The Year's Best Science Fiction and Fantasy, 2011 Edition

by Rich Horton (ed)

  The outside air is frigid and blustery. Lucas trots down the driveway and turns into the wind. Arms swing easy, lending momentum to a stride that needs no help. Even slow, Lucas looks swift. Every coach dreams of discovering a talent like his—this marriage of strength, grace, and blood-born endurance. Set a mug of beer on that head and not a drop splashes free. The stride is that smooth, that elegant. That fine. But biology demands that a brain has to inhabit that perfect body, and there’s more than one way to drain a damn mug of beer.

  A person doesn’t have to read the news to know the news.

  Two sets of sirens are wailing in the distance, chasing different troubles. Potholes and slumping slabs make the street interesting, and half of the streetlights have had their bulbs pulled, saving the city cash and keeping a few lumps of coal from being burned. Every house is dark and sleepy, stuffed full of insulation and outfitted with wood-burning stoves. Most yards have gardens and compost piles and rain barrels. Half the roofs are dressed in solar panels. When Lucas moved into his house, big locusts and pin oaks lined the street. But most of those trees have been chopped down for fuel and to let the sun feed houses and gardens. Then the lumberjacks planted baby trees—carbon patriots lured by the tax gimmicks—except the biggest of those trees are already being sacrificed for a few nights of smoky heat.

  You don’t have to travel the world to know what’s happening.

  The last house on the block is the Florida compound. Those immigrants rolled in a couple years ago, boasting about their fat savings and their genius, sports-hero kids. But there aren’t any jobs outside the Internet and grunt work in the windmill fields, and savings never last as long as you wish. Their big cars got dumped on the Feds during an efficiency scheme. Extra furniture and jewelry were sold to make rent. A cigarette boat and trailer were given FOR SALE signs to wear, and they’re still wearing them, sitting on the driveway where they’ve been parked forever. Then came the relatives from Miami begging for room, and that’s when police started getting calls about drinking and fighting, and then a couple of the sports heroes were jailed for trafficking. Then it was official: These were refugees, and not even high-end refugees anymore.

  Cheeks ache when Lucas runs at the wind, but nothing else. Turning west, the world warms ten degrees. In the dark it’s best to keep to the middle of the street, watching for anything that can trip or chase. People will abandon family and homes on drowning beaches, but not their pit bull and wolf-mutts. It’s also smart to run with your phone off, but Lucas is better than most when it comes to handling two worlds at once. His piece of Finland is a sweet little unit powered by movement, by life. A tidy projection hangs in front of his right eye. He’s ignoring the screen for the moment, running the street with the imaginary dogs, and that’s when the ringing starts.

  “Yeah?”

  “You leave yet?” Wade says.

  “Nope, still sitting,” says Lucas. “Drinking coffee, watching dead people on TV.”

  That wins a laugh. “According to GPS, you’re running. An eight-minute pace, which is knuckle-walking for you.”

  “Do the cops know?” says Lucas.

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re borrowing their tracking system.”

  “Why? You going to turn me in?”

  No, but that’s when Lucas cuts the line, and an old anger comes back, making his legs fly for the next couple blocks.

  Bodies stand outside the downtown YMCA. Swimmers and weightlifters sport Arctic-ready coats, while the runners are narrower, colder souls wearing nylon and polypro. Gym bags clutter up the sidewalk. Every back is turned to the wind. When someone breathes or speaks, twists of vapor rise, illuminated by the bluish glare escaping from the Y’s glass door.

  Lucas slows.

  A growly voice says, “Somebody got the early jump.”

  Passing from the trot into a purposeful walk, Lucas looks at faces, smiling at Audrey before anybody else.

  “Where’s your bike?” the voice asks.

  “Pete,” says Audrey. “Just stop.”

  But the temptation is too great. With amiable menace, Pete Kajan says, “Did the cops take your bike too?”

  “Yeah,” says Lucas. “My bike and skates and my skis. I had that pony, but they shot him. Just to be safe.”

  Everybody laughs at the comeback, including Pete.

  Lucas slips off the pack and shakes his arms. The straps put his fingers to sleep.

  “Seven o’clock,” Pete says, shaking one of the locked doors. “What are the big dogs doing today?”

  “Sitting on the porch, whining,” Lucas says.

  Runners laugh.

  “How far?” Audrey says.

  Pete says, “Twelve, maybe fourteen.”

  “Fourteen sounds right,” says Doug Gatlin. Fast Doug. He’s older than the rest of them but blessed with a whippet’s body.

  Doug Crouse is the youngest and heaviest. “Ten miles sounds better,” he says.

  “Sarah and Masters are coming,” says Fast Doug.

  “They wish,” says Pete, laughing.

  Rolling his eyes, Gatlin tells Crouse, “They’ll meet us here and turn early. You can come back with them.”

  “Where’s Varner?” Crouse says.

  Pete snorts. “He’ll be five minutes late and need to dump.”

  Runners laugh.

  Then a big-shouldered swimmer rattles the locked door.

  Crouse looks at Lucas. “Did he call you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He called me twice,” Gatlin says.

  “Everybody got at least one wake-up call,” Pete says.

  The runners stare into the bright empty lobby.

  “He usually doesn’t bother me,” says Crouse.

  “A bad night in heaven,” Lucas says.

  People try to hit the proper amount of laughter. Show it’s funny, but nothing too enthusiastic.

  Then the swimmer backs away from the door. “Dean’s here,” she says.

  Dean is a tall, fleshy fellow who does everything with deliberation. He slowly walks the length of the lobby. As if disarming a bomb, he eases the key into the lock. The door weighs a thousand pounds, judging by its syrupy motion. With a small soft voice, Dean says, “Cold enough?”

  Muttered replies make little threads of steam.

  A line forms in the lobby. Audrey puts herself beside Lucas. “You think that’s it? He had a bad night?”

  “I’m no thinker,” Lucas says. “If I get my shoes on in the morning, it’s going to be a good day.”

  TWO

  Fingers and thumbs are offered at the front desk, proving membership. A red sign warns patrons to take only one towel, but a Y towel can’t dry a kitten. Lucas grabs two, Pete three. The Dougs lead the way up narrow, zigzagging stairs. Signs caution about paint that dried last week and forbid unaccompanied boy s in the men’s locker room. At the top of the stairs, taped to a steel door, a fresh notice says there isn’t any hot water, due to boiler troubles. Gatlin flips light switches. The room revealed is narrow and long, jammed with gray lockers and concrete pillars painted yellow. The carpet is gray-green and tired. Toilet cleansers and spilled aftershave give the air flavor. Bulletin boards are sprinkled with news about yoga classes and winter conditioning programs and words about winning at life. Questionable behavior must be reported to the front desk. Used towels are to be thrown into the proper bins. Lockers need to be locked. The YMC A is never responsible for stolen property. But leave your padlock overnight on a day locker, and it will be cut off and your belongings will be confiscated.

  THIS IS YOUR YMCA, a final sign says.

  Pete rents a locker in back. Lucas camps nearby. From the adjacent aisle, Gatlin says, “What’s the course? Anybody know?”

  “I know,” Pete says, and that’s all he says. In his early forties, he has short graying hair and a sturdy face. He glowers easily, the eyes a bright, thoughtful hazel. Pete doesn’t look like a runner, but when motivated and healthy, the man can still han
g with the local best.

  Lucas digs out his lock, dumps his pack, and secures the door. Again, he puts his foot on the stool, adjusting the ankle monitor. Water sounds good, but the Freon was bled from the fountains, saving energy. It’s better to run the cold tap at a sink and make a bowl with your hands, wasting a couple gallons before your thirst is beaten back. The paper towels are tiny. He pulls five and dries his hands, watching an old guy plug in an old television that can’t remember yesterday. The machine has to cycle through channels, reprogramming its little brain. That’s when Lucas starts to feel the coffee. The urinal is already full of dark piss but won’t flush until the smell is bad enough. He comes back out to find the Big Fox playing. A blonde beauty is chatting about the cold snap cutting into the heart of the country. “We have an old-fashioned winter,” she says, leading to thirty seconds of snow and sleds and happy red-faced kids.

  “Well, that’s not me,” says the old guy.

  Then the news jumps to places Lucas couldn’t find on any map. Brown people are fighting over burning oil wells. Skinny black folks are marching across a dried-up lake. A fat white man with an accent makes noise about his rights and how he doesn’t appreciate being second class. Then it’s down to Pine Island and the wicked long Antarctic summer. Another slab of glacier is charging out to sea, looking exactly like the other ten thousand. But the blonde gal is a trouper. Refusing to be sad, she reminds her audience that some experts claim the cold meltwater is going to shut down this nastiness. More sexy than scientific, she says, “The oceans around the ice sheets will cool, and a new normal will emerge. Then we can get back to the business of ordinary life.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” says the old guy, throwing out a pissy laugh as he starts hunting for better channels.

  Pete and the Dougs have vanished. Lucas starts for the stairs and the steel door bangs open. In comes Varner, still wearing street clothes.

  “I’ll be there. Got to hit the toilet first.”

  The man is in his middle-thirties, red-haired and freckled and always late. Lucas gives him a look.

  “What? It’s two minutes after seven.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yeah, well. Our ghost already called me three times, telling me to hurry the hell up.”

  Lucas retreats downstairs. Audrey stands in the lobby, reading The Herald on the public monitor. She’s tall for an elite runner—nearly five nine—but unlike most fast girls doesn’t live two snacks clear of starvation. Her face is strong but pretty, blonde hair cut close, middle age lurking around the pale brown eyes. She wears silver tights and a black wind-breaker, mittens and a headband piled on the countertop. Audrey always looks calm and rested. Running is something she does well, but if nobody showed this morning, she’d probably trot an easy eight and call it good.

  “Where are the boys?” Lucas says.

  “Around the corner.”

  “Any news about me?”

  She blanks the screen and turns. “Where’s your bike?”

  “Too cold to pedal.”

  “If you need a ride, call.”

  “I should,” he says.

  With a burst of wind, the front door opens.

  Ethan Masters walks out of a sportswear catalog and into the YMCA. Jacket and tights are matched blue with artful white stripes, the Nikes just came from the box, his gloves and stocking cap are carved from fresh snow, and the water belt carries provisions for a hundred-mile slog. But the biggest fashion statement is the sleek glasses covering the middle of a lean, thoroughly shaved face. More computing power rides his nose than NASA deployed during the twentieth century. The machine is a phone and entertainment center. Masters always knows his pulse and electrolyte levels and where he is and how fast he’s moving. It must be a disappointment, falling back on old-fashioned eyes to tell him what’s inside the lobby. “They’re still here,” he says. “I told you we’d make it in time.”

  Sarah follows him indoors. As short as Masters is tall, she has this round little-girl face and long brown hair tied in a ponytail. Unlike her training partner, she prefers old sweats and patched pink mittens, and her brown stocking cap looks rescued from the gutter. They are married, but not to each other—ten thousand miles logged together and the subjects of a lot of rich gossip.

  “Are you everybody?” says Masters, throwing himself against a wall, stretching calves. “If we wait, we’ll tighten up.”

  “Varner just went upstairs,” Audrey says.

  “So we’re not leaving soon,” says Masters.

  Sarah is quiet. Flicking her eyes, she places a call and walks to the back of the lobby.

  Lucas follows and walks past her, rounding the corner. Behind the lobby is a long narrow room overlooking the swimming pool. Treadmills and ellipticals push against the glass wall. Pete and the Dougs are yabbering with some overdressed, undertrained runners who belong to the marathon clinic. Which means they belong to the bald man sitting alone beside the Gatorade machine.

  “How far, Coach?” Lucas says.

  The man looks up. Cheery as an elf, he says, “We’re doing an easy sixteen.” As if sixteen were nothing. As if he’s making the run himself. Except Coach Able is dressed for driving and maybe, if pressed, a quick stand on some protected street corner. Deep in his fifties, he carries a bad back as well as quite a lot of fat. And for thirty years he has been the running coach at Jewel College, his clinic something of a spring tradition for new runners.

  Able gives Lucas a long study. He always does. And he always has a few coachy words to throw out for free.

  “It looks like you’re running heavy miles,” he says.

  “Probably so,” Lucas says.

  “Speed work?”

  “When I remember to.”

  “Try the marathon this year. See if there’s life in those old legs.”

  “Maybe I will.” Lucas looks at the other runners. A man with an accent is talking about the weather, about how it was never so cold in Louisiana. Pete shakes his head, a big snarly voice saying, “So grow some fins and swim yourself back home again.”

  Somehow he can say words like that, and everybody finds it funny.

  The coach coughs—a hard wet bark meant to win attention. “Tell me, Pepper. In your life, have you ever tried running a marathon hard? Train for it and push it and see what happens?”

  “Well now, that sure sounds like work.”

  “I think you could beat 2:30,” says Able. “And who knows how fast, if you managed a full year without misbehaving.”

  Lucas rolls his shoulders, saying nothing.

  “There’s software,” the coach says. “And biometric tests. With race results, we’d be able to figure out exactly what you would have run in your prime. 2:13 is my guess. Wouldn’t it be nice to know?”

  “That would be nice,” says Lucas. Then he shrugs again, saying, “But like my dad used to say, ‘There’s not enough room in the world for all the things that happen to be nice.’ ”

  Audrey appears. “We’ve got our Varner.”

  Lucas and the other men put on stocking caps and follow. Eight bodies bunch up at the front door. The sun is coming, but not yet. Everybody wears a phone, and with tiny practiced touches, they adjust the settings. Only hair-on-fire emergency calls can interrupt now. Then the group puts on mittens and gloves and steps outside. Giving a horse-snort, Masters says, “We should run north.”

  “We’re not,” says Pete. “We’re doing Ash Creek.”

  Everybody is surprised.

  “But you want to start into the wind,” Masters says. “Otherwise you’ll come home wet and cold.”

  “There’s not two damn trees up north,” Pete says. “I’m going where there’s woods and scenery.”

  “What about the usual?” Varner says.

  They have a looping course through the heart of town.

  “Normal is fine with me,” Audrey says.

  Lucas wants to move. Directions don’t matter.

  Then Pete says, �
��We’ve got company.”

  Trotting across the street is a kid half their age. Dressed in street clothes and a good new coat, Harris carries a huge gym bag in one hand. “Which way?” he says. “I’ll catch up.”

  Pete says, “The usual.” No hesitation.

  “East around Jewel?” says Harris.

  “Sure.”

  The kid scampers inside.

  Then Pete gives everybody a hard stare. “Okay, we’re doing Ash Creek. No arguments.”

  Eight liars trot west, nobody talking, the tiniest guilt following at their heels.

  THREE

  Tuesday meant speed work at the college track—a faded orange ribbon of crumbling foam and rutted lanes. Lucas showed last. It wasn’t as hot as most August evenings, but last night’s storm had left the air thick and dangerous. The rest of the group trotted on the far side of the track. Nobody was talking. Lucas parked his bike and came through the zigzag gate, and he crossed the track and football field and the track again, walking under the visitors’ stands. Pigeons panicked and flew off, leaving feathers and echoes. He opened his pack and stripped, dressing in shorts and Asics but leaving his singlet in the bag. He was packing up when he noticed his hands shaking, and he stared at the hands until his phone broke the spell.

  He opened the line.

  “Are you up at the track?”

  Wade’s voice. “I am.”

  “Do you see me?”

  “Wade?”

  “I haven’t been updated, “the voice said. “It’s been twenty-four hours. I’m supposed to call you after twenty-four hours.”