The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 24

by Gardner Dozois

  “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 boys 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 YMCA 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 hang 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 blond 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 blond gal is a trouper. Refusing to be sad, she reminds her audience that some experts claim the cold melt water 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, blond hair cut close, middle-age lurking around the pale brown eyes. She wears silver tights and a black windbreaker, 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 peddle.”

  “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 20th 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 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 visitor’s 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.”

  Lucas stepped out from under the seats. “Who is this?”

  “Wade Tanner kept an avatar. A backup.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m the backup, Lucas.”

  The group shuffled through the south turn, and Wade wasn’t any of them. “Did you try the store?” Lucas said.

  “No, because you’re at the top of the list,” the backup said. “One day passes without an update, and I’m supposed to contact you first.”

  “Me.”

  “You live close and you know where the spare key is. We want you to search the house.” The voice went away and then came back. “I’ve studied the odds. Check the shower. Showers are treacherous places.”

  Walking across the brown grass, Lucas started to laugh. Nothing was funny, but laughing felt right.

  “What’s your workout tonight?” said the voice.

  “Don’t know.”

  “It’s humid,” the backup said. “Do quarters and walk half-a-lap before going again. Take a break after six, and quit if you forget how to count.”

  It could have been the real Wade. “You sound just like him.”

  “That’s how it works.” Then after a pause, the backup said, “I’ve got this bad feeling, Lucas.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m voicemail, too. And people have been calling all day. Nobody knows where Wade is.”

  Lucas said nothing.

  “You’ll check the house?”

  “Soon as I’m done running quarters.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  The line fell silent.

  Most of the people were sharing the same patch of shade. Audrey was walking back and forth on the track, talking on the phone. Only Gatlin and Wade were missing. The new kid jumped toward Lucas, saying, “Are we running or not?”

  “Leave him alone,” Pete said. “Our boy put in a rough weekend.”

  Harris had a big sandpaper laugh. “I was at the party. Yeah, I saw him drinking.”

  People look away, embarrassed for Lucas.

  “I’ve known a few drinkers,” the kid said. “But I never, ever saw anybody drain away that much of anything.”

  Lucas looked past him. “Anybody see Wade?”

  “Bastard’s late,” Pete said.

  The others said, “No,” or shook their heads. Except for Harris, who just kept grinning and staring at Lucas.

  Lucas needed a breath. “Wade’s backup just called me. It hasn’t heard from him, and it’s worried.”

  “Why would the backup call you?” Sarah said.

  Lucas shrugged, saying nothing.

  “Wade has an avatar?” said Harris.

  “He does,” Masters said. “In fact, I helped him set it up.”

  Lucas waved a hand, bringing eyes back to him. “I know what they are,” he said. “Except I don’t know anything about them.”

  Masters stepped into the sunshine, his glasses turning black. With his know-everything voice, he said, “They’re basically just personal records. Data you want protected, kept in hardened server farms. They have your financial records, video records. Diaries and running logs and whatever else you care about. You can even model your personality and voice, coming up with a pretty good stand-in.”

  “Wade has been doing this for years,” Sarah said.

  People turned to her, waiting.

  Quiet little Sarah smiled, nervous with the attention. “Don’t you know? He records everything he does, every day. He says it helps at the store, letting him know each of his customers. He even leaves his phone camera running, recording everything he sees and hears to be uploaded later.”

  “That’s anal,” Crouse said.

  “Who’s anal?” said Audrey, walking into the conversation.

  “Storing that much video is expensive,” Harris said. “How can a shoe salesman afford a cashmere backup?”

  “That shoe salesman had rich parents,” Pete said. “And they were kind enough to die young.”

  With that, the group fell silent.

  Lucas approached Audrey. “Was it Wade’s backup on the phone?”

  “No. Just my husband.”


  Harris got between them. “Let’s run,” he said.

  “Not in the mood,” Lucas said.

  The kid looked at everybody, and then he was laughing at Lucas. “So what happened to you? You were drinking everything at the party . . . and then you just sort of vanished . . .”

  “He had an appointment,” Pete said.

  “What appointment?”

  Pete shook his head. “With the police.”

  Audrey wasn’t happy. “Everybody, just stop. Quit it.”

  Masters was talking to Sarah. “How do you know so much about Wade’s backup?” he said.

  Sarah shrugged and smiled. “I just know.”

  Masters ate on that. Then he turned to Lucas, saying, “The call was a glitch. Wade didn’t get things uploaded last night, and it triggered the warning system. That’s all.”

  Lucas nodded, wanting to believe it.

  “Let’s just run,” Harris said.

  “Is this how they do things in Utah?” Pete said. “Pester people till you get what you want?”

  “Sometimes.” The kid showed up at the track six weeks ago – a refugee running away from drought and forest fires. Harris liked to talk. He told everybody that he was going out on the prairie and build windmills. Except of course he didn’t know anything about anything useful. His main talent was a pair of long strong and very young legs, and there were sunny looks and a big smile that was charming for two minutes, tops.

  “I’m running,” he said, smiling hard. Then he walked to the inside lane.

  Others started to follow.

  Not Lucas.

  A little BMW pulled off the road and Gatlin got out. He wasn’t dressed to run. A fifty-year-old man with wavy gray hair, he looked nothing but respectable in a summer suit and tie. Coming through the zigzag, he moved slowly, one hand always holding the chain-link. He seemed sad, and then the sadness fell into something darker. And with little steps, he walked toward the others.

  “Well, now we’ve got to stop talking about you,” said Pete.

  Gatlin’s mouth was open, a lost look passing through his dark brown eyes. “I just got a call,” he said. “From a friend in the mayor’s office. He thought I’d want to know. Kids playing near Ash Creek found a body this morning. And the police think they recognize the man.”