Mammoth Book of Best New SF 19

by Gardner Dozois

  Although the children seemed to love her despite her awkwardness, Mada wasn’t sure she loved them back. She constantly teased at her feelings, peeling away what she considered pretense and sentimentality. She worried that the capacity to love might not have been part of her emotional design. Or perhaps begetting fifty children in seven years had left her numb.

  Owen seemed to enjoy being a parent. He was the one whom the children called for when they wanted to play. They came to Mada for answers and decisions. Mada liked to watch them snuggle next to him when he spun his fantastic stories. Their father picked them up when they stumbled, and let them climb on his shoulders so they could see just what he saw. They told him secrets they would never tell her.

  The children adored the ship, which substantiated a bot companion for each of them, in part for their protection. All had inherited their father’s all-butinvulnerable immune system; their chromosomes replicated well beyond the Hay-flick limit with integrity and fidelity. But they lacked their mother’s ability to flow tissue and were therefore at peril of drowning or breaking their necks. The bots also provided the intense individualized attention that their busy parents could not. Each child was convinced that his or her bot companion had a unique personality. Even the seven-year-olds were too young to realize that the bots were reflecting their ideal personality back at them. The bots were in general as intelligent as the ship, although it had programmed into their DIs a touch of naïveté and a tendency to literalness that allowed the children to play tricks on them. Pranking a brother or sister’s bot was a particularly delicious sport.

  Athens had begun to sprawl after seven years. The library had tripled in size and grown a wing of classrooms and workshops. A new gym overlooked three playing fields. Owen had asked the ship to build a little theater where the children could put on shows for each other. The original house became a ring of houses, connected by corridors and facing a central courtyard. Each night Mada and Owen moved to their bedroom in a different house. Owen thought it important that the children see them sleeping in the same bed; Mada went along.

  After she had begotten Rebecca, Mada needed something to do that didn’t involve the children. She had the ship’s farmbots plow up a field and for an hour each day she tended it. She resisted Owen’s attempts to name this “Mom’s Hobby.” Mada grew vegetables; she had little use for flowers. Although she made a specialty of root crops, she was not a particularly accomplished gardener. She did, however, enjoy weeding.

  It was at these quiet times, her hands flicking across the dark soil, that she considered her commitment to the Three Universal Rights. After two-tenths of a spin, she had clearly lost her zeal. Not for the first, that independent sentients had the right to remain individual. Mada was proud that her children were as individual as any intelligence, flesh or machine, could have made them. Of course, they had no pressing need to exercise the second right of manipulating their physical structures — she had taken care of that for them. When they were of age, if the ship wanted to introduce them to molecular engineering, that could certainly be done. No, the real problem was that downwhen was forever closed to them by the identity mine. How could she justify her new Trueborn society if it didn’t enjoy the third right: free access to the timelines?

  Undone

  “Mada!” Owen waved at the edge of her garden. She blinked; he was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing when she had first seen him on Sonnet Street in front of The Devil’s Apple — down to the little red cape. He showed her a picnic basket. “The ship is watching the kids tonight,” he called. “Come on, it’s our anniversary. I did the calculations myself. We met eight earth years ago today.”

  He led her to a spot deep in the woods, where he spread a blanket. They stretched out next to each other and sorted through the basket. There was a curley salad with alperts and thumbnuts, brainboy and chive sandwiches on cheese bread. He toasted her with mada-fruit wine and told her that Siobahn had let go of the couch and taken her first step and that Irina wanted everyone to learn to play an instrument so that she could conduct the family orchestra and that Malaleel had asked him just today if ship was a person.

  “It’s not a person,” said Mada. “It’s a DI.”

  “That’s what I said.” Owen peeled the crust off his cheese bread. “And he said if it’s not a person, how come it’s telling jokes?”

  “It told a joke?”

  “It asked him, ‘How come you can’t have everything?’ and then it said, ‘Where would you put it?’”

  She nudged him in the ribs. “That sounds more like you than the ship.”

  “I have a present for you,” he said after they were stuffed. “I wrote you a poem.” He did not stand; there were no large, flailing gestures. Instead he slid the picnic basket out of the way, leaned close and whispered into her ear.

  “Loving you is like catching rain on my tongue.

  You bathe the leaves, soak indifferent ground;

  Why then should I get so little of you?

  Yet still, like a flower with a fool’s face,

  I open myself to the sky.”

  Mada was not quite sure what was happening to her; she had never really cried before. “I like that it doesn’t rhyme.” She had understood that tears flowed from a sadness. “I like that a lot.” She sniffed and smiled and daubed at edges of her eyes with a napkin. “Never rhyme anything again.”

  “Done,” he said.

  Mada watched her hand reach for him, caress the side of his neck, and then pull him down on top of her. Then she stopped watching herself.

  “No more children.” His whisper seemed to fill her head.

  “No,” she said, “no more.”

  “I’m sharing you with too many already.” He slid his hand between her legs. She arched her back and guided him to her pleasure.

  When they had both finished, she ran her finger through the sweat cooling at the small of his back and then licked it. “Owen,’ she said, her voice a silken purr. “That was the one.”

  “Is that your comment?”

  “No.” She craned to see his eyes. “This is my comment,” she said. “You’re writing love poems to the wrong person.”

  “There is no one else,” he said.

  She squawked and pushed him off her. “That may be true,” she said, laughing, “but it’s not something you’re supposed to say.”

  “No, what I meant was…”

  “I know.” She put a finger to his lips and giggled like one of her babies. Mada realized then how dangerously happy she was. She rolled away from Owen; all the lightness crushed out of her by the weight of guilt and shame. It wasn’t her duty to be happy. She had been ready to betray the cause of those who had made her for what? For this man? “There’s something I have to do.” She fumbled for her shift. “I can’t help myself, I’m sorry.”

  Owen watched her warily. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because after I do it, I’ll be different.”

  “Different how?”

  “The ship will explain.” She tugged the shift on. “Take care of the children.”

  “What do you mean, take care of the children? What are you doing?” He lunged at her and she scrabbled away from him on all fours. “Tell me.”

  “The ship says my body should survive.” She staggered to her feet. “That’s all I can offer you, Owen.” Mada ran.

  She didn’t expect Owen to come after her — or to run so fast.

  ∼I need you.∼she subbed to the ship. “Substantiate the command mod.∼

  He was right behind her. Saying something. Was it to her? “No,” he panted, “no, no, no.”

  ∼Substantiate the com….∼

  Suddenly Owen was gone; Mada bit her lip as she crashed into the main screen, caromed off it and dropped like a dead woman. She lay there for a moment, the cold of the deck seeping into her cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered. She struggled to pull herself up and spat blood.

  “Skip downwhen,” she said, “six minutes.”r />
  “minutes six” said she “downwhen Skip” blood spat and up herself pull to struggled She whispered she “Goodbye” cheek her into seeping deck the of cold the moment a for there lay She woman dead a like dropped and it off caromed, screen main the into crashed she as lip her bit Mada; gone was Owen Suddenly∼…. com the Substantiate∼“no, no, no”, panted he “No”? her to it Was something Saying her behind right was He — mod command the Substantiate∼ship the to subbed she — you need I∼fast so run to or — her after come to Owen expect didn’t She ran Mada “Owen you offer can I all that’s” feet her to staggered She “survive should body my says ship The” “me Tell” fours all on him from away scrabbled she and her at lunged. He “?doing you are What ?children the of care take, mean you do What.” “children the of care Take” .on shift the tugged She “.explain will ship The” “?how different” “different be I’ll ,it do I after Because” “?sorry you are Why” warily her watched Owen. “.sorry I’m .myself help can’t I” .shift watched Owen. “.sorry I’m ,myself help can’t I” .shift her for fumbled She .her made had who those of cause the betrayed have would she easily How “.do to have I something There’s” .happy be to duty her wasn’t It .shame and guilt of weight the by her of out crushed lightness the all, Owen from away rolled She .was she happy dangerously how then realized Mada .babies her of one like giggled and lips his to finger a put She “.know I” “….Was meant I what ,No” “.say to suppose you’re something not it’s but” ,laughing, said she “,true be may That” .her off him pushed him squawked She .said he “,else one no is There” “.person wrong the to poems love writing You∼” .said she “,comment my is This” .eyes his see to craned She “.No” “?comment your that Is” “.one the was That” .purr silken a voice her, said she “,Owen”

  When threespace went blurry, it seemed that her duty did too. She waved her hand and watched it smear.

  “You know what you’re doing,” said the ship.

  “What I was designed to do. What all my batch siblings pledged to do.” She waved her hand again; she could actually see through herself. “The only thing I can do.”

  “The mine will wipe your identity.

  There will be nothing of you left.”

  “And then it will be gone and the timelines will open. I believe that I’ve known this was what I had to do since we first skipped upwhen.”

  “The probability was always high,” said the ship “But not certain.”

  “Bring me to him, afterward. But don’t tell him about the timelines. He might want to change them. The time-lines are for the children, so that they can finish the revol ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

  “Owen,” she said, her voice a silken purr. Then she paused.

  The woman shook her head, trying to clear it. Lying on top of her was the handsomest man she had ever met. She felt warm and sexy and wonderful. What was this? “I…I’m…,” she said. She reached up and touched the little red cloth hanging from his shoulders. “I like your cape.”

  Done

  “.minute six”, said she “,downwhen Skip” .blood spat and up herself pull to struggled She .whispered she “,Goodbye” .cheek her into seeping deck the of cold the ,moment a for there lay She .woman dead a like dropped and it off caromed ,screen main the into crashed she as lip her bit Mada [.omicron]ne was Owen Suddenly∼ …com the Substantiate∼“.no ,no ,no” ,panted he “,No” ?her to it Was .something Saying .her behind right was He∼mod command the Substantiate∼.ship the to subbed she∼.you need I∼.fast so run to or — her after come to Owen expect didn’t She .ran Mada “.Owen ,you offer can I all That’s” feet her to staggered She “.survive should body my says ship The” “.me Tell” .fours all on him from away scrabbled she and her at lunged He “?doing you are What ?children the of care take ,mean you do What.” “.children the of care Take” .on shift the tugged She “.explain will ship The” “?how Different” “.different be I’ll ,it do I after Because” “?sorry you are Why” .warily her watched Owen. “.sorry I’m ,myself help can’t I” .shift her for fumbled She .her made had who those of cause the betrayed have would she easily How “.do to have I something There’s” .happy be to duty her wasn’t It .shame and guilt of weight the by her of out crushed lightness the all ,Owen

  Manda waved her hand and saw it smear in threespace. “What are you doing?” said the ship.

  “What I was designed to do.” She waved; she could actually see through herself. “The only thing I can do.”

  “The mine will wipe your identity.

  None of your memories will survive.”

  “I believe that I’ve known that’s what would happen since we first skipped upwhen.”

  “It was probable,” said the ship. “But not certain.”

  Trueborn scholars pinpoint what the ship did next as its first step toward independent sentience. In its memoirs, the ship credits the children with teaching it to misbehave.

  from away rolled She .was she happy dangerously how then realized Mada .babies her of one like giggled and lips his to finger a put She “.know I” “….Was meant I what ,No” “.say to supposed you’re something not it’s but” ,laughing, said she “,true be may That” .her off him pushed and squawked She .said he “,else one no is There” “.person wrong the to poems love writing You’re” .said she “,comment my is This” .eyes his see to craned She “.No” “?comment your that Is” “.one the was That” .purr silken a voice her ,said she “,Owen”

  It played a prank.

  “Loving you,” said the ship, “is like catching rain on my tongue. You bathe…”

  “Stop,” Mada shouted. “Stop right now!”

  “Got you!” The ship gloated. “Four minutes, fifty-one seconds.”

  “Owen,” she said, her voice a silken purr. “That was the one.”

  “Is that your comment?”

  “No.” Mada was astonished — and pleased — that she still existed. She knew that in most timelines her identity must have been obliterated by the mine. Thinking about those brave, lost selves made her more sad than proud. “This is my comment,” she said. “I’m ready now.”

  Owen coughed uncertainly. “Umm, already?”

  She squawked and pushed him off her. “Not for that.” She sifted his hair through her hands. “To be with you forever.”

  * * *

  The Real Thing

  CAROLYN IVES GILMAN

  Carolyn Ives Gilman has sold stories to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Interzone, Universe, Full Spectrum, Realms of Fantasy, Bending the Landscape, and elsewhere. She is the author of five nonfiction books on frontier and American Indian history, and (so far) one SF novel, Halfway Human. Her story “Frost Painting” was in our Fifteenth Annual Collection. She lives in St. Louis, where she works as a museum exhibition developer.

  In the ingenious story that follows, she takes us on a tour of the wonderful, glittering World of the Future — which turns out to be not much like we’d thought it would be.

  In the end, the key to time travel was provided by Lawrence Welk.

  It happened in the vicinity of Peapack, New Jersey. One evening during February sweeps, all the television sets that still had antennas started emitting accordion music and grainy black-and-white champagne bubbles. It lasted only a few minutes, but viewers of The World’s Most Gruesome Accidents flooded the station with complaints.

  Pranksters was the first theory. But videotapes of the event deepened the mystery. It had been a live broadcast from the 1960s, and no tape of it was known to exist. Attempts to pinpoint the source of the signal failed until the Defense Department reported that one of its satellites had also picked up the bubbly broadcast. It had come from outer space.

  Aliens was everyone’s second thought. Green men had picked up our planet’s electromagnetic ambassador and, in a mortifying commentary on Earthling musical taste, returned him to sender. But when the
scientists at Princeton turned their attention to the spot of sky from whence the beam had come, they found no planets teeming with music critics. Instead, they found evidence of the closest black hole yet discovered.

  They announced what had happened in a packed press conference where none of the computer graphics worked, and the physicists resorted to scribbling diagrams on pads of paper. The television signal, launched in the 1960s, had traveled outward into space for twenty or twenty-five years before encountering the black hole. There, unimaginable gravity had bent a portion of the signal around in a U and slingshotted it back, focused and amplified in the weird electromagnetic environs of the singularity. Peapack had had the honor of passing through the returning beam. If future viewers picked up reprises of Bonanza or Mister Ed, no one should be alarmed.

  What happened next was more secretive.

  It had occurred to the scientists almost at once that it would be possible to use the black hole to send a message to the future. What very few of them knew was that in a secret research institute outside Boulder, Colorado, experimenters had been perfecting a new method of space travel. With a particle beam, they disassembled an object, recording its molecular structure. That information, encoded into a beam of clarified light, was sent to a receiver that reassembled the object in its exact original configuration. They had started by sending gumwads and bottle caps across the laboratory, and graduated to begonias and rabbits. There had been a few messy slip-ups, but we won’t go into that.

  The drawback of this system for space travel was that you needed a receiver at the other end before sending anything through. It would be necessary to ferry receivers out to the stars by slow, conventional means. But with a handy black hole to boomerang the message back, sending someone to the future was a real possibility.