Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2006 Edition

by Rich Horton

  The concierge said, “It's a big inn, sir. We will do all we can to help, but we don't really count a guest as missing until forty-eight hours have passed."

  Dorian didn't know what to say. He drummed his fingers on the counter. Some of the new arrivals were at the window, looking down. The glass leaned away from the mountain, and the lobby itself protruded like a shelf, so they had an unimpeded view of the two-thousand foot drop and the rest of the inn on this side of the peak, clinging to the sheer face.

  "I can't wait that long. I'm going to look for her myself."

  "That is your privilege, sir,” said the concierge. “I'm sure she's just around the corner. Nothing stays lost here forever."

  The elevator to the Polynesian transition they had visited yesterday was out of order. Dorian looked both ways down the long, curving hall, but there wasn't another elevator. The inn's maps were almost impossible to read since the inn itself was aggressively three-dimensional, riddled with elevators, stairs, ramps, sloping halls, ladders, bridges and multi-level rooms. They'd followed a guide to the Polynesian transition, but none were in sight now. Dorian went left, around the curved hall.

  Finally, he reached a stairwell that spiraled down for fifty steps. He didn't recognize the hall it emptied into, but a distinctive arrow in blue and yellow pointed toward a transition. Yesterday, as they approached the zone, the wallpaper had changed from the art deco they'd grown used to, to a palm and beach motif. Following the guide, he'd held Stephanie's hand until they stepped through the transition's door and into a Polynesian mountainscape.

  "You're lucky, today, folks,” said the guide. “I don't think I've ever seen it looking this good."

  The sun pouring through the open veranda spread heat like a warm flush on their skin. Stephanie's hand drifted from his own, and she walked to the platform's edge as if in a dream.

  "Oh, Dorian,” she'd said. Instead of the snow-capped mountains of the Inn at Mount Either, a series of rounded hills rose in front of them, covered with forest so thick that it was hard to imagine ground beneath it. A flock of long-necked birds wheeled below, skimming the treetops and crying out to one another. She'd stared into the distance, entranced, her blonde hair just brushing her shoulders, and for a moment he saw the young woman he'd married twenty years earlier, the jaunty athleticism in her posture, the grace in her wrists and hands.

  A waiter in a flowered shirt offered them drinks off a platter.

  "Can you smell it?” Stephanie said, delighted. “It's the ocean."

  And Dorian could smell salt and sand under the rich vegetable forest. Stephanie loved the ocean and all that was associated with it, the seals and birds and spiny creatures crawling in tidal pools, and the way the waves slid underneath her bare toes. Her passions were intense. She'd spend hours studying art or collecting children's literature or working with other people's kids. Once she'd gotten hypothermia in a mountain stream while sorting through rocks on her hands and knees. “I thought there might be quartz crystals,” she'd said through the shivers. She laughed often.

  Stephanie hadn't wanted to leave the overlook. The hotel guide finally had to insist. “My shift ended twenty minutes ago, ma'am. Perhaps you can come back another day if it's still here.” Then he took them back through the hallway and into the inn they had left. “This was one of the original shift zones,” he'd said as they walked back to the main lobby. “They found it third."

  "How marvelous it must have been,” Stephanie said. “I can imagine them climbing the mountain. Squeezing through a crevice, and there they were.” She looked behind them.

  Dorian rushed down the corridor. He remembered fewer doors in the hallway yesterday, and the carpet had been a different color. Closing his eyes for a second, he tried to picture the inn's structure. The elevator had only gone down a couple of floors, which was about the same distance the spiral stairs had taken him, but nothing looked the same. Maybe he was in a parallel passage. He passed another blue and yellow arrow. The decor changed from dark-polished woods and brass fixtures to natural pine siding. A long mural of a desert canyon rimmed with cactus covered one wall. Then the hall ended at a door, a rough-hewn, heavy-planked structure marked by a solid iron handle to open it instead of a doorknob.

  It was a transition way, but not the one from yesterday. Still, it was close. Maybe Stephanie had come down this path. The elevator might have been out of order for her too. Dorian took a deep breath and opened the door.

  On the other side, a wooden bridge reached an open platform. Drooping ropes hung from thick posts that lined the bridge's side, serving as protection from the drop into the depths below. Dorian leaned on the rope at the platform's edge. The general shape of the mountains was the same, but no snow covered the peaks. The sun glared, radiating off slick-rock, dark with streaks of desert varnish. He shaded his eyes to look up the mountain. Wood structures covered most of the slope, all light-colored pine. For a moment nothing looked familiar, then he spotted the main lobby buttressed by tree-thick pylons jutting from the mountain.

  A man wearing a cowboy hat and a leather fringed shirt joined him at the edge. “First time to Mount Either?” he said.

  "Yes,” said Dorian, confused. “How could you tell?"

  "Your duds. Not quite in the motif, pard.” He smiled, a gold tooth flashing in the sun, then glanced at his watch, a large-faced instrument ringed with turquoise. “You going to the barbeque? I'm going to find my wife and head that way. Gosh, I love the grub you get here.” His leather boots clacked against the wood flooring as he headed to the stairs.

  Dorian was alone on the platform again. “I'm looking for my wife too,” he said. Overhead a lone bird circled. He thought, is that a buzzard?

  A tram like a large ore cart glided past the platform, heading down. Cowboy-hatted tourists sat at one end, while a pile of saddles and bridles filled the other. At the bottom of the ravine where the tram's cable ended at a tiny building, a dozen horses no larger than grains of rice milled about in a corral.

  The set of stairs that gold-tooth had ascended looked like they led to the main lobby. Dorian took the steps two at a time. If Stephanie had come this way, she hadn't returned. Would she have realized right away that she was lost? Would she have gone to the lobby for directions? She could be there even now, maybe sipping a cool drink at one of the many, nearby cafes.

  But at the top of the stairs were three passages, and none of them looked like they headed up. Dorian paused. If he chose the wrong way, he could become lost himself. A bellboy in flannel shirt tucked into jeans, carrying a tray of dirty dishes on one hand above his shoulder came out of one hallway.

  "How do I get to the lobby?” said Dorian.

  The bellboy transferred the heavy tray with practiced ease. His suntanned face crinkled into a weathered smile. “Right hallway until you come to the elevator. The button is marked."

  Dorian nodded, then started forward.

  "My right,” said the bellboy as he descended the stairs.

  In the lobby, Dorian took a moment to orient himself. It wasn't that this sage-scented lobby was completely different; it was the similarities that threw him off. The same tall window gazing out on the deserty-looking mountains, the same exposed rock making one wall, a familiar reception desk dominating the room's center, but all the materials were different: hand-hewed timbers replaced the slick chrome support beams, big-looped throw rugs covered the plank floor where before he'd walked on expensive carpet, but what was most disorienting was the concierge, whose distinctive upward-flaring eyebrows and silver-grey hair waited for him at the reception desk as Dorian crossed the room.

  "Thank goodness,” said Dorian. “I wanted to find the Polynesian transition, but I ended up here instead."

  "Excuse me, sir?” said the concierge. His expression was completely bland. No recognition at all.

  "It's me, Dorian Wallace. I told you ten minutes ago that I was looking for my wife, Stephanie."

  "I'm sorry, sir. You have me at a disadvantage."r />
  "We talked. You said nothing stays lost forever."

  The concierge shook his head. “Maybe I was thinking about something else when we chatted. What room did you say you were in?"

  The situation was ludicrous. In the window behind the concierge, the sun blasted the peaks. No snow. No smoothly curved walkways stretching from wing to wing. Just heavy rope and solid wood and thick iron cable strapping the structures to the mountain. It was like an 1860 version of Dodge City turned vertical. “I'm from the real Inn at Mount Either. I'm in one of its rooms."

  The concierge's forehead wrinkled. “This is the real Inn at Mount Either, sir."

  Dorian stepped back. The man looked similar, but the business suit Dorian remembered had been replaced with a leather jacket, and where the silk tie had hung before, a silver clasp held a black bolo. Something about his face was different too. More wrinkles maybe? More silver in the hair? Suddenly Dorian was sure that they would have no record of his registration, and he realized he'd gone through a transition without a guide. What had the first concierge told him about management “responding strongly” to guests who ignored the rules?

  Keeping the panic out of his voice, Dorian said, “My fault. I mistook you for someone else.” He forced a smile. “There's so many employees here."

  Nodding, the concierge turned his attention to a stack of papers on the desk. “This is a big inn, sir. Perfectly understandable."

  On the way out of the lobby, Dorian paused. Had he come up a short flight of stairs to enter, or had the hallway been on the same level? At the foot of the stairs a mineral gift shop offered its wares on wooden trays inside its door. He vaguely remembered passing something like that, but he'd been in a hurry. Had he?

  On an impulse, he entered the shop. Rocks and crystals of all kinds filled the shelves. “I'm looking for my wife,” he said to the man behind the counter. “She might have been in here yesterday.” Dorian showed him a photo from his wallet.

  The man hooked his thumbs in the top of his overalls and leaned to look at the picture. “Yep, Stephanie, I know her. She liked the amethyst. I figure she spent an hour hunting for a good specimen."

  Dorian caught the edge of the counter to keep from falling. His legs had no strength. He looked at the crate overflowing with purple crystals.

  "Didn't buy anything, though. I offered her iron pyrite, fool's gold. She said if she couldn't have the real thing, she couldn't be happy.” The man smiled. “Besides, she said her husband sometimes buys her gifts, and she didn't want to spoil his fun."

  "Which way did she go?"

  "Didn't really notice. Down the hallway, I reckon."

  Dorian dashed to the door, then looked the way the man had indicated, as if there might be a chance to see her still. But the hall was empty. He glanced up the stairs into the lobby. The concierge was talking to a couple of men wearing six-shooters and badges. Security? The concierge pointed toward Dorian.

  "Thanks,” he called to the mineral shop man.

  "Nice lady. I hope you find her."

  The elevator at the end of the hall was not the same one he'd ridden up, but he didn't want to talk to security, so he rode it down to the transition level he'd come from. When he stepped out, the doors closed, and the elevator returned to the lobby.

  We're they really after him?

  After a couple confusing turns down hallways that didn't look the least bit familiar, Dorian stepped onto an open-air bridge that ended at a platform overlooking the canyon. He breathed easier. A quick dash down the transitionway, and he'd be home, but the long cables that carried the tram he'd seen earlier to the ravine's bottom were next to a platform a hundred yards farther away. An updraft ruffled his hair and dried the sweat on his face instantly. Wrong platform. The problem was how could he get from the platform he was on to the one that he'd come from without retracing his steps?

  He crossed the bridge back to the mountain where three choices waited: the hallway he'd exited from, a short ramp to another hallway and a set of stairs that at least headed toward the other platform. At the top of the stairs, a blue and yellow arrow pointed in the right direction.

  But the hallway's transition theme was heavy stone work, like castle fortifications, and on the door's other side, towering spires and crenelated restraining walls lined the paths. He'd missed the transition back to where he'd started. A dozen flights of stairs, two ramps and an elevator ride took him to another transition, clearly not the right one, but he needed to get back to The Inn at Mount Either he'd come from. Passing through transitions without a guide, he thought ruefully. I'm probably racking up room charges of astronomical proportions.

  The next transition felt vaguely Arabic. He ran into a fellow in a rush going through the door in the opposite direction.

  "Sorry, my fault,” said Dorian at the same time the other man said the same thing. He only had a moment to notice the fellow was wearing the same kind of pants and shirt he wore before they dashed their separate ways.

  The next had a rainforest look, but he recognized none of the birds that flew past the walkways. A blue and yellow arrow pointed down a hallway lined with jungle plants and short vines that dangled from the ceiling. He hurried past the closed doors until the hallway curved and the decor on the wall changed from matted vegetation to slick aluminum and recessed light fixtures. He pulled the door at the end of the transition zone open with relief.

  The door closed behind him.

  The lights were out.

  He took a few steps into the darkness, then waited for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, the scene became clear. He choked back a gasp. Nothing separated him from the two-thousand foot drop to the bottom of the canyon. For a heart-stopping moment, he felt suspended, as if at any second he would drop to the rocks in an unstoppable plunge, but he didn't fall. His hands out, he shuffled forward. The floor wasn't perfectly invisible. He could see now that a walkway leapt to an opaque platform before him, and to each side, no more than an arm reach away, nearly transparent walls and ceiling enclosed him. It reminded him of an aquarium he'd visited once, where the visitors could walk in a glass tunnel right through the water. Sharks and rays swam above and below, and the illusion of being underwater was nearly perfect. Except the illusion here was that he floated in space. Dorian looked up. Stars glinted back at him with unblinking brilliance. He'd never seen a night sky so clean-edged. On the horizon, a quarter moon cast a clear, cold light on the mountain peaks in the distance, and its silver hue glinted off the Inn at Mount Either's structures that wrapped tight around the mountain above him, but it wasn't the Mount Either he'd left. Glass and metal flowed smoothly around the contours, seamlessly leading from wall to window to walkway to elevator, and the dim light of the glass told him of the inn's life behind.

  Afraid for his balance, Dorian moved back to the door like a man on ice. He tugged, but the handle didn't stir. A lighted sign in red appeared above: SORRY, TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE.

  After tight-roping his way across the glass walkway, Dorian found himself in a vista room. A line of comfortably padded couches faced the window and the star-studded night outside. Illuminated by the partial moon, people sat in most of the couches, staring silently at the view. He looked out. Moonlight bathed the nearest mountain in greys and blues. Shadows, like black swaths of velvet, outlined ridges and rocks and filled crevices. Dorian took an empty couch, and settled in its deep embrace. Yesterday, when Stephanie missed lunch, he'd sat in the restaurant for an extra hour, and he knew something was wrong. He told himself that she must have forgotten, but that wasn't like her. Using the inn's maps as best he could—the inn's structure was complicated—he'd searched the gyms and shops, the salons and museums, hour by hour, panic building.

  He realized that this was the first time he'd rested in the last twenty-four hours. Dorian closed his eyes, just for a minute, he thought.

  He dreamed of Stephanie. They were in a boat crossing a broad lake. Behind them he could make out a line of trees and a distant dock, but
the other shore was lost in mist. Water slapped at the bow, and the air smelled of fish and wet wood. “You're so far away,” she said. Dorian wanted to weep. “I know,” he said. “I know, but I'm trying to find you.” He was dreaming, and he could feel the couch he was sitting in, and he could imagine the people sitting around him, staring at the night-lit mountain, but he also felt the hard wooden bench and the boat's gentle motion. “Where are you, Stephanie?” In the dream, she laughed the way she always laughed, an honest burst of humor that animated her face and eyes. She said, “No, I mean you're so far away in the boat.” Dorian braced himself, lifted his feet over the seat in between them, then slid forward. Their knees touched. Stephanie placed her hands palms up on her knees. Leaning, Dorian covered them with his own.

  "Your hands are so warm,” she said.

  Dorian kept still, his fingers resting on her wrists, her pulse beating beneath them.

  Stephanie looked upon the water, the long line of ripples moving past them, breathing quietly. She said, “I could float here forever. I don't have to be going anywhere.” The boat rocked, and it was like the lake stroking them. She met his gaze. “If you are with me."

  A voice said, “It's beginning."

  Dorian opened his eyes, and Stephanie disappeared. For a moment, he imagined the couch moved, as if the floor was the surface of a black lake, but that feeling faded, leaving him with the memory so vivid of her pulse in his fingertips and the way her lips parted when she laughed that he wondered for a second if she'd actually been there before him.

  "It's beginning,” an elderly woman in the couch next to him said again. Her arms looked frail, but her voice was firm.

  "What?” said Dorian.

  "Shhh!” she said, and hunched forward, all her attention directed out the window.

  At first Dorian thought the mountain was catching fire. A flicker of red glinted from the middle of a cliff. Then it spread over the length of the rock, a brilliant, deep red like an electric ruby.

  "My god,” someone said. Someone else sighed.