Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  * * * *

  Rain found her way through the gathering darkness back to the apartment over Vronsky's Laundromat and Monkeyfilter Bowladrome. She put some Szechwan lasagna into the microwave and pushed it around her plate for a while, but she was too numb to be hungry. She would have gone to the eight o'clock show at the Ziegfowl just to get out, but she was mortally tired of The Wizard of Oz, no matter whom the cognisphere recast in it. The apartment depressed her. The problem, she decided, was that she was surrounded by Will's stuff; she'd have to move it somewhere out of sight.

  She placed a short stack of college-lined, loose-leaf paper and four unopened reams in a box next to The Awakening, The Big Snooze, and Drinking the Snow. Will had borrowed the novels from the Very Memorial Library but had made way too many marginal notes in them for her to return them to the stacks. Rain would have to order new ones from Chance in the Barrow. She threw his Buffalo Soldiers warmup jacket on top of several dusty pairs of Adidas Kloud Nine running shoes. Will's dresser drawers produced eight pairs of white socks, two black, a half dozen gray jockey shorts, three pairs of jeans, and a stack of tee shirts sporting pix of Panafrican shoutcast bands. At the bottom of the sock drawer, Rain discovered flash editions of Superheterodyne Adventure Stories 2020-26 and The Complete Idiot's Guide to Fetish. She pulled his mustard collection and climkies and homebrew off the kitchen shelves.

  And that was all it took to put Will out of her life. She shouldn't have been surprised. After all, they had only lived together for just over a year.

  She was trying to talk herself into throwing the lot of it out the next morning when the doorglass blinked. She glanced at the clock. Who did she know that would come visiting at 10:30 at night? When she opened the door, Baskerville, Rover and Spot looked up at her.

  "You found the book?” The bloodhound's bowtie was crooked.

  Beneath her, Rain could hear the rumble and clatter of the bowling lanes. “There is no book."

  "May we come in?"

  "No."

  "You threw the whistle off the edge,” said Baskerville.

  As if on signal, the two terriers sat. They looked to Rain as if they were settling in for a stay. “Where's Will?” said Rover.

  She wanted to kick the door shut hard enough to knock their bowler hats off, but the terrier's question took her breath away. If the cognisphere had lost track of Will, then maybe he wasn't ... maybe he was ... “I hate dogs,” she said. “Maybe I forgot to mention that?"

  Baskerville regarded her with his solemn chocolate eyes and said nothing.

  The terrier's hind leg scratched at his flank. “Has something happened to him?” he asked.

  "Stop it!” Rain stomped her foot on the doorsill and all three dogs jumped. “You want a story and I want information. Deal?"

  The dogs thought it over, then Rover got up and licked her hand.

  "Okay, story.” But at that moment, Rain's throat seemed to close, as if she had tried to swallow the page of a book. Will was gone. If she said it aloud, it would become just another story on the MemEx. But she had to know. “M-My boyfriend climbed over the edge a couple of hours ago trying to find a way down the cliff. I pitched the goddamn novel he was writing after him. The end."

  "But what does this have to do with The Last President?"

  "That was the name of his book. Used to be. Once.” She was out of breath. “Okay, you got story. Now you owe me some god-damn truth. He's dead, right? You've absorbed him already."

  Rover started to say, “I'm afraid that we have no knowledge of...” But she didn't give the dog a chance to finish; she slammed the door.

  She decided then not to throw Will's things out. She dragged them all into the bedroom closet and covered the pile with the electric blanket. She made one more pass around the apartment to make sure she had everything. Then she decided to make a grocery list so she could stop at Cereno's on the way home from work tomorrow. That's when she discovered that she had nothing to write on. She gave herself permission to retrieve a couple of pages of Will's paper from the closet—just this once. As long as she was writing the list, she didn't have to think about Will on the cliff or the dogs in the hall. She cracked the apartment door just enough to see that all three of them were still there, heads on paws, asleep. Spot's ear twitched but he didn't wake up. She sat on the couch with the silence ringing in her ears until she got up and muscled the dresser over to block the closet where she had put Will's stuff. She thought about brushing her teeth and trying for sleep but she knew that would be a waste of time. She was browsing the books on her bookshelf, all of which she had long since read to tatters, when the phone squawked.

  Rain was sure it was the dogs calling, but decided to pick up just in case.

  "Lorraine Carraway?"

  Rain recognized Sheriff Renfield's drawl and was immediately annoyed. He was one of her best customers—an avid Georgette Heyer fan—and knew better than to call her by her proper name.

  "Speaking, Beej. What's up?"

  "There's been some trouble down to the Laughing Cookie.” He was slurring words. He pronounced There is as Thersh.

  "Trouble?"

  "Fast Eddie said you had dogs in the store today. Dogs with hats."

  "What kind of trouble, Beej? Is Eddie all right?"

  "He's fine, we're all just fine.” Everybody knew that Beej Renfield was a drinker and nobody blamed him for it. Being sheriff was possibly the most boring job in Nowhere. “But there's been what you might call vandalism. Books all over the place, Rain, some of them ripped up good. Teeth marks. And the place stinks of piss. Must've happened, an hour, maybe two ago. Fast Eddie is ripping mad. I need you to come down here and lay some calm on him. Will you do that for me, Rain?"

  "I'll do you one better, Beej. You're looking for these dogs?"

  His breath rasped in the receiver so loud she could almost smell it.

  "Because I've got them here if you're interested. Right outside my door."

  "I'm on my way."

  "Oh, and Beej? You might want to bring some help."

  She sat at the kitchen table to wait. In front of her were the shopping list and the No. 2 pencil. They reminded her of Will. He was such a strong boy, everybody in town always said so. He had run that 4:21 mile, after all. And she was almost certain that Baskerville had looked surprised when she'd told him that Will was climbing down the cliff. What did surprise look like on a dog? She'd see for sure when Beej Renfield arrived.

  For the very first time Rain allowed herself to consider the possibility that Will wasn't dead or absorbed. Maybe the cognisphere ended at the edge of Nowhere. In which case, he might actually come back for her.

  But why would he bother? What had she ever done to deserve him? Her shopping list lay in front of her like an accusation. Was this all her life was about? Toilet paper and Seventy-Up and duck sausage? Will had climbed over the edge of Nowhere. What chance had she ever taken? She needed to do something, something no one had ever done before. She'd had enough of books and all the old stories about the world that the cognisphere was sorting on the MemEx. That world was gone, forever and ever, amen.

  She picked up the pencil again.

  * * * *

  I scowled at the dogs through the plate glass window of the Very Memorial Library. They squatted in a row next to my book drop. There were three of them, haughty in their bowler hats and silk vests. They acted like they owned the air. Bad dogs, I knew that for sure, created out of spit and tears and heartbreak by the spirits of all the uncountable dead and sent to spy on the survivors and cause at least three different kinds of trouble.

  I wasn't worried. We'd seen their kind before.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Heartwired by Joe Haldeman

  —

  Margaret Stevenson walked up the two flights of stairs and came to a plain wooden door with the nameplate ‘Relationships, Ltd.’ She hesitated, then knocked. Someone buzzed her in.

  She didn't know what to expect, but the simplicit
y surprised her: no receptionist, no outer office, no sign of a laboratory. Just a middle-aged man, conservative business suit, head fashionably shaved, sitting behind an uncluttered desk. He stood and offered his hand. “Mrs. Stevenson? I'm Dr. Damien."

  She sat on the edge of the chair he offered.

  "Our service is guaranteed,” he said without preamble, “but it is neither inexpensive nor permanent."

  "You wouldn't want it to be permanent,” she said.

  "No.” He smiled. “Life would be pleasant, but neither of you would accomplish much."

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper and a pen. “Nevertheless, I must ask you to sign this waiver, which relieves our corporation of responsibility for anything you or he may do or say for the duration of the effect."

  She picked up the waiver and scanned it.

  "When we talked on the phone, you said that there would be no physical danger and no lasting physical effect."

  "That's part of the guarantee."

  She put the paper down and picked up the pen, but hesitated. “How, exactly, does it work?"

  He leaned back, lacing his fingers together over his abdomen, and looked directly at her. After a moment, he said: “The varieties of love are nearly infinite. Every person alive is theoretically able to love every other person alive, and in a variety of ways."

  "Theoretically,” she said.

  "In our culture, love between a man and a woman normally goes through three stages: sexual attraction, romantic fascination and then long-term bonding. Each of them is mediated by a distinct condition of brain chemistry.

  "A person may have all three at once, with only one being dominant at any given time. Thus a man might be in love with his wife, and at the same time be infatuated with his mistress, and yet be instantly attracted to any stranger with appropriate physical characteristics."

  "That's exactly—"

  He held up a hand. “I don't need to know any more than you've told me. You've been married twenty-five years, you have an anniversary coming up ... and you want it to be romantic."

  "Yes.” She didn't smile."I know he's capable of romance."

  "As are we all.” He leaned forward and took two vials from the drawer, a blue one and a pink one. He looked at the blue one.

  "This is Formula One. It induces the first condition, sort of a Viagra for the mind."

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, almost a shudder. “No. I want the second one."

  "Formula Two.” He slid the pink vial towards her. “You each take approximately half of this, while in each other's company, and for several days you will be in a state of mutual infatuation. You'll be like kids again."

  She did smile at that. “Whether he knows he's taken it or not?"

  "That's right. No placebo effect."

  "And there is no Formula Three?"

  "No. That takes time,and understanding, and a measure of luck.” He shook his head ruefully and put the blue vial away. “But I think you have that already."

  "We do.The old-married-couple kind."

  "Now, the most effective way of administering the drug is through food or drink. You can put it in a favorite dish, one you're sure he'll finish, but only after it's been cooked. Above a hundred degrees centigrade, the compound will decompose."

  "I don't often cook. Could it be a bottle of wine?"

  "If you each drink half, yes."

  "I can force myself.” She took up the pen and signed the waiver, then opened her clutch purse and counted out ten 100 notes. “Half now, you said, and half upon satisfaction?"

  "That's correct.” He stood and offered his hand again. “Good luck, Mrs Stevenson."

  * * * *

  The reader may now imagine any one of nine permutations for this story's end.

  In the one the author prefers, they go to a romantic French restaurant, the lights low, the food wonderful, a bottle of good Bordeaux between them.

  She excuses herself to go to the ladies’ loo, the vial palmed, and drops her purse. When he leans over to pick it up, she empties the vial into the bottle ofwine.

  When she returns, she is careful to consume half of the remaining wine, which is not difficult. They are both in an expansive, loving mood, comrades these twenty-five years.

  As they finish the bottle, she feels the emotion building in her, doubling and redoubling. She can see the effect on him, as well: his eyes wide and dilated, his face flushed. He loosens his tie as she pats perspiration from her forehead.

  It's all but unbearable! She has to confess, so that he will know there's nothing physically wrong with him. She takes the empty pink vial from her purse and opens her mouth to explain—

  He opens his hand and the empty blue vial drops to the table. He grabs the tablecloth ... ?

  * * * *

  They are released on their own recognizance once the magistrate understands the situation.

  But they'll never be served in that restaurant again.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Fate of Mice by Susan Palwick

  —

  I remember galloping, the wind in my mane and the road hard against my hooves. Dr. Krantor says this is a false memory, that there is no possible genetic linkage between mice and horses, and I tell him that if scientists are going to equip IQ-enhanced mice with electronic vocal cords and teach them to talk, they should at least pay attention to what the mice tell them. “Mice,” Dr. Krantor tells me acidly, “did not evolve from horses,” and I ask him if he believes in reincarnation, and he glares at me and tells me that he's a behavioral psychologist, not a theologian, and I point out that it's pretty much the same thing. “You've got too much free time,” he snaps at me. “Keep this up and I'll make you run the maze again today.” I tell him that I don't mind the maze. The maze is fine. At least I know what I'm doing there: finding cheese as quickly as possible, which is what I'd do anyhow, anytime anyone gave me the chance. But what am I doing galloping?

  "You aren't doing anything galloping,” he tells me. “You've never galloped in your life. You're a mouse.” I ask him how a mouse can remember being a horse, and he says, “It's not a memory. Maybe it's a dream. Maybe you got the idea from something you heard or saw somewhere. On TV.” There's a small TV in the lab, so Dr. Krantor can watch the news, but it's not even positioned so that I can see it easily. And I ask him how watching something on TV would make me know what it felt like to be a horse, and he says I don't know what it feels like to be a horse, I have no idea what a horse feels like, I'm just making it up.

  But I remember that road, winding ahead in moonlight, the harness pulling against my chest, the sound of wheels behind me. I remember the three other horses in harness with me, our warm breath steaming in the frosty air. And then I remember standing in a courtyard somewhere, and someone bringing water and hay. We stood there for a long time, the four of us, in our harness. I remember that, but that's all I remember. What happened next?

  * * * *

  Dr. Krantor came grumbling into the lab this morning, Pippa in tow. “You have to behave yourself,” he says sternly, and deposits her in a corner.

  "Mommy was going to take me to the zoo,” she says. When I stand on my hind legs to peer through the side of the cage, I can see her pigtails flouncing. “It's Saturday."

  "Yes, I know that, but your mother decided she had other plans, and I have to work today."

  "She did not have other plans. She and Michael were going to take me to the zoo. You just hate Michael, Daddy!"

  "Here,” he says, handing her a piece of graph paper and some colored pens. “You can draw a picture. You can draw a picture of the zoo."

  "You could have gotten a babysitter,” Pippa yells at him, her chubby little fists clenched against her polka-dot dress. “You're cheap. A babysitter'd take me to the zoo!"

  "I'll take you myself, Pippa.” Dr. Krantor is whining now. “In a few hours. I just have a few hours of work to do, okay?"

  "Huh,” she says. “A
nd I bet you won't let me watch TV, either! Well, I'm gonna talk to Rodney!"

  Pippa calls me Rodney because she says it's prettier than rodent, which is what Dr. Krantor calls me: The Rodent, as if in my one small body I contain the entire order of small gnawing mammals having a single pair of upper incisors with a chisel-shaped edge. Perhaps he intends this as an honor, although to me it feels more like a burden. I am only a small white mouse, unworthy to represent all the other rodents in the world, all the rats and rabbits and squirrels, and now I have this added weight, the mystery Dr. Krantor will not acknowledge, the burden of hooves and mane.

  "Rodney,” Pippa says, “Daddy's scared I'll like Michael better than him. If you had a baby girl mouse and you got a divorce and your daughter's Mommy had a boyfriend, would you be jealous?"

  "Mice neither marry nor are given in marriage,” I tell her. In point of fact, mice are non-monogamous, and in stressful situations have been known to eat their young, but this may be more than Pippa needs to know.

  Pippa scowls. “If your daughter's Mommy had a boyfriend, would you keep her from seeing your daughter at all?"

  "Sweetheart,” Dr. Krantor says, striding over to our corner of the lab and bending down, “Michael's not a nice person."

  "Yes he is."

  "No, he's not."

  "Yes he is! You're just saying that because he has a picture of a naked lady on his arm! But I see naked ladies in the shower after I go swimming with Mommy! And Michael doesn't always ride his motorcycle, Daddy! He promised to take me to the zoo in his truck!"

  "Oh, Pippa,” he says, and bends down and hugs her. “I'm just trying to protect you. I know you don't understand now. You will someday, I promise."

  "I don't want to be protected,” Pippa says, stabbing the paper with Dr. Krantor's red pen. “I want to go to the zoo with Mommy and Michael!"

  "I know you do, sweetheart. I know. Draw a picture and talk to the rodent, okay? I'll take you to the zoo just as soon as I finish here."

  Pippa, pouting, mumbles her assent and begins to draw. Dr. Krantor, who frequently vents his frustrations when he is alone in the lab, has told me about Pippa's mother, who used to be addicted to cocaine. Supposedly she is drug-free now. Supposedly she is now fit to have joint custody of her daughter. But Michael, with his motorcycle and his naked lady, looks too much like a drug dealer to Dr. Krantor. “If anything happened to Pippa while she was with them,” he has told me, “I'd never forgive myself."