The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 24

by Gardner Dozois

  Masters squirmed and said nothing.

  Always helpful, Crouse said, “Wade’s backup is watching. Don’t tell him, but we’re giving him a special award tonight.”

  The woman sneered. Then because it was such an important point, she used a loud voice to tell everybody, “The man is dead. He has been dead for months, and I think you’re crazy to play this game.”

  A new silence grabbed hold. Some eyes watched Masters, wishing that he would say or do anything to prove he had a spine. Oddly though, it was Sarah’s husband who took offense. A boyish fellow, small but naturally stout, he possessed a variety of conflicting feelings about many subjects, including Sarah’s weakness for one man’s memory. But defending his wife mattered, and that’s why he leaned across Crouse’s lap to say, “You should know, lady. All that makeup and with that poker stuck up your ass, you look more dead than most ghosts do.”

  The woman blushed, and she straightened. And after careful consideration, she picked up her tiny purse and said, “I’m leaving.”

  Masters nodded, saying nothing.

  “I need the car keys,” she said to him.

  Then with the beginnings of a smile, Masters said, “It’s a nice eve ning, honey. Darling. A long walk would do you some good.”

  The pace is barely faster than knuckle-walking. Lucas pushes north, crossing old ground, the wind chilling his face but nothing else. He’s going to hurt tomorrow, but nothing feels particularly tired right now. His breathing is easy, legs strong. The trail is smooth and mostly straight, and he has a thirty-meter lead, except when he forgets and works too hard, and then he has to fall back, pretending to be spent, giving Harris reason to surge again. Or he fakes rolling his ankle in a hole. Twice he does that trick, limping badly, and Harris breathes hard and closes the gap, only to see his quarry heal instantly and recover the lead in another few seconds.

  The third ankle sprain doesn’t fool anyone. Lucas looks back, making certain Harris sees his smile, and then on the next flat straight piece of trail he extends his lead before turning around, running backwards, using the same big laugh that the kid uses on everybody else.

  Furious, Harris stops and flings the steel weapon.

  Lucas sidesteps it and keeps trotting backwards, letting the kid come close, and then he wheels and sprints, saying, “So after Wade died . . . why did you stay in town?”

  “I didn’t kill the guy,” Harris says.

  “Good to hear,” Lucas says. “But why stay? Why not pull up and go somewhere else?”

  “Because I like it here.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m the fastest runner here,” he says. “And I like winning races.”

  Slower runners are up ahead. Everybody looks warm and exhausted, survival strides carrying them toward Lucas. He didn’t expect to see them, but nothing that has happened today has made him any happier. “So you didn’t kill Wade?” he says.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you chasing me?”

  Somehow Harris manages to laugh. “I’m not,” he says. “I’m just out for a run, and I’m letting you lead.”

  Audrey and Carl are leading their pack. Lucas surges to meet up with them, and he stops and turns, and Harris stops with that good thirty meters separating him from the others. Everybody shakes from fatigue, but the kid can barely stand. All of his energy feeds a face that looks defiant and unconcerned and stupid. With a snarl, he says, “I brought the son-of-a-bitch back to you. See?”

  Lucas shrugs and says, “Harris killed him. He told me.”

  “I did not.”

  “I heard you,” Lucas says. Then to the others, he says, “Take us both in. Let the cops sort the evidence. Like those glasses of his . . . I bet they’ve got some juicy clues hidden in the gears.”

  Harris pulls off the glasses.

  “Watch it,” says Pete.

  Harris throws the glasses on the ground and lifts a leg, ready to crush the fancy machinery into smaller and smaller bits. But Carl is already running, and the kid manages only two sloppy stomps before he is picked up and thrown down on his side, ribs breaking even before the bony knee is driven into his chest.

  “We weren’t sure what to do,” Pete says to Lucas. “Some of us thought you were guilty, others didn’t want to think that. We tried calling you, and when you didn’t pick up, I figured you had to be running for Mexico.”

  Harris tries to stand, and Carl beats him down again.

  “We took a vote,” Varner says. “Would we come looking for you, or would we just head back to the Y?”

  “So I won,” Lucas says, smiling.

  Audrey dips her head and laughs.

  Sarah is next to Carl, watching the mayhem up close.

  “No, you only got three votes,” Pete says. “But you know how this group makes decisions. The loudest wins, and Audrey just about blew up, trying to get us chasing you.”

  Lucas looks at her and smiles.

  And she rolls her eyes, wanting to tell him something. The words are ready. But not here, not like this.

  Then Sarah steps up and hits the cowering figure. She kicks once and again, and polishing her technique, she delivers a hard third impact to the side of the stomach. That’s when Masters pulls her away, holding her as she squirms, saying words that don’t help. And Carl kneels and pokes once more at the aching ribs, and he picks up every piece of the broken glasses, talking to the ground as he works, saying, “Okay. Now. What are we going to do?”

  Back from the bathroom, Harris made a final pass of the food table before reclaiming the chair next to Lucas. Then the track club president – a wizened ex-runner with two new knees – leaned against the podium, reciting the same jokes he used last year before attacking the annual business. Board members talked long about silly crap, and race directors talked way too long about last year’s events and all the new runners that were coming from everywhere to live here. Then awards were handed out, including a golden plaque to the police chief who let the track club borrow his officers and his streets. But the chief had some last-minute conflict and couldn’t attend, and nobody else from the department was ready to accept on his behalf. With a big mocking voice, Pete said, “They’re out in the world, solving crimes.” And most of his table understood the reference, laughing up until Coach Able and Tom Hubble met at the podium.

  Both men were lugging the night’s biggest award.

  For five long minutes, the presenters took turns praising the dead man. Lucas listened, or at least pretended to listen. Little pieces of the story seemed fresh, but mostly it was old news made simple and pretty. Mostly he found himself watching the serious faces at his table, everybody staring at their plates and their folded hands. Even Harris held himself still, nodding at the proper moments and then applauding politely when the big plaque was unveiled and shown to a camera and the weird, half-real entity that nobody had ever seen.

  Then the backup’s voice was talking, thanking everybody for this great honor and promising that he would treasure this moment. Sometimes Wade sounded close to tears. Other times he was reading from a prepared speech. “I wish things had gone differently,” he said. “But I have no regrets, not for a moment of my life. And if there’s any consolation, I want you to know that I am busy here, in this realm, and I am happy.”

  Then he was done, and maybe he was gone, and the uncomfortable applause began and ended, and the room stood to leave. Most of the back table wanted a good look at the plaque, but somehow Lucas didn’t feel like it. He found himself walking toward the stairs, and Harris fell in beside him, laughing quietly.

  Or maybe the kid wasn’t laughing. Lucas looked at him, seeing nothing but a serious little smile.

  “Want to run tomorrow?” said Harris.

  “No.”

  “Tuesday at the track?”

  “Probably.”

  Harris beat him to the stairs, and Harris held the door for the old man. Then as they were stepping into the cool dark, he said, “You know what? We’re all goin
g to be living there someday. Where Wade is now.”

  “Not me,” said Lucas.

  “Why not you?”

  “Because,” he said, “I’m planning to die when I die.”

  Eleven

  Another pot of coffee helps take the chill out of the kitchen. Out the back door, Lucas watches snowflakes falling from a clear sky – tiny dry flakes too scarce to ever meet up with each other, much less make anything that matters. He has been talking steadily for several minutes, telling the story fast and pushing toward the finish, and only sometimes does he pause to sip at the coffee. Once or twice he pauses just to pause. Then Wade comes out of the silence, making a comment or posing some little question.

  “So after Sarah kicked the shit out of him,” he says. “What did you do with the bastard?”

  “We picked him up and took turns dragging him and carrying him back to the old right-of-way, then across the creek and out to Foster. That was the closest road, and we got lucky. Some fellow was driving his pickup out of town, hunting for firewood. Except for his chain saw, the truck bed was empty. Gatlin promised him a hundred dollars to take us back to the Y, and Crouse called his sister-in-law, giving her a head’s up. The girls rode inside the cab, in the heat, and the rest of us just about died of frostbite. But we lived and made it back before ten-thirty, and the cops were waiting, and I’ve never been so happy to see them.”

  “Has he confessed?”

  “You mean, did Harris break down and sob and say, ‘Oh God, I did such an awful thing.’ No. No, he didn’t and he won’t. I don’t think he even knows that he’s a wicked son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I guess he wouldn’t.”

  “Harris probably doesn’t believe this is going to mean anything. In the end.” Lucas takes a long sip, shaking his head. “When we were marching him out of the trees, he said to me, ‘There’s nothing to find. That phone’s new. It isn’t going to show anything important. Any money that I’ve got has a good story behind it. And the physical evidence is so thin it took them months just to throw Carlie back into the free world. So what happens to me? A couple months in jail, a lot of stupid interviews, and I’ll tell them nothing, and they’ll have to let me go too.’ ”

  Silence.

  Lucas sets the empty cup on the table, using his other hand to shift the unfamiliar phone back against his ear. “I don’t know, Wade. Maybe you should be careful.”

  “Careful of what?”

  “Wails,” he says. “Yeah, I told the cops my guess. My theory. I don’t think they took it to heart much. But then again, this is a whole different kind of crime. Law enforcement doesn’t like things tough. They’re happiest when there’s bloody boot prints leading to the killer’s door.”

  The backup laughs.

  Lucas doesn’t. Leaning forward in his chair, he says, “My phone still doesn’t work.”

  “You borrowed that one. I see that.”

  “Masters says that it was a Trojan or worm or something. Set in long ago, ready for the signal to attack.”

  “I’ll buy you a new phone,” Wade says. “That’s no problem.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a bigger problem.”

  “What?”

  “Wails,” Lucas said. “I was tired when I remembered him this morning. My head was pretty soggy. But the story made a lot of sense, at least for the next couple hours. Except while I sitting at the Y, chatting with the detectives, little things started bugging me.”

  “Things?”

  “About Wails, I mean. Sure, the guy stole money and killed himself. But do we even know you were the reason he got found out?”

  “I don’t know if I was,” says the backup.

  “You’ve said that before. I remember. You aren’t sure what happened, because that’s one of those stories that the real Wade never told you.” Water is running hard in the basement. Lucas doesn’t hear it until it shuts off. “Anyway,” he says, “I think it’s a lot of supposing, putting everything on this one dead man. Yeah, the guy was a liar and a big-time thief, but that’s a long way from coming out of the grave to kill another man who’s did him harm.”

  Silence.

  “But somebody got Harris to kill you,” says Lucas. “And if it wasn’t Wails, that leaves one suspect that looks pretty good.”

  “Okay. Who?”

  “I’m just talking, my head clear and thinking straight now.”

  “And I’m listening.”

  “Okay, it’s somebody who wants everything to be fair. Somebody who would do anything he can to make the world right. The same person that let me climb into my own car drunk and watched me drive off and then went and called the cops on me.”

  “I didn’t make that call, Lucas. Wade did.”

  “But you’re based on him. Except for the differences, and maybe they’re big differences. I don’t know. Or maybe the two of you were exactly the same, and you’re Wade Tanner in every way. But Wade didn’t tell you everything about himself. We know that. And one day, maybe by accident, you discovered something about your human that really, really pissed you off. The man who built you was a lying shit, or worse. And there you were, wearing Wade’s personality. Wade wouldn’t let that business drop, and you couldn’t either. That’s why you went out into the world. You trolled for somebody with little sense and a big need for cash, and that’s why Harris showed up here. Maybe murder wasn’t your goal. There was that long break between the first hits and the killing. Maybe you were trying to keep Harris from finishing the job. But that’s the pretty way to dress up this story. I’m guessing the delay was so that you got your chance to scream at the dying man, telling Wade that he was a miserable disappointment, and by the way, thanks for the money and the immortality and all that other good crap.”

  Silence.

  “You still there?”

  “I can’t believe this,” the voice says.

  Lucas nods, saying, “But even if I believe it, nothing is proved. There’s probably no evidence waiting out there. Voices can be doctored, which means Harris probably doesn’t know who really hired him. Besides, even if I found people to buy this story, something like you has had months to erase clues and files, and even more important, make yourself comfortable with the situation.”

  “But, Lucas, how can you think that about me? Even for a minute.”

  “I’m talking about a voice,” Lucas says. “That’s what you are. At the end of the day, you’re a string of words coming out with a certain sound, and I can’t know anything for sure.”

  Silence.

  “You there?”

  Nobody is. The line has been severed.

  Lucas pulls the phone away from his face, setting it on the table next to the empty mug. Then Audrey comes out of the basement, wearing borrowed sweats and heavy socks.

  She sits opposite him, smiling and waiting.

  “I need to shower,” he says.

  She smiles and says, “How does it feel?”

  “How’s what feel?”

  “Being the fastest runner in the county.”

  He shrugs and says, “Not on these legs, I’m not.”

  She says, “I heard you talking just now. Who was it?”

  He watches her face and says, “It’s snowing out.”

  She turns to look.

  “No, wait,” he says. “I guess it stopped.”

  HONORABLE MENTIONS

  2010

  Joe Abercrombie, “The Fool Jobs,” Swords & Dark Magic.

  Saladin Ahmed, “Doctor Diablo Goes Through the Motions,” Strange Horizons, February 15.

  _____, “The Faithful Soldier, Prompted,” Apex Magazine, November.

  Nina Allan, “The Upstairs Window,” Interzone 230.

  Michael Alexander, “Advances in Modern Chemotherapy,” F&SF, July/August.

  _____, “Ware of the Worlds,” Fantasy & Science Fiction, November/December.

  Ken Altabef, “The Lost Elephants of Kenyisha,” Fantasy & Science Fiction, July/August.

  Charlie Jane Anders,
“The Fermi Paradox Is Our Business Model,” Tor.com.

  Lou Antonelli, “Dispatches from the Troubles,” GUD, Summer.

  Eleanor Arnason, “Tomb of the Fathers,” Aqueduct Press.

  Michael A. Armstrong, “The Deadliest Moop,” Analog, November.

  Neal Asher, “The Cuisinart Effect,” Conflicts.

  Kage Baker, “The Bohemian Astrobleme,” Subterranean, Winter.

  _____, “Rex Nemorensis,” The Book of Dreams.

  David Ball, “The Scroll,” Warriors.

  Peter M. Ball, “L’Esprit de L’Escalier,” Apex Magazine, September.

  _____, “The Mike and Carly Story, Without the Gossip,” Shimmer 12.

  Stephen Baxter, “Earth III,” Asimov’s, June.

  _____, “The Ice Line,” Asimov’s, February.

  _____, “Project Hades,” Analog, July/August.

  Peter S. Beagle, “The Children of the Shark God,” The Beastly Bride.

  _____, “Dirae,” Warriors.

  _____, “Kaskia,” Songs of Love & Death.

  _____, “La Lune t’Attend,” Full Moon City.

  _____, “Return: An Innkeeper’s World Story,” Subterranean, Spring.

  _____, “Trinity County, CA,” OSCIMS, August.

  Elizabeth Bear, “Bone and Jewel Creatures,” Subterranean Press.

  _____, “When You Visit the Magoebaskloof Hotel Be Certain Not to Miss the Samango Monkeys,” Destination: Future.

  Chris Beckett, “One Land,” Conflicts.

  Gregory Benford, “Tiny Elephants,” JBU, February.

  Paul M. Berger, “Small Burdens,” Strange Horizons, March 11.

  _____, “Stereogram of the Gray Fort, in the Days of Her Glory,” Fantasy, June 21.

  Beth Bernobich, “River of Souls,” Tor.com.

  Jo Beverley, “The Marrying Maid,” Songs of Love & Death.

  K. J. Bishop, “The Heart of a Mouse,” Subterranean, Winter.

  Holly Black, “Sobek,” Wings of Fire.

  Jenny Blackford, “Velvet Revolution,” Cosmos.