The Year's Best Science Fiction: Twentieth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “We work already! How much basic science do men do? Look at the work Laurasson did on free energy. And most of the artists are men.”

  “—they have the time to devote to science and art, because of the material support of the community. They have the luxury of intellectual pursuit.”

  “And all decisions about what to do with their work are made by women.”

  “The decisions, which will affect the lives of everyone in the society, are made not by women, but by voters.”

  “And most voters are women.”

  “Back to beginning of argument!” someone shouted. “Reload program and repeat.”

  A smattering of laughter greeted the sarcasm. Debrasdaughter smiled. “These are general issues, and to a certain degree I am content to let them be aired. But do they bear directly on the motion? What, if anything, are we to do about Thomas Marysson?”

  She looked over at Tyler, who looked back at her coolly, his legs crossed.

  A woman in a constable’s uniform rose. “The problem with Thomas Marysson is that he claims the privileges of artistic expression, but he’s not really an artist. He’s a provocateur.”

  “Most of the artists in history have been provocateurs,” shot back a small, dark man.

  “He makes me laugh,” said another.

  “He’s smart. Instead of competing with other men, he wants to organize them. He encourages them to band together.”

  The back-and-forth rambled on. Despite Debrasdaughter’s attempt to keep or der, the discussion ran into irrelevant byways, circular arguments, vague calls for comity, and general statements of male and female grievance. Erno had debated all this stuff a million times with the guys at the gym. It annoyed him that Debrasdaughter did not force the speakers to stay on point. But that was typical of a cousins’ meeting—they would talk endlessly, letting every nitwit have her say before actually getting around to deciding anything.

  A young woman stood to speak, and Erno saw it was Alicia Keikosdaughter. Alicia and he had shared a tutorial in math, and she had been the second girl he had ever had sex with.

  “Of course Durden wants to be seen as an artist,” Alicia said. “There’s no mystique about the guy who works next to you in the factory. Who wants to sleep with him? The truth—”

  “I will!” A good-looking woman interrupted Alicia.

  The assembly laughed.

  “The truth—” Alicia tried to continue.

  The woman ignored her. She stood, her hand on the head of the little girl at her side, and addressed Tyler Durden directly. “I think you need to get laid!” She turned to the others. “Send him around to me! I’ll take care of any revolutionary impulses he might have.” More laughter.

  Erno could see Alicia’s shoulders slump, and she sat down. It was a typical case of a matron ignoring a young woman. He got up, moved down the aisle, and slid into a spot next to her.

  Alicia turned to him. “Erno. Hello.”

  “It’s not your fault they won’t listen,” he said. Alicia was wearing a tight satin shirt and Erno could not help but notice her breasts.

  She kissed him on the cheek. She turned to the meeting, then back to him. “What do you think they’re going to do?”

  “They’re going to ostracize him, I’ll bet.”

  “I saw him on link. Have you seen him?”

  “I was there last night.”

  Alicia leaned closer. “Really?” she said. Her breath was fragrant, and her lips full. There was a tactile quality to Alicia that Erno found deeply sexy—when she talked to you she would touch your shoulder or bump her knee against yours, as if to reassure herself that you were really there. “Did you get in the fight?”

  A woman on the other side of Alicia leaned over. “If you two aren’t going to pay attention, at least be quiet so the rest of us can.”

  Erno started to say something, but Alicia put her hand on his arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Erno was torn. Boring or not, he didn’t want to miss the meeting, but it was hard to ignore Alicia. She was a year younger than Erno yet was already on her own, living with Sharon Yasminsdaughter while studying environmental social work. One time Erno had heard her argue with Sharon whether it was true that women on Earth could not use elevators because if they did they would inevitably be raped.

  They left the amphitheater and walked through the park. Erno told Alicia his version of the riot at the club, leaving out his exploring the deserted lava tube with Tyler.

  “Even if they don’t make him invisible,” Alicia said, “you know that somebody is going to make sure he gets the message.”

  “He hasn’t hurt anyone. Why aren’t we having a meeting about the constable who clubbed Yokiosson?”

  “The constable was attacked. A lot of cousins feel threatened. I’m not even sure how I feel.”

  “The Unwritten Law,” Erno muttered.

  “The what?”

  “Tyler does a bit about it. It was an Earth custom, in most of the patriarchies. The ‘unwritten law’ said that, if a wife had sex with anyone other than her husband, the husband had the right to kill her and her lover, and no court would hold him guilty.”

  “That’s because men had all the power.”

  “But you just said somebody would send Tyler a message. Up here, if a man abuses a woman, even threatens to, then the abused woman’s friends take revenge. When was the last time anyone did anything about that?”

  “I get it, Erno. That must seem unfair.”

  “Men don’t abuse women here.”

  “Maybe that’s why.”

  “It doesn’t make it right.”

  “You’re right, Erno. It doesn’t. I’m on your side.”

  Erno sat down on the ledge of the pool surrounding the fountains. The fountains were the pride of the colony: in a conspicuous show of water consumption the pools surrounded the central spire and wandered beneath the park’s trees. Genetically altered carp swam in their green depths, and the air was more humid here than anywhere else under the dome.

  Alicia sat next to him. “Remind me why we broke up,” Erno said.

  “Things got complicated.” She had said the same thing the night she told him they shouldn’t sleep together anymore. He still didn’t know what that meant, and he suspected she said it only to keep from saying something that might wound him deeply. Much as he wanted to insist that he would prefer her honesty, he wasn’t sure he could stand it.

  “I’m going crazy at home,” he told Alicia. “Mother treats me like a child. Lena is starting to act like she’s better than me. I do real work at Biotech, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ll be in university soon. You’re a premium gene hacker.”

  “Who says?” Erno asked.

  “People.”

  “Yeah, right. And if I am, I still live at home. I’m going to end up just like Nick,” he said, “the pet male in a household full of females.”

  “Maybe something will come of this. Things can change.”

  “If only,” Erno said morosely. But he was surprised and gratified to have Alicia’s encouragement. Maybe she cared for him after all. “There’s one thing, Alicia ... I could move in with you.”

  Alicia raised an eyebrow. He pressed on. “Like you say, I’ll be studying at the university next session. ...”

  She put her hand on his leg. “There’s not much space, with Sharon and me. We couldn’t give you your own room.”

  “I’m not afraid of sharing a bed. I can alternate between you.”

  “You’re so manly, Erno!” she teased.

  “I aim to please,” he said, and struck a pose. Inside he cringed. It was a stupid thing to say, so much a boy trying to talk big.

  Alicia did a generous thing—she laughed. There was affection and understanding in it. It made him feel they were part of some club together. Erno hadn’t realized how afraid he was that she would mock him. Neither said anything for a moment. A finch landed on the branch above them, turned its head sideway
s and inspected them. “You know, you could be just like Tyler Durden, Erno.”

  Erno started—what did she mean by that? He looked her in the face. Alicia’s eyes were calm and green, flecked with gold. He hadn’t looked into her eyes since they had been lovers.

  She kissed him. Then she touched his lips with her finger. “Don’t say anything. I’ll talk to Sharon.”

  He put his arm around her. She melted into him.

  In the distance the sounds of the debate were broken by a burst of laughter. “Let’s go back,” she said.

  “All right,” he said reluctantly.

  They walked back to the amphitheater and found seats in the top row, beside two women in their twenties who joked with each other.

  “This guy is no Derek Silviasson,” one of them said.

  “If he could fuck like Derek, now that would be comedy,” said her blond partner.

  Debrasdaughter was calling for order.

  “We cannot compel any cousin to indulge in sex against his will. If he chooses to be celibate, and encourages his followers to be celibate, we can’t prevent that without undermining the very freedoms we came here to establish.”

  Nick Farahsson, his face red and his voice contorted, shouted out, “You just said the key word—followers! We don’t need followers here. Followers have ceded their autonomy to a hierarchy. Followers are the tool of phallocracy. Followers started the riot.” Erno saw his mother, sitting next to Nick, try to calm him.

  Another man spoke. “What a joke! We’re all a bunch of followers! Cousins follow customs as slavishly as any Earth patriarch.”

  “What I don’t understand,” someone called out directly to Tyler, “is, if you hate it here so much, why don’t you just leave? Don’t let the airlock door clip your ass on the way out.”

  “This is my home, too,” Tyler said.

  He stood and turned to Debrasdaughter. “If you don’t mind, I would like to speak.”

  “We’d be pleased to hear what you have to say,” Debrasdaughter said. The trace of a smile on her pale face made her look girlish despite her gray hair. “Speaking for myself, I’ve been waiting.”

  Tyler ran his hand over his shaved scalp, came to the front of the platform. He looked up at his fellow citizens, and smiled. “I think you’ve outlined all the positions pretty clearly so far. I note that Tashi Yokiosson didn’t say anything, but maybe he’ll get back to us later. It’s been a revealing discussion, and now I’d just like to ask you to help me out with a demonstration. Will you do this little thing for me?

  “I’d like you all to put your hand over your eyes. Like this—” He covered his own eyes with his palm, peeked out. Most of the assembly did as he asked. “All of you got your eyes covered? Good!

  “Because, sweethearts, this is the closest I am going to get to invisibility.”

  Tyler threw his arms wide, and laughed.

  “Make me invisible? You can’t see me now! You don’t recognize a man whose word is steel, whose reality is not dependent on rules. Men have fought and bled and died for you. Men put their lives on the line for every microscopic step forward our pitiful race has made. Nothing’s more visible than the sacrifices men have made for the good of their wives and daughters. Yes, women died too—but they were real women, women not threatened by the existence of masculinity.

  “You see that tower?” Tyler pointed to the thousand-meter spire looming over their heads. “I can climb that tower! I can fuck every real woman in this amphitheater. I eat a lot of food, drink a lot of alcohol, and take a lot of drugs. I’m bigger than you are. I sweat more. I howl like a dog. I make noise. You think anyone can make more noise than me?

  “One way or another, Mama, I’m going to keep you awake all night! And you think you’re the girl that can stop me?

  “My Uncle Dick told me when I was a boy, son, don’t take it out unless you intend to use it! Well, it’s out and it’s in use! Rim ram goddamn, sonafabitch fuck! It is to laugh. This whole discussion’s been a waste of oxygen. I’m real, I’m here, get used to it.

  “Invisible? Just try not to see me.”

  Then Tyler crouched and leapt, three meters into the air, tucked, did a roll. Coming down, he landed on his hands and did a handspring. The second his feet touched the platform, he shot off the side and ran, taking long, loping strides out of the park and through the cornfields.

  A confused murmur rippled through the assembly, broken by a few angry calls. Many puzzled glances. Some people stood.

  Debrasdaughter called for order. “I’ll ask the assembly to calm down,” she said.

  Gradually, quiet came.

  “I’m sure we are all stimulated by that very original statement. I don’t think we are going to get any farther today, and I note that it is coming on time for the swing shifters to leave, so unless there are serious objections I would like to call this meeting to a close.

  “The laws call for a second open meeting a week from today, followed by a polling period of three days, at the end of which the will of the colony will be made public and enacted. Do I hear any further discussion?”

  There was none.

  “Then I hereby adjourn this meeting. We will meet again one week from today at 1600 hours. Anyone who wishes to post a statement in regard to this matter may do so at the colony site, where a room will be open continuously for debate. Thank you for your participation.”

  People began to break up, talking. The two women beside Erno, joking, left the theater.

  Alicia stood. “Was that one of his routines?”

  Tyler’s speech had stirred something in Erno that made him want to shout. He was grinning from ear to ear. “It is to laugh,” he murmured.

  Alicia grabbed Erno’s wrist. She pulled a pen from her pocket, turned his hand so the palm lay open, and on it wrote “Gilman 334.”

  “Before you do anything stupid, Erno,” she said, “call me.”

  “Define stupid,” he said.

  But Alicia had turned away. He felt the tingle of the writing on his hand as he watched her go.

  Work

  Men are encouraged to apply for an exemption from the mita: the compulsory weekly labor that each cousin devotes to the support of the colony. The cost of this exemption is forfeiture of the right to vote. As artists, writers, artisans, athletes, performers, and especially as scientists, men have an easier path than women. Their interests are supported to the limits of the cousins’ resources. But this is not accorded the designation of work, and all practical decisions as to what to do with any creations of their art or discoveries they might make, are left to voters, who are overwhelmingly women.

  Men who choose such careers are praised as public-spirited volunteers, sacrificing for the sake of the community. At the same time, they live a life of relative ease, pursuing their interests. They compete with each other for the attentions of women. They may exert influence, but have no legal responsibilities, and no other responsibilities except as they choose them. They live like sultans, but without power. Or like gigolos. Peacocks, and studs.

  And those who choose to do work? Work—ah, work is different. Work is mundane labor directed toward support of the colony. Male workers earn no honors, accumulate no status. And because men are always outnumbered by women on such jobs, they have little chance of advancement to a position of authority. They just cant get the votes.

  “Twenty-Five Bucks”

  Erno began to puzzle out some of the Stories for Men. One was about a “prize fighter”—a man who fought another man with his fists for money. This aging fighter agrees with a promoter to fight a younger, stronger man for “twenty-five bucks,” which from context Erno gathered was a small sum of money. The boxer spends his time in the ring avoiding getting beaten up. During a pause between the “rounds” of the fight, the promoter comes to him and complains that he is not fighting hard enough, and swears he will not pay the boxer if he “takes a dive.” So in the next round the boxer truly engages in the brutal battle, and within a minute
gets beaten unconscious.

  But because this happens immediately after the promoter spoke to him, in the sight of the audience, the audience assumes the boxer was told by the promoter to take a dive. They protest. Rather than defend the boxer, the promoter denies him the twenty-five bucks anyway.

  The boxer, unconscious while the promoter and audience argue, dies of a brain hemorrhage.

  The story infuriated Erno. It felt so wrong. Why did the boxer take on the fight? Why did he allow himself to be beaten so badly? Why did the promoter betray the boxer? What was the point of the boxer’s dying in the end? Why did the writer—someone named James T. Farrell—invent this grim tale?

  FOUR

  A week after the meeting, when Erno logged onto school, he found a message for him from “Ethan Edwards.” It read:

  I saw you with that girl. Cute. But no sex, Erno. I’m counting on men like you.

  Erno sent a reply: “You promised me another adventure. When?”

  Then he did biochemistry (“Delineate the steps in the synthesis of human growth hormone”) and read Gender & Art for three hours until he had to get to his practicum at biotech.

  In order to reduce the risk of stray bugs getting loose in the colony, the biotech factories were located in a bunker separate from the main crater. Workers had to don pressure suits and ride a bus for a couple of kilometers across the lunar surface. A crowd of other biotech workers already filled the locker room at the north airlock when Erno arrived.

  “Tyrus told me you’re fucking Alicia Keikosdaughter, Erno,” said Paul Gwynethsson, whose locker was next to Erno’s. “He was out flying. He saw you in the park.”

  “So? Who are you fucking?” Erno asked. He pulled on his skintight. The fabric, webbed with thermoregulators, sealed itself, the suit’s environment system powered up, and Erno locked down his helmet. The helmet’s head’s-up display was green. He and Paul went to the airlock, passed their ID’s through the reader and entered with the others. The exit sign posted the solar storm warning. Paul teased Erno about Alicia as the air was cycled through the lock and they walked out through the radiation maze to the surface.