The Best Science Fiction of the Year, Volume 3

by Neil Clarke

  “You are the pure river,” the alien said. “You are the undiluted true river that came from the stars to join us.”

  A few words, and one man’s life shifted.

  “That’s how I look to you?” asked Amund.

  “How you look, how you are,” she reported. Then a long blue digit appeared beside his head, jointless and rigid and very thin. What wasn’t a real finger was pointing at Mere and Rococo. “Machines,” she said.

  “My companions?”

  “You call them ‘machines.’ ”

  “So. You’ve been watching us, have you?”

  “Since your arrival,” she warned.

  This surviving trickle of a river had an unsuspected reach. Studying them through the flying bugs, perhaps? Amund smiled at the news, feeling nervous and alive. “What do you think about those two machines?” he asked.

  “They terrify us.”

  That deserved a good laugh. But Amund stifled the reaction. “Why are you scared?”

  “They attacked us.”

  “Did they?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how did they attack you?” he wanted to know.

  Silence.

  Holding a hand to the sun, the pure river cut the glare in his eyes. “What weapons did they use?”

  “Poison,” she said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Poisonous beliefs,” she said.

  Amund nodded politely, understanding nothing.

  The blue digit was retracted.

  “Those dangerous machines down there,” Amund said. “They’re hoping to reach that second starship. Which leads to the question: Are you going to help them?”

  “No.” “No?”

  “They are dangerous, and I won’t help them.”

  Amund lowered his hand, sunlight burning his eyes. “Believe it or not, you sound like the pure little rivers I grew up with.” “

  How do I sound?”

  “Like a cowardly little puddle of piss,” Amund said.

  The giant river said nothing.

  “Those monsters don’t scare me,” he added. And after that, Amund felt as if he could take his time, sitting quietly while deciding what he wanted most, and then finding the very best way to make it all come true.

  5.

  Bold action or bolder inaction. Those were possibilities, but only once. Only at the beginning and for a ludicrously narrow moment. Ignorance was the chief problem, but there was also a reflexive sense of duty, and at least in Rococo’s case, thousands of years of hubris stirring him to action. Those living rivers were a grand mystery, and mysteries always generated curiosity. The actual voyage promised to be a routine haul across empty, well-mapped space inside a proven machine. The diplomat had survived wilder dashes through space. It was the target world that was unique, barely studied, and unlike anything else. But at least they had the long voyage to prepare. In that light, the plan felt reasonable. Where-the-rivers-live promised to maintain its high-density broadcasts. The Great Ship would continue studying their target and send updates. Even better, Rococo and Mere were the best two for this work. And the third member of the crew was free to offer odd insights as well as his skeptical silence—qualities that Rococo appreciated more and more as the journey unfolded.

  The midway point was reached without incident. Telescopic data from home remained enthusiastic, but of course those were old images growing even staler when they traveled back up to the streakship. The direct alien transmissions were a few years old but younger with every breath, and they offered updates about every subject: Industrial growth and half-finished star drives, plus some exceptionally precise measurements about the world’s general enthusiasm.

  “Bullshit.”

  Amund refused to be confident.

  “Pictures and noise,” the luddy warned. “Those aliens shape the data however they want.”

  Naturally, every broadcast was a staged event. That was true when humans threw shadow puppets up on their cave walls, and it was certainly true about the rivers as well.

  “This could all be a con job,” Amund said.

  Rococo didn’t believe that. There was no great deception. AIs analyzed the feeds, proven algorithms raking the data for lies and signs of madness and any other flaws. Because every lie carried telltale flaws. But this was a long-closed society opening up to a greater world. The evidence said nothing else. Inspired by the Great Ship, those ancient rivers had decided to reach into space. To help their prospects, they were giving away four of their worlds, but that left plenty of other cold moons and comets for them to claim and then transform.

  They were two years out, and nothing had changed. Nothing was wrong. Not a sign, not a rumor. But in mid-broadcast, the largest river stopped transmitting, and within minutes the rest of that world had fallen silent. A full day passed without words. Mere was working with the shipboard telescopes, trying to boost their sensitivity high enough to get a good glimpse of what was happening. But before she finished, the voices returned. Except they weren’t voices. The scarce and weak and urgent transmission showed them nothing but wordless imagery. Every river had been struck by fusion weapons. The aliens were boiled on the land and shredded under the ocean. The diplomatic mission was dead, every agreement lost. And Rococo realized that years ago, facing a choice, the bold, brave, and exceptionally wise decision would have been to do anything but go on this fool mission.

  “I should have strangled my curiosity.”

  He said that to himself and the others. Obviously, telescopes and automated probes could have done the necessary research, and today the three of them would be sitting safe inside the Great Ship, watching a distant world burn itself to a cinder.

  But of course this was where they were. Trapped inside a streakship whose engines were punching at the Universe. There were zero choices. They were on a collision course with disaster, nowhere else to fly. Mere and Rococo continued studying the rare broadcasts. Preferring to ignore awful news, Amund remained inside his cabin for days at a time, appearing only to hear a few specifics. And even though he had little experience with aliens, and very steep barriers to learning, the man did try to make sense of what was happening.

  “It’s greed,” he declared. “The rivers got selfish, and some of them went to war with the others.”

  Rococo and Mere shared a glance.

  Reading faces, Amund said, “Unless I’m wrong. And I know you’re not shy about telling me that.” “It’s not war,” Rococo said.

  “What then? Did two big rivers get into a brawl?”

  The luddy had made another obvious, very human mistake. “War” and “brawl” were two good human words, and deceptive. Rococo had the same problem. He couldn’t reliably explain the situation, and that’s why he smiled at the exobiologist, saying, “Tell our friend his mistake.”

  “Oh, I was wrong, too,” she offered.

  It was sickening, this abundance of ignorance.

  “If I’d studied those first transmissions more thoroughly,” Mere began. “Or better, if I’d taken the trouble to model the rivers’ biology. I could have seen the problem. If I’d made all the right assumptions, which I probably wouldn’t have done. But let’s pretend I did.”

  When Mere spoke, Amund stared at her. Even when the topic was too new and too complicated, the mortal appeared to be intrigued by whatever she had to offer. And when Mere wasn’t speaking, the man would watch her face and watch her hands, waiting for that inevitable moment when those odd, oversized eyes glanced at poor idiot him.

  And with the same sturdy resolve, Amund kept ignoring Rococo. The most obvious drama in the Universe was the luddy’s hatred for the other male onboard this one-lady ship.

  “This isn’t war, and this isn’t a grudge match,” Mere was saying. “The blast patterns. The transmission patterns. And both of you, pay close attention. Look at the flow in these videos.”

  Rococo focused on the images, but he wasn’t sure what he should be seeing. He and that other fell
ow were on the same footing, both spellbound by the tiny woman who was explaining how thoughts and planning crept their way through each of these great rivers.

  “The speed of belief,” she said.

  Thousands of years old, and Rococo had never heard that expression.

  “What the hell is that?” Amund asked for both of them.

  “The speed of belief,” she repeated. “One river acts like a single organism. It moves and speaks as if it’s unified. Which is very reasonable. We know its thoughts are quick. Chemoelectrical speeds, hundreds of kilometers in a second. The largest river can react to any outside stimulation and every interior need. Resources pulled from the crust. Reserves tapped for projects deemed suitable. Like its desire to build starships. The rivers claimed that they didn’t see the need before us. They barely had enough curiosity to build giant eyes and watch the Universe. And what did they see out here? Tiny creatures gathered around lesser stars or riding inside ridiculous little spaceships. And a lot of empty cold space too.

  “But then the rivers saw us. They saw the Great Ship. Here was the first genuine marvel. A billion years old, and the organisms had finally found their superior. And because of that, they made promises to do everything possible to gain passage on our grand home.”

  She paused, returning Amund’s gaze.

  Did he understand any of this?

  The man was sitting up, which was unusual. But this was an important, sit-upworthy moment. That body would never adapt to the high gees, yet he never complained about aches or the occasional cracked bone. Rococo held some uncharitable opinions about Amund, but despite being doubtful and sullen, the man never quit proving that he was also an exceptionally tough mortal.

  “What does that mean?” the luddy asked. “‘The speed of belief?’ ”

  Mere glanced at her colleague. “Would you like to explain?”

  “You’ll manage so much better,” Rococo said instantly. The portrait of gracious confidence, he had no interest in trying to convince the others that he knew what he was saying.

  Mere nodded and thankfully continued.

  “Belief isn’t thought,” she said. “And belief isn’t a reflex either. What we believe is woven into our nature, and regardless of how we act and what we say, we can never kill the voice that says, ‘This is what should be, and the rest of it is wrong.’

  “And the principle of belief … well, that can be far, far more important inside giant creatures. Vast minds have to work around their size and sluggish reflexes. That’s why convictions are something held everywhere at once. Every million tons of neurological matter is infused with complex expectations and stubborn faiths. The river has one mind, yes. But not a mind we would recognize. Spread yourself across thousands of kilometers. Trillions of tons of stubborn water. That’s what I think we’re watching here. At some level, the rivers decided to embrace this new existence, building industries and reactors and tremendous new machines. Except nothing was decided. One belief had the power, and that power was wielded right up until the contrary belief decided enough was the hell enough.”

  Rococo stopped her. Lifting a hand, he said, “Wait. That last transmission, the one that got cut out in the middle.”

  Mere nodded, smiling grimly.

  “The largest river was sending us some very detailed plans,” he said. “Plans for the conquest of its solar system, including construction of a hundred billion kilometer long river that would spiral out from the sun. A living river thriving inside cultured diamond and fusion light.”

  “That might have been the trigger,” Mere admitted. “A fantasy of dream and high physics, and it was too much. Too crazy, too wild. Too dangerous. There’s no being certain here, but sure, that’s why the conservative beliefs had enough and panicked. One daydream, and that’s what nearly killed this world.”

  Amund was relatively young, not particularly gray, and carrying those boyish eyes. But his voice had always been older than his appearance, more lucid, and far more thoughtful than Rococo might have expected.

  Speaking plainly and slowly, Amund said, “This giant mess. What we’re flying toward. You’re claiming it’s because some voice or voices told a story nobody else liked?”

  Mere said, “I don’t know.”

  Then, “But I believe that’s possible, yes.”

  There was a joke here, but nobody laughed. Glancing at Rococo, Mere’s expression grew even more serious than before. Something new had to be shared, perhaps something that she just discovered.

  “What else?” Amund asked.

  “What else?” Rococo echoed.

  “There’s another belief at work here,” she warned. “I can see it in the last few broadcasts. The rivers that are alive now … they don’t just simply hate the deal made with us. They’re acting like they don’t want to allow us to come close. Maybe we’re contaminants. Or we’re a disease. Perhaps we’re even monsters.”

  “But you are all those things,” Amund said. “Didn’t you know?”

  The immortals tried to laugh, and the luddy grinned while saying nothing else.

  Closing her eyes, Mere examined the latest data.

  Rococo couldn’t shake that crippling premonition of being doomed.

  “Their world’s mangled,” she reported. “But there’s enough organization and industry left to throw new satellites into orbit. Right now, my best look is showing me a single pusher stardrive powered by hundred-megaton charges. It’s orbiting close to the sun. Judging by its orbit and its focus, I’d guess that it’s watching a specific piece of the sky. The piece of sky that we’ll fall out of. And it could be used to intercept intruders. Which is nobody except for us.”

  Their engines surged or Rococo was suddenly weaker. Either way, he felt his legs folding, delivering him to the cabin’s floor.

  “Any more splendid news?” Amund asked.

  “Actually there is good,” she said. “The rivers tried to attack our other streakship. I don’t know how many bombs were launched. But what’s the difference between a comet approaching at half-light speed and a fusion charge bearing down at a few thousand kilometers per hour? The difference is that bombs are easier to stop. Lasers tore them apart. Only a few detonated, and those at a distance, and the streakship’s armor is too high-grade and proud to shatter.”

  She paused long enough to sigh.

  “Our salvation ship claims to be ready to launch, and that’s what I would make it do now. I’d launch it now and have it meet us and save us. If I could get the orbital motions to agree. But the motions don’t work and never will. The one blessing we have is that if we survive the megatons, and if we live to reach the surface, and if we happen to be in walking distance too … well, then we have a viable way home.”

  One of them was destined to die soon, regardless of events. And he was the one who insisted on laughing.

  “Belief,” Amund said.

  “That’s what this is about?” Amund asked.

  “Stubborn, stubborn, slow to change, and far too big to see the need,” he said. Then he shook his head, saying, “Shit, that sounds like you and me. And particularly, both of you.”

  6.

  The rivers’ pre-catastrophe broadcasts used the Ship’s language, and that’s what the two of them spoke now. Most of the day was invested in vain efforts at conversation. The creature didn’t respond but there was no end of noise, moving water and the slurping of slow gelatins mixed with the chirpy whine of little creatures lurking along the shoreline. Sometimes Mere would hear what sounded like a spoken word. Or Rococo. Except no, that was imagination at play. Only one of them heard the voice, not the other. Fear and fatigue were on display, and despair, the desperate mind inventing a soft “hello” just to feed itself that momentary dash of hope.

  Preset strategies were followed, but without any sense of being heard, Rococo eventually abandoned that original script. A wink to Mere, and he launched into a peculiar story about the roaring majesty of a newborn river, and how a boy stood too close and
was swallowed, drowning without dying and then left lost inside a wasteland of mud.

  Mere found herself listening, and then listening carefully. But just as she became intrigued by the buried head and the thoughts trapped within its mind, the story was interrupted.

  A clipped, clumsy sentence was offered.

  “I hear you,” said the river.

  “Are you listening?” They’d asked that hours ago. Was this the river’s response, and what did its timing mean? Mere had no way to answer either question. She’d never conversed directly with any river. Was the alien innately slow? Maybe those words had to be drawn from memories stored hundreds of kilometers from here. Or maybe rivers were patient, or this river was being cautious. Unless it had taken this much time to build a working mouth. Or the river wanted to ignore them entirely, and this phrase had leaked free, like a small social blunder.

  “I hear you,” came out from that blue-gray surface.

  A rather human, entirely feminine voice.

  Rococo quit sharing his secrets.

  Then the river said, “I hear you and understand every word, and you say you need me.”

  “We need you,” Mere agreed.

  “You need to be somewhere else,” said the river.

  Rococo said, “Yes.”

  “On your great ship,” said the river. “But you need to cross me and stand inside your little ship. Yes yes yes?”

  “Yes” was an excellent word for most situations.

  Mere said, “Yes.”

  There was a pause, almost too brief to notice. Then the voice declared, “I will carry you.”

  It was Mere’s experience that the Universe was built from questions. And every question, particularly the richest few, triggered a cascade of possible answers. But she refused to push any hypothesis ahead of the others. In her work, guesses were hazards. Every insight invited belief, and nothing was more dangerous than revelation. The exobiologist never stopped fighting the impulse to frame what she was seeing. Believing the bare minimum. That was a wise strategy, and that’s why she couldn’t accept the river’s good words or its sudden promise to help.