Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2007 Edition

by Rich Horton

  But motivations never matter as much as results.

  Whatever Owen's reasons, women sobbed while other women sat on the lawn, knees to their faces, refusing to believe what their senses told them. Claire stood motionless, absorbing what Kala and the other girls had to tell her. Meanwhile a sun identical to their sun rose, the air instantly growing warmer. Then the winged natives swept in low, examining the newcomers with their empty black eyes. A giant beast not unlike a tortoise, only larger than most rooms, calmly crawled over the round berm, sliding down to the lawn where it happily began to munch on grass. Meanwhile, houseflies and termites, dandelion fluff and blind earthworms, were beginning their migrations into the new woods. Bumblebees and starlings left their nests in search of food, while carpenter ants happily chewed on the local timber. Whatever you believe about the First Father, one fact is obvious: He was an uncommonly fortunate individual. The first new world proved to be a lazy place full of corners and flavors that earth species found to their liking. Included among the lucky colonists were two stray cats. One was curled up inside a storage shed, tending to her newborn litter, while the other was no more than a few days pregnant. And into that genetic puddle were three kittens smuggled into the sorority house by a young woman whose identity, and perhaps her own genetics, had long ago vanished from human affairs.

  On that glorious morning, two worlds were married.

  Each Testament had its differences, and every story was believable, but only to a maybe-so point. Claire's heretical story was the version Kala liked best and could even believe—a sordid tale of women trapped in awful circumstances but doing their noble best to survive.

  "Hello, Owen,” said Claire.

  The young man blinked, glancing at the middle-aged woman standing before him. Claire was still wearing her bathrobe and a long nightgown and old slippers. To Owen, the woman couldn't have appeared less interesting. He nodded briefly and said nothing, always staring into the distance, eyes dancing from excitement but a little sleepiness creeping into their corners.

  "What are you doing, Owen?"

  "Standing guard,” he said, managing a tense pride.

  With the most reasonable voice possible, she asked, “What are you guarding us from?"

  The young man said nothing.

  "Owen,” she repeated. Once. Twice. Then twice more.

  "I'm sorry,” he muttered, watching a single leather-wing dance in the air overhead. “There's a gauge on the ripper. It says our oxygen is about eighty percent usual. It's going to be like living in the mountains. So I'm sorry about that. I set the parameters too wide. At least for now, we're going to have to move slowly and let our bodies adapt."

  Claire sighed. Then one last time, she asked, “What are you guarding us from, Owen?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "You don't know what's out there?"

  "No.” He shrugged his shoulders, both hands gripping the stock of the rifle. “I saw you and Kala talking. Didn't she tell you? Yeah, I saw you two chatting. There's no way to tell much about a new world. The ripper can taste its air, and if it finds free oxygen and water and marker molecules that mean you're very close to the ground—"

  "You kidnapped us, Owen.” She spoke firmly, with a measured heat. “Without anyone's permission, you brought us here and marooned us."

  "I'm marooned too,” he countered.

  "And why should that make us feel better?"

  Finally, Owen studied the woman. Perhaps for the first time, he was gaining an appreciation for this unexpected wildcard.

  "Feel how you want to feel,” he said, speaking to her and everyone else in range of his voice. “This is our world now. We live or die here. We can make something out of our circumstances, or we can vanish away."

  He wasn't a weak man, and better than most people could have done, he had prepared for this incredible day. By then, Claire had realized some of that. Yet what mattered most was to get the man to admit the truth. That's why she climbed the steps, forcing him to stare at her face. “Are you much of a shot, Owen? Did you serve in the military? In your little life, have you even once gone hunting?"

  He shook his head. “None of those things, no."

  "I have,” Claire promised. “I served in the Army. My dead husband used to take me out chasing quail. When I was about your age, I shot a five-point whitetail buck."

  Owen didn't know what to make of that news. “Okay. Good, I guess."

  Claire kept her eyes on him. “Did you bring other guns?"

  "Why?"

  "Because you can't look everywhere at once,” she reminded him. “I could ask a couple of these ladies to climb on the roof, just to keep tabs on things. And maybe we should decide who can shoot, if it actually comes to that and we have to defend the house."

  Owen took a deep, rather worried breath. “I hope that doesn't happen."

  "Are there more guns?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  His eyes tracked to the right.

  "In that truck?” Claire glanced over her shoulder. “The women checked the doors. They're locked, aren't they?"

  "Yes."

  "To keep us out? Is that it?"

  He shifted his weight, and with a complaining tone said, “I can't see much, with you in the way."

  "I guess not,” Claire responded. Then she pushed closer, asking, “Do you know the combinations of those padlocks?"

  "Sure."

  "Are you going to open them?"

  Silence.

  "All right,” she said. “I guess that's just a little problem for now."

  Owen nodded, and pretending to be in complete control, he set his rifle to one side and looked at her and said, “I guess it is."

  "You're what's important. You are essential."

  "You bet."

  "And for reasons bigger than a few locks."

  The young man had to smile.

  "What's inside the trucks?"

  He quickly summarized the wealth brought from the old world, then happily added, “It's a great beginning for our colony."

  "That does sound wonderful,” Claire replied, her voice dipped in sarcasm.

  Owen smiled, hearing the words but not their color.

  "And if you could please tell me ... when do you intend to give us this good food and water? Does your generosity have a timetable?"

  "It does."

  "So tell me."

  Owen offered a smug wink, and then he sat back on the hard steps, lifting a hand, showing her three fingers.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Three girls,” he explained. Then the hand dropped, and he added, “You know what I mean."

  Here was another revelation: In every official Testament, the First Father unlocked ever door and box in the first few minutes. Without exception, he was gracious and caring, and the girls practically fought one another for the chance to sleep with him.

  "You want three of my ladies...?"

  "Yes."

  Rage stole away Claire's voice.

  Again, Owen said, “Yes."

  "Are you going to select them?” the housemother muttered. “Or is this going to be a job for volunteers?"

  Every face was fixed on Owen, and he clearly enjoyed the attention. He must have dreamed for months about this one moment, imagining the tangible, irresistible power that no one could deny ... and because of that strength, he could shrug his shoulders, admitting, “It doesn't matter who. If there's three volunteers, then that's fine."

  "You want them now?"

  "Or in a week. I can wait, if I have to."

  "You don't have to."

  The smile brightened. “Good."

  "And you get just one woman,” Claire warned, grabbing the belt of her bathrobe and tightening the sloppy knot. “Me."

  "No."

  "Yes.” Claire touched him on a knee. “No other deal is on the table, Owen. You and I are going inside. Now. My room, my bed, and afterwards, you're going to get us into those trucks, and you'll hand over every weapon you brou
ght here. Is that understood?"

  The young man's face colored. “You're not in any position—"

  "Owen,” she interrupted. Then she said, “Darling,” with a bite to her voice. And she reached out with the hand not on his knee, grabbing his bony chin while staring into the faint brown eyes that eventually would find themselves scattered across endless worlds. “This may come as news to you. But most men of your age and means and apparent intelligence don't have to go to these lengths to get their dicks wet."

  He flinched, just for an instant.

  "You don't know very much about women. Do you, Owen?"

  "I do."

  "Bullshit."

  He blinked, biting his lower lip.

  "You don't know us,” she whispered to him. “Let me warn you about the nature of women, Owen. Everyone here is going to realize that you're just a very ignorant creature. If they don't know it already, that is. And if you think you've got power over us ... well, let's just say you have some very strange illusions that need to die..."

  "Quiet,” he whispered.

  But Claire kept talking, reminding him, “In another few weeks, a couple months at most, you will be doomed."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Once enough girls are pregnant, we won't need you anymore."

  All the careful planning, but he hadn't let himself imagine this one obvious possibility. He said as much with his stiff face and the backward tilt of his frightened body.

  "You can have all the guns in the world—hell, you do have all the guns—but you're going to end up getting knifed in bed. Yes, that could happen, Owen. Then in another few years, when your sons are old enough and my Deltas are in their late thirties ... they'll still be young enough to use those boys’ little seeds..."

  "No,” he muttered.

  "Yes,” she said. Her hand squeezed his knee. “Or maybe we could arrive at a compromise. Surrender your guns and open every lock, and afterwards, maybe you can try to do everything in your power to make this mess a little more bearable for us..."

  "And what do I get?"

  "You live to be an old man. And if you're an exceptionally good man from here on, maybe your grandchildren will forgive you for what you've done. And if you're luckier than you deserve to be, perhaps they'll even like you."

  5

  When Kala was fourteen, her church acquired the means to send one hundred blessed newlyweds off to another world. United Manufacturing had built a class-B ripper specifically for them. Tithes and government grants paid for the machine, while the stockpiles of critical supplies came through direct donations as well as a few wealthy benefactors. A standard hemispherical building was erected in an isolated field, its dimensions slightly smaller than the ripper's reach. Iron and copper plates made the rounded walls, nickel and tin and other useful metals forming the interior ribs, and secured to the roof were a few pure gold trimmings. The ground beneath had been excavated, dirt replaced with a bed of high-grade fertilizer and an insulated fuel tank set just under the bright steel floor. No portion of the cavernous interior was wasted: The young couples were taking foodstuffs and clean water, sealed animal pens and elaborate seed stocks, plus generators and earth-movers, medicine enough to keep an entire city fit, and the intellectual supplies necessary to build civilization once again.

  On the wedding day, the congregation was given its last chance to see what the sacrifices had purchased. Several thousand parishioners gathered in long patient lines, donning sterile gloves and filter masks, impermeable sacks tied about their feet. Why chance giving some disease to the livestock or leaving rust spores on the otherwise sterile steel floor? The young pioneers stood in the crisscrossing hallways, brides dressed in white gowns, grooms in taut black suits, all wearing masks and gloves. One of the benefits born from the seventeen previous migrations was that most communicable diseases had been left behind. Only sinus colds and little infections born from mutating staph and strep were a problem. Yet even there, it was hoped that this migration would bring the golden moment, humanity finally escaping even those minor ailments.

  The youngest brides were only a few years older than Kala, and she knew them well enough to make small talk before wishing them good-bye with the standard phrase, “Blessings in your new world."

  Every girl's mask was wet with tears. Each was weeping for her own reason, but Kala was at a loss to guess who felt what. Some probably adored their temporary fame, while other girls cried out of simple stage fright. A few lucky brides probably felt utter love for their husbands-to-be, while others saw this mission as a holy calling. But some of the girls had to be genuinely terrified: The smartest few probably awoke this morning to the realization that they were doomed, snared in a vast and dangerous undertaking that had never quite claimed their hearts.

  Standing near the burly ripper—a place of some honor—was a girl named Tina. Speaking through her soggy mask, she said to Kala, “May you find your new world soon."

  "And bless you in yours."

  Kala had no interest in emigrating. But what else could she say? Tina was soon to vanish, and the girl had always been friendly to Kala. Named for the first wife to give a son to the First Father, Tina was short and a little stocky, and by most measures, not pretty. But her father was a deacon, and more important, her grandmother had offered a considerable dowry to the family that took her grandchild. Was the bride-to-be aware of these political dealings? And if so, did it matter to her? Tina seemed genuinely thrilled by her circumstances, giggling and pulling Kala closer, sounding like a very best friend when she asked, “Isn't this a beautiful day?"

  "Yes,” Kala lied.

  "And tomorrow will be better still. Don't you think?"

  The mass marriage would be held this evening, and come dawn, the big ripper would roar to life.

  "Tomorrow will be different,” Kala agreed, suddenly tired of their game.

  Behind Tina, wrapped in thick plastic, was the colony's library. Ten thousand classic works were etched into sheets of tempered glass, each sheet thin as a hair and guaranteed to survive ten thousand years of weather and hard use. Among those works were the writings of every Father and the Testaments of the Fifteen Wives, plus copies of the ancient textbooks that the Deltas brought from the Old Earth. As language evolved, the texts had been translated. Kala had digested quite a few of them, including the introductions to ecology and philosophy, the fat histories of several awful wars, and an astonishing fable called Huckster Finn.

  Tina noticed her young friend staring at the library. “I'm not a reader,” she confided. “Not like you are, Kala."

  The girl was rather simple, it was said.

  "But I'm bringing my books too.” Only the bride's brown eyes were visible, dark eyebrows acquiring a mischievous look. “Ask me what I'm taking."

  "What are you taking, Tina?"

  She mentioned several unremarkable titles. Then after a dramatic pause, she said, “The Duty of Eve. I'm taking that too."

  Kala flinched.

  "Don't tell anybody,” the girl begged.

  "Why would I?” Kala replied. “You can carry whatever you want, inside your wedding trunk."

  The Duty was popular among conservative faiths. Historians claimed it was written by an unnamed Wife on the second new world—a saintly creature who died giving birth to her fifth son, but left behind a message from one of God's good angels: Suffering was noble, sacrifice led to purity, and if your children walked where no one had walked before, your life had been worth every misery.

  "Oh, Kala. I always wanted to know you better,” Tina continued. “I mean, you're such a beautiful girl, and smart. But you know that already, don't you?"

  Kala couldn't think of a worthwhile response.

  With both hands, Tina held tight to Kala's arm. “I have an extra copy of The Duty. I'll let you have it, if you want."

  She said, “No."

  "Think about it."

  "I don't want it—"

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes,” Kala b
lurted. “I don't want that damned book.” Then she yanked her arm free and hurried away.

  Tina stared after her, anger fading into subtler, harder to name emotions.

  Kala felt the eyes burning against her neck, and she was a little bit ashamed for spoiling their last moments together. But the pain was brief. After all, she had been nothing but polite. It was the stupid girl who ruined everything.

  According to The Duty, every woman's dream was to surrender to one great man. Kala had read enough excerpts to know too much. The clumsy, relentless point of that idiotic old book was that a holy girl found her great man, and she did everything possible to sleep with him, even if that meant sharing his body with a thousand other wives. The best historians were of one mind on this matter: The Duty wasn't a revelation straight from God, or even some second-tier angel. It was a horny man's fantasy written down in some lost age, still embraced by the conniving and believed by every fool.

  Kala walked fast, muttering to herself.

  Sandor was standing beside the ripper, chatting amiably with the newly elected Next Father. Her brother had become a strong young man, stubborn and charming and very handsome, and by most measures, as smart as any sixteen year-old could be. He often spoke about leaving the world, but only if he was elected to a Next Father's post. That was how it was done in their church: One bride for each groom, and the most deserving couple was voted authority over the new colony.

  "It's a good day,” Sandor sang out. “Try smiling."

  Kala pushed past him, down the crowded aisle and out into the fading sunshine.

  Sandor excused himself and followed. He would always be her older brother, and that made him protective as well as sensitive to her feelings. He demanded to know what was wrong, and she told him. Then he knew exactly what to say. “The girl's is as stupid as she is homely, and what does it matter to you?"

  Nothing. It didn't matter at all, of course.

  "Our world's going to be better without her,” he promised.

  But another world would be polluted as a consequence: A fact that Kala couldn't forget, much less forgive.