Mammoth Book of Best New SF 14

by Gardner Dozois

  Devore spoke in his low, soothing voice, the voice that held Milo just this side of panic when he retold his dreams. “We knew, Milo. All that talking in your sleep! We followed the leads. We traced your history, well, up until you disappeared, after your sister’s death.

  “Milo, you were no more at fault for Dede’s death than you were for wrecking that car in your dream about the Dumpster. For a child as young as you were then, shape-shifting is the same as dreaming, you know? It’s all make-believe!”

  “She was my big sister! She took care of me!” Milo’s face, like his throat, was tightening into a knot. “She read to me. She tucked me in at night.”

  Sylvie shook her head. “Milo! Milo!”

  All at once, it was too much—the arch of Sylvie’s brow, Dr Devore’s sad smile, the sweet warmth of Sylvie’s hand stroking his head. Milo braved the pain in his stomach and bolted upright. “I’m no good! I’m some kind of monster, is all! You don’t understand!”

  Sylvie tried to hold him, but he swung his legs over the side of the makeshift bed and pulled away from her. He flinched and started to double over, then braced himself and ran to the window, clutching the sheet about him. Devore followed him.

  Milo pressed his forehead against the glass. “She wanted me to kill that guy. It wasn’t the first time. The guy wouldn’t do what she wanted. I was the only one who always did what she wanted—except just that once. I didn’t mean to kill her, though!”

  “You didn’t kill her, you jerk!” Sylvie was crying too now. “It was the goddamn mountain lion, Milo! It wasn’t your fault!”

  Milo pushed open the window and leaned out. He let his head hang, panting, dripping tears. Tears slid down his nose and cheeks and chin. “I could jump. I deserve it.”

  Devore’s hand on his shoulder. “You already tried that, Milo. Inside you, you’re too smart, you’re too good to do that to yourself. When you jump, Milo, you fly! In your heart you know you must live. Dede used you, Milo. You protected yourself.”

  “Why are you so good to me? Nobody’s ever been so good to me!” He turned around, trusting them to see his face, so ugly, he thought, with tears and spasms of grief.

  “We just want to look out for you, Milo.” Sylvie cupped his cheek, wet with tears, in the palm of her hand, and all at once his ugliness vanished: he didn’t look like anything, he was only this touch, this gazing into Sylvie’s gaze. It wasn’t a shape-shifter’s trick but the most human thing he had ever felt.

  “We all look out for one another,” she said. “We’re all finding out what we are, what we can do.”

  Like a knot pulled free, Milo’s breath shuddered once, then steadied. The sheet wrapped around him opened slightly: his movement had irritated the wound, and blood trickled below the dressing.

  “Take a good look, Sylvie,” Devore said, “and next time you need pin money, ask me.”

  “I said I was sorry,” she said, “and I meant it. But I can’t be told what to do, not by you, not by anybody. I got my own plans, you know. Your fellowship won’t take me to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival or Amsterdam for the Festival of Fools or to the Carnival in Venice or any of those other big venues that are goddam dying to experience the Moon and Stars!” Devore half-smiled, looked down, and shook his head.

  Milo blinked. For a split second, Dede was there, pale and doughy. She was lingering in the corner with a hangdog look. She wasn’t as big as Milo used to think, nor as subtle. As his big sister, then as a nameless forbidden dream, she had been mighty: volcanoes, oceans, storming skies, or a hot dry wind. Now she was just a shadow. “You used me, Dede! I was just a baby, and you were my big sister! Oh, Dede, You shouldn’t have done that! That wasn’t right!” Bookish, wan, small-hearted, eaten up by jealousy and desire, she simply faded from view.

  Milo had been whispering to himself, he realized. He caught Sylvie and Devore’s eyes on him; they looked away, embarrassed for him perhaps, but Milo didn’t mind that they had heard him. We all look out for one another, Sylvie had said. We! There were others like him! Milo breathed. Milo breathed. He was innocent.

  He felt like someone suddenly waking after a long fever and rummaging for food. “Tell me about the painting in the waiting room. Is it… somebody?”

  “Yes,” said Devore. “I guess you’d have to say so. At least, she was somebody. She seems to be caught in there, like Narcissus staring into the lake. We can’t get her back. Maybe she doesn’t want to come back.”

  Milo shut his eyes; tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Sylvie squeezed his hand. “Milo?”

  “I was caught like that, Sylvie. I belonged to Dede, even though she was dead. She said I’d be all hers forever.”

  “Milo, you’re going to be all yours forever,” said Devore. “We’re going to see to it. We’re going to teach you everything. And you’re going to teach us, too.”

  “Yes, I will.” Milo took Sylvie’s other hand in his. He looked at her, then at Devore, then Sylvie again. He had the extraordinary sensation of recognizing himself behind their eyes. “I love you, both of you!” he blurted out.

  Sylvie smiled. Her face sparkled so, he thought he was looking at the moon and stars.

  SNOWBALL IN HELL

  Brian Stableford

  Critically acclaimed British “hard-science” writer Brian Stableford is the author of more than thirty books, including Cradle of the Sun, The Blind Worm, Days of Glory, In the Kingdom of the Beasts, Day of Wrath, The Halcyon Drift, The Paradox of the Sets, The Realms of Tartarus, The Empire of Fear, The Angel of Pain and The Carnival of Destruction, Serpent’s Blood and Inherit the Earth. His short fiction has been collected in Sexual Chemistry: Sardonic Tales of the Genetic Revolution. His nonfiction books include The Sociology of Science Fiction and, with David Langford, The Third Millennium: A History of the World AD 2000-3000. His acclaimed novella “Les Fleurs du Mal” was a finalist for the Hugo Award in 1994. His most recent books are the novels The Fountains of Youth and Architects of Emortality. A biologist and sociologist by training, Stableford lives in Reading, England.

  Stableford may have written more about how the ongoing revolutions in biological and genetic science will change the very nature of humanity itself than any other writer of the last decade. Here he takes a penetrating look at what really makes us human—and comes to a few conclusions that may surprise you.

  From the very beginning I had a niggling feeling that the operation was going to go wrong, but I put it down to nerves. Scientific advisers to the Home Office rarely get a chance to take part in Special Branch operations, and I always knew that it would be my first and last opportunity to be part of a real Boy’s Own adventure.

  I calmed my anxieties by telling myself that the police must know what they were doing. The plan looked so neat and tidy when it was laid out on the map with coloured dots: blue for the lower ranks, red for the Armed Response Unit, green for the likes of yours truly and black for the senior Special Branch officers who were supervising and coordinating the whole thing. We deeply resented the fact that the reports from the surveillance team had been carefully censored, according to the sacred principle of NEED TO KNOW, but there seemed to be no obvious reason to suppose that the raid itself wouldn’t go like clockwork.

  “But what are they actually supposed to have done, exactly?” one of my juniors was reckless enough to ask.

  “If we knew exactly” came the inevitable withering reply, “we wouldn’t need to include you in the operation, would we?”

  I could tell from the reports we had been allowed to see that the so-called investigation into the experiments at Hollinghurst Manor had been a committee product, and that no one had ever had a clear idea exactly what was going on. Warrants for surveillance had been obtained on the grounds that the Branch’s GE-Crime Unit had “compelling reasons” to suspect that Drs Hemans, Rawlingford and Bradby were using “human genetic material” in the creation of “transgenic animals”, but it was mostly speculation. What they really had to go
on was gossip and rumour, and the rumours in question seemed to me to be suspiciously akin to the urban legends that had sprung up everywhere since the tabloids’ yuck factor campaign had finally forced the government to pass stringent laws controlling the uses of genetic engineering and to set up the GE-Crime Unit to enforce them. Once it existed, the Unit had to do something to justify its budget, and its senior staff obviously reckoned that whatever was going on at Hollinghurst Manor had to be yucky enough to allow them to get that invaluable first goal on the great scoresheet.

  It seemed to me that the whole affair had always had a faint air of surreal absurdity about it. The illegal experiments that Hemans and his fellows were alleged by rumour to be conducting were unfortunately conducive to silly jokes, ranging from lame references to flying pigs to covert references to the raid as the Boar War. Even the Home Office joined in the jokey name game; it was some idiot undersecretary who decided to codename the “target” Animal Farm, borrowing the most popular of the derisory nicknames it had accumulated during the surveillance. It was, alas, my own people who took some delight in explaining to anyone who would listen why the people inside had allegedly taken to calling the project “Commoner’s Isle”. (It was because the place where the ambitious scientist had conducted his unsuccessful experiment in H.G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau had been called Noble’s Isle.) When the inspector in charge of the Armed Response Unit assured us at the final briefing that the people in the manor didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting past his men he couldn’t understand why the men from the ministry snickered. (In Animal Farm, Snowball is the idealist who gets purged by the ruthless Napoleon.)

  In a sense, the inspector was right. When the Animal Farmers found out that they were being raided and ran like hell they didn’t, have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting past his men. Unfortunately, that didn’t make them stop running and give up.

  The part of the plan that included me involved uniformed policemen smashing their way through the main door and making as many arrests as possible while my people went for the computers and any paper files that were still around. We didn’t expect to get all the records out—we’d been told at the briefing that Hemans, Rawlingford and Bradby would probably start crunching diskettes and reformatting hard disks as soon as they were roused from sleep—but we figured that there’d be more than enough left to salvage. They were scientists, after all; keeping backup files ought to have been second nature to them.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. The Animal Farmers didn’t bother with shredding and reformatting; they just torched the place. Nobody had thought to give us gas-masks, and the fumes that met us in the corridors of the manor were so foul and instantly dizzying that we should have known that they were toxic and turned back immediately. Actually, that was what most of my colleagues did. I was the only thoroughly stupid one. I kept on going, determined to get to the office that was my designated objective. It was hopeless—but it was my one and only Boy’s Own adventure and I hadn’t been trained to an adequate sense of self-preservation. I was just on the point of blacking out when I heard shots fired in the woods, and realized just how badly awry the operation had gone.

  I would certainly have died if I hadn’t been pulled out of the fume-filled corridor—and by the time my own team got around to noticing that I was missing it was far too late for them to do anything constructive. It was the Animal Farmers who saved me—not the scientists who had actually set up the illegal experiments, but a handful of lesser beings who’d turned back when the shooting started in the hope of finding a safer way out on the other side of the house.

  I woke up with a terrible headache and stinging eyes, coughing weakly. It felt for a minute or two as though my lungs had been so badly scorched that I could no longer draw sufficient oxygen from the warm and musty air that I drew into them—but that, mercifully, was an illusion born of distress.

  I managed to crack open my weeping eyes just long enough to perceive that it was too dark to see what was happening, then shut them tight and hoped that the pain would go away.

  Somebody lifted my head and pressed a cup of water to my lips. I managed to take a few sips, and decided not to protest when a female voice said, “He’s OK.”

  While I lay there collecting myself a different female voice said, “It’s no good. There’s no way out up there. As the fire draws air upward our supply’s being renewed via the tunnel to the old icehouse, but there’s no way through the grilles. They haven’t been opened in half a century and the locks are rusted solid. Hemans should have taken care of them years ago. He should have known that this would happen one day.”

  “There’s a hacksaw in the toolbox,” a male voice put in. “If we get to work right away… “

  “They were shooting, Ed,” the second female told him. “They’re trying to wipe us out, just like Bradby always said they would. They don’t even want to ask the questions, let alone hear the answers. They just want us dead. Even if we could get to the lakeside, they’re probably waiting for us. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “What chance have we got if we wait here, Ali?” Ed replied. “Even if the fire burns all day tomorrow, they’ll come to pick over the ruins as soon as they can. If they’re still in the woods by then, they’ll certainly be all around what’s left of the house. The tunnel’s our only chance. If we can just get to Brighton, to a crowd. Then London… we can pass, Ali. I know we can. We can hide.”

  I wanted to tell them that nobody wanted to shoot them, that they’d be fine if they sat tight until it was safe to go upstairs and then surrendered, but I knew that they wouldn’t believe me. What on earth had made them so paranoid? And why had the ARU men opened fire?

  “Ed’s right,” said the female who’d given me the water to drink. “If they have the icehouse covered, we’re dead—but all the exits upstairs will still be useless when the fire dies down. We have to start work on the grilles. Somebody ought to watch this one, though—he’s not badly hurt. If he doesn’t come at us, he’ll give us away.”

  “We should have left him where he was,” Ed opined bitterly. “He’s not going to be any use as a hostage, is he?”

  “He wouldn’t be any use as a corpse,” the unnamed female retorted. “He’d just be an excuse for branding us as murderers, justifying the ethnic cleansing.”

  Ethnic cleansing! What on earth had Bradby been telling them? And who the hell were they, anyway? I couldn’t help jumping to the obvious conclusion, but I refused to entertain it. I was supposed to be a scientist, not some sucker who’d swallow any urban legend that happened along.

  “We don’t know that the others who came in with him all got out,” Ali pointed out.

  “No, we don’t,” the other female admitted, “but we did know that he hadn’t. If we’d left him where he went down, it would have been murder.”

  “It would have been suicide,” said Ed. “But Kath’s right, Ali. They’d have called it murder. They’ll have to justify the shooting somehow.”

  I coughed again, partly because I needed to and partly because I wanted to remind them that I had a voice too, even if I hadn’t yet obtained sufficient control of it to formulate meaningful utterances.

  “You’d better stay with him, Ali,” the male voice said. “If he gets aggressive, hit him with this.”

  At that stage, I could only guess what “this” might be—some time passed before I was able to make out that it was an axe—but I wasn’t about to make any trouble. I was still trying to convince myself that I hadn’t breathed in enough poison to be mortally hurt, and that I hadn’t done sufficient damage to my lungs to prejudice my longterm ability to breathe. I heard two sets of feet moving away across a stone floor, and I forced myself to relax, collecting myself together by slow degrees.

  Eventually, I felt well enough to begin to feel angry. I stopped being grateful for being alive and started resenting the fact that I had come so close to dying. Setting the fire had been an act of pure spite
on the part of the mad scientists. People like me—law-abiding geneticists, that is—had collaborated with the Home Office in drawing up the careful legislation which presumably defined whatever the Animal Farmers were doing as unacceptable, but they had simply been too arrogant to comply with the law. On top of that, it seemed, they had taken the view that if we wouldn’t countenance the research then we couldn’t have the results. They had obviously decided that if they had to go to jail, they’d take all their hard-won understanding with them—and woe betide anyone who got in their way.

  Once I began to get angry, I didn’t stop. If Hemans and Co. really had been transplanting human genes into the embryos of pigs in order to turn out simulacra of human beings, it was unforgivable, and the murderous fire was piling injury on insult. I’d never been convinced that the Animal Farmers had done what Special Branch said they’d done—I’d gone through the doors of Commoner’s Isle still wondering whether it was all going to turn out to be a big mistake, exaggerated out of all proportion—but the fact that the place had been torched with such alacrity suggested that they must have done something that they were desperate to conceal.

  Unless, of course, that was what we were supposed to think. There was still a possibility that we were all being taken for a ride—that it was all a game, intended to discredit the GE-Crime Unit and the Home Office advisers before they began to get their act together.

  While I lay there being angry, it occurred to me that I might be in a uniquely good position to find out exactly what the Animal Farmers were really up to.

  When I was finally confident that I could hold a conversation, I had already formulated my plan of campaign.

  “Is Ali short for Alison?” I asked. I was able to open my eyes by then, and they had accustomed themselves to the near-darkness sufficiently to let me see that the person standing guard over me was a blond teenager, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age. She was too young to be a lab assistant, so I seized upon the hypothesis that she was probably someone’s daughter. We had been warned that some of the live-in staff at the manor had children, but we hadn’t expected them to be abandoned when the shit hit the fan.