The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 24

by Gardner Dozois

  The deck was awash. Dottie hung back. Salt spray ignited the air. It was a miracle, really, that she’d been able to do as much as she had to help when you considered the deal this dead husk had forced on her. Now all she had to do was keep hold of his nylon top, toupee and sunglasses. The sky shattered in greys and purples. For all his slips and struggles as he manoeuvred Warren Hastings toward the Glorious Nomad’s stern, Frank Onions felt like he was Odysseus sailing from Circe’s island, or Jason with his Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece. Soon, he would reach those warmly welcoming shores that Dottie had been promising him.

  A few last staggers and he was clinging to the final rail, and still just about keeping hold of Warren, although they were both equally drenched, and it was hard to distinguish between sea and sky out here. Then he felt the steel clifface of the Glorious Nomad’s stern rising and straining until her screws were swirling above the waves, and it seemed for a long moment that the whole ship would simply carry on climbing until the ocean dragged her down. Frank skidded and nearly fell as he grabbed Warren’s arms and tried to haul him over the rail.

  “Stop squirming you bastard!” Frank screamed into the wind even though Warren wasn’t squirming at all. As the ship teetered and began to fall back he tried to lift him again, and this time got some better kind of purchase. This, Frank thought, as he and Warren swayed like dancers over the stern’s drop, was far closer to a dead man as he’d ever wanted to get, but for all the wet grey skin, cavernous cheeks and birdcage chest, there was something about Warren Hastings in this stuttering light that didn’t seem entirely dead. Something in the eyes, perhaps, now they were stripped of their goggle sunglasses, or in the set of that mouth now that the powder and rouge had run. The guy had to have worked out what was happening, but there was still no sign of any resistance, nor any sense of fear. If anything, Frank thought as he finally managed to hook one hand under Warren’s wet and empty armpit and the other under his even emptier crotch and gave the final quick heave which tipped him over the rail, that last look conveyed something like relief – perhaps even a sense of pity . . .

  “Did it work? Are you okay?”

  Already, Dottie had managed to clamber up the deck. Already, the curse of her imprinting was broken, and her arms are quickly around him. Roughly and wetly, they kissed.

  “I love you, Frank,” she said, and her arms were strong and the ship’s searchlights and alarms were blazing as she drew him behind a lifeboat into the lee of the storm and took out something silver from her sou’wester pocket that squirmed and uncurled like a living jewel.

  “I love you.”

  She said it again, and kissed him harder as he felt a sharpness crawl across his neck.

  “I love you.”

  She held him tighter than ever as pain flared inside his ear.

  “I love you.”

  She said it again and again and again and again.

  Where has he not been? What has he not seen? He’s looked down on an Earth so small that he could blot it out with his thumb, he’s skysailed to the peak of Mount Everest. If there was a price to pay for all this glory, Frank Onions would willingly have paid it. Most glorious of all to him, though, eclipsing every moonrise and sunset, is his continuing joy at sharing Dottie’s company. The money – even the incredible things that it can buy; the glass terraces, the submarine gardens, the refurbished Burmese palaces – is just the river, the coin, the obolus. To be with her, and to share his flesh and blood with her, is an experience which pales even the furthest heights of sexual ecstasy.

  Days change. The living die and the dead live, but Frank’s love for Dottie is unchanging. He has, once or twice, much as one might gaze in awe at bare footprints left across an ancient floor, looked back along the path which brought them together. He knows now that the real Warren Hastings married his beautiful sixth wife just a few months before he died, or perhaps simply disappeared, in circumstances that other times and cultures might have regarded as mysterious. Since then, and as before, Dottie has remained just as stunningly, agelessly, beautiful. And she always has a companion whom she likes to term her husband. Sometimes, when the circumstances suit, she even calls him Warren. Frank has no need to ask Dottie why she chose death above life. He already understands perfectly. After all, why would anyone who had the money and the choice wait for old age and decrepitude before being resurrected? And what sacrifices and demands wouldn’t they then make, to ensure that they remained eternally beautiful?

  Dottie is Frank’s world, his lodestone. He lives with and within her, and would sacrifice any organ or appendage or bodily fluid joyously. As for himself, he knows that he’s no longer the well-kept specimen of a man who was first enraptured by her. Only last week on the glassy plains outside Paris, he gave up a good portion of his bone marrow to her, and a third re-grown kidney. The effects of these and other donations, along with all the immune-suppressants he must continually take, leave him thin and weak and dizzy. His hair has long gone, he must wear sunglasses to protect his bleary eyes, and he shuffles hunched and crabways. He realises that he’s already starting to look like the creature he tossed over the stern of the Glorious Nomad, and that the wonders of the life he’s now living cannot last forever.

  In the circles in which they move, far removed from the Glorious Nomad’s ruin-inspecting tribes of meekly departed middle executives, Frank and Dottie’s relationship is seen as nothing unusual. As she once said to him in what now seems like a different existence, who now knows or cares about what is legal? Sometimes, when the weakened husks like himself who accompany Dottie and her companions grow close to failing, they head off to live some lesser life for a few weeks, and enjoy the thrill of finding a fresh and willing replacement. They call it re-crossing the Styx. It’s a new kind of symbiosis, this imprinting, and it strikes Frank as a near-perfect relationship. It’s only when the pain and weakness in his thinning bones sometimes get the worst of him, and he gazes around at the golden creatures who surround him, that he wonders who is really dead now, and who is living.

  AND MINISTERS OF GRACE

  Tad Williams

  Here’s a fast-paced and suspenseful thriller about a dedicated Warrior of God who finds himself facing a test of just how strong his Faith is in the middle of his most dangerous mission. . . .

  Tad Williams became an international bestseller with his very first novel, Tailchaser’s Song, and the high quality of his output and the devotion of his readers has kept him on the top of the charts ever since as a New York Times and London Sunday Times bestseller. His other novels include The Dragonbone Chair, The Stone of Farewell, To Green Angel Tower, City of Golden Shadow, River of Blue Fire, Mountain of Black Glass, Sea of Silver Light, Caliban’s Hour, Child of an Ancient City (with Nina Kiriki Hoffman), Tad Williams’ Mirror World: An Illustrated Novel, The War of the Flowers, a collection, Rite: Short Work, and a collection of two novellas, one by Williams and one by Raymond E. Feist, The Wood Boy/The Burning Man. As editor, he has produced the big retrospective anthology A Treasury of Fantasy. His most recent books are Shadowmarch, Shadowplay, and Shadowrise. Coming up is another Shadowmarch novel, Shadowheart. In addition to his novels, Williams writes comic books as well as film and television scripts, and is cofounder of an interactive television company. He lives with his family in Woodside, California.

  THE SEED WHISPERS, sings, offers, instructs.

  A wise man of the homeworld once said, “Human beings can alter their lives by altering their attitudes of mind.” Everything is possible for a committed man or woman. The universe is in our reach.

  Visit the Orgasmium – now open 24 hours. We take Senior Credits. The Orgasmium – where YOU come first!

  Your body temperature is normal. Your stress levels are normal, tending toward higher than normal. If this trend continues, you are recommended to see a physician.

  I’m almost alive! And I’m your perfect companion – I’m entirely portable. I want to love you. Come try me. Trade my personality with fri
ends. Join the fun!

  Comb properties now available. Consult your local environment node. Brand new multi-family and single-family dwellings, low down payment with government entry loans . . . !

  Commodity prices are up slightly on the Sackler Index at this hour, despite a morning of sluggish trading. The Prime Minister will detail her plans to reinvigorate the economy in her speech to Parliament . . .

  A wise woman of the homeworld once said, “Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow.”

  His name is Lamentation Kane and he is a Guardian of Covenant – a holy assassin. His masters have placed a seed of blasphemy in his head. It itches like unredeemed sin and fills his skull with foul pagan noise.

  The faces of his fellow travelers on the landing shuttle are bored and vacuous. How can these infidels live with this constant murmur in their heads? How can they survive and stay sane with the constant pinpoint flashing of attention signals at the edge of vision, the raw, sharp pulse of a world bristling and burbling with information?

  It is like being stuck in a hive of insects, Kane thinks – insects doing their best to imitate human existence without understanding it. He longs for the sweet, singular voice of Spirit, soothing as cool water on inflamed skin. Always before, no matter the terrors of his mission, that voice has been with him, soothing him, reminding him of his holy purpose. All his life, Spirit has been with him. All his life until now.

  Humble yourselves therefore under the strong hand of God, so that He may raise you up in due time.

  Sweet and gentle like spring rain. Unlike this unending drizzle of filth, each word Spirit has ever spoken has been precious, bright like silver.

  Cast all your burdens on Him, for He cares for you. Be in control of yourself and alert. Your enemy, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.

  Those were the last words Spirit spoke to him before the military scientists silenced the Word of God and replaced it with the endless, godless prattle of the infidel world, Archimedes.

  For the good of all mankind, they assured him: Lamentation Kane must sin again so that one day all men would be free to worship God. Besides, the elders pointed out, what was there for him to fear? If he succeeds and escapes Archimedes the pagan seed will be removed and Spirit will speak in his thoughts again. If he does not escape – well, Kane will hear the true voice of God at the foot of His mighty throne. Well done, my good and faithful servant . . .

  Beginning descent. Please return to pods, the pagan voices chirp in his head, prickling like nettles. Thank you for traveling with us. Put all food and packaging in the receptacle and close it. This is your last chance to purchase duty-free drugs and alcohol. Cabin temperature is 20 degrees centigrade. Pull the harness snug. Beginning descent. Cabin pressure stable. Lander will detach in twenty seconds. Ten seconds. Nine seconds. Eight seconds . . .

  It never ends, and each godless word burns, prickles, itches.

  Who needs to know so much about nothing?

  A child of one of the Christian cooperative farms on Covenant’s flat and empty plains, he was brought to New Jerusalem as a candidate for the elite Guardian unit. When he saw for the first time the white towers and golden domes of his planet’s greatest city, Kane had been certain that Heaven would look just that way. Now, as Hellas City rises up to meet him, capitol of great Archimedes and stronghold of his people’s enemies, it is bigger than even his grandest, most exaggerated memories of New Jerusalem – an immense sprawl with no visible ending, a lumpy white and gray and green patchwork of complex structures and orderly parks and lacy polyceramic web skyscrapers that bend gently in the cloudy upper skies like an oceanic kelp forest. The scale is astounding. For the first time ever in his life, Lamentation Kane has a moment of doubt – not in the rightness of his cause, but in the certainty of its victory.

  But he reminds himself of what the Lord told Joshua: Behold I have given into thy hands Jericho, and the king thereof, and all the valiant men . . .

  Have you had a Creemy Crunch today? It blares through his thoughts like a klaxon. You want it! You need it! Available at any food outlet. Creemy Crunch makes cream crunchy! Don’t be a bitch, Mom! Snag me a CC – or three!

  The devil owns the Kingdom of Earth. A favorite saying of one of his favorite teachers. But even from his high throne he cannot see the City of Heaven.

  Now with a subdermal glow-tattoo in every package! Just squeeze it in under the skin – and start shining!

  Lord Jesus, protect me in this dark place and give me strength to do your work once more, Kane prays. I serve You. I serve Covenant.

  It never stops, and only gets more strident after the lander touches down and they are ushered through the locks into the port complex. Remember the wise words, air quality is in the low thirties on the Teng Fuo scale today, first time visitors to Archimedes go here, returning go there, where to stand, what to say, what to have ready. Restaurants, news feeds, Information for transportation services, overnight accommodations, immigration law, emergency services, yammer yammer yammer until Kane wants to scream. He stares at the smug citizens of Archimedes around him and loathes every one of them. How can they walk and smile and talk to each other with this Babel in their heads, without God in their hearts?

  Left. Follow the green tiles. Left. Follow the green tiles. They aren’t even people, they can’t be – just crude imitations. And the variety of voices with which the seed bedevils him! High-pitched, low-pitched, fast and persuasive, moderately slow and persuasive, adult voices, children’s voices, accents of a dozen sorts, most of which he can’t even identify and can barely understand. His blessed Spirit is one voice and one voice only and he longs for her desperately. He always thinks of Spirit as “her,” although it could just as easily be the calm, sweet voice of a male child. It doesn’t matter. Nothing as crass as earthly sexual distinctions matter, any more than with God’s holy angels. Spirit has been his constant companion since childhood, his advisor, his inseparable friend. But now he has a pagan seed in his brain and he may never hear her blessed voice again.

  I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. That’s what Spirit told him the night he was baptized, the night she first spoke to him. Six years old. I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

  He cannot think of that. He will not think of anything that might undermine his courage for the mission, of course, but there is a greater danger: some types of thoughts, if strong enough, can trigger the port’s security E-Grams, which can perceive certain telltale patterns, especially if they are repeated.

  A wise man of the homeworld once said, “Man is the measure of all things . . .” The foreign seed doesn’t want him thinking of anything else, anyway.

  Have you considered living in Holyoake Harbor? another voice asks, cutting through the first. Only a twenty minute commute to the business district, but a different world of ease and comfort.

  . . . And of things which are not, that they are not, the first voice finishes, swimming back to the top. Another wise fellow made the case more directly: “The world holds two classes of men – intelligent men without religion, and religious men without intelligence.”

  Kane almost shivers despite the climate controls. Blur your thoughts, he reminds himself. He does his best to let the chatter of voices and the swirl of passing faces numb and stupefy him, making himself a beast instead of a man, the better to hide from God’s enemies.

  He passes the various mechanical sentries and the first two human guard posts as easily as he hoped he would – his military brethren have prepared his disguise well. He is in line at the final human checkpoint when he catches a glimpse of her, or at least he thinks it must be her – a small, brown-skinned woman sagging between two heavily armored port security guards who clutch her elbows in a parody of assistance. For a moment their eyes meet and her dark stare is frank before she hangs her head again in a convincing imitation of shame. The words from the briefing wash up in his head through the fog of Archimedean voice
s – Martyrdom Sister – but he does his best to blur them again just as quickly. He can’t imagine any word that will set off the E-Grams as quickly as “Martyrdom.”

  The final guard post is more difficult, as it is meant to be. The sentry, almost faceless behind an array of enhanced light scanners and lenses, does not like to see Arjuna on Kane’s itinerary, his last port of call before Archimedes. Arjuna is not a treaty world for either Archhimedes or Covenant, although both hope to make it so, and is not officially policed by either side.

  The official runs one of his scanners over Kane’s itinerary again. “Can you tell me why you stopped at Arjuna, Citizen McNally?”

  Kane repeats the story of staying there with his cousin who works in the mining industry. Arjuna is rich with platinum and other minerals, another reason both sides want it. At the moment, though, neither the Rationalists of Archimedes or the Abramites of Covenant can get any traction there: the majority of Arjuna’s settlers, colonists originally from the homeworld’s Indian sub-continent, are comfortable with both sides – a fact that makes both Archimedes and Covenant quite uncomfortable indeed.

  The guard post official doesn’t seem entirely happy with Lamentation Kane’s explanation and is beginning to investigate the false personality a little more closely. Kane wonders how much longer until the window of distraction is opened. He turns casually, looking up and down the transparent u-glass cells along the far wall until he locates the one in which the brown-skinned woman is being questioned. Is she a Muslim? A Copt? Or perhaps something entirely different – there are Australian Aboriginal Jews on Covenant, remnants of the Lost Tribes movement back on the homeworld. But whoever or whatever she is doesn’t matter, he reminds himself: she is a sister in god and she has volunteered to sacrifice herself for the sake of the mission – his mission.