Science Fiction: The Best of the Year, 2007 Edition

by Rich Horton

  He asked that question every few days, as if for the first time.

  At first Kala thought that he simply wasn't hearing her answers. Later, she wondered if he was trying to break her down, hoping to make her admit that she didn't have any good reason for her life's investment. But after weeks of enduring this verbal dance, she began to appreciate what was happening. To keep from boring herself, she was forced to change her response. Inside the canyon, staring at the dead fish, she didn't bother with old words about the duty and honor that came from saving a few nameless bugs. And she avoided the subject of great medicines that probably would never emerge from her work. Instead, staring down at the rich bulging body, she offered a new response.

  "This world of ours is dying, Sandor."

  The statement earned a hard look and an impossible-to-read grin. “Why's that?” he asked over the roar of the water.

  "A healthy earth has ten or twenty or fifty million species. Depending on how you count them.” She shook her head, reminding him, “The Last Father brought as many species as possible. Nearly a thousand multicellular species have survived here. And that's too few to make an enduring, robust ecosystem."

  Sandor shrugged and gestured at the distant sky. “Things look good enough,” he said. “What do you mean that it's dying?"

  "Computer models point to the possibility,” she explained. “Low diversity means fragile ecosystems. And it's more than just having too few species. It's the nature of these species. Wherever we go, we bring weed species. Biological thugs, essentially. And not just from the original earth but from seventeen distinct evolutionary histories. Seventeen lines that are nearly alien to one another. That reduces meaningful interactions. It's another factor why there will eventually come a crunch."

  "Okay. So when?"

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "Next year?"

  "Not for thousands of years,” she allowed. “But there is a collapse point, and after that, the basic foundations of this biosphere will decline rapidly. Phytoplankton, for one. The native species are having troubles enduring the new food chains, and if they end up vanishing, then nobody will be making free oxygen."

  "Trees don't make oxygen?"

  "They do,” she admitted. “But their wood burns or rots. And rotting is the same reaction as burning, chemically speaking."

  Sandor stared at the gray mother fish.

  "You know how it is when you turn on a ripper?” Kala asked. “You know how the machine has to search hard for a world with a livable atmosphere?"

  Her brother nodded, a look of anticipation building in the pale brown eyes.

  "Do you ever wonder why so many earths don't have decent air for us? Do you?” Kala gave him a rough pat on the shoulder, asking, “What if a lot of pioneers have been moving across the multiverse? Humans and things that aren't human too. And what if most of these intrepid pioneers eventually kick their worlds out of equilibrium, killing them as a consequence?"

  "Yeah,” he said.

  Then after a long thoughtful moment: “Huh."

  And that was the last time Sandor ever bothered to doubt the importance of Kala's work.

  10

  The heart of every ripper was a cap-shaped receptacle woven from diamond whiskers, each whisker doctored with certain rare-earth elements and infused with enough power to pierce the local brane. But as difficult as the receptacle was to build, it was a simple chore next to engineering the machines to support and control its work. Hard drives and the capacitors had to function on the brink of theoretical limits. Heat and quantum fluctuations needed to be kept at a minimum. The best rippers utilized a cocktail of unusual isotopes, doubling their reliability as well tripling the costs, while security costs added another forty percent to the final price.

  Twice that summer, Kala and her brother saw convoys of finished rippers being shipped across country. Armored trucks were painted a lush emerald green, each one accompanied by two or three faster vehicles bristling with weapons held by tough young men. Routes and schedules were supposed to be kept secret. Since even a small ripper was worth a fortune, the corporations did whatever they could to protect their investments. Which made Kala wonder: How the Children of Forever learn where one convoy would be passing, and what kind of firepower would it take to make the rippers their own?

  Sandor was driving when they ran into one of the convoys. A swift little blister of armor and angry faces suddenly passed them on the wrong side. “Over,” screamed every face. “Pull over."

  They were beside the Mormon Sea, on a highway famous for scenery and its narrow, almost nonexistent shoulders. But Sandor complied, fitting them onto a slip of asphalt and turning off the engine, then setting the parking brake and turning to look back around the bend, eyes huge and his lower lip tucked into his chewing mouth.

  For a moment or two, Kala watched the bright water of the inland sea, enjoying the glitter stretching to the horizon. Then came the rumble of big engines, and a pair of heavy freight trucks rolled past, followed by more deadly cars, and then another pair of trucks.

  "Class-Cs,” Sandor decided. “About a hundred of them, built down in Highborn."

  The trucks had no obvious markings. “How can you tell?"

  "The lack of security,” he said. “Cs don't get as much. It's the As and Bs that bandits can sell for a fortune. And I know the company because each truck's got a code on its side, if you know how to read it."

  The convoy had passed out of sight, but they remained parked beside the narrow road. “When are we moving again?” she asked.

  "Wait,” he cautioned.

  She shifted in her seat and took a couple meaningful breaths.

  Reading the signs, Sandor turned to her. “You don't want to trail them too closely. Someone might get the wrong idea. Know what I mean?"

  And with that, her brave, almost fearless brother continued to sit beside the road, hands squeezing the wheel.

  "You gave somebody the wrong idea,” she said.

  "Pardon?"

  "Sandor,” she said. “In your life, how many convoys have you followed?"

  Nothing changed about his face. Then suddenly, a little smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and with a quiet, conspiratorial voice, he admitted, “Fifty, maybe sixty."

  She wasn't surprised, except that she didn't expect to feel so upset. “Is that how badly you want it? To be a Father ... you're willing to steal a ripper just to get your chance...?"

  He started to nod. Then again, he looked at his sister, reminding her, “I'm still here. So I guess I'm not really that eager."

  "What went wrong? The work was too dangerous for you?"

  His expression looked injured now. Straightening his back, he started the car and pulled out, accelerating for a long minute, letting the silence work on Kala until he finally told her, “You know, there were thirty-two security men on that other convoy. The one hit by the Children of Forever. Plus a dozen drivers and three corporate representatives. And all were killed during the robbery."

  "I know that—"

  "Most of those poor shits were laid down in a ditch by the road and shot through the head. Just so motorists wouldn't notice the bodies when they drove past.” He squeezed the steering wheel until it squeaked, and very carefully, he told Kala, “That's when I gave up wanting it. Being a Father to the very best world isn't enough reason to murder even one poor boy who's trying to make some money and keep his family fed."

  * * * *

  A pair of mountain ranges stood as islands far out in the Mormon Sea, and they spent on few days walking the tallest peaks. Then they drove north again, up to the Geysers, enjoying a long hike through the mountains north of that volcanic country. Then it was late August, and they started back toward Kala's home. One stop remained, kept until now for sentimental reasons.

  "Our best vacation,” she muttered.

  Sandor agreed with his silence and a little wink.

  They stayed in a reserve campground meant for employees, and Kala in
troduced her brother to the few rangers that remained from her days here. The mood was upbeat, on the whole. Old colleagues expressed interest in her studies, asking knowledgeable questions, and some cases, offering advice.

  One older gentleman—a fellow who had never warmed much to her before—nodded as he listened to her description of her work. Then he said, “Kala,” with a sweet, almost fatherly voice. “I know a place with just that kind of bug. I can't tell you the species, by I don't think it's quite what you've found before."

  "Really? Where?"

  He brought out a map and pointed at a long valley on the other side of the continental divide. “It looks too low in altitude, I suppose. And a lot of junipers are moving in. But if you get up by this looping road here—"

  Sandor pushed in close to watch.

  "There's a little glen. I've seen that blue bug there, I'm sure."

  "Thank you,” Kala told him.

  "Whatever I can do to help,” the old ranger said. Then he made a show of rolling up the map, asking, “I can take you up myself. If your brother wants to stay here and rest for a bit."

  Sandor said, “No thanks."

  But he said it in an especially nice way. For the time being, neither one of them could see what was happening.

  11

  As promised, juniper trees were standing among the natives. Rilly birds and starlings must have eaten juniper berries outside the reserve. Since their corrosive stomach acids were essential for the germination process, wherever they relieved themselves, a new forest of ugly gray-green trees sprouted, prickly and relentless. Most biologists claimed that it was an innate, mutualistic relationship between species. But Kala had a different interpretation: The birds knew precisely what they were doing. Whenever a starling took a dump, it sang to the world, “I'm planting a forest here. And I'm going to be the death of you, you silly old trees."

  Sandor squatted and stuck his thick fingers into the needle litter, churning up a long pink worm. After a summer spent watching Kala, he was now one the great experts when it came to a single genus of pseudoinsects. “Not all that promising,” he announced.

  Earthworms were another key invader from their home world. And no, nightcrawlers didn't usually coexist with her particular creepy-crawlies.

  "Maybe higher up,” he offered.

  But the old ranger told her this was the place, which implied that her subjects were enduring despite worms and trees: A heroic image that Kala wanted to cling to for a little while longer.

  "You wander,” she said. “If I don't find anything, I'll follow."

  Sandor winked and stepped back into the black shadows.

  Twenty minutes later, Kala gave up the hunt. Stepped into a little clearing, she sat on a rock bench, pulling a sandwich from her knapsack and managing a bite before a stranger stepped off the trail behind her.

  "Excuse me?"

  Startled, Kala wheeled fast, her free hand reaching for the pistol on her belt. But the voice was a girl's, and she was a very tiny creature—big-eyed and fragile, maybe ten years younger than Kala. The girl looked tired and worried. Her shirt was torn, and her left arm wore a long scrape that looked miserably sore.

  "Can you help me, ma'am? Please?"

  Carefully, Kala rose to her feet while pushing the sandwich back inside her bag, using that same motion to make certain that her second pistol was where she expected it to be. Then with a careful voice, she asked, “Are you lost, sweetie?"

  "That too,” the girl said, glancing over her shoulder before stepping away from the forest's edge. “It's been days since I've been outside. At least."

  Kala absorbed the news. Then she quietly asked, “Where have you been?"

  "In the back end."

  "The end of what?"

  "The bus,” the girl snapped, as if Kala should already know that much. “He put me with the others, in the dark—"

  "Other girls?"

  "Yes, yes.” The little creature drifted forward, tucking both hands into her armpits. “He's a mean one—"

  "What sect?"

  "Huh?"

  "Does he belong to a sect?"

  "The Children of Forever,” the strange girl confessed. “Do you know about them?"

  With her right hand, Kala pulled the pistol from her belt while keeping the bag on her left shoulder. Nothing moved in the trees. Except for the girl and her, there might be no one else in this world.

  "He's collecting wives,” the girl related. “He told me he wants ten of us before he leaves."

  "Come closer,” Kala told her. Then she asked, “How many girls does he have so far?"

  The girl swallowed. “Three."

  "And there's just him?"

  "Yeah. He's alone.” The girl's eyes were growing larger, unblinking and bright. “Three other girls, and me. And him."

  "Where?"

  "Down that way,” said the girl. “Past the parking lot, hiding up in some big old grease trees."

  Kala's car lay in the same direction. But Sandor had gone the opposite direction.

  Whispering, she told the stranger, “Okay. I can help you."

  "Thank you, ma'am!"

  "Quiet."

  "Sorry,” the girl muttered.

  "Now,” Kala told her. “This way."

  The girl fell in beside her, rubbing her bloodied arm as she walked. She breathed hard and fast. Several more times, she said, “Thank you.” But she didn't seem to look back half as often as Kala did, and maybe that was what seemed wrong.

  After a few minutes of hard walking, Kala asked, “So how did you get free?"

  The girl looked back then. And with a nod, she said, “I crawled up through the vent."

  A tiny creature like that: Kala could believe it.

  "I cut my arm on a metal edge."

  The wound was red, but the blood had clotted some time ago. Even as Kala nodded, accepting that story, a little part of her was feeling skeptical.

  "If he finds me, he'll hurt me."

  "I won't let him hurt you,” Kala promised.

  "There's three other girls in the bus,” she repeated. Then she put her hands back into her armpits, hugging herself hard, saying, “We should save them, if we can. Sneak up to the bus while he's hunting for me and get them free, maybe."

  But Kala wanted to find Sandor. She came close to mentioning him to the girl, but then she thought better of it. Her brother's presence was a secret that made her feel better. It gave her the confidence to tell the girl, “Later. First I have to make sure that you're safe."

  The girl stared up at her protector, saying nothing.

  "Come on,” Kala urged.

  "I want to be safe,” the girl said.

  "That's what I'm doing—"

  "No,” she said. Then her hands came out from under her arms, one of them empty while the other held a little box with two metal forks sticking from one end, and the forks jumped out and dove into her skin, and suddenly a hot blue bolt of lightning was rolling through her body.

  * * * *

  The girl disarmed Kala and stole her bag and tied her up with plastic straps pulled from her back pocket. Then she vanished down the path. The pain subsided enough to where Kala could sit up, watching uphill, imagining her brother's arrival. But this wasn't the path he had taken, and he still hadn't shown by the time the girl and New Father appeared. A stubby automatic weapon hung on his shoulder. He was forty or forty-five years old, a big strong and homely creature with rough hands and foul breath. “She is awfully pretty,” was his first assessment, smiling at his latest acquisition. Then he offered a wink, adding, “He promised I'd like you. And he was right."

  The old ranger had set this up.

  "I didn't see any brother,” said the tiny girl.

  "That would be too easy,” the man cautioned. Then he handed his weapon to the girl and grabbed Kala, flinging her over a shoulder while saying, “I don't think he'll be any problem. But come on anyway, sweet. Fast as we can walk."

  They entered the open glade, crossing
the parking lot and passing Kala's tiny car before they climbed again, entering a mature stand of native trees. Hiding in the gloom was a long bus flanked by a pair of fat freight trucks, each vehicle equipped with wide tires and extra suspension. And there were many more brides than three, Kala saw. Twelve was her first count, fourteen when she tried again. Each girl was in her teens. They looked like schoolgirls on a field trip, giggling and teasing the newest wife by saying, “Too old to walk for herself,” and, “Fresh blood in the gene pool, looks like."

  Three young men silently watched Kala's arrival. Sons, by the looks of them. In their early twenties, at most.

  "Beautiful,” said one of the boys.

  The other two nodded and grinned.

  With the care shown to treasured luggage, the older man set Kala beneath a tree, her back propped against the black trunk, arms and legs needing to be retied, just to make sure. Kala quickly looked from face to face, hoping for any sign of empathy. There was none. And the girl who had been sent out as bait stood over Kala for several minutes, wearing the hardest expression of all.

  "He will come for me,” Kala said.

  "Your brother probably will,” said the New Father. “But I've been watching you two. He's carrying nothing bigger than that long pistol, and we've got artillery here he wouldn't dare face."

  As if to prove their murderous natures, the sons retrieved their own automatic weapons from the bus.

  "What next?” one son asked.

  "Stay here with me,” their father advised.

  But the oldest son didn't like that tactic. “We could circle around, pick him off when he shows himself."

  "No,” he was told.

  "But—"

  "What did I say?"

  The young man dropped his face.

  "God led us to this place,” the wiser man continued. “And God has seen to give us a sticky hot day. Pray for storms. That's my advice. Then we can punch a hole in the clouds and get power enough to finally leave..."

  Lightning, he was talking about. Kala had heard about this technique: With a proper rocket and enough wire following like a tail, it was possible to create lightning during a thunderstorm. A channel of air supplied the connection to the charged earth below. The bolt would strike a preset lightning rod ... up in the tree on the other side of camp, she realized. She noticed the tall black spike and the heavy wires leading down into the ripper that was probably set in the center of the bus, a class-C that was hungry and waiting for its first and only meal.