Best of British Science Fiction 2016

by Peter F. Hamilton

  I stared at her. I’d never heard of anything like this before. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I told you, we mean business.”

  Clearly.

  “All we need is someone to persuade Saflik to back off.”

  I didn’t like the way this was going, not one bit. “Now wait a minute…”

  “We’ve got a chance here, Horny Boy” she pressed, “an opportunity to really make something of this place at last. You’re one of the lucky ones, you got out, but what about all the people who haven’t and who never will?”

  God only knew what she had me down as. “You’re overestimating my importance,” I told her.

  “I don’t think so. Saflik sent you here to report on what’s going on. By definition they’re gonna listen to what you have to say. That gives you power.”

  “For fuck sake, Lizzie. You don’t know these people. Saflik aren’t interested in making a better future for Montpellier or for anyone else. To them it’s all about access to market and profit, and you’re blocking the way to both. However I try to paint things they’re just gonna see you as a threat.” Not even a threat, more an inconvenience. “They’ll have to make an example of you. Unless…”

  “What?”

  “Unless you can persuade them it’s worth their while not to, unless you can offer them something in return, something more valuable than you’re asking them to give up.” The higher ups at Saflik couldn’t muster an altruistic bone between them, but they were capable of seeing the bigger picture.

  “Go on.”

  I was thinking on my feet, but as I spoke I knew that this was right, that it offered a chance, the only chance for Lizzie and her vision of a brighter future for Montpellier and its people; my people. “The programmers and splicers, the hackers and freesurfers: the kids who came up with countermeasures to the e-drugs, the ones who hijack the murals and can design graffiti that sneaks past the strongest firewalls… That’s what you offer them.”

  “I dunno…”

  “Think about it. This wouldn’t be a betrayal. You said it yourself, I got out. They can too, in a way that’ll benefit everyone. They can continue doing stuff for you, for the community, but also be on Saflik’s payroll.” Saflik would fall over backwards for talent like this. It was worth writing off a few low-grade drug contracts for, and they could do so without losing face because they would be gaining a resource in exchange.

  “Will they go for that?”

  “I’ll make sure they do, pitch it to them in a way they can’t refuse, tell them it’s the only way your people will work for them. You’ve got skills here; that’s your leverage. Use it. You can act as Saflik’s agent, a recruiter. The Horsemen will become a kind of feeder project for grassroots talent, starting with Montpellier, and that’ll buy you the time to complete what you’ve begun, the authority to push it through. Hell, Saflik might even pump some of their own money into what you’re doing for that sort of opportunity.” I paused. “There’s just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “If I do this, I’m taking one hell of a risk. There’s always a chance Saflik could reject the whole idea and stop trusting me as a result, accuse me of going native. I could lose everything… So what’s in it for me?”

  “You want a cut…?”

  “Not exactly.” I reached out and touched her knee.

  She laughed, a deep, sultry sound. “Really, Horny Boy? Still? Even though I’m an old woman now?”

  “Not so old, and… Yeah.”

  She leant forward to plant a kiss on my cheek, and at the same time removed my hand from her knee. “That’s very flattering, but let’s just see how this all pans out and take it from there, shall we?”

  So I left without even copping a feel, but I brought with me the memory of her lips on my cheek and I had hope, which is as much as I’d ever had where Lizzie was concerned.

  I also had hope for Montpellier, which was more than I’d ever had before.

  Foreign Bodies

  Neil Williamson

  Darryl rides a wave up to Calton to confront a ghost. They call them waves for the graceful curl that sweeps up and over to form the cabin. Grown from the ubiquitous substrate of Uide, the vehicle is a sandstoneish ripple that flows as it moves, rushing him through the streets towards his nominated destination. Just like a taxi. That’s what he and Lai and the other community volunteers tell people.

  They call them ghosts because, well…

  Darryl leans back, tries to look relaxed. The ride is not exactly enjoyable. In addition to the grinding vibration as the substrate works the nano-magic that allows this extruded city-stuff to move around at such speed, there are jolts and swerves as the vehicle shoots along the avenues, traverses the junctions, climbs the tightly spiralling wynds, avoiding buildings and statuary, stalls and handcarts and glowering pedestrians. Darryl smiles wide for them. See? The waves are perfectly safe. In all his time here there have been no accidents, yet grisly rumours persist. It is true that people have died after being caught by a speeding wave, but those fatalities are not the result of accidents. You have to time it to the second, and there are easier ways to commit suicide in Uide.

  The wave grinds to a halt outside the ghost’s apartment block. Darryl climbs out and the vehicle collapses with a whisper of sand, the smell of hot glass. On his pad he reviews the woman’s details. Name’s Karen Massie. She arrived on the last spin, a month ago. No companions. Singletons are always the most likely to cut themselves off, slip into solipsism – what they call turning ghost – despite the efforts of community volunteers to integrate them. Sharing experiences gives everyone a much better chance of accepting the reality of being here and the longer a ghost is alone, the harder they are to persuade. Not for the first time, Darryl wonders how the Uideans failed to predict this when they provide everything else for those who choose to accept their invitation to leave the Earth before the planet is remade. But then the aliens do not seem to have any notion of community. Among humankind, individuals are not strong. Everybody needs help.

  Best get this over with. Second arm of the starfish, his pad says. Third floor. His boots scuff as he climbs the stairs and he’s soon out of breath. He repeats faithfully to newcomers what the doctors say about the oxygen levels in the planet’s atmosphere being slightly lower than Earth’s, but it’s hard to resist the feeling that he’s got out of condition.

  Massie’s apartment is at the end of the arm. As Darryl walks the long balcony, he is pleased to see how many of the residents have made some sort of effort at personalising their new homes, blending colour and pattern into their walls, making designs out of the shimmering glow strips. Some of them have really gone to town, emblazoning the likenesses of popstars and the emblems of football teams on their walls. For others, it’s just a name and a number, but any effort to pin their personalities to their homes is a good sign. Massie’s is entirely inert. Grey and dark. A month is a long time to be left alone, but it looks like Lai’s been putting it off. Darryl doesn’t really blame his friend. You never know what you’ll find when you go looking for a ghost. If you find anything at all. These apartments recycle their contents with extreme efficiency when they determine that they are functionally empty.

  People who drop out can, literally, vanish.

  Darryl pushes with his palm, feels the vibration of the doorbell, and then turns to the balcony and enjoys the view while he hopes for an answer. Calton is a new district, extruded only six months ago to meet the continuing flow of incomers, grown in a night to fill one high reach of the geological bowl that the city already fills. He gazes down across the expanse of interconnected star-shaped buildings and the streets that whorl and knot them together between this vantage and the glittering sea. Nodes of gentle brightness that get more intense at the clustered centre where there are bars and music venues, community halls and sports grounds. Where little Lai, always so full of light, of hope, has used every trick she’s been able to think of to get people to come and congregate –
concerts and festivals, markets, tournaments. And some do, but she has high expectations. It’s exhausting her, diminishing her. Uide gets to everyone sooner or later. When you received your visit from the caring, paternal aliens, when you made your choice and lined-up for your seat in the spinship, your one-way ride to a new world, the last thing you expected was to be left to just get on with it on your own.

  Darryl knows that the ghost is probably observing him, willing him to leave, wondering why he doesn’t, and he tries to effect a friendly posture that tells her he’s happy to wait here, marvelling at the miracle of the city and the entire world waiting to be wondered-at beyond its limits. The unfamiliar stars studding the moonless sky. The darkling mystery of the sea.

  It’s a full minute before his patience is rewarded by the hourglass hiss of the opening door. “All right, man. What do you want?” She’s not a ghost yet, then.

  Darryl dials his grin of relief down into a friendly smile and turns. “Karen, is it?” She’s framed by the doorway, but stands well back from the actual threshold where five seconds earlier a solid wall had been. She’s tight, hunched, hands in the pockets of a puffy jacket. Her face is pinched, her hair a shag of messy plaits, mousey roots reclaiming blonde dye. “My name’s Darryl. I’m one of the Integration volunteers. We were wondering how you’re settling in.”

  She flinches at his approach. “I’m all right.”

  “It’s not easy, is it? Being here.” Darryl mirrors her, slips his hands into his own pockets. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  Massie wants to refuse but hesitates, which means there’s something left, a splinter of hope. Then she ducks back, leaving the arch clear for him to enter.

  Massie’s apartment conforms to the standard model – low ceiling, glow strips illuminating the organic corners and easy edges – but it is a bare space. In the corner, where a comfortable couch or chair or bed could in seconds be raised from the floor, dirty thermal sheets are gathered into a nest. Among the spillage from an overturned owl-print shoulder bag are clothes, a zipped make-up purse, a tube of wet wipes, a useless iPhone and charger. Opposite, a neat pile of food tins, peeled back lids bearing dried out baked beans or the yellowing residue of creamed rice. Other discarded packets that had held cereal bars, biscuits, fizzy sweets. Plastic water bottles. Once-familiar brand labels that belong to another world.

  “I see you came prepared,” he says. “When did your supplies run out?”

  Massie is surprised by his directness, but matches it. “The food, two days ago. The water lasted till yesterday.”

  “Oh, dear.” He tries again to not lay blame at Lai’s door. “If you’d only come for your induction you’d have been saved a lot of discomfort, Karen. We’d have demonstrated the kitchen for a start.” Her blank look suggests that she’s discovered none of the features that make these rooms remotely habitable. Then he notices the boxy recess below the wall panel and he sees that it’s not discovery that’s that problem. It contains a dollop of mealy sludge which is skinning over.

  “Yeah, man.” Massie’s braids shiver when she shakes her head. “No way am I eating that.”

  Darryl sighs. Sometimes he wonders if it wouldn’t be better if the authorities were to take over Uide, impose rule, but of course the Uideans do not recognise governments. As Darryl has heard it, they appeal only to individuals, giving people the choice, one at a time. Trust them and leave, or stay and accept the fate of all those who will not take personal responsibility – the erasure of all life on Earth, including humanity.

  As far as Darryl knows every government on Earth is still entrenched, guarding their little scraps of territory with bristling military, calling the Uidean Declaration an enemy ruse, although few agree who the enemy in question is. They try to stop people leaving of course, destroying the ships even as the people queue to board, but the Uidean imperative is strong. Strong enough that, despite all the obstacles put in their way, many people still make the leap of faith and find their way to Uide. They arrive here completely unprepared for what they’ll encounter, but at least they are safe.

  “The food takes some getting used to.” Darryl always tries not to sound patronising but can’t quite shake it from his tone. “But with a little learning this thing can make just about anything you want. He dips his finger into the crusty glue, sucks it, makes a face. “Tastes shit, but if we had to we could survive on this and water. Fortunately, we don’t have to.” He presses on the wall and the apartment’s ubiquitous pad pops out into his hand. He taps out a sequence and characters begin to scroll, words in English. A menu. Massie’s eyes widen.

  “There’s quite a choice,” Darryl says. “Since we discovered that the kitchens can synthesise anything we can give them a sample of or formula for, people have been filling them up with recipes. It’s like the best home-delivery service you can imagine. Of course, we have all the essentials too – coffee, tea, sugar, a hundred forms of alcohol. Oh, and chocolate.” The chocolate gets a smile, of sorts. If he’s done this spiel once, he’s done it a hundred times and, once his new arrivals know they can eat pretty much like they always used to, they almost always soften. “Now, you need to eat. What can I get you?”

  “No,” she says.

  Darryl scrutinises her. That tight little smile pinning down a deliberately neutral expression. The eyes, though, are quick with something.

  “You can go now. If you want.”

  “I’d be happier to see you eat,” he says. “I’m half wondering if I should take you to the infirmary.”

  “You’ve showed me how it works. I can manage myself.” She tries to usher him towards the exit, but the way she stands, fingers digging into the soft skin of her arms, the stern clench of her jaw, the rapid, shallow flaring of her nostrils – these things tell him this is a serious case.

  “Karen?” Darryl moves towards her in the confined space.

  She stumbles to get away. “Don’t touch me. Just…don’t. You can’t touch me and you can’t make me eat, and, yes, I know I’m going to die if I don’t eat the food here, but it’s better than the way I’ll die if I do. Do you think I’m mental? Every breath I take in this godawful shitehole of a place is killing me. Thanks for caring, mate. But all I want is to go home and I guess you can’t fix that for me can you?”

  Darryl shakes his head silently, knowing that she has to get over this. That it’s better to let her vent everything she’d been holding in.

  “Do you know where we are? Do you really? We’re on an alien planet, Darryl.” Massie approaches the pile of tins, face twisting with disgust. “An alien planet full of alien fucking germs.” She tumbles the little pyramid with the toe of her Converse. Those on the bottom are furred over with striated red and orange. Massie rubs her arms vigorously. “Fuck’s sake, man. Alien fucking germs.” She’s even paler now, pink spots in her cheeks. Hyperventilating in rapid pants like a puppy on a hot day.

  “Karen, slow down. Breathe.”

  But she’s shaking her head, eyes wide, imploring as the panic finally surfaces. “I can’t. I can’t.” Tears now too. Chest heaving as she hitches and gasps. “Can’t breathe. Mustn’t.”

  Hard thing to do, sit with your back to a wall, empty of comfort to offer while another human being weeps out their terrors. Darryl has done it on numerous occasions, although Lai’s always the best at dealing with the really difficult ones, with her gentle patience, her sweet stories that bring everything into perspective. He thinks about calling her now, but she’s not been answering calls lately. So Darryl waits until Massie exhausts herself, and waits while she sleeps. He watches over her and when she wakes he is still there. Waiting. With as close to a story as he can muster.

  “My parents moved around a lot when I was younger,” Darryl tells her. “I was born on a seven-forty-seven over the Indian Ocean. Grew up somewhere between Bali, Boston and Bruges. School in California, first job in Cambridge – the English one. Last ten years took me progressively north from there. My four years in Glasgow were pr
actically the longest I’ve stayed anywhere. So, yeah. I don’t really subscribe to the concept of home.”

  Karen blinks, rubs her hands so hard it looks painful.

  “What I’m trying to say is I know what it’s like. Moving around, settling somewhere new. Really, it’s amazing how quickly you get used to your new surroundings –”

  With Lai’s stories they often nod and smile, sometimes even look for a hug. Massie gives a short moan, shakes her head, squeezes her fingers until they’re white.

  “Karen. Karen. Look at me. I’ve been eating the food here for months and…see?” He lays a hand on his belly, wobbles it. “I’ve put on weight.” Her eyes track down for a second. When her attention returns he thinks, thank goodness, that there might be the tiniest connection. “In the twenty two months since people started coming here, Karen, not one person has died of anything like food poisoning, or of any disease that we didn’t bring with us. I promise you. The Uideans wouldn’t let that happen.”

  Lai, never a fan of offering unfounded hope, wouldn’t have said that last thing, but it’s out now.

  Massie huddles in her nest, the conflict in her palpable. When she speaks, it is plaintively, childlike. “When you go to Lanzarote and Tunisia and Turkey, they tell you to always drink bottled water and not eat the salad...” Her voice dwindles as she realises that what she knows, her Brit-abroad surety, doesn’t apply here. What terrifies her is what she doesn’t know, and that is everything. She holds out her sore hands. “There’s nowhere to wash.”

  Darryl uses her pad to make the kitchen produce a stream of water, a pearl of soap, but Massie shakes her head again. “How do you know what those are?”

  That’s the dichotomy right there. The promise and the fear. Darryl never had that promise, at least not placed directly into his heart by a gentle, buttery, smoky finger. He never needed to be persuaded. He was mentally all packed and ready to go long before the Uideans made their global appeal, and every single thing they said chimed with him as obvious: the planet was fucked and human society was too far up its own greedy arse to ever redeem it. He’d jumped at the chance to be on one of the first Govan spins, and instantly adored the place that they only called Uide because no-one had been here to tell them its real name, if it even had a name. No-one had been here to help them at all.