The Year's Best Science Fiction & Fantasy 7 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Judith Merril

“Charm ‘em but pare the routine to the bare essentials. And turn on your two-way private.”

  Jennan advanced smiling, but his explanation of his mission was met with absolute incredulity and considerable doubt as to his authenticity. He groaned inwardly as the matriarch paraphrased previous explanations of the warming sun.

  “Revered mother, there’s been an overload on that prayer circuit and the sun is blowing itself up in one obliging burst. I’m here to take you to the spaceport at Rosary—”

  “That Sodom?” The worthy woman glowered and shuddered disdainfully at his suggestion. “We thank you for your warning but we have no wish to leave our cloister for the rude world. We must go about our morning meditation which has been interrupted—”

  “It’ll be permanently interrupted when that sun starts broiling you. You must come now,” Jennan said firmly.

  “Madame,” said Helva, realizing that perhaps a female voice might carry more weight in this instance than Jennan’s very masculine charm.

  “Who spoke?” cried the nun, startled by the bodiless voice.

  “I, Helva, the ship. Under my protection you and your sisters-in-faith may enter safely and be unprofaned by association with a male. I will guard you and take you safely to a place prepared for you.”

  The matriarch peered cautiously into the ship’s open port.

  “Since only Central Worlds is permitted the use of such ships, I acknowledge that you are not trifling with us, young man. However, we are in no danger here.”

  “The temperature at Rosary is now 99°,” said Helva. “As soon as the sun’s rays penetrate directly into this valley, it will also be 99°, and it is due to climb to approximately 180° today. I notice your buildings are made of wood with moss chinking. Dry moss. It should fire around noontime.”

  The sunlight was beginning to slant into the valley through the peaks and the fierce rays warmed the restless group behind the matriarch. Several opened the throats of their furry parkas.

  “Jennan,” said Helva privately to him, “our time is very short.”

  “I can’t leave them, Helva. Some of those girls are barely out of their teens.”

  “Pretty, too. No wonder the matriarch doesn’t want to get in.”

  “Helva.”

  “It will be the Lord’s will,” said the matriarch stoutly and turned her back squarely on rescue.

  “To burn to death?” shouted Jennan as she threaded her way through her murmuring disciples.

  “They want to be martyrs? Their opt, Jennan,” said Helva dispassionately, “We must leave and that is no longer a matter of option.”

  “How can I leave, Helva?”

  “Parsaea?” Helva asked tauntingly as he stepped forward to grab one of the women. “You can’t drag them all aboard and we don’t have time to fight it out. Get on board, Jennan, or I’ll have you on report.”

  “They’ll die,” muttered Jennan dejectedly as he reluctantly turned to climb on board.

  “You can risk only so much,” Helva said sympathetically. “As it is we’ll just have time to make a rendezvous. Lab reports a critical speedup in spectral evolution.”

  Jennan was already in the airlock when one of the younger women, screaming, rushed to squeeze in the closing port. Her action set off the others. They stampeded through the narrow-opening. Even crammed back to breast, there was not enough room inside for all the women. Jennan broke out spacesuits to the three who would have to remain with him in the airlock. He wasted valuable time explaining to the matriarch that she must put on the suit because the airlock had no independent oxygen or cooling units.

  “We’ll be caught,” said Helva in a grim tone to Jennan on their private connection. “We’ve lost 18 minutes in this last-minute rush. I am now overloaded for maximum speed and I must attain maximum speed to outrun the heat wave.”

  “Can you lift? We’re suited.”

  “Lift? Yes,” she said, doing so. “Run? I stagger.”

  Jennan, bracing himself and the women, could feel her sluggishness as she blasted upward. Heartlessly, Helva applied thrust as long as she could, despite the fact that the gravitational force mashed her cabin passengers brutally and crushed two fatally. It was a question of saving as many as possible. The only one for whom she had any concern was Jennan and she was in desperate terror about his safety. Airless and uncooled, protected by only one layer of metal, not three, the airlock was not going to be safe for the four trapped there, despite the spacesuits. These were only the standard models, not built to withstand the excessive heat to which the ship would be subjected.

  Helva ran as fast as she could but the incredible wave of heat from the explosive sun caught them halfway to cold safety.

  She paid no heed to the cries, moans, pleas, and prayers in her cabin. She listened only to Jennan’s tortured breathing, to the missing throb in his suit’s purifying system and the sucking of the overloaded cooling unit. Helpless, she heard the hysterical screams of his three companions as they writhed in the awful heat. Vainly, Jennan tried to calm them, tried to explain they would soon be safe and cool if they could be still and endure the heat. Undisciplined by their terror and torment, they tried to strike out at him despite the close quarters. One flailing arm became entangled in the leads to his power pack and the damage was quickly done. A connection, weakened by heat and the dead weight of the arm, broke.

  For all the power at her disposal, Helva was helpless. She watched as Jennan fought for his breath, as he turned his head beseechingly toward her, and died.

  Only the iron conditioning of her training prevented Helva from swinging around and plunging back into the cleansing heart of the exploding sun. Numbly she made rendezvous with the refugee convoy. She obediently transferred her burned, heat-prostrated passengers to the assigned transport.

  “I will retain the body of my scout and proceed to the nearest base for burial,” she informed Central dully.

  “You will be provided escort,” was the reply.

  “I have no need of escort.”

  “Escort is provided, XH-834,” she was told curtly. The shock of hearing Jennan’s initial severed from her call number cut off her half-formed protest. Stunned, she waited by the transport until her screens showed the arrival of two other slim brain ships. The cortege proceeded homeward at unfunereal speeds.

  “834? The ship who sings?”

  “I have no more songs.”

  “Your scout was Jennan.”

  “I do not wish to communicate.”

  “I’m 422.”

  “Silvia?”

  “Silvia died a long time ago. I’m 422. Currently MS,” the ship rejoined curtly. “AH-640 is our other friend, but Henry’s not listening in. Just as well, he wouldn’t understand it if you wanted to turn rogue. But I’d stop him if he tried to deter you.”

  “Rogue?” The term snapped Helva out of her apathy.

  “Sure. You’re young. You’ve got power for years. Skip. Others have done it. 732 went rogue 20 years ago after she lost her scout on a mission to that white dwarf. Hasn’t been seen since.”

  “I never heard about rogues.”

  “As it’s exactly the thing we’re conditioned against, you sure wouldn’t hear about it in school, my dear,” 422 said.

  “Break conditioning?” cried Helva, anguished, thinking longingly of the white, white furious hot heart of the sun she had just left.

  “For you I don’t think it would be hard at the moment,” 422 said quietly, her voice devoid of her earlier cynicism. “The stars are out there, winking.”

  “Alone?” cried Helva from her heart.

  “Alone!” 422 confirmed bleakly.

  Alone with all of space and time. Even the Horsehead Nebula would not be far enough away to daunt her. Alone with a hundred years to live with her memories and nothing… nothing more.

  “Was Parsaea worth it?” she asked 422 softly.

  “Parsaea?” 422 repeated, surprised. “With his father? Yes. We were there, at Parsaea when we were
needed. Just as you… and his son… were at Chloe. When you were needed. The crime is not knowing where need is and not being there.”

  “But I need him. Who will supply my need?” said Helva bitterly.

  “834,” said 422 after a day’s silent speeding, “Central wishes your report. A replacement awaits your opt at Regulus Base. Change course accordingly.”

  “A replacement?” That was certainly not what she needed… a reminder inadequately filling the void Jennan left. Why, her hull was barely cool of Chloe’s heat. Atavistically, Helva wanted time to mourn Jennan.

  “Oh, none of them are impossible if you’re a good ship,” 422 remarked philosophically. “And it is just what you need. The sooner the better.”

  “You told them I wouldn’t go rogue, didn’t you?” Helva said.

  “The moment passed you even as it passed me after Parsaea, and before that, after Glen Arhur, and Betelgeuse.”

  “We’re conditioned to go on, aren’t we? We can’t go rogue. You were testing.”

  “Had to. Orders. Not even Psych knows why a rogue occurs. Central’s very worried, and so, daughter, are your sister ships. I asked to be your escort. I… don’t want to lose you both.”

  In her emotional nadir, Helva could feel a flood of gratitude for Silvia’s rough sympathy.

  “We’ve all known this grief, Helva. It’s no consolation, but if we couldn’t feel with our scouts, we’d only be machines wired for sound.”

  Helva looked at Jennan’s still form stretched before her in its shroud and heard the echo of his rich voice in the quiet cabin.

  “Silvia! I couldn’t help him,” she cried from her soul.

  “Yes, dear, I know,” 422 murmured gently and then was quiet.

  The three ships sped on, wordless, to the great Central Worlds base at Regulus. Helva broke silence to acknowledge landing instructions and the officially tendered regrets.

  The three ships set down simultaneously at the wooded edge where Regulus’ gigantic blue trees stood sentinel over the sleeping dead in the small Service cemetery. The entire Base complement approached with measured step and formed an aisle from Helva to the burial ground. The honor detail, out of step, walked slowly into her cabin. Reverently they placed the body of her dead love on the wheeled bier, covered it honorably with the deep blue, star-splashed flag of the Service. She watched as it was driven slowly down the living aisle which closed in behind the bier in last escort.

  Then, as the simple words of interment were spoken, as the atmosphere planes dipped in tribute over the open grave, Helva found voice for her lonely farewell.

  Softly, barely audible at first, the strains of the ancient song of evening and requiem swelled to the final poignant measure until black space itself echoed back the sound of the song the ship sang.

  <>

  * * * *

  A PLANET NAMED SHAYOL

  by Cordwainer Smith

  A little mere than ten years ago, a story by a completely unknown writer, published in an otherwise unremarkable semi-amateur magazine, provoked a storm of Interest and inquiry among other writers and editors. “Cordwainer Smith” had all the true ring of the pseudonym, and the quality of the story was professional; but its content and style were so fresh that the pen-name could not be attached to any established writer in the field.

  Mr. “Smith,” as it turns out, is a VIP (for Professor) of Sociology at a school near enough to Washington to make things convenient when the Slate Department calls. (He is surely the only ambassador—small “a,” generic, not diplomatic—of the U.S. who has ever established friendly relations with an astatic governmental official by talking science fiction all night.) Outside s-f, his writing is almost all in his main field of specialty) inside the field, a large part has been devoted to speculation about the possible physiological evolution (externally caused or self-effected) of mankind.

  * * * *

  1

  There was a tremendous difference between the liner and the ferry in Mercer’s treatment. On the liner, the attendants made gibes when they brought him his food.

  “Scream good and loud,” said one rat-faced steward, “and then we’ll know it’s you when they broadcast the sounds of punishment on the Emperor’s birthday.”

  The other, fat steward ran the tip of his wet, red tongue over his thick, purple-red lips one time and said, “Stands to reason, man. If you hurt all the time, the whole lot of you would die. Something pretty good must happen, along with the—whatchamacallit. Maybe you turn into a woman. Maybe you turn into two people. Listen, cousin, if it’s real crazy fun, let me know ... “ Mercer said nothing. Mercer had enough troubles of his own not to wonder about the daydreams of nasty men.

  At the ferry it was different. The biopharmaceutical staff was deft, impersonal, quick in removing his shackles. They took off all his prison clothes and left them on the liner. When he boarded the ferry, naked, they looked him over as if he were a rare plant or a body on the operating table. They were almost kind in the clinical deftness of their touch. They did not treat him as a criminal, but as a specimen.

  Men and women, clad in their medical smocks, they looked at him as though he were already dead.

  He tried to speak. A man, older and more authoritative than the others, said firmly and clearly, “Do not worry about talking. I will talk to you myself in a very little time. What we are having now are the preliminaries, to determine your physical condition. Turn around, please.” Mercer turned around. An orderly rubbed his back with a very strong antiseptic.

  “This is going to sting,” said one of the technicians, “but it is nothing serious or painful. We are determining the toughness of the different layers of your skin.”

  Mercer, annoyed by this impersonal approach, spoke up just as a sharp little sting burned him above the sixth lumbar vertebra. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Of course we know who you are,” said a woman’s voice. “We have it all in a file in the corner. The chief doctor will talk about your crime later, if you want to talk about it. Keep quiet now. We are making a skin test, and you will feel much better if you do not make us prolong it.”

  Honesty forced her to add another sentence: “And we will get better results as well.”

  They had lost no time at all in getting to work.

  He peered at them sidewise to look at them. There was nothing about them to indicate that they were human devils in the antechambers of hell itself. Nothing was there to indicate that this was the satellite of Shayol, the final and uttermost place of chastisement and shame. They looked like medical people from his life before he committed the crime without a name.

  They changed from one routine to another. A woman, wearing a surgical mask, waved her hand at a white table.

  “Climb up on that, please.”

  No one had said “please” to Mercer since the guards had seized him at the edge of the palace. He started to obey her and then he saw that there were padded handcuffs at the head of the table. He stopped.

  “Get along, please,” she demanded. Two or three of the others turned around to look at both of them.

  The second “please” shook him. He had to speak. These were people, and he was a person again. He felt his voice rising, almost cracking into shrillness as he asked her, “Please, Ma’am, is the punishment going to begin?”

  “There’s no punishment here,” said the woman. “This is the satellite. Get on the table. We’re going to give you your first skin-toughening before you talk to the head doctor. Then you can tell him all about your crime—”

  “You know my crime?” he said, greeting it almost like a neighbor.

  “Of course not,” said she, “but all the people who come through here are believed to have committed crimes. Somebody thinks so or they wouldn’t be here. Most of them want to talk about their personal crimes. But don’t slow me down. I’m a skin technician, and down on the surface of Shayol you’re going to need the very best work that any of us can do for you. Now get on
that table. And when you are ready to talk to the chief you’ll have something to talk about besides your crime.”

  He complied.

  Another masked person, probably a girl, took his hands in cool, gentle fingers and fitted them to the padded cuffs in a way he had never sensed before. By now he thought he knew every interrogation machine in the whole empire, but this was nothing like any of them.

  The orderly stepped back. “All clear, Sir and Doctor.”

  “Which do you prefer?” said the skin technician. “A great deal of pain or a couple of hours’ unconsciousness?”

  “Why should I want pain?” said Mercer.