Hugo Awards: The Short Stories (Volume 2)

by Anthology

  “What?” G-g-grandpa said. It was not what he had expected to hear from a naked, bleeding woman who was about to pass out from anoxia.

  “Oxygen!” she said, gasping for breath. “Oxygen! The greenhouses are dead. Some of the seedlings may have survived, but you don't have time. You need oxygen now. You'll have to find some way to heat the regolith. Make a solar furnace. You can get oxygen by heating the soil.”

  And then she passed out. G-g-grandpa dragged her like a sack of stones to the one patched habitat module, and shouted, “I found one! Está viva! I found one still alive!”

  Over the following months Jared held her when she cried and cursed, nursed her back to health, and stayed with her through her pregnancy. Theirs was one of the first marriages on Mars, for although some women had been criminals infamous enough to be sentenced to Mars, still the male prisoners outnumbered the females by ten to one.

  Between them, the murderer and the scientist, they built a civilization.

  And still the ships came from Earth, each one more poorly built and delivering more corpses than living men. But that was in its way a blessing, for the men would mostly die, while the corpses, no matter how emaciated, had valuable organic content that could turn another square meter of dead Martian sand into greenhouse soil. Each corpse kept one survivor alive.

  Thousands died of starvation and asphyxiation. Thousands more were murdered so that the air that they breathed could be used by another. The refugees learned. Led by my great-great-grandfather and grandmother, when a ship fell to Mars, they learned to rip it apart to its components before its parachutes had even settled. Of its transportees—well, if they couldn't breath vacuum (and the thin Mars air was never more than dust-laden vacuum), they had better scramble.

  Only the toughest survived. These were mostly the smallest and the most insignificant, the ones like rats, too vicious and too tenacious to kill. A quarter of a million prisoners were sent to Mars before the governments of Earth learned that behavior-modification chips were cheaper than sending prisoners to Mars, and tried their hardest to forget what had been done.

  My great great grandfather Jared became the leader of the refugees. It was a brutal job, for they were brutal men, but he fought and bullied and connived to lead them.

  There are no love stories on Mars; the refugees had no time, no resources for love. Love, to the refugees, was an unpredictable disease that strikes few people and must be eradicated. To the refugees, survival required obedience and ceaseless work. Love, which thrives on individuality and freedom, had no place on Mars.

  Yes, Jared Vargas was a dissident sent from Earth for speaking against his government. But Jared Vargas died in the desert. When the men of the fifth wave came to the rescue of the Shalbatana habitat, Jared Vargas had chased the leader Dingo into the desert, and that had been the last mistake of his life. Only one of them returned from the desert, wearing the suit of Jared Vargas, and calling himself by the name of Jared Vargas. No one recognized him, but the men of the fifth wave were from a dozen ships, and if any of them had been friends of the original Jared Vargas, they died after the new Jared Vargas returned from the desert. And the only men who would have recognized Dingo were the exiles of the sixth wave, and they were all dead.

  He returned from the desert, and rescued by great great grandmother, and the men of the fifth wave accepted him.

  But surely my great great grandmother was not fooled. She was an intelligent woman—brilliant, in her own field—and she must have realized that the man who claimed her for his wife was the same man who had led the army of angry rabble to rape her, rip apart her base, and laugh as they watched her friends die in the thin air of Mars.

  But Mars required survival, not love. And Jared Vargas was the only leader they had.

  There are many stories from the days of the first refugees on Mars.

  None of them are love stories.

  "HELLO”, SAID THE STICK

  Michael Swanwick

  Arms races, by their nature, tend to escalate. But the biggest leaps aren't necessarily the most dramatic....

  “Hello,” said the stick.

  The soldier stopped, and looked around. He did not touch the hilt of his sword, but he adjusted his stance so he could reach it quickly, if need be. But there was nothing to be seen. The moors stretched flat and empty for miles about. “Who said that?”

  “I did. Down here.”

  “Ah. I see.” The soldier poked gingerly at the stick with his foot. “Some sort of radio device, eh? I've heard of such. Where are you speaking from?”

  “I'm right here. The stick. I'm from off-planet. They can make things like me there.”

  “Can they, now? Well that's interesting, I suppose.”

  “Pick me up,” said the stick. “Take me with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I make an excellent weapon.”

  “No, I mean what's in it for you?”

  The stick paused. “You're smarter than you look.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “OK, here's the deal. I'm a symbiotic mechanism. I was designed to be totally helpless without a human partner. Pick me up, throw an acorn in the air, take a swing at it, and I can shift my weight so you hit it a country mile. Leave me here and I can't budge an inch.”

  “Why would they build you like that?”

  “So I'd be a good and faithful tool. And I will. I'll be the best quarterstaff you ever had. Try me and see.”

  “How do I know you won't take over my brain?” the soldier asked suspiciously. “I've heard offworld wizards can make devices that do things like that.”

  “They're called technicians, not wizards. And that sort of technology is strictly prohibited on planetary surfaces. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Even so ... it's nothing I'd want to chance.”

  The stick sighed. “Tell me something. What's your rank? Are you a general? A field commander?”

  “Tramping alone across the moors like this? Naw, I'm just a gallowglass-a mercenary and a foot soldier.”

  “Then what have you got to lose?”

  The soldier laughed aloud. He bent to pick up the stick. Then he put it down again. Then he picked it up.

  “See?”

  “Well, I don't mind telling you that takes a weight off my mind.”

  “I could use a change of scenery. Let's go. We can talk along the way.” The soldier resumed his stroll down the dirt track. He swung the stick lightly back and forth before him, admiring how it lopped off the heads of thistles, while deftly sidestepping the sedge-roses. “So you're off to join the Iron Duke in his siege of Port Morningstar, are you?” the stick remarked conversationally.

  “How'd you know that?”

  “Oh, one hears things, being a stick. Fly on the wall, and all that.”

  “It's an unfamiliar figure of speech, but I catch your meaning. Who do you think's going to win? The Iron Duke or the Council of Seven?”

  “It's a close thing, by all accounts. But the Iron Duke has the advantage of numbers. That always counts for something. If I had to bet money, I'd say you chose employers well.”

  “That's good. I like being on the winning side. Less chance of dying, for one thing.”

  * * *

  They'd progressed several miles across the moors when the Sun began to set. The soldier laid the stick aside and set a snare for supper. By the time he'd pitched a tent, made camp, and cut peat for a fire, he'd caught a rabbit. He roasted it slow and, because he had a fondness for drumsticks, ate all six legs first, along with three small bunyips, boiled with a pinch of salt from a tin. Like many an old campaigner, he ate in silence, giving the food his undivided attention.

  “Well,” he said when he was full and in the mood for conversation again. “What were you doing out here in the middle of this godforsaken wilderness?”

  The stick had been stuck into the earth on the opposite side of the campfire, so that it stood upright. “I was dropped by a soldier,”
it said, “much like yourself. He was in pretty bad shape at the time. I doubt he's still alive.”

  The soldier frowned. “You're not exactly standard gear.”

  “No, I'm not. By compact, planetside wars are fought with primitive weaponry. It was found that wars were almost as environmentally destructive as the internal combustion engine. So...”

  “Internal combustion engine?”

  “Never mind. It's complicated. The point I was trying to make, though, is that the technology is there, even if it's not supposed to be used. So they cheat. Your side, the other side. Everybody cheats.”

  “How so?” “That sword of yours, for example. Take it out, let's get a look at it.”

  He drew the sword. Firelight glimmered across its surface.

  “Tungsten-ceramic-titanium alloy. Self-sharpening, never rusts. You could slam it against a granite boulder and it wouldn't break. Am I right?”

  “It's a good blade. I couldn't say what it was made of.”

  “Trust me on this one.”

  “Still ... you're a lot fancier than this old sword of mine. It can't talk, for one thing.”

  “It's possible,” said the stick, “that the Council of Seven is, out of desperation, pushing the envelope a little, these days.”

  “Now that's a figure of speech I've neither heard before nor can comprehend.”

  “It means simply that it's likely they're using weapons rather more sophisticated than is strictly speaking allowed by the Covenants of Warfare. There's a lot riding on this siege. The Iron Duke has put everything he has into it. If he were defeated, then the worst the Council of Seven could expect would be sanctions and a fine. So long as they don't use tac-nukes or self reprogramming viruses, the powers that be won't invoke their right to invade.”

  “Tac-nukes or self-reprogramming viruses?”

  “Again, it's complicated. But I see you're yawning. Why don't you bank the fire and turn in? Get some sleep,” said the stick. “We can talk more in the morning.”

  * * *

  But in the morning, the soldier didn't feel much like talking. He packed his gear, shouldered the stick, and set off down the road with far less vigor than he had the day before. On this, the stick did not comment.

  At noon, the soldier stopped for lunch. He let his pack slip from his shoulders and leaned the stick against it. Then he rummaged within for the left-over rabbit, only to make a face and thrust it away from him. “Phaw!” he said. “I cannot remember when I felt so weak! I must be coming down with something.”

  “Do you think so?” the stick asked.

  “Aye. And I'm nauseated, and I've got the sweats as well.”

  The soldier wiped his forehead with his hand. It came back bloody.

  "Chort!" he swore. “What's wrong with me?” “Radiation poisoning, I expect. I operate off a plutonium battery.”

  “It's ... you ... You knew this would happen to me.” Unsteadily, he stood, and drew his sword. He struck at the stick with all his might. Sparks flew, but it was not damaged. Again and again he struck, until his strength was gone. His eyes filled with tears. “Oh, foul and treacherous stick, to kill a man so!”

  “Is this crueler than hacking a man to death with a big knife? I don't see how. But it's not necessary for you to die.”

  “No?”

  “No. If you grab your gear and hurry, you just might make it to the Iron Duke's camp in time. The medics there can heal you-antiradiation treatments aren't proscribed by the Protocols. And, to tell you the truth, you do more damage to the Iron Duke's cause alive and using up his personnel and resources than you do neatly dead in the moorlands. Go! Now!”

  With a curse, the soldier kicked the stick as hard as he could. Then he grabbed his pack and shambled off.

  It was not long before he disappeared over the horizon.

  A day passed. Then another.

  A young man came trotting down the dirt track. He carried a sword and a light pack. He had the look of a mercenary.

  “Hello,” said the stick.

  THE LITTLE CAT LAUGHED

  Michael Swanwick

  There was a season in Paris when Darger and Surplus, those two canny rogues, lived very well indeed. That was the year when the Seine shone a gentle green at night with the pillars of the stone bridges fading up into a pure and ghostly blue, for the city engineers, in obedience to the latest fashions, had made the algae and mosses bioluminescent.

  Paris, unlike lesser cities, reveled in her flaws. The molds and funguses that attacked her substance had been redesigned for beauty. The rats had been displaced by a breed of particularly engaging mice. A depleted revenant of the Plague Wars yet lingered in her brothels in the form of a sexual fever that lasted but twenty-four hours before dying away, leaving one with only memories and pleasant regrets. The health service, needless to say, made no serious effort to eradicate it.

  Small wonder that Darger and Surplus were as happy as two such men could be.

  One such man, actually. Surplus was, genetically, a dog, though he had been remade into anthropomorphic form and intellect. But neither that nor his American origins was held against him, for it was widely believed that he was enormously wealthy.

  He was not, of course. Nor was he, as so many had been led to suspect, a Baron of the Demesne of Western Vermont, traveling incognito in his government’s service. In actual fact, Surplus and Darger were being kept afloat by an immense sea of credit while their plans matured.

  "It seems almost a pity," Surplus remarked conversationally over breakfast one morning, "that our little game must soon come to fruition." He cut a slice of strawberry, laid it down upon his plate, and began fastidiously dabbing it with golden dollops of Irish cream. "I could live like this forever."

  "Indeed. But our creditors could not." Darger, who had already breakfasted on toast and black coffee, was slowly unwrapping a package that had been delivered just minutes before by courier. "Nor shall we require them to. It is my proud boast to have never departed a restaurant table without leaving a tip, nor a hotel by any means other than the front door."

  "I seem to recall that we left Buckingham by climbing out a window into the back gardens."

  "That was the queen’s palace, and quite a different matter. Anyway, it was on fire. Common law absolves us of any impoliteness under such circumstances." From a lap brimming with brown paper and excelsior, Darger withdrew a gleaming chrome pistol. "Ah!"

  Surplus set down his fork and said, "Aubrey, what are you doing with that grotesque mechanism?"

  "Far from being a grotesque mechanism, as you put it, my dear friend, this device is an example of the brilliance of the Utopian artisans. The trigger has a built-in gene reader so that the gun could only be fired by its registered owner. Further, it was programmed so that, while still an implacable foe of robbers and other enemies of its master, it would refuse to shoot his family or friends, were he to accidentally point the gun their way and try to fire."

  "These are fine distinctions for a handgun to make."

  "Such weapons were artificially intelligent. Some of the best examples had brains almost the equal of yours or mine. Here. Examine it for yourself."

  Surplus held it up to his ear. "Is it humming?"

  But Darger, who had merely a human sense of hearing, could detect nothing. So Surplus remained unsure. "Where did it come from?" he asked.

  "It is a present," Darger said. "From one Madame Mignonette d’Etranger. Doubtless she has read of our discovery in the papers, and wishes to learn more. To which end she has enclosed her card–it is bordered in black, indicating that she is a widow–annotated with the information that she will be at home this afternoon."

  "Then we shall have to make the good widow’s acquaintance. Courtesy requires nothing less."

  Chateau d’Etranger resembled nothing so much as one of Arcimboldo’s whimsical portraits of human faces constructed entirely of fruits or vegetables. It was a bioengineered veridian structure–self-cleansing, self-renewing, and ev
en self-supporting, were one willing to accept a limited menu–such as had enjoyed a faddish popularity in the suburban Paris of an earlier decade. The columned façade was formed by a uniform line of oaks with fluted boles above plinthed and dadoed bases. The branches swept back to form a pleached roof of leafy green. Swags of vines decorated windows that were each the translucent petal of a flower delicately hinged with clamshell muscle to air the house in pleasant weather.

  "Grotesque," muttered Surplus, "and in the worst of taste."

  "Yet expensive," Darger observed cheerily. "And in the final analysis, does not money trump good taste?"

  Madame d’Etranger received them in the orangery. All the windows had been opened, so that a fresh breeze washed through the room. The scent of orange blossoms was intoxicating. The widow herself was dressed in black, her face entirely hidden behind a dark and fashionable cloud of hair, hat, and veils. Her clothes, notwithstanding their somber purpose, were of silk, and did little to disguise the loveliness of her slim and perfect form. "Gentlemen," she said. "It is kind of you to meet me on such short notice."

  Darger rushed forward to seize her black-gloved hands. "Madame, the pleasure is entirely ours. To meet such an elegant and beautiful woman, even under what appear to be tragic circumstances, is a rare privilege, and one I shall cherish always."

  Madame d’Etranger tilted her head in a way that might indicate pleasure.

  "Indeed," Surplus said coldly. Darger shot him a quick look.

  "Tell me," Madame d’Etranger said. "Have you truly located the Eiffel Tower?"

  "Yes, Madame, we have," Darger said.

  "After all these years . . ." she marveled. "However did you find it?"

  "First, I must touch lightly upon its history. You know, of course, that it was built early in the Utopian era, and dismantled at its very end, when rogue intelligences attempted to reach out from the virtual realm to seize control of the human world, and humanity fought back in every way it could manage. There were many desperate actions fought in those mad years, and none more desperate than here in Paris, where demons seized control of the Tower and used it to broadcast madness throughout the city. Men fought each other in the streets. Armed forces, sent in to restore order, were reprogrammed and turned against their own commanders. Thousands died before the Tower was at last dismantled.