Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  "He made me so happy,” she whimpered.

  Fuck, thought Sam.

  She was back on the Bliss.

  * * * *

  Sam called his boss when they got upstairs. He had a family situation, he knew they were riding a deadline, could he please have a few days to deal with it and he'd work overtime later? Madison hemmed and hawed, finally agreed, and Sam thumbed the off button before he could change his mind.

  Elizabeth was shivering on the black leather couch, poking wide-eyed at the remote control for Sam's entertainment centre. She looked just like those kids had when Sam's fist connected with that bastard's face—curious, uncaring, totally detached.

  "Liz, d'you want something to drink?"

  She didn't even look up.

  He went into the kitchen—black countertops and black-on-white tile, shiny white fridge and stove—and poured some water into a sleek, heat-saving mug. His hands trembled as he replaced the pitcher in the neatly ordered fridge. He should call his mother, find a rehab program; he was the younger one, and shouldn't have to take care of her again; she was a junkie and a runaway, what Madison called a gutter-grubber. She chose the gutter. It was her own fault she had that shiner on her face.

  I am not my sister's keeper.

  When he got back into the living room she'd managed to turn on the digital stereo, and music started to sprinkle out of the speakers. It was an old band, some two-guitars and a drummer thing, not the incomprehensible anarchy of sound that passed for music these days. Elizabeth stared like a newborn child at the speakers, then clapped her hands and burst into tears.

  Sam rushed over, abandoning the mug of water on his coffee table and enfolded her in his arms. She was trembling, crying, snot running down her face and onto her cracked, chapped lips.

  It took him a moment to realize: they were tears of joy.

  "Why did you start again, Liz? You promised me,” he whispered, and it was all he could do to not cry himself.

  She pulled back, shook her head, still dreamy-looking and empty and not at all herself inside. “You wouldn't understand,” she said, but there was no malice in it, just simple, clear, stoned-out-of-your-skull fact.

  The words punched him in the stomach and left a hole clean through to the other side. So he stood and picked up his briefcase from where he'd dropped it that morning, and worked out the bugs in five pages of code until he felt soothed once again.

  * * * *

  For the rest of the day she stared at everything as if it were a jewel beyond price.

  On Tuesday she shivered and furrowed her brow, wandered the condo aimlessly touching white walls, black lamps, white shelves and the black TV, a hound scenting that something was not quite right. Sam watched her from the desk and wrote one sentence of a report over and over again. The evening news was full of the Pharmaceutical Question and tired-eyed policemen; it featured a documentary on the use of Bliss as a date-rape drug. He turned it off halfway through. These problems had no numbers, too many variables, no controls: they made his head hurt and set an ache moving in his chest.

  On Wednesday she curled up in the crisp white sheets of his bed and stared at the ceiling, blank-eyed with despair. She spoke only in a monotone, and Sam had to feed her himself, one spoonful of runny soup at a time from the heavy chrome spoon in his hand. She turned her face away after only a few bites, even though her stomach still rumbled and fussed; he talked in a soft, patient voice to her and massaged the food down her throat.

  By Thursday the worst of the withdrawal was over, and Sam went back to work.

  There was a memo on his desk when he got into the office, tired and wondering if he shouldn't have spent another day at home. Report to the lab for seasonal testing, it said. It was two days old.

  Mac Bearns clucked his tongue and straightened a wrinkled lab coat when Sam knocked on the door. “Here for the test? You're late, man."

  Sam wrinkled his nose as the chemical smell of the lab tingled and burned in his nostrils. “I wasn't in the office this week. Had a family thing."

  Mac nodded. “Everyone's okay?"

  "They will be."

  He grabbed a clipboard, clapped it down on the sterile cloud-blue counter. “Well, full battery of tests for you this time. Gonna need a urine sample after this."

  Sam sighed and rolled up his sleeve. Mac wrapped the length of rubber around his arm with one hand, snagged a small container full of vials with the other: both with a rough, almost graceful expertise. “How many years have I been working here? This some kind of punishment for the time off?"

  "Sorry man; it's the holidays, so we're doing everyone. Gotta be extra careful around this time of year.” Mac shrugged. “This'll sting."

  The needle went into Sam's arm hard and he hissed, even though he'd felt it a million times before. He watched as Mac carefully attached vial after vial to the nozzle on the needle's other end, as they filled up with the thick red of his blood one by one. “Like nobody would notice if one of us was on the sauce."

  Mac shrugged again. “Hey, nobody noticed at MilleniTech or we wouldn't have had to reconstruct our servers last month."

  Sam turned just too fast, and the needle dug further into his arm. “Ow. Shit. That was drug-related?"

  "Yup. One of the QA guys was on Bliss. He decided the security on the upgrade was ‘good enough'; almost offed himself when they fired him because he'd been so proud of the work and they'd taken away his stash. Madison's talking about monthly tests instead of quarterly now."

  "Shit,” Sam said again. Bruises from Mac's bedside manner every month, just to prove he was clean enough to do his own job: soon it would be him and not Liz the cops were questioning about abuse. The idea rankled—the company didn't trust his judgement that far?—but it was in his contract. It was in all their contracts. Probably even Mac's. And these days he wasn't going to find a job that paid anything without a lab clause in the contract.

  The needle slipped out of his arm with a little jerk. Mac undid the rubber tubing and deftly applied a band-aid where the needle had been. “So drop a urine sample off at the nurse's station and you're free to go."

  Sam picked up the little clear cup from a stack on the counter and slid it in his pocket. “Thanks."

  "No problem.” Mac gathered up the full vials and started to label them in his messy doctor's hand: Gordon, Sam; 12/17. “Wanna grab something at the pub tonight? Kim's working late."

  Sam shook his head. “Like I said, family thing. Still need to keep an eye on it."

  "Oh, yeah. You'll gimme a call if you need anything, right?” He said it so flatly Sam was almost surprised. The best nonchalant bastard of a friend I've ever had. Maybe I should have said yes. “And if I don't see you before then, Merry Christmas."

  "Merry Christmas,” Sam said, and headed for the washroom.

  * * * *

  Liz was asleep when he got home, curled up in his bed looking just like she had as a kid. The stress lines were smoothed out of her face, and it wasn't artificially happy, just ... peaceful. Sam sat down next to her, closed his eyes, tried to reproduce the look on her face.

  He smoothed his face to calmness, leaned back on the bit of mattress that wasn't covered with her sleep-heavy body. His thoughts slowed down, quieted; the warmth of the bed and the warmth of his own body melded into one. Maybe this was how she felt with the Bliss: sleepy and secure, totally unaware of anything outside her own body, slow. Content. Hibernatory. Consciousness bleeding into everything around—

  He jolted. No. Wake up. Live.

  Sam sat up and his hands were shaking. Liz was still fast asleep, her breathing even and steady. He almost reached out to pull the blankets over her.

  Instead, he stood up and went to put on the kettle.

  * * * *

  Monday, Christmas coming, family around for the first time in years. Sam came home with a turkey and trimmings, a bottle of wine and a store-bought chocolate cake, just in time to see Elizabeth stuff something in her mouth.

  He
kept his hands steady, put down the groceries and composed his face before turning to look at her. “Hi, Liz. What do you have there?"

  She shifted on the couch, curling her knees up against her chest, inclining her too-thin face away. “I had a headache."

  She hadn't answered the question. He took a few steps towards her, slowly. “Okay. What do you have there?"

  She swallowed. “Nothing."

  He dove for the couch, grabbed for her wrist and wrested the Nothing out of her hand. She yelped, screamed, but he pulled away and unfolded it in his hand. It was a packet of paper, and inside it were three little pink pills. He stared for a moment and then crumpled it in his fist. “Liz. Where did you get this?"

  Tears started to seep into her eyes. “I need it!"

  "No, you don't.” His voice was so patient, more than he felt. Daddy-voice, reasonable and rational. Maybe Dad could have dealt with Liz like this. She'd always been his baby. “You can live without it."

  She made another snatch at the packet. “But I don't want to! It's ... how can you be so unhappy? I can't do it, Sam!"

  "You're going to have to make your own happiness,” he said. So prosaic. But he'd made his own: good job. Nice home. Nobody else had given it to him, that was for sure.

  "I can't,” she almost wailed. Sam felt a momentary surge of guilt. It was true; she probably couldn't. She'd wait forever for her handsome prince or protector or—keeper? Don't think that—to make everything okay. And when nobody did, she just went back to it, time after time after time.

  He knew why he still hadn't called Mom. She and Liz hadn't spoken in ten years, and seeing Liz like this would break his mother's heart.

  But why hadn't he taken her to the doctor?

  Her eyes strayed to the crumpled packet in his hand, one more time. Would his own big sister jump him to get at her stash? Sam hesitated for one long moment; then he strode to the window, slid it open, and flung the packet of paper fifty-three stories down into the alley below.

  Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. “You ... you asshole."

  Sam slid the window shut. “It's for your own good,” he said, and managed to keep his voice even.

  "You hate me. You've always hated me. You think you're better than I am."

  "I'm not the addict here, okay?” Shit. Shouldn't have said that.

  "Addict,” she hissed. “You're addicted to your own fucking holier-than-thou pain. And you want me on it too.” Elizabeth uncurled like a snake, eyes glittering. “Well, excuse-fucking-me if I don't want to hurt all the time! I just want to be happy, okay? That's all I want, no condo, no money, no goddamned leather jacket and—"

  Sam got to his feet. “Elizabeth—"

  "No, you listen to me. How dare you say I don't have a right to be happy?"

  Sam felt his own eyes narrowing. “Who said you did? Happiness isn't a right, Liz! It's a privilege. You earn it. It's not something people just get on a silver platter. You work for it, okay?"

  "Right,” she snorted. “Work and be good and don't talk in school and thou shalt be rewarded from on high. It doesn't work like that, baby brother."

  "You don't know shit about life, Liz—"

  "You're the one who's full of...” she hesitated, frowned. “I...” One by one, her muscles relaxed. A serene smile spread across her face, then started to intensify. She tightened her hands and looked down at the vase in her hand, ran her hand over its painted pattern.

  She set the vase down on the floor and started to examine it from every angle, touching, smelling, drinking it in. Her eyes were wide with delight. “Look,” she breathed.

  Sam drew a ragged breath and let it out. He needed to put the groceries away before they got too warm, or they wouldn't have a Christmas dinner. And he needed a dinner for tonight, and to call his mother, and someone to watch Elizabeth when he went to work tomorrow in case—

  He needed a doctor. He was in over his head, and he didn't dare take her to the hospital; social services would step in and he'd never see her again. Mom would find out and she'd never forgive him. He hadn't given up on her yet; he wasn't going to now.

  Sam picked up the phone and punched a few numbers. “Mac? Sam Gordon. No, it's just ... you know how you said I could call if—? I need a favour."

  * * * *

  Mac arrived with a sharp knock on the door and his usual air of wrinkled competence, even though the lab coat had been replaced with a huge grey trenchcoat. “You rang?"

  "I've got a problem,” Sam said. “It's my sister. I can't take her to a hospital."

  Mac's face went serious and sharp. “Lemme see.” He shouldered past Sam into the apartment and regarded Elizabeth where she sat on the floor, still staring at the painted vase. “What're the symptoms?"

  Sam shut and locked the door behind him, trying not to fidget. “I ... it's...” He swallowed. “Bliss."

  Mac frowned; not anger, but concentration. “Here, let me see.” He opened his bag and pulled out instruments, gauze, a bottle of liquid that smelled sterile and sharp.

  Elizabeth giggled when the needle went into her arm, and she watched the blood spurt into the vials with focused fascination. “What's your name?"

  "Mackenzie,” he said with a parent's indulgent smile, and changed the vial. “I work with your brother."

  She clapped her hands in delight.

  Sam shook his head. “If I can just keep her away from it—"

  "Not that simple, man. How much do you know about Bliss?"

  "It makes you a spineless vegetable,” he muttered.

  Mac gave him a measuring look and eased the second vial from the needle, replaced it with a third. “Bliss isn't like some of the other stuff. It's neurological: chemical stimulation of the parts of your brain that regulate sleep and processing speed and such. That regulate feelings. It suppresses the negative-emotion parts of the brain and some of the logic centres, and a dependency forms. It's like the daredevil theories about adrenaline addiction. The brain needs the chemical after a while.” Mac carefully labelled the vial: Jane Doe, 12/21. “Emotion is chemical,” he said. “It's genuine happiness they're feeling. So far as we know."

  Fake happiness. Pill happiness. Bullshit. “Mac,” he said. “What the hell am I going to do?"

  Mac shrugged and started to pack his bag. “Look, let me get to the lab. I have an idea about fixing this. I don't know if I'll have to do a spinal tap, but this should be a start.” Mac rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath the glasses and sighed. “It's been a long time since I did research,” he said, but there was excitement in his voice.

  He zipped up his bag and looked Elizabeth up and down one more time, how she rubbed at the bandage on her arm, how she fidgeted and plucked at her hair, her clothes, everything with a kind of satisfied glee. “It's not even supposed to be a street drug. It's an anti-depressant. Guess it just proves people will abuse anything."

  "Hey,” Sam said. “She's not a junkie. It was hard for her, okay?"

  "Yeah.” Mac replied. “It's hard for everyone."

  All the words in Sam's mouth jumped back down his throat.

  Mac went to the door and unlocked it. “Look, I'll let you know by Wednesday if there's anything I can do.” He turned with a lopsided smile, punched Sam in the arm. “Get some sleep, huh?"

  Sam managed to push out one word before his throat closed again. “Goodnight."

  "G'night,” Mac said, and then he was gone.

  Elizabeth stared at him, doll-eyes wide and smile fixed upon her face. “Let's play a game. Wanna play?"

  * * * *

  On Wednesday morning there was a memo on his desk: Report to the lab. Sam tucked his briefcase under the desk and stuffed the paper in his pocket, heart accelerating to a mile a minute. He went down the stairs, dodging the herds of co-workers dragging themselves up to their own cubicles to the sound of canned holiday cheer.

  Mac's head snapped up when he pushed the door open. “Took you long enough."

  "What've you got?” Sam panted. He sank
into the chair where Mac usually took blood, grateful for its presence for the first time in his life.

  Mac didn't shrug; in fact his stare was almost as focused as Elizabeth's. “Before I go into this, I want you to know these aren't tested or approved by any kind of authority. I mixed them in my basement, and I'll deny whatever the hell I have to. I don't know what might go wrong, but they should work in theory. Are you sure you want to do this?"

  This was irresponsible. This was wildly irresponsible.

  It was better than social services. It was better than this going on again and again, the tears, the withdrawal, the inevitable broken lock and stolen cash and slide back into unknowing stupor. It was better than not knowing.

  Sam nodded.

  Mac dug into his pocket and pulled out a dark-tinted pill bottle. The prescription label was blank. He opened it with a loud pop! and there were five little pink pills inside. “Here's your silver bullet. Well, pink."

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Mac, that's just the drug."

  "Ah,” he said. “Looks like, huh? Consider that a perk. It's for ... patient cooperation, let's say. If my guess is right these little suckers will stimulate the parts of the brain the Bliss is turning off and we can get some balance going again. If I'm right."

  "I'll trust you,” Sam said. “My head's spinning already. I mean ... how do you know all this shit?"

  "Think I wanted to be a lab monkey my whole life?” Mac snorted. “Your piss is fascinating, but some of us trained as scientists so we could, you know, do science."

  Sam swallowed. There was a moment of silence in which he thought about apologizing and discarded that, because it would embarrass Mac; wondered why he'd never figured Mac was that smart; wondered how many industries the Pharmaceutical Question really had affected. Figured maybe he was lucky to have wanted to go into software and not music or art or science or social work.

  Mac pressed the bottle into Sam's palm. The five little pink pills inside rattled quietly against the tinted plastic. “Here's your prescription. Use it wisely, and use it well, and don't say I never did anything for you."