Year’s Best SF 15

by David G. Hartwell; Kathryn Cramer

  “Mommy!” Nicholas protested.

  “That false memory of sexual assault,” Leslie hissed. “My son caught calculus. What would you have done if he’d caught danger and fear like that? What would you have done to keep him from having nightmares that a bunch of adult men were—” She looked down at Nicholas and chose her words carefully. “Were hurting him. Personally. What would you have done about that?”

  “That one wasn’t mine,” said Solada.

  “They are all yours,” said Leslie. “The minute you taught your grad students that it was okay to release these things without trials, without controls, without testing—the minute you taught them that it was okay to skip all that, because it was holding back progress, you earned all of this. All of it.”

  “Mommy,” said Nicholas, and Leslie realized that her hands were shaking.

  “Let me tell you what the alternative was,” said Solada, steering Leslie and Nicholas towards a bench. “Do you want to know what my alternative was?”

  “Another project completely?”

  “Yes. Sure. Another project completely.” Solada glared at her. “And do you know what that would mean? It would mean that the person who developed virally contagious memories would not have done so out in the open. You would never have heard about it. Your son wouldn’t have been at risk for catching a memory of calculus—or, okay, a memory of sexual assault because an overzealous grad student decided it would be a good idea for potential rapists to know what it felt like.

  “No. Your son would have been at risk for catching memories that told him that the Republican Party was the only one he could trust. Or that if he truly loved you, he would always trust exactly what the Democratic Party had to say. Or that our government would never fight a war without a darn good reason. Or that he should buy this cola, or drive this car, or wear those sneakers. Do you see what I mean? It was me now or a secret project two years from now.”

  “And that makes it okay?” said Leslie. “The fact that it could be worse?”

  Solada leaned towards her on the bench; Leslie had calmed down enough not to pull Nicholas away. “If I blow the whistle on my own project, it looks like I’m trying to grab the spotlight; nobody pays any attention. But you! What are you doing? I counted on someone like you to kick up a fuss in the press. Faculty advisory committees? Official university censure? What is wrong with you? Start a blog to rant about it! Call reporters! Tell your students to tell their parents! The student paper is not enough. Rumors are not enough.”

  “You’re saying you wanted me to—”

  “You or someone like you. For God’s sake, yes. Get the word out. Make sure everybody knows that this is something we can do. Make sure they ask themselves questions about how we’re doing it.” Solada shook her head. “I’m amazed it didn’t happen before. I thought surely the Empty Moon thing would be the last straw for you. Or someone like you. And I never dreamed that one of my students would use it politically, the way I thought the big parties would.

  “So be fast about it, Dr. Baxter. Be as loud as you can. I’m willing to be the wicked queen here. Better a wicked queen than an eminence grise.”

  And with that she was gone, leaving Leslie stunned and clinging to her son. Most of the media contacts she had were in the obscure economic press. Would it be best to call a national news magazine? The local newspaper or its big city neighbor? She’d never tried to break a story before. It had never been this important before.

  “Mommy, did you take me here another time?” asked Nicholas.

  Leslie’s heart went into her throat.

  “And Daddy was here, too, and you bought me hot chocolate?” he continued hopefully.

  She relaxed. It was a real memory; they had come to the student union before Christmas. “I’ll buy you hot chocolate again,” she assured him, “and then we’ll go over to my office and you can draw pictures. Mommy has some phone calls to make.”

  The Island

  PETER WATTS

  Peter Watts (www.rifters.com) lives in Toronto, Ontario. His debut novel (Starfish) was a New York Times Notable Book, while his most recent (Blindsight, 2006)—which, despite an unhealthy focus on space vampires, is a required text in such diverse undergraduate courses as “The Philosophy of Mind” and “Introduction to Neuropsychology”—made the final ballot for many awards, including the Hugo, winning exactly none of them. (It has, however, won multiple awards in Poland for some reason). This reflects a certain critical divide regarding Watts’ work; his bipartite novel, Behemoth, was praised by Publishers Weekly as an “adrenaline-charged fusion of Clarke’s The Deep Range and Gibson’s Neuromancer” and “a major addition to 21st-century hard SF,” while being decried by Kirkus as “utterly repellent” and “horrific porn.” Watts embraces the truth of both views, although he does wish Behemoth had not tanked quite so badly. Both Watts and his cat have appeared in the prestigious journal Nature. Even if he avoids jail, he may by the time of this printing be banned from entering the United States.

  “The Island” appeared in The New Space Opera 2, edited by Gardner Dozois and Jonathan Strahan, a really fine anthology of SF, perhaps the single best original anthology of longer SF stories of the year. This story is about a space voyage to see an astonishing and original sight. This hard SF is as good as it gets, and really disturbing, too.

  You sent us out here. We do this for you: spin your webs and build your magic gateways, thread the needle’s eye at sixty thousand kilometers a second. We never stop, never even dare to slow down, lest the light of your coming turn us to plasma. All so you can step from star to star without dirtying your feet in these endless, empty wastes between.

  Is it really too much to ask, that you might talk to us now and then?

  I know about evolution and engineering. I know how much you’ve changed. I’ve seen these portals give birth to gods and demons and things we can’t begin to comprehend, things I can’t believe were ever human; alien hitchikers, perhaps, riding the rails we’ve left behind. Alien conquerers.

  Exterminators, perhaps.

  But I’ve also seen those gates stay dark and empty until they faded from view. We’ve inferred diebacks and dark ages, civilizations burned to the ground and others rising from their ashes—and sometimes, afterwards, the things that come out look a little like the ships we might have built, back in the day. They speak to one another—radio, laser, carrier neutrinos—and sometimes their voices sound something like ours. There was a time we dared to hope that they really were like us, that the circle had come around again and closed on beings we could talk to. I’ve lost count of the times we tried to break the ice.

  I’ve lost count of the eons since we gave up.

  All these iterations fading behind us. All these hybrids and posthumans and immortals, gods and catatonic cavemen trapped in magical chariots they can’t begin to understand, and not one of them ever pointed a comm laser in our direction to say Hey, how’s it going? or Guess what? We cured Damascus Disease! or even Thanks, guys, keep up the good work!

  We’re not some fucking cargo cult. We’re the backbone of your goddamn empire. You wouldn’t even be out here if it weren’t for us.

  And—and you’re our children. Whatever you’ve become, you were once like this, like me. I believed in you once. There was a time, long ago, when I believed in this mission with all my heart.

  Why have you forsaken us?

  And so another build begins.

  This time, I open my eyes to a familiar face I’ve never seen before: only a boy, early twenties perhaps, physiologically. His face is a little lopsided, the cheekbone flatter on the left than the right. His ears are too big. He looks almost natural.

  I haven’t spoken for millennia. My voice comes out a whisper: “Who are you?” Not what I’m supposed to ask, I know. Not the first question anyone on Eriophora asks, after coming back.

  “I’m yours,” he says, and just like that, I’m a mother.

  I want to let it sink in, but he doesn’t gi
ve me the chance: “You weren’t scheduled, but Chimp wants extra hands on deck. Next build’s got a situation.”

  So the chimp is still in control. The chimp is always in control. The mission goes on.

  “Situation?” I ask.

  “Contact scenario, maybe.”

  I wonder when he was born. I wonder if he ever wondered about me, before now.

  He doesn’t tell me. He only says, “Sun up ahead. Half light-year. Chimp thinks, maybe it’s talking to us. Anyhow…” My—son shrugs. “No rush. Lotsa time.”

  I nod, but he hesitates. He’s waiting for The Question, but I already see a kind of answer in his face. Our reinforcements were supposed to be pristine, built from perfect genes buried deep within Eri’s iron-basalt mantle, safe from the sleeting blueshift. And yet this boy has flaws. I see the damage in his face, I see those tiny flipped base-pairs resonating up from the microscopic and bending him just a little off-kilter. He looks like he grew up on a planet. He looks borne of parents who spent their whole lives hammered by raw sunlight.

  How far out must we be by now, if even our own perfect building blocks have decayed so? How long has it taken us? How long have I been dead?

  How long? It’s the first thing everyone asks.

  After all this time, I don’t want to know.

  He’s alone at the tac Tank when I arrive on the bridge, his eyes full of icons and trajectories. Perhaps I see a little of me in there, too.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I say, although I’ve looked it up on the manifest. We’ve barely been introduced and already I’m lying to him.

  “Dix.” He keeps his eyes on the Tank.

  He’s over ten thousand years old. Alive for maybe twenty of them. I wonder how much he knows, whom he’s met during those sparse decades: does he know Ishmael or Connie? Does he know if Sanchez got over his brush with immortality?

  I wonder, but I don’t ask. There are rules.

  I look around. “We’re it?”

  Dix nods. “For now. Bring back more if we need them. But…” His voice trails off.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  I join him at the Tank. Diaphanous veils hang within like frozen, color-coded smoke. We’re on the edge of a molecular dust cloud. Warm, semiorganic, lots of raw materials. Formaldehyde, ethylene glycol, the usual prebiotics. A good spot for a quick build. A red dwarf glowers dimly at the center of the Tank: the chimp has named it DHF428, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten to care about.

  “So fill me in,” I say.

  His glance is impatient, even irritated. “You too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like the others. On the other builds. Chimp can just squirt the specs, but they want to talk all the time.”

  Shit, his link’s still active. He’s online.

  I force a smile. “Just a—a cultural tradition, I guess. We talk about a lot of things, it helps us—reconnect. After being down for so long.”

  “But it’s slow,” Dix complains.

  He doesn’t know. Why doesn’t he know?

  “We’ve got half a light-year,” I point out. “There’s some rush?”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “Vons went out on schedule.” On cue, a cluster of violet pinpricks sparkle in the Tank, five trillion klicks ahead of us. “Still sucking dust mostly, but got lucky with a couple of big asteroids, and the refineries came online early. First components already extruded. Then Chimp sees these fluctuations in solar output—mainly infra, but extends into visible.” The Tank blinks at us: the dwarf goes into time-lapse.

  Sure enough, it’s flickering.

  “Non-random, I take it.”

  Dix inclines his head a little to the side, not quite nodding.

  “Plot the time-series.” I’ve never been able to break the habit of raising my voice, just a bit, when addressing the chimp. Obediently (obediently—now there’s a laugh and a half), the AI wipes the spacescape and replaces it with

  …..….….….….….….….….

  “Repeating sequence,” Dix tells me. “Blips don’t change, but spacing’s a log-linear increase cycling every 92.5 corsecs. Each cycle starts at 13.2 clicks/corsec, degrades over time.”

  “No chance this could be natural? A little black hole wobbling around in the center of the star, something like that?”

  Dix shakes his head, or something like that: a diagonal dip of the chin that somehow conveys the negative. “But way too simple to contain much info. Not like an actual conversation. More—well, a shout.”

  He’s partly right. There may not be much information, but there’s enough. We’re here. We’re smart. We’re powerful enough to hook a whole damn star up to a dimmer switch.

  Maybe not such a good spot for a build after all.

  I purse my lips. “The sun’s hailing us. That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Maybe. Hailing someone. But too simple for a rosetta signal. It’s not an archive, can’t self-extract. Not a bonferroni or fibonacci seq, not pi. Not even a multiplication table. Nothing to base a pidgin on.”

  Still. An intelligent signal.

  “Need more info,” Dix says, proving himself master of the blindingly obvious.

  I nod. “The vons.”

  “Uh, what about them?”

  “We set up an array. Use a bunch of bad eyes to fake a good one. It’d be faster than high-geeing an observatory from this end or retooling one of the on-site factories.”

  His eyes go wide. For a moment, he almost looks frightened for some reason. But the moment passes and he does that weird head-shake thing again. “Bleed too many resources away from the build, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” the chimp agrees.

  I suppress a snort. “If you’re so worried about meeting our construction benchmarks, Chimp, factor in the potential risk posed by an intelligence powerful enough to control the energy output of an entire sun.”

  “I can’t,” it admits. “I don’t have enough information.”

  “You don’t have any information. About something that could probably stop this mission dead in its tracks if it wanted to. So maybe we should get some.”

  “Okay. Vons reassigned.”

  Confirmation glows from a convenient bulkhead, a complex sequence of dance instructions that Eri’s just fired into the void. Six months from now, a hundred self-replicating robots will waltz into a makeshift surveillance grid; four months after that, we might have something more than vacuum to debate in.

  Dix eyes me as though I’ve just cast some kind of magic spell.

  “It may run the ship,” I tell him, “but it’s pretty fucking stupid. Sometimes you’ve just got to spell things out.”

  He looks vaguely affronted, but there’s no mistaking the surprise beneath. He didn’t know that. He didn’t know.

  Who the hell’s been raising him all this time? Whose problem is this?

  Not mine.

  “Call me in ten months,” I say. “I’m going back to bed.”

  It’s as though he never left. I climb back into the bridge and there he is, staring into tac. DHF428 fills the Tank, a swollen red orb that turns my son’s face into a devil mask.

  He spares me the briefest glance, eyes wide, fingers twitching as if electrified. “Vons don’t see it.”

  I’m still a bit groggy from the thaw. “See wh—”

  “The sequence!” His voice borders on panic. He sways back and forth, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Show me.”

  Tac splits down the middle. Cloned dwarves burn before me now, each perhaps twice the size of my fist. On the left, an Eri’s-eye view: DHF428 stutters as it did before, as it presumably has these past ten months. On the right, a compound-eye composite: an interferometry grid built by a myriad precisely spaced vons, their rudimentary eyes layered and parallaxed into something approaching high resolution. Contrast on both sides has been conveniently cranked up to highlight the dwarf’s endless winking for merely human eyes.


  Except that it’s only winking from the left side of the display. On the right, 428 glowers steady as a standard candle.

  “Chimp: any chance the grid just isn’t sensitive enough to see the fluctuations?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” I try to think of some reason it would lie about this.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” my son complains.

  “It does,” I murmur, “if it’s not the sun that’s flickering.”

  “But is flickering—” He sucks his teeth. “You see it—wait, you mean something behind the vons? Between, between them and us?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Some kind of filter.” Dix relaxes a bit. “Wouldn’t we’ve seen it, though? Wouldn’t the vons’ve hit it going down?”

  I put my voice back into ChimpComm mode. “What’s the current field-of-view for Eri’s forward scope?”

  “Eighteen mikes,” the chimp reports. “At 428’s range, the cone is 3.34 lightsecs across.”

  “Increase to a hundred lightsecs.”

  The Eri’s-eye partition swells, obliterating the dissenting viewpoint. For a moment, the sun fills the Tank again, paints the whole bridge crimson. Then it dwindles as if devoured from within.

  I notice some fuzz in the display. “Can you clear that noise?”

  “It’s not noise,” the chimp reports. “It’s dust and molecular gas.”

  I blink. “What’s the density?”

  “Estimated hundred thousand atoms per cubic meter.”

  Two orders of magnitude too high, even for a nebula. “Why so heavy?” Surely we’d have detected any gravity well strong enough to keep that much material in the neighborhood.

  “I don’t know,” the chimp says.

  I get the queasy feeling that I might. “Set field-of-view to five hundred lightsecs. Peak false-color at near-infrared.”

  Space grows ominously murky in the Tank. The tiny sun at its center, thumbnail-sized now, glows with increased brilliance: an incandescent pearl in muddy water.