Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2008 Edition

by Rich Horton

  “The event of our lifetime,” he complained, “and you're letting a tribe of ignorant nomads dictate what you are going to do...?”

  Rabiah dropped her gaze.

  At last, Ferrum realized how deeply he had hurt her. But he didn't offer apologies. With the last of his resolve, he told himself that she deserved the truth, and maybe in the next Day, she would thank him.

  But then his lover suddenly looked up, and with a dry, almost dead voice, she mentioned, “My cousin will be there.”

  “The cousin you slept with?”

  Rabiah didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she just smiled at him. Then for the first time, and last, she told Ferrum, “You are a bright young man, darling. Well-read and thoughtful. But my cousin is smarter than you, and, in ways you'll never be, he is wonderfully wise.”

  * * * *

  Ferrum lost that fight, and as a result, sold his time on the giant telescope. Just as Rabiah predicted, he made a fat profit—enough to pay for their coming travels. Despite his car's age and several worrisome cracks in the ceramic shell, that is what they drove. Her vehicle's sordid history would be too much of a distraction. They pretended to be married, spending their first evening at an isolated lodge far from the highway. The nearly full moon was still below the horizon. Even without the benefit of an eclipse, the sky proved dark enough to use his father's little telescope. There was a bonewood field nearby, recently harvested and usefully bare. Ferrum set the telescope on a flat stump, four stubby legs holding the tube and lenses steady. Then he focused on the narrow crescent of the Lost Sister—a nearby world of rock and blazingly hot air that showed itself only at dusk and dawn.

  When Rabiah bent to look, Ferrum described what was known and what was guessed.

  In the earliest days of Creation, their sun was surrounded by dust and countless half-formed worlds. Collisions and near-collisions shaped the history of those worlds; titanic forces shattered crusts, melting each to its core. Debris was flung this way and that. By chance, one world gathered more than its share of the solar system's metals. Then came the final collision: A rogue body from one of the Sisters struck hard, ripping away fat portions of the stony exterior while leaving the precious iron mixed swirling inside the molten stew that remained.

  That miserable world became their home, and its former crust pulled itself into their stony moon.

  “We won the iron,” he mentioned. “Without it and the other metals, we wouldn't be here.”

  She had heard his lecture before. But Rabiah could be a good listener, even if her lover repeated what both of them knew.

  “And if we didn't have our moon,” he continued, “then the stone crust under our feet would be too deep and stubborn for volcanoes to crack open. Without volcanoes, minerals wouldn't be recycled. And our carbon cycle would probably collapse. In the end, this would have become a giant version of the Lost Sister. And I wouldn't have you begging for my affections.”

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  Rabiah was only pretending to listen to him, he assumed.

  But then she laughed. “You are the beggar, my dear.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “This business about worlds colliding ... it's a symbolic tale about lust and intercourse and the like...”

  Maybe she was right. Soon they were making love on the soft ground beside the stump.

  Then later, as Rabiah slept and the moon rose, Ferrum focused his telescope on the Twins—ruddy little suns dancing close to one another, illuminating a few dead worlds well beyond the reach of all but the most powerful telescopes.

  As he watched the sky, a tiny artificial moon silently spun its way overhead.

  Later, he roused his lover and led her to their bed, and they made love again before sleeping longer than they intended. In the morning, they drove fast until their fuel ran low, and then Ferrum picked a random station and parked against an empty nipple. Stepping out of his car, he heard a stranger shouting, “Hello,” to somebody.

  Innocently, Ferrum made an agreeable gesture, in case he had met this fellow before.

  But the stranger was talking to Rabiah. He smiled and said her name, and she smiled back at him, replying, “Hello, Ocher.”

  This was the infamous cousin, Ferrum realized: A heavy man worn down by one or several infirmities. And the woman riding with him looked very much like his wife would look. She was short and fat, and when she saw the young woman smiling at her husband, her expression said everything.

  The fat wife turned away, snapping off a few hard words.

  But the cousin—Rabiah's former lover—seemed untroubled. He invested a few moments staring at his replacement, and then he smiled. And suddenly Ferrum found himself grinning too. So this was the cheating husband? The fellow that he'd been jealous of for months? Goodness, he was just a chubby old fool with a homely, nagging wife.

  Really, the situation couldn't have been funnier.

  Ferrum suddenly wished they'd brought Rabiah's car. What did it matter? The image of that invalid and his girlfriend doing anything in the front seat ... well, it was sad, even pathetic, and how could he have wasted his worries about the two of them...?

  * * * *

  An acquaintance from work purchased Ferrum's time on the new telescope. But before he would agree to the asking price, the buyer wanted to see the equipment and its placement. One evening, the two men drove out of the city, to the high hill where teams of engineers fiddled with gears and lenses and the astonishingly large mirror—a highly orchestrated chaos in full swing. Ferrum's companion didn't seem especially worried that with just a month left, nothing was finished. Indeed, he spent remarkably little time examining the facility or the fancy equipment that would split the light, directing it into dozens of eyepieces. He didn't say two words to the experts who liked nothing better than to break from their labors, explaining their narrow discipline to any interested face. No, the fellow seemed most interested in the view behind them. Standing on the highest knoll, on a pile of weathered sandstone, he looked back at their city and the dark swatches of irrigated farmland, bonewood and lickbottom trees dark with the season. And with a matter of fact tone, he declared, “Soon all this will be swept away.”

  Ferrum asked, “What do you mean?”

  The man's intentions were obvious, at least to him. So obvious that he said nothing, his mouth closed for a long moment, perhaps expecting his companion to suddenly say, “Oh, swept away. I didn't hear you with the wind. Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

  But Ferrum didn't understand, and he asked his question again.

  They were workmates, not friends. But Ferrum's companion was as smart as him, or smarter, and he was definitely better read in matters of history and politics. With a devotion to the past, the co-worker could discuss the ebb and flow of civilizations, the relative strengths of different governments, and the dangers inherent in ignorance and blind trust. He was particularly fond of the great men: Those godly names that everybody recognized, even when few understood the bloody particulars of their glorious lives.

  Ferrum's companion studied him, as if examining his soul for flaws. Then he looked back down the hill, saying to the wind, “The Night will remake the world.”

  It was an old sentiment, and perhaps not unexpected.

  But Ferrum felt surprised nonetheless. “It's just darkness,” he muttered. “And we know what we'll see—”

  “Do we?”

  “Of course.” History might not be Ferrum's favorite terrain, but he felt at ease with the sciences. “I can tell you exactly what you're going to find when you look through that telescope.”

  “So it's not worth my money?” the man asked.

  Ferrum hesitated. Was this a bargaining ploy?

  “If you ‘know’ what you'll see, there's no point in looking. At the sky, or anything else.” The man offered a wicked little laugh, adding, “That girlfriend of yours. You've seen her naked once or twice, so why look at her body again?”

  “Eno
ugh,” Ferrum warned.

  “But do you see my point? When you and I set our eyes on anything, anything at all, we refresh our memories. Make new what is familiar. And if we're very lucky, we might even see a detail or two that we somehow missed with every past glance.”

  For an instant, Rabiah's wondrous body drifted before Ferrum's eyes.

  Then the man continued, pointing out, “In another month, countless people are going to look through these telescopes and see the sky in a new way. Everyone will witness the Night in its full glory. Unless of course you're unfortunate enough to be stuck on the Wax Islands or the Gray Continent.”

  Those bits of land were on the far, daylight side of the world.

  “I agree with you, Ferrum. Intellectually, yes, we know exactly what the Night brings. But if you study history as I have ... well, there's only one conclusion: Each Day brings its revolution.”

  “Because we expect change.” In a charitable mood, Ferrum would concede this point. “Self-fulfilling prophecies.”

  But his companion dismissed that easy answer.

  “Do you think something mystical is at work here?” Ferrum asked. “Do you believe in an Almighty hand?”

  “What I believe...”

  Then the wind gusted, and the voice hesitated.

  Ferrum looked over his shoulder, tired of their game.

  “Explanations don't matter much,” the fellow claimed. “I accept the possibility that one of our Gods, or even some unrecognized scientific principle, might be at work. But mostly, I believe everything changes because nothing can stay the same.” The smile was joyous, the eyes grim. “It is the nature of people. Of history and our world. The old must be swept aside, my friend. And what better place to begin than with the Dawn?”

  * * * *

  Ten millions years ago, an elderly shield volcano choked on its own magma, and moments later, a single titanic blast flung rock and dust across the sky. The surrounding countryside was scorched and then buried. Every end of the world saw the sun grow dim, and no doubt there were places where a different Night held sway, too little light finding its way down to hungry leaves and a billion blind, terrified eyes. The resulting winter would have been sudden and years in duration. Countless species must have gone extinct, while others prospered in the ripe chaos. But then the rich dusts finally fell to the ground, and the climate found its new balance, and with the patient hands of wind and rain, the remains of that gutted volcano were gradually carried away.

  What remained was a ring of dark mountains, and in the middle, a plain as round as a coin and as flat. The mountains helped keep the country too dry for crops or trees, and most importantly, those rounded peaks practically guaranteed that the skies would remain free of clouds. A few towns were scattered across the wide emptiness—just enough to supply food and water to the crowds coming from the cities. Every little highway was jammed with cars. The sun was high and bright, and driving out onto the plain, Ferrum understood why Rabiah's tribe had picked this location. He was thinking about the evening to come, anticipation pushing aside every lesser emotion. But then Rabiah said proudly, “Do you know who picked this site for us?”

  “Your cousin,” he guessed.

  “I have quite a few cousins,” Rabiah reminded him. “But it was Ocher, yes. Of course it was.”

  “The cheating husband,” he muttered.

  “Why don't you ever say his name?”

  Ferrum replied with a thoughtful silence, and then asked, “How much farther?”

  They arrived at the designated location in the early afternoon. Where a volcanic crater once stood, more than a thousand strangers were building a busy, temporary city. Men were pitching colorful tents, setting up long tables, and testing the fires in a hundred big camp stoves. Women were chatting happily, sweeping out the tents and assembling the beginnings of the evening feast. Children seemed to be everywhere, and Ferrum was glad to see them: The adults used their mother tongue, but the youngsters screamed and complained in the language he knew.

  Ferrum had met Rabiah's parents, but it took him a few moments to recognize them now. Instead of the drab clothes of business people, they were dressed in the brilliant robes of their desert tradition, and instead of being reserved for the sake of propriety, they were outgoing, even giddy. They greeted both their daughter and her boyfriend with warm hands and quick kisses. “I was afraid you were going to miss all this,” the mother confessed. Her voice was very much like her daughter's, but slowed by an accent that made her words difficult to understand. Turning to Ferrum, she asked, “Did you have trouble finding us?”

  Ferrum didn't want to mention oversleeping, since that might bring up the matter of sharing one bed. So he offered a simple, pragmatic lie. “It's my fault. I took a wrong turn at Damp Sand.”

  “You did not,” Rabiah snapped.

  Ferrum hesitated.

  “We were up late watching the sky,” Rabiah confessed.

  The mother's eyes twinkled. “More than just sky-watching, I hope.”

  With a dismissive gesture, Rabiah said, “He did just enough for me. Yes.”

  Then both women broke into a hard, shared laugh.

  Ferrum was embarrassed. He dipped his head while looking at the father, trying to read emotions that hid behind a broad, painfully polite smile.

  When he and Rabiah were alone again, he asked, “Why did you say that?”

  “What did I say?” she replied. And then, as if suddenly understanding the simple question, she added, “My parents are thrilled to have a responsible man in their little girl's life. In fact, I think they adore you. At least a little bit.”

  “Adore me?”

  “As long as you keep me happy, they will.”

  But Rabiah's happiness was never easy, and to make matters worse, Ferrum had the impression that his own feelings, good or lousy, were inconsequential when it came to their relationship.

  The remains of that afternoon brought introductions to cousins and aunts and family friends, plus people who Rabiah didn't know but who felt curious about this fellow of hers. Almost every name offered was forgotten before the introduction was finished. A hundred polite conversations ended in uncomfortable silence. Soon the faces surrounding Ferrum looked much the same, and he found himself thinking about inbreeding and other uncharitable possibilities.

  The feast proved amazing, and miserable. By convention, young men shared the same long tables while the single women were safe at the far end of the field. Strangers filled the pillows beside Ferrum. Most were conversant in his language but few were willing to use it. Foods he had tasted on occasion were suddenly heaped high on his platter-sized plate, every bite laced with spiced salts that burned his mouth and throat, and later, his belly. When the feast was finished, he lugged his swollen carcass to a large black tent that Rabiah had pointed out earlier. “I'll meet you there,” she had promised. But standing in the tent's long shadow, it occurred to Ferrum that his lover hadn't specified an exact time for this meeting. Where was she? Was that her standing over there? But no, Rabiah had been wearing trousers and a simple blouse, while most young women were showing off the gaudy dresses of their home country, legs and arms and the long elegant necks covered with jewelry, their feet balanced on impossibly delicate shoes.

  She was testing him, Ferrum hoped.

  Because every other possibility seemed more awful.

  Suddenly a pair of young men approached. They wore smiles and tool belts, and the nearest fellow called to him by name before saying, “Come with us.”

  “Where to?” Ferrum asked.

  “Over there,” he said with a wave. “She told us you would help us.”

  “You mean Rabiah?”

  Just mentioning the name made both strangers laugh. Then the second man, wrestling with the unfamiliar language, said, “Come. Help.”

  “With what?”

  “The show!” the first man shouted. “We are slow. We need cool hands, please.”

  Ferrum followed them through the n
oisy, happy crowd. He couldn't see how he might help, but at least he wasn't standing in one place, waiting for a woman who might never appear again.

  “Have I met you already?” he asked the first man.

  That deserved another laugh.

  “I'm sorry,” Ferrum continued. “I don't remember names—”

  “Rabiah,” the man interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  The stranger stopped and turned, and with his pleasure receding into some other emotion, he said, “You are lucky. Very lucky, you know.”

  “In what way?”

  The second stranger asked a question of his companion.

  An answer was offered—an impatient bark of syllables. And then the first stranger turned back to Ferrum, regarding him with a careful gaze before saying, “Or maybe you are not fortunate. Too soon to say, maybe.”

  Again, the three men walked on. Eventually they fell into the open, and later, far from the celebratory racket, they were standing on a flat-topped little knoll. Suddenly Ferrum understood what was happening, and after a lot of consideration, he still didn't approve. But what else could he do? Perhaps twenty other men were busy with this very important work. Rare skills were on display. What Ferrum was qualified to do was uncoil the new copper wires while walking quickly from place to place. It would be best if the job was finished before evening, and the men were thankful for his help. After a while, there was an odd moment when Ferrum completely forgot his old objections. He discovered that he was enjoying this uncoiling and stretching of the wires, and later, the careful planting of long tubes. Then a gentleman that he didn't know smiled at him and said, “Good,” and Ferrum's reaction was to smile back and bow a little, saying, “Thank you,” with relish.

  The sun set before they were finished.

  Once, then again, older men approached to complain, mentioning the time remaining and the sorry state of affairs. But the full moon made their work easy enough, and they were done even before the world's slow shadow began to obliterate the sky's brightest light.

  Ferrum joyfully accepted the thanks of his new friends, and then he returned alone to the black tent, imagining Rabiah waiting for him. But the tent had been moved or dismantled, and his lover was still missing. Where could she be? He walked about the camp, searching for everything that was lost. He wanted to retreat to the car and grab his telescope, but there wasn't much time left. The moon was already half-consumed, the Sullen Sisters hovering close to its left limb. Ferrum spent a few moments listing the ways that the woman had made his life miserable, and then he stopped walking, closing his eyes while wishing he was anywhere else in the world.