Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  During the next furious minutes, microchines invaded and mapped my brain, consuming my neurons as they moved.

  Inside a second room, a standard crystal was configured along lines defined by my delicate wiring, and inside a third room, entirely different machines fashioned a body worthy of any paying customer. Then I found myself sitting on a soft coach, inside a fourth room, wearing my original clothes and barely fifty minutes lost. And exactly as they had promised, I needed just another few moments to adapt to my very new circumstances.

  The smiling staff congratulated me.

  Alone, I walked outside. A little patch of clouds had covered the sun, but it didn't matter. In some deep way, I could still feel the sun's bright glare, just as I feel it today, warming me to my ceramic bones.

  She was waiting where I had left her, sitting inside my car.

  I drove us to my house—a smaller, more modest abode in those days—and she made a convincing show of treating me exactly as she had before. Not once did she ask if I felt different. Never did she comment on my new body. Our sex was scrupulously ordinary, pleasant but nothing more. Then I woke that next morning, and because I couldn't help myself, I said, “I know the time. And I can see it raining. But you know, I feel pretty much the same as I did yesterday afternoon."

  Pretty much isn't the same as perfect. Even a mind composed of hard frozen synapses contains a certain play of mood, of emotions and alertness. The soul remains flexible enough that when your lover smiles in a grim fashion, you worry. When she says, “I'm leaving you, Justin,” it hurts. It hurts badly, and even after the surprise fades, you continue to ache. For months, and for years, even. Forever, if you would allow it.

  But I won't allow it.

  "What about all your promises?” I blurted.

  "Oh, those were lies,” she admitted calmly.

  "And what about helping with my medical bills?"

  "I'm not giving you any money, darling."

  "But I can't afford this body,” I complained, “and I still owe hundreds of thousands for this brain. And you told me ... you claimed you'd help me—"

  "And I will help,” she said, glancing down at her twice-eaten eggs. “But you're a bright enough man, and if you think about this problem, just for a moment or two, you'll see for yourself what I was going to suggest."

  * * * *

  "Do you remember?” Bonnie would ask. “What happened ten weeks ago? Ten days ago? Or how about ten minutes ago? I'm just curious, Justin. What do you remember?"

  At first, she was simply curious. The questions were offered in passing, and I was entirely responsible for my answers. But as her interest sharpened, her ear became more critical, and she tested me, pressing for salient details. Mentioning a specific date, she asked, “What was I wearing? Where did we eat? And what did the man in the green suit say to me?"

  "You were wearing a wonderful little holo-dress, flowers changing to seeds and then back to flowers again.” I dipped into an assortment of memory sinks, my eyes staring off into the foggy distance. “We ate in that Sudanese restaurant, and you had the eland, and you had shoes. Yes. Black leather with brass buckles."

  "Go on."

  "But the man wasn't wearing green,” I reported. “It was more gold, his suit was. I don't remember his shoes, sorry. But he had this square face and a gold ring through his cheek, and he stared at you. I remember that very well. We walked into the place, and he watched you constantly. I made a joke, or you did—"

  "Playing with himself—"

  "Under the table, yes. I said, ‘You're making that poor gentleman crazy, darling.’ And then all at once he stood up and came over to us ... in his gold-green suit ... and he told you, ‘When you get tired of that dildo, why don't you try a real man?’”

  "You remember,” she said happily.

  "And I remember what you asked him. ‘Why? Do you know a real man?’”

  She was embarrassed, and pleased, laughing at the shared memory.

  Like anyone in her position, Bonnie wanted to know what I could do, and what I could not do. Yes, I explained, I had limits in personal growth. For better or worse, my nature was essentially changeless. In another hundred years, if someone gave me a personality inventory, I would test out as a man still just shy of fifty: A middle-aged outlook; neatness at home; a mature man's patience, and hopefully, a measure of wisdom. Plus my present level of smoldering passion, freed from the vagaries of hormones, would hold rock solid.

  "I'll be better in bed than most hundred and fifty year-old men,” I joked.

  A smile widened, but there was no laughter. Then with a serious voice—a thoughtful and worried but distinctly determined voice—Bonnie announced, “I want to have children."

  "I've got half a dozen vials filled up with my frozen sperm,” I promised. “For when the time comes."

  But she hadn't mentioned my participation, and she didn't mention it now. Instead, she took a deep breath before saying, “They can harvest a woman's eggs too. After the brain's gone, I mean."

  "And they're making spectacular progress with artificial wombs,” I added. “In a year or two, or ten at the most—"

  "What about work?” she interrupted. “Learning new jobs and the like ... you didn't know much about cybernetics before this, but now you're some kind of consultant—"

  "I lobby for the rights of the finished,” I said, not for the first time. “My work earns me a small stipend."

  True enough.

  "If we're going to live for another century,” she said, “and for a thousand centuries after that ... can these little memory sinks keep adapting us to all the coming changes...?"

  With an open, patient face, I reminded her, “Technologies only grow stronger."

  "Yet if we want ... draining whatever's inside those sinks ... we can forget what we want to forget, too. Right?"

  "Which is a great gift, if you think about it."

  She heard something ominous in the words. But she was a brave soul looking hard at things she wouldn't have considered just a few months ago. “Well, even if I was thinking about it,” she finally admitted. “I can barely pay my rent, much less make the down payment."

  We were spending the night at my substantial house—a telling detail. Bonnie was sitting in my bed, her young body illuminated by a waning moon. Not quite looking at me, she said, “I don't know what I'm thinking. Because I could never afford it."

  I waited, letting the silence frighten her.

  And then with a calm, warm tone, I asked, “But imagine, darling. What if some good heart was able to help you?"

  * * * *

  More weeks passed, but I remember little about them. Bonnie had a spectacular fight with her best friend, centering on issues she wouldn't discuss with me, and two attempts at reconciliation went for naught. Which left me as her closest friend as well as her lover, and with that new power, I did very little. Just the occasional word of advice; a slight coaxing masked as praise. In glowing terms, I spoke about her body and beauty, and when we were in public, I practically reveled at the lustful stares of strangers. But the telling event was elsewhere, and inevitable. Bonnie was twenty-nine years and eleven months old, and with that birthday looming, she said, “Okay, my mind's made up."

  I smiled, just enough.

  Then I set out to prepare her, legally and emotionally.

  My attorney was only too happy to help. A jolly fat man in life, he remained that way today—a comfortable bulk wrapped around an immortal smile. “You've picked a great moment,” he promised. A wide hand offered itself to my lover. “This is the new-generation skin. Study it. Isn't it natural? Touch it now. Prick it. If you want, lick it. No? Well, believe me. You're going to look like an angel beside this clunky old automaton."

  "Hey,” I complained. “I'm counting my pennies for an upgrade."

  Everyone laughed, although Bonnie felt ill at ease. Yet she never lost her will, never needed so much as a soft word of encouragement. Then later, once the appropriate forms and declaration
s had been signed and witnessed, my jolly attorney said, “A word with you, Justin?"

  Bonnie waited for me in the lobby.

  Straight away, my attorney asked, “Do you know how beautiful that woman is?"

  "No,” I kidded.

  He laughed, winked knowingly, and then said, “Seriously. This is not like the others that you've introduced me to. No elegant silver in the hair. No false teeth or bothersome grandkids. And that face isn't another bag of good and botched plastic surgeries, either."

  "But she is rather poor—” I began.

  "Fuck money. So long as it's just her money.” He laughed until he looked red-faced and breathless. “Poor is perfect, in fact. Like it was with you. It helps the soul come to terms with the world's realities."

  Pride flickering, I asked, “We'll she be as successful as I am?"

  "And then some!” His laughter filled the room. “I mean it, Justin. She's going to have a great time. I've seen this new skin stretched over a woman's frame, and I've felt it, and I think she's going to be pleased. You're going to be very pleased. Frankly, she's going to be fighting off the potential suitors. And for each one that she doesn't fight off—"

  "Yeah."

  "Of course, you'll earn just the standard commission for bringing her in,” he admitted. “Until Bonnie can work off her own debts—"

  "I realize."

  "But for every CEO-type that she captures,” he continued, “I'll make sure that you get your five percent out of her windfall."

  I still owed a tidy fortune to my makers. But I was immortal, and they could afford to be patient. All of their clients were immortal, and they could take an extraordinarily long view when it came to their business.

  "More pennies for the saving,” he sang out.

  "Sure,” I said, nodding amiably. “I'll never forget that."

  * * * *

  An appointment was made at my clinic, but Bonnie woke the day before with a smile. “Look at it out there,” she said. It was a cold but utterly bright morning, three days shy of her thirtieth birthday. “Do you think we could get in? If we went down there this minute—?"

  "Now?"

  "I really feel in the mood,” she promised.

  Somehow, I wasn't ready. But I took Bonnie at her word and carefully hid my own nervousness. Accompanying her to the clinic, I repeated the old advice. “You should go in alone. Really, I'd be a—"

  "Distraction. I agree."

  Why did that hurt? And why, even after I used every reliable trick, did those three words continue to gnaw at me?

  "No, this is best,” she assured me. “Going in early like this, I mean. I think some of my colleagues and friends are planning an intervention, which has to come tonight, of course...” She laughed softly, asking, “Wouldn't that be something if we let them...? If I get a good enough body, and if we kept the lights in the room down low enough so they couldn't tell—?"

  "Are you happy?"

  "Completely."

  "You're certain?"

  Bonnie didn't quite look at me. Then she wasn't speaking just to me, explaining, “Until a few weeks ago, I wasn't happy. Not like I thought I should be in my life. But I kept telling myself that if I just kept plugging along, eventually, maybe I'd run into somebody..."

  Neither of us laughed.

  Pulling into half-filled parking lot, she said, “Maybe they won't have a slot for me now."

  For her, they would make a slot.

  "Kiss me. For luck."

  I did what she wanted. I kissed her on the lips and told her, “I'll see you soon,” with a voice that sounded perfectly genuine. I even managed to smile, and Bonnie gave me a distracted smile and wink in return, and then she walked alone up to the front door and stepped out of sight.

  I waited.

  For maybe twenty seconds, I managed to do nothing.

  But I have this ungraceful habit. This inclination—a reflex—that remains fixed in my nature. Preyed by doubts, I always try to follow. And afterwards, I always make myself forget that I followed. What was different this time was that my reflex struck earlier than normal. I took the clinic by surprise, which makes me feel a little better. Stepping out of the Cheetah, I started to chase after Bonnie, a quick walk becoming a near-sprint, and because another patron had stopped inside the open door, thanking one of the doctors or one of the machines, I managed to slip into the lobby before any locks could be secured.

  A nurse was leading Bonnie into the back rooms.

  "Wait!” I cried out.

  A young man, finished and fit, vaulted over the counter. I was tackled and rudely shoved to the floor, but I managed to say, “You don't need to! I seduced you to do this! They pay me—!"

  A hand covered my mouth, choking off my voice.

  Bonnie's hand, I realized.

  Just like that first time, the pretty face hovered above me. But on this cold morning, she smiled with a certain fetching melancholy, and a calm hard and almost disappointed voice said, “I'm not an idiot, Justin. I figured it out for myself, almost from the first day."

  Her hand lifted, and she rose to her feet.

  "Don't go back there,” I called out. “Not now, darling. Not while your angry like this, because you'll always be—!"

  "Except I'm not angry,” she replied. And with a hard, wise smile, she added, “In fact, darling, this is better. I'm happy enough, but I also feel suspicious right now. Toward you, and everybody. And really, if you try and think about it, isn't that the best way to travel through the next hundred thousand years...?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  The Inn at Mount Either by James Van Pelt

  —

  After a minute spent weighing a fear of appearing foolish against his anxiety, Dorian approached the concierge. Behind the glassy mahogany of the concierge's booth, through the floor to ceiling windows, the afternoon clouds swept toward them across the neighboring peaks. As always, the view was spectacular. The sun cast long shadows through the valleys while the racing clouds caressed the mountain tops before swallowing them in grey, whale-like immensity, and when the clouds parted, the mountains would be the same but different, just a little, changed by their time in the clouds. That's why people always looked. Are the mountains the same, they seemed to say, or have they changed?

  If Dorian stood at the window, he could peer down the mountain at the long, railed walkways that connected one section of the inn to the next. Curved glass covered some of the walkways so the guests could pass in comfort from the casinos to the restaurants, or from the workout facilities to the spas, or from the tennis courts to the pools, but others were open and guests could walk in the unencumbered mountain air, their hands sliding along guard rails with nothing but the thought of distance between them and the rocks in the sightless haze below.

  Dorian cleared his throat. “I can't find my wife, Stephanie Wallace.” His fingers rested on the polished wood.

  Without raising his head from his the clipboard he'd been studying, the concierge looked at him. “It's a big inn, sir. When did you see her last?” The man's eyebrows had a distinctively rakish look to them, turning up at the ends like a handlebar moustache, and his hair was silvery-grey.

  "We were supposed to meet for lunch, but she didn't show up.” Dorian glanced into the lobby, hoping that she might appear. Behind him, the room towered fifty feet to skylights. Opposite the window, the mountain's rocky side made another wall. Exotic plants that would never grow outside of the inn's protection filled every nook, spilling vegetation over the deep-toned stone.

  The concierge put the clipboard on the booth. “Perhaps her plans changed, sir. There's much to do here at Mount Either."

  Dorian gritted his teeth. “Yesterday's lunch! I've been looking for her since last night. Stephanie's not late. She's gone."

  "It won't help for you to be short with me, sir. What is your room number?"

  "4128."

  The concierge tapped at a personal digital assistant that nestled in his palm. “This i
s your wife, sir?” A picture of a smiling blonde woman, glasses slid part way down her nose peered back at Dorian from the screen.

  "Yes.” She'd worn her glasses on the airplane. Once they checked in, she switched to contacts.

  "I show that she's still a guest."

  Resisting an urge to throttle the man, Dorian said, “I know that. What I want is some help in finding her. Can't you ask the other employees to keep an eye out?"

  "Of course, sir. But, as I said before, this is a big inn. Maybe she wants some privacy. Perhaps she's admiring one of our many gardens. She wouldn't be the first guest to spend a few uncounted hours sitting on a meditation vista. In fact, getting lost at the inn is a selling point. We advertise it. ‘Lose yourself in the experience.’”

  "It's not supposed to be literal!” snapped Dorian.

  The concierge picked up the clipboard again. “I will alert the staff. You don't suppose she went through a transitionway unaccompanied, do you?"

  Dorian felt himself blanching. “No, of course not.” But he remembered how she'd lingered yesterday morning in the Polynesian hallway.

  "Guests are to be escorted through the shift zones."

  "I'm sure she wouldn't do that."

  The concierge sniffed. “We're very specific in our agreement when you signed in. The management will respond strongly to guests who ignore the rules."

  Dorian turned away from the concierge. A new tram-load of tourists had arrived, pulling their suitcases behind them. Most were couples. Newlyweds, by the look, or retired folk. A pack of bellboys scurried to meet them, while a mellow-voiced recording intoned, “Welcome to the Inn at Mount Either. You are standing in the new lobby, two-hundred and fifty feet above the historical first lobby built on the site of where Mount Either's special properties were discovered. If you are interested in a guided visit to the old lobby, dial 19 on your room phone."

  "If she did go...” said Dorian. A hand seemed to be grasping his throat. It was all he could do to croak out, “...unescorted?"