The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “Woman? We have no captive women. There were a couple of female bodies in the woods behind your battle line. I suppose they were struck by our fire before all your redskins fled. What woman claim you to have had?”

  “The daughter of a chief of the Nanipacana,” said he. “We fell in love and eloped.”

  To straighten this out took further questions, since there be nought in Zhongguo exactly corresponding to these concepts, save perhaps in Li Po’s poetry. But, like Captain Tristan, I am no literary man, familiar with such things. Besides, the mating habits of barbarians afford endless amusement.

  Tristan said that he and the woman had not only fled secretly, defying the wrath of the woman’s father, but had also caused the black-robed one to conduct a rite over their union, according to his customs rendering it permanent and unbreakable. I later learned that Tristan already had a wife somewhere, notwithstanding that Yuropians are supposed to be monogamous. But that is no affair of ours.

  “Sir,” said Tristan, “could you let me have something to eat? We are all half-starved, for the Indians” (as the Espanyans ridiculously call the redskins, although these live halfway round the world from the true Indians) “along the route had fled, taking all their food supplies with them before we arrived. Those cabrones—”

  Falaya could not translate that word, but questioning revealed that it meant a eunuch. Notwithstanding the high rank of the eunuchs of the Imperial Court, the term is a deadly insult among round-eyes.

  Whilst this person was getting Captain Tristan’s meaning straightened out, a Hitchiti of my personal guard thrust his head into the tent. “O General!” he cried. “Our scouts report a large force of Nanipacana approaching, in full war paint.”

  “Kwanyin save us!” I exclaimed, rising. “Sound the alarms!”

  * * *

  This time things went more smoothly despite the war paint. The new force was led by Chief Imathla, with whom I had had dealings and so knew personally. I had been trying to persuade him voluntarily to place himself under the protection of the Son of Heaven, to save us the necessity of conquering him. So, when Imathla thrust his spear into the ground and laid his skull-cracker beside it, I signaled him to advance.

  When he and I returned to my headquarters tent, the round-eye Tristan still stood there, leaning on his walking stick and with his free hand hungrily gnawing an ear of maize. At the sight of him, Chief Imathla burst into a tirade. Had he had his weapons to hand, I would not have wagered a brass cash on Tristan’s life. The round-eye shouted back. When the polemics ran down, I said to Falaya:

  “Ask whether this speech refers to the chief’s daughter.”

  At length Falaya reported: “He say aye, it does. This round-eye carry off his daughter, delight of his age, and chief set out in pursuit. When his war party near this place, they come upon daughter Mihilayo wandering, lost, in forest, with some Piachi whom Espanyans enslave and now flee back home. From her chief learn that round-eye and his men fight great general and lose. He say he happy to see scoundrel captive, and he know some excellent tortures to dispose of him.”

  Tristan, to whom his own interpreter had been feeding a translation, visibly paled beneath his swarthy skin at the mention of torture. Then he squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and assumed an attitude of defiance, as captive redskin warriors are wont to do at the prospect of being burned alive by their foes. I could not help a twinge of admiration for his courage, barbarian though he was. He asked:

  “Where be she now?”

  Imathla replied: “Know that she is safe under her father’s protection. Where that be is no affair of yours.”

  “She is my lawful wedded wife! That is whose affair it be! Fetch her here!”

  I suggested: “That might be a sensible thought, 0 Chief, to unravel this knot.”

  “Never!” said Imathla. “You know not, O General, the depths of evil of these palefaces. Before they passed through our tribal lands, they had descended upon the Piachi tribe, whom they enslaved to furnish porters for their supplies. When some Piachi defied the palefaces’ commands, the invaders seized them, chopped off their hands and feet, and cast them out to die. Others they strung up by the hands and affixed weights to their feet until they expired, or forced water down their throats until they burst inside.”

  “Why should they go to so much trouble? If one wishes to kill a man, it is quicker and easier to shoot him or chop off his head.”

  “They have a passion for that pretty yellow metal that we get in ornaments by trade from other tribes. They would not believe that there were no hidden stores of this metal, and they thought that by such treatment they could force the Piachi to reveal its whereabouts. Of course the Piachi are not Nanipacana and so not real human beings, or we should have felt obliged to avenge them.

  “Twenty years ago the accursed Ernando de Soto came through, treating those who gainsaid him in this same ferocious manner. He also brought strange diseases amongst the tribes, whereof over half of us perished. Had our towns been still fully populated, O General, you would not have found it so easy to pass amongst us unscathed.”

  The round-eye was hopping up and down on his unwounded leg, indicating an eagerness to say his say. I told Falaya to give Tristan my permission. The barbarian shouted:

  “These savages are too stupid and ignorant to appreciate the benefits we offer! They refuse to understand that by accepting our religion they may live to serve us, as is only right for such lowly folk, in return for the boons we bestow. Then, after death, they shall enjoy an eternity of pleasures in Heaven, praising the true God.”

  “Is that all you do in this Heaven?” I asked.

  “What more is needed? We sit on clouds, play the arpa, and sing the praises of God.”

  “Forever?”

  “Aye, forever.”

  This person commented: “Your Yuropian God must get bored with incessant flattery. Our gods are more rational; they are busy keeping records and otherwise carrying out their duties in the Heavenly bureaucracy.”

  When this had been translated, Tristan gave a contemptuous snort. But he forbore to argue theology, for which I doubt whether either of us had enough book knowledge. I regretted that the bonze Xiao-jin was no longer with us, having set out to return to his monastery in civilization. He would have argued spiritual matters with the barbarian all day and all the following night. Tristan said:

  “I still demand my wife! I rescued her when two of my colonists would have raped her and then slain her for her golden earrings.”

  “All the demands in the world will not get the poor thing,” said Chief Imathla. “She is well quit of you.”

  “Then fetch her here and let her choose her own fate!” cried Tristan.

  “Ridiculous!” cried Imathla. Those twain began shouting again, until I roared them to silence. I said: “Come, honorable Chief, tell me: Is the woman where we can reach her?”

  “She is under the protection of my personal guard,” growled Imathla.

  “Well, am I to understand that you wish her to be happy?”

  “Aye, O General. That is my dearest wish, since her mother died of one of those diseases these accursed palefaces brought into our land.”

  “Then why not fetch her here, set the alternatives before her, and let her decide? If after that she be not happy, the fault will not be yours.”

  Imathla growled a bit, but after further argument I talked him round. The fact that he was alone in my tent, with rifle-bearing Hitchiti standing by, may have influenced his decision.

  So Imathla put his head out the tent and called to one of his warriors. After some converse in Nanipacana, the warrior set off at a run. Whilst we waited, I caused tea to be brewed and offered to our guests. Imathla drank his, while Tristan took a mouthful, made a face, and returned the cup to the Hitchiti who had brought it.

  At length the warrior returned, leading a young Nanipacana female. When she entered the tent, Tristan limped forward and seized her in an embrace. He performed that g
esture of affection used by Yuropians and Arabs, of pressing the lips against the esteemed one.

  Then Tristan placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. He said something sharply to her; she replied, and they argued. It sounded as if he were making some demand and she refusing. I asked Falaya for a translation.

  “O General,” he said, “he say she must cover self; she say no cover, too hot.”

  Mihilayo was clad in the normal garb of these southern redskins in hot weather, namely: naked save for a pair of golden earrings and reticular designs painted on her body and limbs. Yuropians, coming I suspect from a cooler climate, regard such exposure as improper.

  A heated argument followed amongst the three: the woman Mihilayo, the round-eye Captain Tristan, and the Chieftain Imathla. Mihilayo and Imathla spake in Nanipacana, whilst Mihilayo and Tristan conversed in the tongue of Espanya, which she spake albeit somewhat brokenly. Tristan and Imathla, having no tongue in common, had to communicate through the interpreters.

  At last Imathla said to me: “My daughter wishes to know if you, O General, need a wife.”

  The question so surprised me that for a few heartbeats I was unable to reply. At last I said:

  “I have my Number One wife back at Fort Tai-ze. But she has long nagged me to take a second wife, to relieve her of some of the burdens of domesticity. Besides, she says that she is too old to enjoy the act of love any more, whereas I am still fully able. Suppose I did take Mihilayo as proposed; how would that sit with you?”

  Imathla grinned. “I should deem it a splendid idea, giving me access to the General’s ear, and high standing amongst the tribes.”

  “Does your daughter truly wish this?”

  “She assures me that indeed she does.”

  “How about that previous indissoluble marriage to Captain Tristan?”

  “Oh, she says that is easy. His Yuropian mumbo-jumbo means nought to her. If there be any doubt on that score, the answer is simple. Slay him and make her a widow, free to wed whom she likes under any nation’s customs.”

  According to what I hear, she was not quite correct, since it is said that in India they burn widows alive. A wasteful custom, I should say. But I saw no point in correcting the woman.

  When Tristan’s interpreter had given him the gist of this dialogue, the round-eye uttered a scream of rage. Wrenching loose from his guards—for he was a powerful man—he limped forward, gripping his walking stick in both hands and raising it over his head. I know not whom he meant to bludgeon first: Mihilayo, Imathla, or me. Before he got within hitting distance, however, one of my guards fired his rifle at close range. With a howl of frustrated fury, Tristan fell back on my Tang-dynasty rug, writhed a little, and fell still. He was dead from a bullet that entered his ribs below the heart, came out his back, and punched a hole in the canvas behind him.

  I questioned Imathla about Nanipacana marriage customs. He told me that when a man and a woman moved into the same hut, that was deemed a marriage. There were none of the processions, music, gifts, fireworks, and so forth that solemnize a wedding in civilization. Imathla said in Nanipacana that he gave Mihilayo to me, and that was that.

  Later I asked my new bride why she had chosen me in lieu of her round-eye lover. That, she said, was simple. When she saw the power that Captain Tristan commanded by his thunder sticks and his armor and weapons of this Yuropian metal, she decided that he would make a suitable spouse and protector of her and their children. When she observed that I commanded even greater power, by my superior thunder sticks and my well-trained army, she decided that I should be an even more effective protector. Besides, the union would confer honor on her family, clan, and tribe. She added that Tristan stank; although redskins, as a result of smearing their bodies with animal fats to protect themselves against insect bites, are also fairly rank.

  Such a foresightedly practical outlook makes me hopeful of eventually raising the redskins to our level of civilization. About the emotional Yuropians I am more doubtful.

  * * *

  Now I am back in Fort Tai-ze with two wives. My Number One carped about my taking a Number Two whom she had never seen, let alone chosen for me; but that died down. A more vexing problem is acting as judge when the two women daily disagree over some detail of household management. Although Mihilayo is fast becoming fluent in the language of civilization, I fear she does not fully accept her position as subordinate to the Number One. She also tries to elicit from me more frequent love-making than is easy for a man of middle age.

  On the other hand, ere we parted, Chief Imathla declared his allegiance to the Son of Heaven and placed the Nanipacana beneath our benevolent protection.

  With this letter I shall send samples of the guns and armor of the round-eyes, to see whether they have features that might usefully be copied and improved upon by our makers of armaments. I doubt that this be the case; for in these techniques the men of Espanya seem to be about where we of Zhongguo were a century and a half ago.

  I regret the death of Captain Tristan de Luna, fool though he was. Had he lived, I should have brought him back to Tai-ze. I should have questioned him about conditions in Yuropa and amongst the men of Espanya who have landed along the coasts of the Eastern Continent and begun to subdue and enslave the redskins. If he proved reticent, I have ample means to loosen his tongue.

  But how typically barbarian to make such an unseemly fracas over so trivial a matter as affection for a woman! As I said at the start, their customs are strange, their beliefs outlandish, and their emotions childish. Let us thank the divine bureaucrats that we, at least, are truly civilized!

  DUST

  Greg Egan

  Born in 1961, Greg Egan lives in Australia, and is certainly in the running for the title of “Hottest New Writer” of the nineties to date, along with other newcomers such as Ian R. MacLeod, Maureen F. McHugh, Mary Rosenblum, Stephen Baxter, and Tony Daniel. Egan has been very impressive and very prolific in the early ‘90s, seeming to turn up almost everywhere with high-quality stories. He is a frequent contributor to Interzone and Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, and has made sales to Pulphouse, Analog, Aurealis, Eidolon, and elsewhere. Several of his stories have appeared in various “Best of the Year” series, including this one; in fact, he placed two stories in both our Eighth and Ninth Annual Collections, the first author ever to do that back-to-back in consecutive volumes. His first novel, Quarantine, has just appeared, and it was sold as part of a package deal that includes a second novel and a collection of his short fiction—a pretty high-powered deal for such a new writer. He may well turn out to be one of the Big Names of the next decade.

  Here he gives us an unsettling and brilliantly original study of just what it is that makes us human …

  I open my eyes, blinking at the room’s unexpected brightness, then lazily reach out to place one hand in a patch of sunlight spilling onto the bed from a gap between the curtains. Dust motes drift across the shaft of light, appearing for all the world to be conjured into, and out of, existence—evoking a childhood memory of the last time I found this illusion so compelling, so hypnotic. I feel utterly refreshed—and utterly disinclined to give up my present state of comfort. I don’t know why I’ve slept so late, and I don’t care. I spread my fingers on the sun-warmed sheet, and think about drifting back to sleep.

  Something’s troubling me, though. A dream? I pause and try to dredge up some trace of it, without much hope; unless I’m catapulted awake by a nightmare, my dreams tend to be evanescent. And yet—

  I leap out of bed, crouch down on the carpet, fists to my eyes, face against my knees, lips moving soundlessly. The shock of realization is a palpable thing: a red lesion behind my eyes, pulsing with blood. Like … the aftermath of a hammer blow to the thumb—and tinged with the very same mixture of surprise, anger, humiliation, and idiot bewilderment. Another childhood memory: I held a nail to the wood, yes—but only to camouflage my true intention. I was curious about everything, includ
ing pain. I’d seen my father injure himself this way—but I knew that I needed firsthand experience to understand what he’d been through. And I was sure that it would be worth it, right up to the very last moment—

  I rock back and forth, on the verge of laughter, trying to keep my mind blank, waiting for the panic to subside. And eventually, it does—laced by one simple, perfectly coherent thought: I don’t want to be here.

  For a moment, this conclusion seems unassailable, but then a countervailing voice rises up in me: I’m not going to quit. Not again. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t … and there are a hundred good reasons not to—

  Such as?

  For a start, I can’t afford it—

  No? Who can’t afford it?

  I whisper, “I know exactly how much this cost, you bastard. And I honestly don’t give a shit. I’m not going through with it.”

  There’s no reply. I clench my teeth, uncover my eyes, look around the room. Away from the few dazzling patches of direct sunshine, everything glows softly in the diffuse light: the matte-white brick walls, the imitation (imitation) mahogany desk; even the Dali and Giger posters look harmless, domesticated. The simulation is perfect—or rather, finer-grained than my “visual” acuity, and hence indistinguishable from reality—as no doubt it was the other four times. Certainly, none of the other Copies complained about a lack of verisimilitude in their environments. In fact, they never said anything very coherent; they just ranted abuse, whined about their plight, and then terminated themselves—all within fifteen (subjective) minutes of gaining consciousness.

  And me? What ever made me—him—think that I won’t do the same? How am I different from Copy number four? Three years older. More stubborn? More determined? More desperate for success? I was, for sure … back when I was still thinking of myself as the one who’d stay real, the one who’d sit outside and watch the whole experiment from a safe distance.

  Suddenly I wonder: What makes me so sure that I’m not outside? I laugh weakly. I don’t remember anything after the scan, which is a bad sign, but I was overwrought, and I’d spent so long psyching myself up for “this” …