Best of British Science Fiction 2016

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “So there’s no authority higher than me. Under protest, then...

  “Henry –! Heini –! How many people have you caused to be killed? How many more do you want killed to cleanse the Reich? You can kill a couple personally! Go ahead, this isn’t so hard, Reichsführer. Then you’ll be free.”

  The others in the cell don’t move as Himmler slides the pistol from the pocket inside of his pocket. Yes, first shoot General Sagardía to one side of him – next, General Orgaz. Damn them for bringing him to this tormenting place which he insisted on being brought to.

  Pull pistol, point sideways where the heart should be, squeeze trigger.

  As Sagardía sags, blood spilling suddenly from his mouth and nose, the yellow lines on the wall whiplash the coloured discs and black and white squares and the dazzle of the lightbulb into a frenzied dance, spiralling inward –

  “Henry? Henry?”

  Sara-17-Vee-Chang eases the induction helmet from Henry-54-Kay-Patel’s head, its feelers pulling loose with slight reluctance. Henry’s jumpsuit-clad limbs jerk; tethers keep him where is on the couch. Very soon the spasms abate and his eyes blink open.

  “Sara.” Recognition. “I’m back. Quite a ride.” Still ordinary, his speech.

  She loosens tethers.

  The viewtank, which previously showed Henry’s viewpoint as if through wobbly green jelly, is now a globe of bubbly grey frogspawn, lots of tiny eyeballs with black pupils; it’s in a resting state, shifting slowly around.

  The spherechamber’s curving wall is slim-corded with cabling. Sara-17-Vee-Chang’s silver skull-ports wear data-jewels; Henry-54-Kay-Patel’s ports of course await replenishing, whereupon he’ll become superconscious.

  No one from the Nazi Reich, except perhaps degenerate artists, could begin to guess who these slim, bald, brown-skinned beings with silver skull-ports might be, or where, or when. In fact they’re in Rome, lapped by sea from the south-west. Ah, here comes David-88-Aitch-BarKohan in person.

  Transhumanity has transpired rather than Overmen.

  For Lluis Salvador, good guy and good guide

  Taking Flight

  Una McCormack

  By the end of the year I was struggling to amuse myself. The capital and all the major conurbation worlds were busy with the forthcoming election, and, feeling no particular stake in the proceedings, I found myself starting to become untethered once again. I remembered that once upon a time such events had been of vital importance to me – back in my youth at college, in that green and golden time when it seemed to all of us there that everything we did had significance and that our small acts could change the worlds. Such flights of fancy! I had not indulged myself that way for years.

  For others, I knew the reverse to be true. That early training had stuck: the unshaken belief that they were to be masters of the known universe. And that was what many of them believed themselves now to be – the most able, the most gifted, the best. Like children, unable to imagine these worlds without them at the centre, but with money, and sufficient power to make them believe their own propaganda. That year they were everywhere. I watched them on the screens – recognised many of them – all night every night, clamouring down the airwaves, busy and self-important. I loathed them, but I could not stop watching them.

  I had, for the last year-and-a-half, been resident in the penthouse of a very good hotel in the capital’s north district. Hitherto it had proven a most satisfactory perch. But now, watching the city and its doings from my eyrie, the place no longer seemed so comfortable, and I began to wish for somewhere quieter, away from the crowd. Late one night, after dinner from a now too-familiar menu, I recalled my meeting some summers previously with Eckhart. I had known him during my college years – a friend, I would say, insofar as he or I had them, but one who had always kept himself slightly to one side of the great chattering, self-satisfied mass. At the time I had assumed some particular maturity or special wisdom about Eckhart’s distance and gently mocking smiles; these days I recognize them for what they were: the mask of a young man out of his social depth.

  We stayed intermittently in touch, but as my migratory tendencies became more pronounced and life, presumably, caught up with Eckhart, we drifted apart. I had been delighted, therefore, to spot him across the auditorium one evening at the free-fall theatre in the capital. After the show (which I recall being oddly static, at least, in narrative terms), we joined each other for a late supper on the riverbank. Eckhart had the grilled sole; I the duck.

  I had little to report since we last met, and, besides, much preferred listening to Eckhart’s stories. His career in the civil service had followed a steady upward trajectory, and this evening his conversation was full of his new appointment as under-secretary to the governor of Wright’s World.

  “I doubt you’ve heard of the place,” he said. “I know I hadn’t.”

  I had to admit that I had not.

  “No wonder. It’s well off the beaten track. About as far away from here as you can get.”

  I cut a thin sliver of flesh, perfectly pink. “Is that not risky?”

  “In what way?”

  “A danger of disappearing off the radar—”

  “Ah, but think of the opportunities! A place where a man can really make his mark.”

  I listened with interest and increasing fondness as he spoke of his ambition, his desire to succeed, to prove himself. He had plans for Wright’s World: he spoke of development, exploitation, inward investment. He was putting together a strong team, bonded and citizens, and was particularly pleased at the interest of the latter, who could take their talents wherever they chose. He had goals and strategies. As he spoke, I recalled the humbleness of his background and the unlikeliness of his success, and I wished him well. We parted on good terms, and, as I paid the bill, Eckhart extended an open invitation to come and visit. “It will shake some of the cobwebs from you,” he said. “This city is static. Immobile. It’ll kill us all.”

  And since that was how I felt about the capital, now seemed to be the time to get in touch. It took a day or two. I had no problem finding Eckhart through the governor’s office, but the man himself proved difficult to pin down, and, when finally we spoke, he was non-committal about the possibility of a visit. Nonetheless, by exerting some of my charm, I was able to acquire the desired invitation. I am without compunction when it comes to inviting myself. A guest who is conscious from the outset that he or she is not particularly welcome can, with a little effort, quickly make him or herself an asset. Eckhart sounded tired, distracted. I would restore him to himself, as he would perhaps restore me, a little.

  The flight, which lasted three weeks standard, was on a small but decently appointed liner. I spent the time observing the other passengers, all of whom were travelling for work or trade purposes, some of the former intending to settle. I had known little about Wright’s World before deciding to visit, and indeed it seemed a well-kept secret: distant enough not to tempt the masses, and therefore small enough to attract the more adventurous and ambitious. I learned enough about the mining and logging operations to put a little of my own cash that way. Accounts of the current political scene were of the usual kind (although I was pleased to see that Eckhart featured prominently in recent years), and there was some travel journalism of the limpest sort that did little to entice the reader. I was chiefly absorbed in the accounts of the earliest settlers, who were blessed with some lyrical writers well able to evoke the world’s rugged, mountainous beauty. The attraction of these more remote regions was very strong and, in this way, I kept myself busy. In time, we descended upon Wright’s World.

  I was met at the spaceport by Eckhart’s secretary. She was polite and self-effacing, opening doors for me, organizing my baggage, saying little. I was not surprised to see the tell-tale indigo marks like bruises upon her flesh, about the wrists and the temples: this woman was jenjer, genetically engineered, capable of high function but requiring regular medication to prevent her metabolism from shorti
ng out. Her bond would be pricey, but Eckhart, I recalled, liked expensive things and never bought cheap.

  Politely, unobtrusively, but firmly, she directed me out of the spaceport and towards the car. We spoke little on the journey to the hotel. Eckhart, she explained, when I asked, was out of town that day on business, but hoped to join me that evening for dinner. When I assured her that I would be comfortable, she nodded briskly and departed. If she said her name, I have forgotten it, or never heard.

  I unpacked. I explored the room. I lay upon the bed and dozed for a while, enjoying the fresh unscrubbed air, the wisp of wind upon the curtains, and the soft heat of the world’s sun. When I woke I showered at length under the copious water and, thus refreshed, I left my room and went outside.

  To call the main conurbation a city is inaccurate – frontier town would be closer to the mark. I could see little in the way of industry, although the main logging and mining operations were of course further out. The town itself, whilst small, had a tidy aspect; the air was clear, the light white and pure-seeming – a pleasant change from the core worlds where I habitually spent my time and money. I could well understand Eckhart’s desire to settle here. The buzz and clamour of the core worlds were very wearisome. Nonetheless, despite my appreciation of the change of pace, I had by late afternoon exhausted what the centre of the town had to offer, and I returned to my room to wait, perhaps, for Eckhart.

  He came mid-evening, still in his day suit, bearing a large leather briefcase and a harassed manner. Over dinner (unfussy but pleasant enough), it became clear that Eckhart was a changed man.

  I struggled at first to put my finger on what it was. Certainly he had coarsened – he checked his watch throughout the evening, and would sometimes finish my sentences, lapses of manners which he could never have committed in the past. As the uncomfortable evening progressed (or declined), I came to the conclusion that Wright’s World had been something of a disappointment. I attempted to draw him on this, but he closed down discussion abruptly each time, and brought dinner to an early end, declining a suggestion that we moved on elsewhere. At the door to my hotel, we exchanged goodbyes, and then he hesitated and I caught a flicker of the old Eckhart.

  “You’ll forgive me for stationing you here,” he said. “I have been travelling for most of the past year, and look set to be off again shortly. But I hope you’ll be a regular visitor at my home when I’m in town. Come tomorrow. Come to dinner. The governor will be there.”

  I did. The governor and I got along famously, and he went to great lengths to tell me what an asset Eckhart was. I was pleased to see my friend so valued. And when the governor learned how far this old college friend had come to see his aide, Eckhart’s schedule was quickly changed, and he found himself back in town for the foreseeable future. After that, it was only sensible, he said, for me to become a house guest. I accepted the offer with alacrity, for my own comfort, yes, but also because I was anxious to find out what troubled my friend.

  I settled easily into his home and routine. Under closer observation, more of the old Eckhart emerged – the wry humour, the shrewd eye for the people around him – but blanketed with a kind of brooding disappointment that I had not associated with the younger man, who had always been on the lookout for opportunity. His house, which was in one the town’s smarter districts, showed evidence of numerous projects started and then abandoned partway through: a half-plotted garden, a library, a large wooden deck providing a view out into the foothills but not safe to stand on. Growing bored with the town and my own company, and keen to draw him away from his house, which seemed to reinforce his mood, I suggested numerous times a trip away, perhaps up into the fabled mountains, but he said that would be impossible. On the fourth or fifth occasion that I made this suggestion, he lost his temper.

  “For pity’s sake,” he said, “not all of us are free to spend our days idling! I have to work!”

  I was embarrassed. This was the first time in our friendship that he had ever referred to the difference in our circumstances. I believe he was embarrassed too by this lapse in courtesy: the next morning, he was friendlier than he had been for a while, and said that although he could not leave town at that time, I should consider myself free to travel around.

  “It would be a shame to come this far, and not see the mountains,” he said. “You should do some flying too. You can’t come to Wright’s World and not fly. I’ll get one of the staff to set it up for you.”

  I took the hint and agreed, with enthusiasm that I did not feign. I was tiring of town life and thought the mountains might refresh me. I did not ask whether or not he had flown in all his time here.

  It proved an excellent decision. As the little shuttle lifted and I saw the town below fall away, I felt my spirits rise. After all, I had come here to escape the terrible weight that seemed to descend upon one after too long in the core worlds. I could only hope that, with some time to himself again, Eckhart would find that my stay had relieved some of his own strain.

  For a whole day the shuttle followed the coastline south along ragged shores and pristine sands. Shortly after dawn of the second day, we reached the silver-streaked triangle of a river delta and struck south-west into the interior.

  As we went deeper into the mountains, the landscape took a turn to the dramatic. We powered through deep-cut valleys, with the peaks rising on either side, blue-grey and green; valleys steeper and mountains more vertiginous than any I have ever seen. I am well-travelled, made the mandatory grand tour that all my class made in their youth, and have seen some of the most arresting sights in the Commonwealth. I have not seen anywhere to match this wild land tucked away on this distant world. I could understand what had pulled Eckhart here. I could not understand how he had soured.

  We came in time to a small town at the confluence of two rivers. Here, Eckhart had arranged accommodation for me, of a necessarily Spartan but sufficient kind, and had also hired the services of a guide to take me further up along the Red River and into an area said to be the most dramatic and beautiful on Wright’s World.

  Let me take a moment to describe my guide. His name was Yarrow, and he was a native of the area, descended from those original settlers who had come out here several generations ago. I do not believe he had even ever gone as far away from his place of birth as the main township. He was at once an advert and a warning for provinciality, being coarse, dirty, unpleasant, often drunk, and knowing the region like no other. His company amused me greatly.

  With this unlikely companion, I began my journey upriver by flyer. This machine is worthy of mention: it was so ancient that its continued use surely broke numerous regulations, and yet Yarrow manifestly cared for it in a way I believe he had never cared for any living soul, man, beast or jenjer. I felt entirely safe aboard this contraption flying above what must be one of most remote regions of the Commonwealth.

  We travelled without much in the way of conversation. Occasionally Yarrow would direct my attention towards some natural feature of particular magnificence; mostly he allowed the landscape to speak for itself. It needed no advocate. I cannot think of a place more startling, more remote, and more beautiful than those peaks and valleys along the Red River on Wright’s World. And I had not yet experienced them in full.

  We reached a place where the river passed through a deep gorge. A suspended bridge of slats and a single rope linked one side to the other. Here I took flight. I plunged nine thousand feet and, as the river rushed to meet me, the automatics on my glider took over, and I skimmed above the surface of the water, light as a mayfly. Afterwards, I lay on the bank and stared at the bright sky, thinking I had never felt more alive. But there was more to come. Yarrow, sitting beside me, gave a crooked smile.

  “Here,” he said and withdrew from his pocket a small grubby packet, which he passed to me. “This’ll give you wings.”

  I took the drugs without further comment. Spare me any murmurs of disapproval: we have all done this from time to time, if bored, or in need
of something to push us through to the end of the day or into the next morning, and we live in a world in which one in five people with whom we deal uses these substances as a matter of course. They are the bridge upon which our world rests. Within ten minutes I felt the acceleration, the rush, and, as this heightened state – in which one seems to have access all at once to all that is and has ever been – came to its peak, I walked to the edge and took off for the flight of my life.

  That night, I was unable to sleep from the afterglow of the high. I stared at the unfamiliar stars, which seemed to merge together, and I reflected that this must be how the jenjers spend their whole days. How I envied them, and this constant bliss. Why did we not all live this way, all the time, open to the universe in its manifold glory? What, exactly, was preventing me from choosing this? As I lay in the darkness, a whole new life opened in front of me. I could come here, live here, be in this state forever. Build a house, here, at this place. I could spend all my days doing this and feeling this. What could be better? Why would I do anything else? Why would I be anywhere else?

  The next morning, back to my ordinary self, I woke to the smell of coffee stewing in the pan and the smell of bacon. As I ate breakfast greedily, I became aware of Yarrow watching my every movement with his shrewd dark eyes.

  “What is it?” I said at last.

  “Only that if you liked yesterday, there’s another spot further up. Off the beaten track, you get me?”

  Out of bounds, he meant. Private property, I assumed.

  “Deeper valley,” he said. He tapped his pocket. “Better flight.”

  “I’m interested,” I said.

  “It’ll cost.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  And he did not. We got back into his flyer and went on to the place he had suggested. He was right. The jump was better. I went twice, three times – I forget now. They merged into a continuous high.