready for that,” Dreen said, almost pleading, and for a moment Mr. Naryan glimpsed the depth of Dreen’s love for this city and its people.

  Dreen turned away, as if ashamed, to look out at the river again, at the flocking sails of little boats setting out on, or returning from, the long crossing to the far side of the river. This great pilgrimage had become the focus of the life of the city. The markets were closed for the most part; merchants had moved to the docks to supply the thousands of pilgrims.

  Dreen said, “They say that the avatar tempted her with godhead, and she denied it.”

  “But that is foolish! The days of the Preservers have long ago faded. We know them only by their image, which burns forever at the event horizon, but their essence has long since receded.”

  Dreen shrugged. “There’s worse. They say that she forced the avatar to admit that the Preservers are dead. They say that she is an avatar of something greater than the Preservers, although you wouldn’t know that from her preaching. She claims that this universe is all there is, that destiny is what you make it. What makes me despair is how readily the snakes believe this cant.”

  Mr. Naryan, feeling chill, there in the sun-dappled shade, said, “She has hinted to me that she learnt it in the great far out, in the galaxy beyond the Home Galaxy.”

  “The ship is coming,” Dreen said. “Perhaps they will deal with her.”

  * * *

  In the burning night of the city’s dissolution, Mr. Naryan is brought at last to the pink sandstone palace. Dreen’s habitat floats above it, a black cloud that half-eclipses the glowering red swirl of the Eye of the Preservers. Trails of white smoke, made luminescent by the fires which feed them, pour from the palace’s high arched windows, braiding into sheets which dash like surf against the rim of the habitat. Mr. Naryan sees something fly up from amongst the palace’s many carved spires—there seems to be more of them than he remembers—and smash away a piece of the habitat, which slowly tumbles off into the black sky.

  The men around him hoot and cheer at this, and catch Mr. Naryan’s arms and march him up the broad steps and through the high double doors into the courtyard beyond. It is piled with furniture and tapestries that have been thrown down from the thousand high windows overlooking it, but a path has been cleared to a narrow stair that turns and turns as it rises, until at last Mr. Naryan is pushed out onto the roof of the palace.

  Perhaps five hundred of Angel’s followers crowd amongst the spires and fallen trees and rocks, many naked, all with lettered headbands tied around their foreheads. Smoky torches blaze everywhere. In the centre of the crowd is the palace’s great throne on which, on high days and holidays, at the beginning of masques or parades, Dreen receives the city’s priests, merchants, and artists. It is lit by a crown of machines burning bright as the sun, and seated on it—easy, elegant and terrifying—is Angel.

  Mr. Naryan is led through the crowd and left standing alone before the throne. Angel beckons him forward, her smile both triumphant and scared: Mr. Naryan feels her fear mix with his own. She says, “What should I do with your city, now I’ve taken it from you?”

  “You haven’t finished your story.” Everything Mr. Naryan planned to say has fallen away at the simple fact of her presence. Stranded before her fierce, barely containe
d energies, he feels old and used up, his body as heavy with years and regret as with fat. He adds cautiously, “I’d like to hear it all.”

  He wonders if she really knows how her story must end. Perhaps she does. Perhaps her wild joy is not at her triumph, but at the imminence of her death. Perhaps she really does believe that the void is all, and rushes to embrace it.

  Angel says, “My people can tell you. They hide with Dreen up above, but not for long.”

  She points across the roof. A dozen men are wrestling a sled, which shudders like a living thing as it tries to reorientate itself in the gravity field, onto a kind of launching cradle tipped up towards the habitat. The edges of the habitat are ragged, as if bitten, and amongst the roof’s spires tower-trees are visibly growing towards it, their tips already brushing its edges, their tangled bases pulsing and swelling as teams of men and women drench them with nutrients.

  “I found how to enhance the antigravity devices of the sleds,” Angel says. “They react against the field which generates gravity for this artificial world. The field’s stored inertia gives them a high kinetic energy, so that they make very good missiles. We’ll chip away that floating fortress piece by piece if we have to, or we’ll finish growing towers and storm its remains, but I expect surrender long before then.”

  “Dreen is not the ruler of the city.” Nor are you, Mr. Naryan thinks, but it is not prudent to point that out.

  “Not anymore,” Angel says.

  Mr. Naryan dares to step closer. He says, “What did you find out there, that you rage against?”

  Angel laughs. “I’ll tell you about rage. It is what you have all forgotten, or never learned. It is the motor of evolution, and evolution’s end, too.” She snatches a beaker of wine from a supplicant, drains it and tosses it aside. She is consumed with an energy that is no longer her own. She says, “We travelled so long, not dead, not sleeping. We were no more than stored potentials triply engraved on gold. Although the ship flew so fast that it bound time about itself, the journey still took thousands of years of slowed shipboard time. At the end of that long voyage we did not wake: we were born. Or rather, others like us were born, although I have their memories, as if they are my own. They learned then that the Universe was not made for the convenience of humans. What they found was a galaxy ruined and dead.”