Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  Rain chewed at her lower lip. “Dogs don't wear hats.” She didn't care to be contradicted by some clumsy artifact of the cognisphere. “Or ties. Are you even real?"

  "Rather a rude question, don't you think?” Baskerville regarded her with sorrowful melted-chocolate eyes. “Are you real?"

  The dog was right; this was the one thing the residents of Nowhere never asked. “I don't have your damn book.” Rain opened the top drawer of the desk, the one where she threw all her loose junk. It was a way to keep the dog from seeing her embarrassment.

  "How do you know?” he said reasonably. “I haven't told you what it is."

  She sorted through the contents of the drawer as if searching for something. She moved the dental floss, destiny dice, blank catalog cards, a tape measure, her father's medals, the two dead watches and finally picked out a bottle of ink and the Waterman 1897 Eyedropper fountain pen that Will had given her to make up for the fight they'd had about the laundry. The dog waited politely. “Well?” She unscrewed the lid of the ink bottle.

  "It's called The Last President,” said Baskerville, “I'm afraid I don't know the author."

  Rain felt the blood drain from her face. The Last President had been Will's working title for the book, just before he had started calling it The Great American Novel. She dipped the nib of the fountain pen into the ink bottle, pulled the filling lever and then wiped the nip on a tissue. “Never heard of it,” she said as she wrote Last Prez?? in her daybook. She glanced over at Will, and caught him squirming on his chair. He looked as if his pockets were full of crickets. “Fiction or non-fiction?"

  "Fiction."

  She wrote that down. “Short stories or a novel?"

  "I'm not sure. A novel, I think."

  The shop bell tinkled as Mrs. Snopes cracked the door opened. She hesitated when she bumped one of the terriers. “Is something wrong?” she said, not taking her hand from the handle.

  "Right as nails,” said Fast Eddie. “Come in, Helen, good to see you. These folks are here for Rain. The big one is Mr. Baskerville and—I'm sorry I didn't catch your names.” He gave the terriers a welcoming smile. Fast Eddie had become the friendliest man in Nowhere ever since his wife had stepped off the edge of town and disappeared.

  "Spot,” said one.

  "Rover,” said the other.

  "Folks?” muttered Mrs. Snopes. “Dogs is what I call ‘em.” She inhaled, twisted her torso and squeezed between the two terriers. Mrs. Snopes was very limber; she taught swing yoga at the Town Hall Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights from 6-7:30. “I've got a taste for some crumbs of your banana oatmeal bar,” she said. “That last one laid me out for the better part of an afternoon. How are they breaking today, Eddie?"

  "Let's just see.” He set a tray on the top of the display case and pulled on a glove to sort through the broken cookies.

  "You are Lorraine Carraway?” said Baskerville.

  "That's her name, you bet.” Will broke in impulsively. “But she hates it.” He crumpled the looseleaf page he had been writing on, tossed it at the trashcan and missed. “Call her Rain."

  Rain bristled. She didn't hate her name; she just didn't believe in it.

  "And you are?” said the bloodhound. His lips curled away from pointed teeth and black gums in a grotesque parody of a smile.

  "Willy Werther, but everyone calls me Will."

  "I see you are supplied with pencil and paper, young Will. Are you a writer?"

  "Me? Oh, no. No.” He feigned a yawn. “Well, sort of.” For a moment, Rain was certain that he was going to blurt out that he was the author of The Last President. She wasn't sure why she thought that would be a bad idea, but she did. “I ... uh...” Now that Will had Baskerville's attention, he didn't seem to know what to do with it. “I've been trying to remember jokes for Eddie to tell at church,” he said. “Want to hear one?” Fast Eddie and Mrs. Snopes glanced up from their cookie deliberations. “Okay then, how do you keep your dog from digging in the garden?"

  "I don't know, Will.” Rain just wanted him to shut up. “How?"

  "Take away his shovel.” Will looked from Baskerville to Rain and then to Fast Eddie. “No?"

  "No.” Eddie, who had just become a deacon in the Temple of the Eternal Smile, shook his head. “God likes Her jokes to be funny."

  "Funny.” Will nodded. “Got it. So what's this book about anyway, Mr. B?"

  "Will, I just don't know,” said the bloodhound. “That's why I'd like to read it.” Baskerville turned and yipped over his shoulder. Rover trotted to him and the bloodhound dropped onto all fours. Rain couldn't see what passed between them because the desk blocked her view but when Baskerville heaved himself upright again he was holding a brass dog whistle in his paw. He dropped it, clattering, on the desktop in front of Rain.

  "When you find the book, Rain,” said Baskerville, “give us a call."

  Rain didn't like it that Baskerville just assumed that she would take on the search. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Why do you need me to look for it? You're part of the cognisphere, right? You already know everything."

  "We have access to everything,” said Baskerville. “Retrieval is another matter.” He growled at Spot. The shop bell tinkled as he opened the door. “I look forward to hearing from you, Rain. Will, it was a pleasure to meet you.” The bloodhound nodded at Fast Eddie and Mrs. Snopes, but they paid him no attention. Their heads were bent over the tray of crumbs. Baskerville left the shop, claws clicking against the gray linoleum. The terriers followed him out.

  "Nice dogs.” Will affected an unconcerned saunter as he crossed the room, although he flew the last few steps. “My book, Rain!” he whispered, his voice thick. With what? Fear? Pride?

  "Is it?” Rain had yet to read a word of The Great American Novel; Will claimed it was too rough to show. Although she could imagine that this might be true, she couldn't help but resent being shut out. She offered him the whistle. “So call them."

  "What are you saying?” He shrank back, as if mere proximity to the whistle might shrivel his soul. “They're from...” He pointed through the window toward the precipitous edge of the mesa on which Nowhere perched. “...out there."

  Nobody knew where the cognisphere was located exactly, or even if it occupied physical space at all. “All right then, don't.” Rain shrugged and pocketed the whistle.

  Will seemed disappointed in her. He obviously had three hundred things he wanted to say—and she was supposed to listen. He had always been an excitable boy, although Rain hadn't seen him this wound up since the first time they had made love. But this was neither the time nor the place for feverish speculation. She put a finger to her lips and nodded toward the cookie counter.

  Mrs. Snopes picked out a four gram, elongated piece of banana oatmeal cookie ornamented with cream and cinnamon hallucinogenic sprinkles. She paid for it with the story of how her sister Melva had run away from home when she was eleven and they had found her two days later sleeping in the neighbor's treehouse. They had heard the story before, but not the part about the hair dryer. Fast Eddie earned an audience credit on the Barrows's Memory Exchange but the cognisphere deposited an extra quarter point into Mrs. Snopes's account for the new detail, according the Laughing Cookie's MemEx register. Afterward, Fast Eddie insisted that Rain admire the banana oatmeal crumb before he wrapped it up for Mrs. Snopes. Rain had to agree it was quite striking. She said it reminded her of Emily Dickinson.

  * * * *

  They closed the Very Memorial Library early. Usually after work, Will and Rain swept some of Eddie's cookie dust into a baggie and went looking for a spot to picnic. Their favorites were the overlook at the southwestern edge of town and the roof of the Button Factory, although on a hot day they also liked the mossy coolness of the abandoned fallout shelter.

  But not this unhappy day. Almost as soon as they stepped onto Onion Street, they were fighting. First she suggested that Will show her his book. Then he said not yet and asked if she had any idea why the dogs were asking
about it. Then she said no—perhaps a jot too emphatically—because he apparently understood her to be puzzled as to why dogs should care about a nobody like him. Then he wondered aloud if maybe she wasn't just a little jealous, which she said was a dumb thing to say, which he took exactly the wrong way.

  Will informed her icily that he was going home because he needed to make changes to Chapter Four. Alarmed at how their row had escalated, Rain suggested that maybe they could meet later. He just shrugged and turned away. Stung, she watched him jog down Onion Street.

  Later, maybe—being together with Will had never sounded so contingent.

  Rain decided to blame the dogs. It was hard enough staying sane here in Nowhere, finding the courage each day not to step off the edge. They didn't need yet another cancerous mystery eating at their lives. And Will was just a kid, she reminded herself. Nineteen, male, impulsive, too smart for his own good, but years from being wise. Of course he was entitled to his moods. She'd always waited him out before, because even though he made her toes curl in frustration sometimes, she did love the boy.

  In the meantime, there was no way around it: she'd have to ask Chance Conrad about The Last President. She took a right onto Abbey Road, nodding curtly at the passersby. She knew what most people thought about her: that she was impatient and bitter and that she preferred books to people. Of course, they were all wrong, but she had given up trying to explain herself. She ignored Bingo Finn slouching in the entrance to Goriot's Pachinko Palazzo and hurried past Linton's Fruit and Daily Spectator, the Prynne Building, and the drunks at the outdoor tables in front of the Sunspot. She noticed with annoyance that the Drew Barrymore version of The Wizard of Oz was playing for another week at the Ziegfowl Feelies. At Uncle Buddy's she took a right, then a left onto Fairview which dead ended in the grassy bulk of the Barrow.

  Everything in Nowhere had come out of the Barrow: Rain's fountain pen, the books in the Very Memorial Library, Will's endless packs of blank, looseleaf paper, Fast Eddie's crystal trays and Mrs. Snopes's yoga mats. And of course, all the people.

  The last thing Rain remembered about the world was falling asleep in her husband Roger's arms. It had been a warm night in May, 2009. Roger had worked late so they had ordered a sausage and green pepper pizza and had watched the last half hour of The African Queen before they went to bed. It was so romantic, even if Nicholson and Garbo were old. She could remember Roger doing his atrocious Nicholson imitation while he brushed his teeth. They had cuddled briefly in the dark but he said he was too tired to make love. They must have kissed good night—yes, no doubt a long and tender last kiss. One of the things she hated most about Nowhere was that she couldn't remember any of Roger's kisses or his face or what he looked like naked. He was just a warm, pale, friendly blur. Some people in Nowhere said it was a mercy that nobody could remember the ones they had loved in the world. Rain was not one of those people.

  Will said that the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his Nintendo and American Culture class at Northern Arizona University in the fall of 2023. He could recall everything about the two sexual conquests he had managed in his brief time in the world—Talley Lotterhand and Paula Herbst—but then by his own admission he had never really been in love.

  The Barrow was a warehouse buried under the mesa. Rain climbed down to the loading dock and knocked on the sectional steel door. After a few moments she heard the whine of an electric motor as the door clattered up on its tracks. Chance Conrad stood just inside, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. He was a handsome, graying man, who balanced a receding hairline with a delicate beard. Although he had a light step and an easy manner, the skin under his eyes was dark and pouchy. Some said this was because Chance didn't sleep much since he was so busy managing the Barrow. Others maintained that he didn't sleep at all, because he hadn't been revived like the rest of the residents of Nowhere. He was a construct of the cognisphere. It stood to reason, people said. How could anyone with a name like Chance Conrad be real?

  "Lorraine!” he said. “And here I was about to write this day off as a total loss.” He put his hand on her shoulder and urged her through the entrance. “Come, come in.” Chance had no use for daylight; that was another strike against his being real. Once the Barrow was safely locked down again he relaxed. “So,” he said, “here we are, just the two of us. I'm hoping this means you've finally dumped the boy genius?"

  Rain had long since learned that the best way to deflect Chance's relentless flirting was just to ignore it. As far as she knew, he had never taken a lover. She took a deep breath and counted to five. Unu, du, tri, kvar, kvin. The air in the Barrow had the familiar damp weight she remembered from when she first woke up at Nowhere; it settled into Rain's lungs like a cold. Before her were crates and jars and barrels and boxes of goods that the people of Nowhere had asked the cognisphere to recreate. Later that night Ferdie Raskolnikov and his crew would load the lot onto trucks for delivery around town tomorrow.

  "What's this?” Rain bent to examine a wide-bladed shovel cast with a solid steel handle. It was so heavy that she could barely lift it.

  "Shelly Castorp thinks she's planting daffodils with this.” Chance shook his head. “I told her that the handles of garden tools were always made of wood but she claims her father had a shovel just like that one.” He shook his head. “The specific gravity of steel is 7.80 grams per cubic centimeter, you know."

  "Oh?” When Rain let the handle go, the shovel clanged against the cement floor. “Can we grow daffodils?"

  "We'll see.” Chance muscled the shovel back into place on its pallet. He probably didn't appreciate her handling other people's orders. “I'm racking my brains trying to remember if I've got something here for you. But I don't, do I?"

  "How about those binoculars I keep asking for?"

  "I send the requests...” He spread his hands. “They all bounce.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “So is this about us? At long last?"

  "I'm just looking for a book, Chance. A novel."

  "Oh,” he said, crestfallen. “Better come to the office."

  Normally if Rain wanted to add a book to the Very Memorial Library, she'd call Chance and put in an order. Retrieving books was usually no problem for the collective intelligence of humanity, which had uploaded itself into the cognisphere sometime in the late Twenty-third Century. All it needed was an author and title. Failing that, a plot description or even just a memorable line might suffice for the cognisphere to perform a plausible, if not completely accurate, reconstruction of some lost text. In fact, depending on the quality of the description, the cognisphere would recreate a version of pretty much anything the citizens of Nowhere could remember from the world.

  Exactly how it accomplished this, and more important, why it bothered, was a mystery.

  Chance's office was tucked into the rear of the Barrow, next to the crèche. On the way, they passed the Big Board of the MemEx, which tracked audience and storyteller accounts for all the residents of Nowhere and sorted and cataloged the accumulated memories. Chance stopped by the crèche to check the vitals of Rahim Aziz, who was destined to become the newest citizen of Nowhere, thus bringing the population back up to the standard 853. Rahim was to be an elderly man with a crown of snowy white hair surrounding an oval bald spot. He was replacing Lucy Panza, the pro and Town Calligrapher, who had gone missing two weeks ago and was presumed to have thrown herself over the edge without telling anyone.

  "Old Aziz isn't quite as easy on the eye as you were,” said Chance, who never failed to remind Rain that he had seen her naked during her revival. Rahim floated on his back in a clear tube filled with a yellow, serous fluid. He had a bit of a paunch and the skin of his legs and under his arms was wrinkled. Rain noted with distaste that he had a penis tattoo of an elephant.

  "When will you decant him?"

  Chance rubbed a thumb across a readout shells built into the wall of the crèche. “Tomorrow, maybe.” The shells meant nothing to Rain. “Tuesday at the latest."


  Chance Conrad's office was not so much decorated as overstuffed. Dolls and crystal and tools and fossils and clocks jostled across shelves and the tops of cabinets and chests. The walls were covered with pix from feelies made after Rain's time in the world, although she had seen some of them at the Ziegfowl. She recognized Oud's Birthdeath, Fay Wray in full fetish from Time StRanger and the wedding cake scene from Two of Neala. Will claimed the feelies had triggered the cancerous growth of history; when all the dead actors and sports stars and politicians started having second careers, the past had consumed the present.

  "So this is about a novel then?” Chance moved behind his desk but did not sit down. “Called?” He waved a hand over his desktop and its eye winked at him.

  "The Last President.” Rain sat in the chair opposite him.

  "Precedent as in a time-honored custom, or President as in Marie Louka?"

  "The latter."

  He chuckled. “You know, you're the only person in this town who would say the latter. I love that. Would you have my baby?"

  "No."

  "Marry me?"

  "Uh-uh."

  "Sleep with me?"

  "Chance."

  He sighed. “Who's the author?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?” Chance rubbed under his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You're sure about that? You wouldn't care to take a wild guess? Last name begins with the letter ... what? A through K? L through Z?"

  "Sorry."

  He stepped from behind the desk and his desktop shut its eye. “Well, the damn doggie didn't know either, which is why I couldn't help him."

  Rain groaned. “He's been here already?"

  "Him and a couple of his pooch pals.” Chance opened the igloo which stood humming beside the door. “Cooler?” He pulled out a frosty pitcher filled with something thick and glaucous. “It's just broccoli nectar and a little ethanol-style vodka."

  Rain shook her head. “But that doesn't make sense.” She could hear the whine in her voice. “They're agents of the cognisphere, right? And you access the cognisphere. Why would it ask you to ask itself?"